The Cradle Will Fall

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “And he probably told you that one out of two women say the same thing at that moment.”

  “He said, ‘Lie down.’ He pushed me down on the table.”

  “Was anyone else in the room? The nurse?”

  “No. Just the doctor and me. And I said, ‘I know what I’m saying’ And—”

  “And you allowed him to persuade you?”

  “No. No. I don’t know what happened. He jabbed me with a needle while I was trying to get up. When I woke up, I was lying on a stretcher. The nurse said it was all over. She said I should rest for a while.”

  “You don’t remember the procedure?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. The last I remember is trying to get away.” Her mouth worked convulsively. “Trying to save my baby. I wanted my baby. Dr. Highley took my baby from me.”

  A harsh, pained cry echoed Anna Horan’s heartbroken sobs. Maureen’s face was contorted, her voice a wail. “That’s exactly what he did to me.”

  Richard stared at the weeping young women: the Japanese girl; Maureen with her red-gold hair and emerald-green eyes. And with absolute certainty he knew where he had seen those eyes before.

  ♦75♦

  He got off at the second floor of the hospital and instantly felt the tension in the air. Frightened-looking nurses were scurrying in the hall. A man and woman in evening dress were standing by Nurse Renge’s desk.

  Quickly he walked over to the desk. His voice was disapproving and brittle as he asked, “Nurse Renge, is there something wrong?”

  “Doctor, it’s Mrs. DeMaio. She’s missing.”

  The woman was in her mid-thirties and looked familiar. Of course! She was Katie DeMaio’s sister. What had made her come to the hospital?

  “I’m Dr. Highley,” he said to her. “What does this mean?”

  Molly found it hard to talk. Something had happened to Katie. She knew it. She’d never forgive herself. “Katie . . .” Her voice broke.

  The man with her interrupted. “I’m Dr. Kennedy,” he said. “My wife is Mrs. DeMaio’s sister. When did you see her, Doctor, and what was her condition?”

  This was not a man to be easily deceived. “I saw Mrs. DeMaio a little more than an hour ago. Her condition is not good. As you probably know, she’s had two units of whole blood this week. The laboratory is analyzing her blood now. I expect it to be low. As Nurse Renge will tell you, I expect to perform a D-and-C tonight rather than wait for the morning. I think Mrs. DeMaio has been concealing the extent of her hemorrhaging from everyone.”

  “Oh, God, then where is she?” Molly cried.

  He looked at her. She’d be easier to convince. “Your sister has an almost pathological fear of hospitals. Is it possible that she would simply leave?”

  “Her clothes are in the closet, Doctor,” Nurse Renge said.

  “Some clothes may be in the closet,” he corrected. “Did you unpack Mrs. DeMaio’s bag?”

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t know what other articles of apparel she had with her?”

  “It’s possible,” Bill said slowly. He turned to Molly. “Honey, you know it’s possible.”

  “We should have been here,” Molly told him. “How bad is she, Doctor?”

  “We must find her and get her back here. Would she be likely to go to her own home or to yours?”

  “Doctor”—Nurse Renge’s timid voice had a tremor—“that sleeping pill should have made Mrs. DeMaio fall asleep. It was the strongest one you ever ordered.”

  He glowered at her. “I ordered it for the very reason that I understood Mrs. DeMaio’s anxiety. You were told to see that she swallowed it. She did not want the pill. Did you watch her take it?”

  “I saw her put it in her mouth.”

  “Did you watch her swallow it?”

  “No . . . not really.”

  He turned his back on the nurse in a gesture of contempt. He spoke to Molly and Bill, his voice reflective, concerned. “I hardly think Mrs. DeMaio is wandering around the hospital. Do you agree that she might have left of her own volition? She could simply have gotten on the elevator, gone to the lobby and walked out with the visitors who are coming and going all evening. Do you agree that’s possible?”

  “Yes. Yes. I do.” Molly prayed, Please let it be that way.

  “Then let’s hope and expect that Mrs. DeMaio will be home very shortly.”

  “I want to see if her car is in the parking lot,” Bill said.

  The car. He hadn’t thought about her car. If they started looking for her in the hospital now . . .

  Bill frowned. “Oh, hell, she’s still got that loan car. Molly, what make is it? I don’t think I’ve even seen it.”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Molly said.

  Edgar Highley sighed. “I think even if you could identify her car, you’d be wasting your time looking in the parking lot. I would suggest that you phone her home. If she’s not there, go and wait to see if she comes in. She’s scarcely been gone an hour now. When you do contact her, please insist she return to the hospital. You can stay with her, Mrs. Kennedy. Doctor, if you feel it will comfort Mrs. DeMaio, I would be glad to have you with me in the operating room. But we must not allow that hemorrhaging to continue. Mrs. DeMaio is a very sick girl.”

  Molly bit her lip. “I see. Thank you, Doctor. You’re very kind. Bill, let’s just go to Katie’s house. Maybe she’s there now and not answering the phone.”

  They turned from him. They believed him. They would not suggest searching the hospital for several hours at least. And that was all he needed.

  He turned to the nurse. In her own stupid, blundering way she had been an asset. Of course Katie had never swallowed that sleeping pill. Of course he was justified in having ordered it.

  “I am sure that we’ll be hearing from Mrs. DeMaio shortly,” he said. “Call me immediately when you do. I’ll be at my home.” He smiled. “I have some records to complete.”

  ♦76♦

  “We must seize Dr. Highley’s records before he has a chance to destroy them. To the best of your knowledge, does he keep all his records in his office?”

  Jiro Fukhito stared at Richard. He had gone to the Prosecutor’s office prepared to make a statement. They had listened to him almost impatiently, and then Dr. Carroll had outlined his incredible theory.

  Was it possible? Jiro Fukhito reviewed the times when suspicions had formed in his mind, then were calmed by Highley’s obstetrical genius. It was possible.

  Records. They had asked him about records. “Edgar Highley would never keep records that suggest malfeasance in his office at the hospital,” he said slowly. “There is always the danger of a malpractice subpoena. However, he frequently takes files to his home. I never could understand why he did that.”

  “Have search warrants sworn out immediately,” Scott told Charley. “We’ll hit the office and his home simultaneously. I’ll take the squad to the house. Richard, you come with me. Charley, you and Phil take the office. We’ll pick up Highley as a material witness. If he’s not there, I want a stakeout on the house and we’ll nab him as soon as he gets home.”

  “What worries me is that there may be someone he’s experimenting on now,” Richard said. “I’ll lay odds that the hair shafts the lab found on Edna and Vangie’s bodies came from Highley.” He looked at his watch. It was nine thirty. “We’ll wrap this up tonight,” he predicted.

  He wished Katie were here. She’d be relieved to know that Chris Lewis was about to be eliminated as a suspect. Her hunch about Lewis had been right. But his own hunch about Highley had been right too.

  Dr. Fukhito stood up. “Do you need me any longer?”

  “Not right now, Doctor,” Scott said. “We’ll be in touch with you. If by any chance you happen to hear from Dr. Highley before we arrest him, please do not discuss this investigation with him. You understand that?”

  Jiro Fukhito smiled wearily. “Edgar Highley and I are not friends. He would have no reason to call me at home. He hired me because he kn
ew he would have a hold over me. How right he was. Tonight I shall analyze my own conduct and determine how many times I have forced back suspicions that should have been explored. I dread the conclusion I shall reach.”

  He left the room. As he walked down the corridor, he saw a nameplate on a door: MRS. K. DEMAIO. Katie DeMaio. Wasn’t she supposed to have gone into the hospital tonight? But of course, she never would go through with her operation while Edgar Highley was under investigation.

  Jiro Fukhito went home.

  ♦77♦

  She was drifting down a dark corridor. Way at the very end there was a light. It would be warm when she got there. Warm and safe. But something was holding her back. There was something she had to do before she died. She had to make them know what Dr. Highley was. Her finger was dripping blood now. She could feel it. She was lying on the floor. It was so cold. All these years she’d had nightmares that she’d die in the hospital. But it wasn’t so bad after all. She’d been so afraid of being alone. Alone without Daddy, then alone without John. So afraid of risking pain. We are all alone. We’re born alone and die alone. There’s really nothing to be afraid of. Couldn’t she possibly smear Dr. Highley’s name on the floor with her finger? He was insane. He had to be stopped. Slowly, painfully, Katie moved her finger. Down, across, down again. H . . .

  ♦78♦

  He got home at quarter past nine. The gratifying sense of having at last eliminated the final threat gave him a sense of total buoyancy. He had finished eating less than an hour ago, but somehow could not even remember the meal. Perhaps Hilda had left something for a snack.

  It was better than he had hoped. Fondue. Hilda made remarkably good fondue. It was perhaps her best culinary accomplishment. He lit the Sterno can under the pot, adjusted it to a low flame. A crisp loaf of French bread was in a basket, covered by a damask napkin. He’d make a salad; there was sure to be arugula. He’d instructed Hilda to buy some today.

  While the fondue heated, he would complete Katie DeMaio’s file. He was anxious to be finished with it. He wanted to think about the two patients tomorrow: the donor and the recipient. He was confident that he could duplicate his success.

  But was that enough? Wouldn’t it be more interesting if the recipient were given twins to carry? Two alien fetuses from separate donors?

  The immuno-reactive theory he’d perfected might break down. Almost certainly it would. But how long would it take? What specific problems would develop?

  He went into the library, opened the desk drawer and withdrew Katie DeMaio’s file from the hidden compartment. On the last page he made a final entry:

  Patient entered hospital at approximately 6:00 P. M. with blood pressure 100/60, hemoglobin no more than 10 grams. This physician administered the final two cumadin pills at 7:00 P. M. At 8:30 this physician returned to Mrs. DeMaio’s room and administered 5 ml. heparin by injection. Mrs. DeMaio awakened briefly. In a nearcomatose state she asked this physician, “Why did you kill Vangie Lewis?”

  This physician left Mrs. DeMaio to obtain more heparin. Obviously it was impossible to allow Mrs. DeMaio to repeat that question before witnesses. When this physician returned, patient had left room. Probably realizing what she had said, she tried to escape. Patient was apprehended and another 5 ml. of heparin was administered. Patient will hemorrhage to death tonight in Westlake Hospital.

  This file is now closed.

  He put down his pen, stretched, walked over to the wall safe and opened it. Bathed in light from the crystal sconces, the buff-colored files took on an almost golden sheen.

  They were golden: the records of his genius at his fingertips. Expansively he lifted them all out, laid them on his desk. Like a Midas savoring his treasure, he ran his fingers over the name tabs. His great successes. Berkeley and Lewis. His fingers stopped and his face darkened. Appleton, Carey, Drake, Elliot . . . failures. Over eighty of them. But not really failures. He had learned so much. They had all contributed. Those who had died, those who had aborted. They were part of the history.

  Lewis. An addendum was necessary. To Vangie’s file he added an account of his meeting with Emmet Salem.

  The fondue must be ready. Irresolutely he looked at the files. Should he put them away now or give himself the pleasure of reading some of them? Perhaps he should study them. This week had been so difficult. He needed to refresh himself concerning some of the drug combinations he would want to use in the new case.

  From somewhere in the distance a sound was beginning to penetrate the library: the wailing shriek of police sirens carried by the bone-chilling wind. The sound crescendoed into the room, then abruptly ceased. He hurried to the window, snatched back the drapery and glanced out. The police were here!

  Had Katie been found? Had she been able to talk? With lightning movements he ran to the desk, stacked the files, replaced them in the still-open safe, closed it and slid back the panel.

  Calm. He must be calm. His skin felt clammy. His lips and knees were rubbery. He must control himself. There was one last desperate card in the deck that he could always play.

  If Katie had talked, it was all over.

  But if the police were here for another reason, he might still be able to outwit them. Maybe Katie was already dead and her body had been found. Remember the questions and accusations when Claire died. They’d come to nothing. There had been absolutely no proof.

  All the possibilities and consequences were exploding in his mind at once. It was exactly the same as during an operation or a delivery when something abruptly went wrong and he had to make an irrevocable decision.

  And then it came. The icy, deliberate calm, the sense of power, the godlike omniscience that never failed him during difficult surgery. He felt it flowing through his body and brain.

  There was a sharp, authoritative rap at the door. Slowly, deliberately, he smoothed his hair. His fingers, now miraculously dry and warm, tightened the knot in his tie. He walked to the front door and opened it.

  ♦79♦

  As the squad car raced toward Edgar Highley’s home, Scott methodically reviewed the statements he’d heard in the past few hours from Chris Lewis, Gertrude Fitzgerald, Gana Krupshak, Jiro Fukhito, Anna Horan and Maureen Crowley.

  Seemingly they pointed in one direction: to Dr. Edgar Highley, placing him under grave suspicion of malpractice, malfeasance and murder.

  Not three hours ago, most of this same circumstantial evidence had pointed to Chris Lewis.

  Scott thought of Pick Up Sticks, the game he’d played as a kid. You had to remove the sticks from the pile, one by one, without disturbing the rest of them. If you so much as jiggled another stick, you lost. It was a game Scott had played skillfully. But the trouble was that almost always, no matter how much care he took, the pile would collapse.

  Circumstantial evidence was like that. Piled up, it looks impressive. Take it apart piece by piece and it caves in.

  Richard was sitting beside him on the back seat of the squad car. It was because of Richard’s insistence on slanting all the evidence against Edgar Highley that they were here now rushing through Parkwood with sirens screeching. Richard had heated this investigation to fever pitch by arguing that Highley might destroy evidence if he knew he was under suspicion.

  Edgar Highley was a prominent physician, an excellent obstetrician. A lot of important people were fervently indebted to him because of the babies he had delivered in their families. If this turned out to be a witch-hunt, the Prosecutor’s office would be under attack from the press and the public.

  “This stinks.” Scott did not realize he’d spoken aloud.

  Richard, deep in thought, turned to him frowning. “What stinks?”

  “This whole business: this search, this assumption that Highley is a combination of genius and murderer. Richard, what proof have we got? Gertrude Fitzgerald thinks Highley was going into the night-table drawer for the shoe. Chris Lewis thinks he caught a glimpse of Highley in the Essex House. You think Highley has performed medical mirac
les.

  “Look, even if the grand jury returns an indictment, which I doubt it will, a good lawyer could have this whole mess dismissed maybe without a trial. I’ve half a mind to turn around right now.”

  “Don’t!” Richard grasped Scott’s arm. “For God’s sake, we’ve got to seize his records.”

  Scott hunched back in the seat, pulling his arm free.

  “Scott,” Richard urged, “forget everything except the number of maternity deaths at Westlake. That alone is sufficient reason for an investigation.”

  The squad car swerved around a corner. They were in the elegant west section of Parkwood. “All right,” Scott snapped. “But remember, Richard, by tomorrow morning the two of us may be regretting this excursion.”

  “I doubt it,” Richard said shortly. He wished he could overcome the growing worry that was grinding the pit of his stomach. It had nothing to do with this moment, this case.

  It was Katie. He was desperately, irrationally worried about Katie. Why?

  The car pulled into a driveway. “Well, this is it,” Scott said sourly. The two detectives who were in the front seat jumped out of the car. As Richard started to get out, he noticed the movement of a drapery in a window at the far right of the house.

  They had parked behind a black car with MD plates. Scott touched the hood. “It’s still warm. He can’t have been here long.”

  The younger detective who had driven the car rapped sharply on the front door. They waited. Scott stamped his feet impatiently, trying to warm them. “Why don’t you ring the doorbell?” he asked irritably. “That’s what it’s there for.”

  “We were seen,” Richard said. “He knows we’re here.”

  The young investigator had just raised his finger to the bell when the door opened. Edgar Highley was standing in the foyer. Scott spoke first. “Dr. Highley?”