While My Pretty One Sleeps

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Jim had been on duty when the PC came to the hospital with Myles Kearny and had had a chance to shake Kearny’s hand. The Legend. Kearny had lived up to the title. After the way his wife died, his guts must have been shredded wondering if Sepetti would go for his daughter.

  The PC had told them that Tony’s mother thought he was trying to tell them something. The nurses had instructions to call Jim anytime Tony was able to speak.

  It happened at four o’clock Monday afternoon. Vitale’s parents had just left, the exhaustion in their faces brightened by hope. Barring the unexpected, Tony was out of danger. The nurse went in to check on him. Through the glass, Jim watched, then moved rapidly as she waved him in.

  Glucose was dripping into Tony’s arm and oxygen was being administered by tubes taped to his nostrils. Tony’s lips were moving. He whispered a word.

  “He’s saying his own name,” the nurse told Jim.

  Jim shook his head. Bending, he put his ear to Tony’s lips. He heard “Kearny.” Then a faint “Nee . . .”

  He touched Vitale’s hand. “Tony, I’m a cop. You just said ‘Neeve Kearny,’ didn’t you? Squeeze my hand if I’m right.”

  He was rewarded by the faintest pressure on his palm. “Tony,” he said, “when you came in here, you tried to talk about a contract. Is that what you want to tell me?”

  “You’re disturbing the patient,” the nurse protested.

  Jim looked up at her briefly. “He’s a cop, a good cop. He’ll be better off if he communicates what he’s trying to say.” He repeated the question in Vitale’s ear.

  Again, a featherlike pressure on his palm.

  “All right. You want to tell us something about Neeve Kearny and about a contract.” Jim’s mind raced over the words he knew Vitale had said upon admittance to the hospital. “Tony, you said ‘Nicky, no contract.’ Maybe that was only part of what you wanted to say.” Jim had a sudden, chilling thought. “Tony, were you trying to tell us that Sepetti didn’t put out a contract on Neeve Kearny but someone else did?”

  An instant passed and then his hand was gripped convulsively.

  “Tony,” Jim begged. “Try. I’m watching your lips. If you know who ordered it, tell me.”

  It was as though the other cop’s questions were echoing through a tunnel. Tony Vitale felt vast, overwhelming relief at having been able to give this much warning. Now the picture was so clear in his mind: Joey telling Nicky that Steuber ordered the hit. His voice simply wouldn’t come, but he was able to move his lips slowly, pucker them to form the “Stu” syllable, release them for the “ber” sound.

  Jim watched intently. “I think he’s trying to say something like ‘Tru . . .’”

  The nurse interrupted. “To me it was “Stu-ber.”

  With a final effort before he fell back into a deep, healing sleep, undercover detective Anthony Vitale squeezed Jim’s hand and managed to nod his head.

  • • •

  After Doug Brown stalked from the interrogation room, Detectives O’Brien and Gomez discussed the facts of the case as far as they were known. They jointly agreed that Doug Brown was a punk; that his story was thin; that he probably had been stealing from his aunt; that his cock-and-bull alibi for not answering the phone was an outright lie; that he must have panicked when he started the story of receiving threats to Ethel just as her corpse was found.

  O’Brien leaned back in the chair and attempted to put his feet on the table, his “thinking” position at his desk. The table was too high for comfort, and, annoyed, he swung his feet to the floor, muttering about the crummy furniture and then adding, “That Ethel Lambston was some judge of character. Her ex-husband is a wimp; her nephew is a thief. But of the two scumbags, I say the ex-husband wasted her.”

  Gomez watched his partner cautiously. He had some thoughts of his own that he wanted to introduce gradually. When he began to speak, it was as though the idea had just floated through his mind. “Let’s assume she was murdered at home.”

  O’Brien grunted in agreement.

  Gomez continued, “If you and Miss Kearny are right, somebody changed Ethel’s clothes, somebody ripped out the labels, somebody probably dumped her suitcases and handbag.”

  Through half-closed but thoughtful eyes, O’Brien signaled agreement.

  “Here’s the point.” Gomez knew it was time to unveil his theory. “Why would Seamus hide her body? It was only a fluke that it was discovered so soon. He’d have had to keep sending alimony to her accountant. Or, why would the nephew hide the body and rip off identification? If Ethel had rotted undisturbed, he’d have to wait seven years to get at her dough, and even then it would have involved a lot of expensive legal time. If one of them did it, they’d have wanted the body discovered, right?”

  O’Brien raised his hand. “Don’t credit these punks with brains. We just keep raking them over, making them nervous, and sooner or later one of them will say, ‘I didn’t mean to do it.’ I still bet on the husband. For five bucks, you want the nephew?”

  Gomez was saved from making the choice when the telephone in the interrogation room rang. The Police Commissioner wanted to see both detectives in his office immediately.

  On the way downtown in a squad car, both O’Brien and Gomez tried to assess their activities on the case. The PC was on top of this one. Had they goofed? It was four-fifteen when they entered his office.

  • • •

  Police Commissioner Herbert Schwartz listened as the discussion progressed. Detective O’Brien was flat out against giving even limited immunity to Seamus Lambston. “Sir,” he told Herb, his voice deferential, “I’ve been positive right along that the ex-husband did it. Hold off. Give me three days to solve this.”

  Herb was about to decide in O’Brien’s favor when his secretary came in. Hurriedly, he excused himself and went to the outer office. Five minutes later he returned. “I have just been told,” he said quietly, “that Gordon Steuber may have ordered a contract put on Neeve Kearny. We’ll interrogate him immediately. Neeve blew the whistle on his illegal sweatshops, and that started the investigation that led to the drug bust, so it makes sense. But Ethel Lambston may also have gotten wind of his activities. So now there’s a damn good chance that Steuber may have been involved with Ethel Lambston’s death. I want to either pin down or eliminate the ex-husband in that murder. Go ahead with the deal his lawyer requested. And get the polygraph today.”

  “But . . .” O’Brien saw the expression on the PC’s face and did not finish the sentence.

  • • •

  An hour later, in two separate interrogation rooms, Gordon Steuber, who had not yet raised ten million dollars in bail, and Seamus Lambston were being questioned. Steuber’s lawyer hovered beside him as the questions crackled from Detective O’Brien.

  “Do you have any knowledge of a contract put out on Neeve Kearny?”

  Gordon Steuber, immaculate despite his hours in the detention pen, still assessing the seriousness of his situation, burst out laughing. “You gotta be kidding. But what a great idea.”

  In the next room, Seamus, under limited immunity, having told his story, was hooked up to a polygraph machine for the second time that day. Seamus kept reminding himself that this was the same as the other and he’d passed the first one. But it wasn’t the same. The hard, unfriendly faces of the detectives, the claustrophobic smallness of the room, the realization that they were sure he’d killed Ethel, terrified him. The encouraging comments of his lawyer, Kennedy, didn’t help. He knew he had made a mistake agreeing to the test.

  Seamus was barely able to answer the early, simple questions. When he got to that last meeting with Ethel, it was as though he were there with her again, watching her mocking face, knowing she was enjoying his misery, knowing that she’d never let go. The rage built in him as it had that night. The questions became incidental.

  “You punched Ethel Lambston.”

  His fist hitting her jaw. Her head snapping back. “Yeah. Yes.”

  “She pick
ed up the letter opener and tried to attack you.”

  The hatred in her face. No. It had been scorn. She knew she had him. She’d shouted, “I’ll have you arrested, you ape.” She’d reached for the letter opener and thrust it at him. He’d twisted it from her hand and cut her face when they grappled for it. Then she’d seen what was in his eyes. She’d said, “All right, all right, no more alimony.”

  Then . . .

  “Did you kill your former wife, Ethel Lambston?”

  Seamus closed his eyes. “No. No . . .”

  • • •

  Peter Kennedy did not need confirmation from Detective O’Brien to tell him what he had already sensed. He had lost the gamble.

  Seamus had failed the lie-detector test.

  Herb Schwartz listened, his face impassive, his eyes wary, as for the second time that afternoon he conferred with Detectives O’Brien and Gomez.

  In the past hour, Herb had agonized about whether or not to tell Myles that they suspected Gordon Steuber had ordered a contract on Neeve. He knew it might be enough to trigger another heart attack.

  If Steuber had ordered a contract on Neeve, was it too late to stop it? Herb felt his guts wrench as he realized the probable answer. No. If Steuber had set it in motion, it would have filtered through five or six hoods before the arrangements were made. The hit man would never know who had ordered it. Likely as not, some out-of-town goon would be brought in and would be rushed away as soon as the execution had taken place.

  Neeve Kearny. God, Herb thought, I can’t let it happen. He’d been a thirty-four-year-old deputy commissioner when Renata was murdered. Till the day he died, he’d never forget the look on Myles Kearny’s face as he knelt beside the body of his wife.

  And now his daughter?

  The line of inquiry that might have linked Steuber to Ethel Lambston’s death no longer seemed valid. The ex-husband had failed the lie-detector test, and O’Brien made no secret that he thought Seamus Lambston had cut his former wife’s throat. Herb asked O’Brien to present his reasons again.

  It had been a long day. Irritated, O’Brien shrugged, then, at a steely glance from the PC, assumed a respectful demeanor. As precisely as though he were on the witness stand, he made a forceful argument damning Seamus Lambston. “He’s broke. He’s desperate. He had a huge fight with his wife over a bounced tuition cheek. He goes up to see Ethel, and the neighbor four stories up can hear them quarreling. He doesn’t go to his bar all weekend. Nobody sees him. He knows Morrison State Park like his own backyard. He and his kids used to spend Sundays them. A couple of days later, he drops off a letter to Ethel saying thanks for letting me off the hook, and with that he encloses the check he’s not supposed to send. He goes back to retrieve it. He admits punching and cutting Ethel. He probably confessed everything to his wife, because she stole the murder weapon and got rid of it.”

  “Have you found it?” Schwartz cut in.

  “Our guys are looking for it now. And, sir, the bottom line is—he failed the polygraph.”

  “And passed the one he took in his lawyer’s office,” Gomez interjected. Without looking at his partner, Gomez decided he had to tell what he thought. “Sir, I spoke with Miss Kearny. She is sure that there’s something wrong about the outfit Ethel Lambston was wearing. The autopsy shows the victim tore her stocking when she put it on. When that pantyhose was pulled over her right foot, her toe caught and caused a huge run clear up the front. Miss Kearny believes Ethel Lambston would not have walked out looking like that. I respect Miss Kearny’s opinion. A fashion-conscious woman would not leave her home dressed like that when in ten seconds she can grab other stockings.”

  “Have you got the autopsy report and the morgue shots?” Herb asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the envelope was produced, Herb studied the pictures with clinical detachment. The first picture, the hand protruding from the ground; the body after it had been removed from the cavelike opening, frozen by rigor mortis into a doubled-over ball of rotting flesh. The close-ups of Ethel’s jaw, purple and black and blue. The bloody nick on her cheek.

  Herb turned to another print. This depicted only the area between Ethel’s chin and the bottom of her throat. The ugly jagged opening made Herb wince. No matter how many years he’d been in police work, the terrible proof of man’s cruelty to his fellow beings still saddened him.

  It was more than that.

  Herb grasped the print convulsively. The way the throat had been cut. That long slash down, then the precise line from the base of the throat up to the left ear. He’d seen that exact thrust one time before. He reached for the phone.

  Waves of shock did not affect the timbre of Police Commissioner Schwartz’s voice as he calmly ordered a particular file from the archives.

  . . .

  Neeve quickly realized that her mind was not on ordering sportswear. Her first stop was Gardner Separates. The shorts and T shirts with contrasting loose jackets were amusing and well cut. She could visualize doing the front window of the shop with these outfits in a beach-scene motif in early June. But after that decision had been made, she found herself unable to focus on the rest of the line. Pleading the pressure of time, she made an appointment for the following Monday and hastened from the overly eager clerk who pleaded to “show the new swimwear. You’ll flip, it’s so great.”

  When she reached the street, Neeve hesitated. For two cents, I’d go home, she thought. I need some quiet time. She realized she had the beginnings of a headache, a faint sense of pressure like a band around her forehead. I never get headaches, she told herself as she stood indecisively in front of the building.

  She could not go home. Just before she stepped into her car, Mrs. Poth had asked her to look for a simple white gown that would do for a small family wedding. “Nothing too elaborate,” she’d explained. “My daughter has already broken two engagements. The minister marks her wedding dates in pencil. But this time it just may happen.”

  There were several houses where Neeve planned to search for the gown. She started to turn right, then paused. The other place was probably the better choice. As she reversed direction, she glanced directly across the street. A man in a gray sweatsuit, a large envelope under his arm, a man with heavy dark glasses and a freakish punkrock hairstyle, was rushing toward her through the stalled traffic. For an instant they had eye contact and Neeve felt as though an alarm had sounded. The sense of pressure along her forehead was accentuated. A truck pulled out, blocking the messenger from view, and, suddenly annoyed with herself, Neeve began to walk rapidly down the block.

  It was four-thirty. The sunlight was hiding behind long, slanting shadows. Neeve found herself almost praying that she’d find a gown at the first stop. Then she thought, I’ll quit and go see Sal.

  She had given up trying to convince Myles that the blouse Ethel was wearing in death was important. But Sal would understand.

  • • •

  Jack Campbell went directly from his luncheon to an editorial meeting. It lasted until four-thirty. Back in his office, he tried to concentrate on the mountain of mail that Ginny had separated for him, but it was impossible. The sense of something being terribly wrong was over-powering him. Something he had missed. What was it?

  Ginny stood at the door that separated Jack’s office from the cubicled area where she worked, and studied him thoughtfully. In the month since Jack had taken over the presidency of Givvons and Marks, she had come to admire and like him tremendously. After twenty years of working for his predecessor, she had been afraid that she might not be able to adjust to the change, or that Jack might not want a holdover.

  Both concerns were invalid. Now as she studied him, unconsciously approving of the casual good taste of his dark-gray suit and amused by the boyish way he had loosened his tie and the top button of his shirt, she realized that he was seriously worried. His hands were locked under his chin. He was staring at the wall. His forehead was furrowed. Had the editorial meeting gone well? she wondered. She kne
w there were still some noses out of joint that Jack had been tapped for the top job.

  She knocked on the open door. Jack looked up and she watched as his eyes refocused. “Are you in deep meditation?” she asked easily. “If so, the mail can wait.”

  Jack attempted a smile. “No. It’s just this Ethel Lambston business. There’s something I’ve been missing about it, and I’ve racked my brains trying to figure it out.”

  Ginny sat at the edge of the chair opposite Jack’s. “Maybe I can help. Think about the day Ethel came in here. You only spent about two minutes with her and the door was open, so I heard her. She was yapping about a fashion scandal but gave absolutely no specifics. She wanted to talk big money and you threw a figure at her. I don’t think you missed anything.”

  Jack sighed. “I guess not. But tell you what. Let me look over that file Toni sent. Maybe there’s something in Ethel’s notes.”

  At five-thirty when Ginny looked in to say good night, Jack nodded absently. He was still poring over Ethel’s voluminous research. For every designer mentioned in her article, she had apparently put together a separate file containing biographical information and Xerox copies of dozens of fashion columns from newspapers and magazines like the Times, W, Women’s Wear Daily, Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar.

  She had obviously been a meticulous researcher. Interviews with the designers contained frequent notations: “Not what she said in Vogue.” “Check these figures.” “Never won that prize.” “Try to interview governess about her claim she sewed clothes for her dolls.” . . .

  There were a dozen different drafts of Ethel’s final article, with slashes and inserts in each version.

  Jack began to skim the material until he saw the name “Gordon Steuber.” Steuber. Ethel had been wearing a suit he designed when she was found. Neeve had been so insistent about the fact that the blouse taken from Ethel’s body had been sold with that suit but that Ethel wouldn’t have deliberately worn it.

  With minute care he analyzed the material on Gordon Steuber and was alarmed to see how frequently his name was mentioned in newspaper clippings of the past three months showing he was under investigation. In the article, Ethel had credited Neeve for pointing the finger at Steuber. The next-to-final draft of her article not only dealt with the exposure of his sweatshops, his incometax problems, but contained a sentence: “Steuber got his start in his father’s business, making linings for fur coats. The word is that nobody else in the history of fashion has made more money with linings and seams in the last few years than the dapper Mr. Steuber.”