Eighty Million Eyes

10

Meyer and Carella were in the squadroom when Kling came out of the lieutenant’s office.

“How you doing?” Carella asked him.

“So-so. We were just looking over the cheese.”

“What cheese?”

“Ah-ha,” Kling said mysteriously, and left.

“When did the lab say they’d call back on those vitamin capsules?” Carella asked.

“Sometime today,” Meyer answered.

“When today? It’s past five already.”

“Don’t jump on me,” Meyer said, and rose from his desk to walk to the water cooler. The telephone rang. Carella lifted it from the cradle.

“87th Squad, Carella,” he said.

“Steve, this is Bob O’Brien.”

“Yeah, what’s up, Bob?”

“How long do you want me to stick with this Nelson guy?”

“Where are you?”

“Outside his house. I tailed him from his office to the hospital and then here.”

“What hospital?”

“General Presbyterian.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Search me. Most doctors are connected with hospitals, aren’t they?”

“I guess so. When did he leave his office?”

“This afternoon, after visiting hours.”

“What time was that?”

“A little after two.”

“And he went directly to the hospital?” “Yeah. He drives a little red MG.”

“What time did he leave the hospital?” “About a half hour ago.”

“And went straight home?”

“Right. You think he’s bedded down for the night?”

“I don’t know. Call me in an hour or so, will you?”

“Right. Where’ll you be? Home?”

“No, we’ll be here awhile yet.”

“Okay,” O’Brien said, and hung up. Meyer came back to his desk with a paper cup full of water. He propped it against his telephone, and then opened his desk drawer and took out a long cardboard strip of brightly colored capsules.

“What’s that?” Carella asked.

“For my cold,” Meyer said, and popped one of the capsules out of its cellophane wrapping. He put it into his mouth and washed it down with water. The phone rang again. Meyer picked it up.

“87th Squad, Meyer.”

“Meyer, this is Andy Parker. I’m still with Krantz, just checking in. He’s in a cocktail lounge with a girl has boobs like watermelons.”

“What size, would you say?” Meyer asked.

“Huh? How the hell do I know?”

“Okay, just stick with him. Call in again later, will you?”

“I’m tired,” Parker said.

“So am I.”

“Yeah, but I’m really tired,” Parker said, and hung up.

Meyer replaced the phone on its cradle. “Parker,” he said. “Krantz is out drinking.”

“That’s nice,” Carella said. “You want to send out for some food?”

“With this case, I’m not very hungry,” Carella said.

“There should be mathematics.”

“What do you mean?”

“To a case. There should be the laws of mathematics. I don’t like cases that defy addition and subtraction.”

“What the hell was Bert grinning about when he left?”

“I don’t know. He grins a lot,” Meyer said, and shrugged. “I like two and two to make four. I like suicide to be suicide.”

“You think this is suicide?”

“No. That’s what I mean. I don’t like suicide to be murder. I like mathematics.”

“I failed geometry in high school,” Carella said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Our facts are right,” Meyer said, “and the facts add up to suicide. But I don’t like the feel.”

“The feel is wrong,” Carella agreed.

“That’s right, the feel is wrong. The feel is murder.”

The telephone rang. Meyer picked it up. “87th Squad, Meyer,” he said. “You again? What now?” He listened. “Yeah? Yeah? Well, I don’t know, we’ll check it. Okay, stick with it. Right.” He hung up.

“Who?” Carella said.

“Bob O’Brien. He says a blue Thunderbird just pulled up to Nelson’s house, and a blonde woman got out. He wanted to know if Melanie Gifford drives a blue Thunderbird.”

“I don’t know what the hell she drives, do you?”

“No.”

“Motor Vehicle Bureau’s closed, isn’t it?”

“We can get them on the night line.”

“I think we’d better.”

Meyer shrugged. “Nelson is a friend of the family. It’s perfectly reasonable for her to be visiting him.”

“Yeah, I know,” Carella said. “What’s the number there?”

“Here you go,” Meyer said, and flipped open his telephone pad. “Of course, there was that business at Gifford’s party.”

“The argument, you mean?” Carella said, dialing.

“Yeah, when Gifford took a sock at the doctor.”

“Yeah.” Carella nodded. “It’s ringing.”

“But Gifford was drunk.”

“Yeah. Hello,” Carella said into the phone. “Steve Carella, Detective/Second, 87th Squad. Checking automobile registration for Mrs. Melanie Gifford, Larksview. Right, I’ll wait. What? No, that’s Gifford, with a G. Right.” He covered the mouthpiece. “Doesn’t Bob know what she looks like?” he asked.

“How would he?”

“That’s right. This goddamn case is making me dizzy.” He glanced down at the cardboard strip of capsules on Meyer’s desk. “What’s that stuff you’re taking, anyway?”

“It’s supposed to be good,” Meyer said. “Better than all that other crap I’ve been using.”

Carella looked up at the wall clock.

“Anyway, I only have to take them twice a day,” Meyer said.

“Hello,” Carella said into the phone. “Yep, go ahead. Blue Thunderbird convertible, 1964. Right, thank you.” He hung up. “You heard?”

“I heard.”

“That’s pretty interesting, huh?”

“That’s very interesting.”

“What do you suppose old Melanie Wistful wants with our doctor friend?”

“Maybe she’s got a cold, too,” Meyer said.

“Maybe so.” Carella sighed. “Why only twice?”

“Huh?”

“Why do you only have to take them twice a day?”

Five minutes later, Carella was placing a call to Detective-Lieutenant Sam Grossman at his home in Majesta.

Bob O’Brien was standing across the street from Nelson’s brownstone on South Fourteenth when Meyer and Carella arrived. The red MG was parked in front of the doorway, and behind that was Melanie Gifford’s blue Thunderbird. Meyer and Carella walked up to where he stood with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets. He recognized them immediately, but only nodded in greeting.

“Getting pretty chilly,” he said.

“Mmm. She still in there?”

“Yep. The way I figure it, he’s got the whole building. Ground floor is the entry, first floor must be the kitchen, dining and living room area, and the top floor’s the bedrooms.”

“How the hell’d you figure that?” Meyer asked.

“Ground-floor light went on when the woman arrived—is she Mrs. Gifford?”

“She is.”

“Mmm-huh,” O’Brien said, “and out again immediately afterward. The lights on the first floor were on until just a little while ago. An older woman came out at about seven. I figure she’s either the cook or the housekeeper or both.”

“So they’re alone in there, huh?”

“Yeah. Light went on upstairs just about ten minutes after the old lady left. See that small window? I figure that’s the John, don’t you?”

“Yeah, must be.”

“That went on first, and then off, and then the light in the big window went on. That’s a bedroom, sure as hell.”

“What do you suppose they’re doing in there?” Meyer asked.

“I know what I’d be doing in there,” O’Brien said.

“Why don’t you go home?” Carella said.

“You don’t need me?”

“No. Go on, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You going in?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure you won’t need me to take pictures?”

“Ha ha,” Meyer said, and then followed Carella, who had already begun crossing the street. They paused on the front step. Carella found the doorbell and rang it. There was no answer. He rang it again. Meyer stepped back off the stoop. The lights on the first floor went on.

“He’s coming down,” Meyer whispered.

“Let him come down,” Carella said. “Second murderer.”

“Huh?”

“Macbeth, act three, scene three.”

“Boy,” Meyer said, and the entry lights went on. The front door opened a moment later.

“Dr. Nelson?” Carella said.

“Yes?” The doctor seemed surprised, but not particularly annoyed. He was wearing a black silk robe, and his feet were encased in slippers.

“I wonder if we might come in,” Carella said.

“Well, I was just getting ready for bed.”

“This won’t take a moment.”

“Well…”

“You’re alone, aren’t you, doctor?”

“Yes, of course,” Nelson said.

“May we come in?”

“Well…well, yes. I suppose so. But I am tired, and I hope—”

“We’ll be brief as we possibly can,” Carella said, and he walked into the house. There was a couch in the entry, a small table before it. A mirror was on the wall opposite the door; a shelf for mail was fastened to the wall below it. Nelson did not invite them upstairs. He put his hands in the pockets of his robe, and made it clear from his stance that he did not intend moving farther into the house than the entry hall.

“I’ve got a cold,” Meyer said.

Nelson’s eyebrows went up just a trifle.

“I’ve been trying everything,” Meyer continued. “I just started on some new stuff. I hope it works.”

Nelson frowned. “Excuse me, Detective Meyer,” he said, “but did you come here to discuss your—”

Carella reached into his jacket pocket. When he extended his hand to Nelson, there was a purple-and-black gelatin capsule on the palm.

“Do you know what this is, Dr. Nelson?” he asked.

“It looks like a vitamin capsule,” Nelson answered.

“It is, to be specific, a PlexCin capsule, the combination of Vitamin C and B-complex that Stan Gifford was using.”

“Oh, yes,” Nelson said, nodding.

“In fact, to be more specific, it is a capsule taken from the bottle of vitamins Gifford kept in his home.”

“Yes?” Nelson said. He seemed extremely puzzled. He seemed to be wondering exactly where Carella was leading.

“We sent the bottle of capsules to Lieutenant Grossman at the lab this afternoon,” Carella said. “No poison in any of them. Only vitamins.”

“But I’ve got a cold,” Meyer said.

Nelson frowned.

“And Detective Meyer’s cold led us to call Lieutenant Grossman again, just for the fun of it. He agreed to meet us at the lab, Dr. Nelson. We’ve been down there for the past few hours. Sam—that’s Lieutenant Grossman—had some interesting things to tell us, and we wanted your ideas. We want to be as specific about this as possible, you see, since there are a great many specifics in the Gifford case. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“The specific poison, for example, and the specific dose, and the specific speed of the poison, and the specific dissolving rate of a gelatin capsule, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Nelson said.

“You’re an attending physician at General Presbyterian, aren’t you, Dr. Nelson?”

“Yes, I am.”

“We spoke to the pharmacist there just a little while ago. He tells us they stock strophanthin in its crystalline powder form, oh, maybe three or four grains of it. The rest is in ampules, and even that isn’t kept in any great amount.”

“That’s very interesting. But what—”

“Open the capsule, Dr. Nelson.”

“What?”

“The vitamin capsule. Open it. It comes apart. Go ahead. The size is a double-O, Dr. Nelson. You know that, don’t you?”

“I would assume it was either an O or a double-O.”

“But let’s be specific. This specific capsule that contains the vitamins Gifford habitually took is a double-O.”

“All right then, it’s a double-O.”

“Open it.”

Nelson sat on the couch, put the capsule on the low table, and carefully pulled one part from the other. A sifting of powder fell onto the tabletop.

“That’s the vitamin compound, Dr. Nelson. The same stuff that’s in every one of those capsules in Gifford’s bottle. Harmless. In fact, to be specific, beneficial. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Take another look at the capsule.” Nelson looked. “No, Dr. Nelson, inside the capsule. Do you see anything?”

“Why…there…there appears to be another capsule inside it.”

“Why, yes!” Carella said. “Upon my soul, there does appear to be another capsule inside it. As a matter of fact, Dr. Nelson, it is a number three gelatin capsule, which, as you see, fits very easily into the large double-O capsule. We made this sample at the lab.” He lifted the larger capsule from the table and then shook out the rest of its vitamin contents. The smaller capsule fell onto the tabletop. Using his forefinger, Carella pushed the smaller capsule away from the small mound of vitamins and said, “The third capsule, Dr. Nelson.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“We were looking for a third capsule, you see. Since the one Gifford took at lunch couldn’t possibly have killed him. Now, Dr. Nelson, if this smaller capsule were loaded with two grains of strophanthin and placed inside the larger capsule, that could have killed him, don’t you think?”

“Certainly, but it would have—”

“Yes, Dr. Nelson?”

“Well, it seems to me that…that the smaller capsule would have dissolved very rapidly, too. I mean—”

“You mean, don’t you, Dr. Nelson, that if the outside capsule took six minutes to dissolve, the inside capsule might take, oh, let’s say another three or four or five or however many minutes to dissolve. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes.”

“So that doesn’t really change anything, does it? The poison still would have had to be taken just before Gifford went on.”

“Yes, I would imagine so.”

“But I have a cold,” Meyer said.

“Yes, and he’s taking some capsules of his own,” Carella said, smiling. “Only has to take two a day because the drug is released slowly over a period of twelve hours. They’re called time-release capsules, Dr. Nelson. I’m sure you’re familiar with them.” Nelson seemed as if he were about to rise, and Carella instantly said, “Stay where you are, Dr. Nelson, we’re not finished.”

Meyer smiled and said, “Of course, my capsules were produced commercially. I imagine it would be impossible to duplicate a time-release capsule without manufacturing facilities, wouldn’t it, Dr. Nelson?”

“I would imagine so.”

“Well, to be specific,” Carella said, “Lieutenant Sam Grossman said it was impossible to duplicate such a capsule. But he remembered experiments from way back in his Army days, Dr. Nelson, when some of the doctors in his outfit were playing around with what is called enteric coating. Did the doctors in your outfit try it, too? Are you familiar with the expression ‘enteric coating,’ Dr. Nelson?”

“Of course I am,” Nelson said, and he rose, and Carella leaned across the table and put his hands on the doctor’s shoulders and slammed him down onto the couch again.

“Enteric coating,” Carella said, “as it specifically applies to this small inside capsule, Dr. Nelson, means that if the capsule had been immersed for exactly thirty seconds in a one-percent solution of formaldehyde, and then allowed to dry—”

“What is all this? Why are you—”

“—and then held for two weeks to allow the formaldehyde to act upon the gelatin, hardening it, then the—”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“I mean that a capsule treated in just that way would not dissolve in normal gastric juices for at least three hours, Dr. Nelson, by which time it would have left the stomach. And after that, it would dissolve in the small intestine within a period of five hours. So you see, Dr. Nelson, we’re not working with six minutes any more. Only the outside capsule would have dissolved that quickly. We’re working with anywhere from three to eight hours. We’re working with a soft outer shell and a hard inner nucleus containing two full grains of poison. To be specific, Dr. Nelson, we are working with the capsule Gifford undoubtedly took at lunch on the day he was murdered.”

Nelson shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I had nothing to do with any of this.”

“Ahhh, Dr. Nelson,” Carella said. “Did we forget to mention that the pharmacy at General Presbyterian has a record of all drugs ordered by its physicians? The record shows you have been personally withdrawing small quantities of strophanthin from the pharmacy over the past month. There is no evidence that you were administering the drug to any of your patients at the hospital during that period of time.” Carella paused. “We know exactly how you did it, Dr. Nelson. Now would you like to tell us why?”

Nelson was silent.

“Then perhaps Mrs. Gifford would,” Carella said. He walked to the stairwell at the far end of the entry. “Mrs. Gifford,” he called, “would you please put on your clothes and come downstairs?”

Elizabeth Rushmore Hospital was on the southern rim of the city, a complex of tall white buildings that faced the River Dix. From the hospital windows, one could watch the river traffic, could see in the distance the smokestacks puffing up black clouds, could follow the spidery strands of the three bridges that connected the island to Sands Spit, Calm’s Point, and Majesta.

A cold wind was blowing off the water. He had called the hospital earlier that afternoon and learned that evening visiting hours ended at 8:00. It was now 7:45, and he stood on the river’s edge with his coat collar raised, and looked up at the lighted hospital windows and once again went over his plan.

He had thought at first that the whole thing was a cheap cop trick. He had listened attentively while Buddy told him about the visit of the blond cop, the same son of a bitch; Buddy said his name was Kling, Detective Bert Kling. Holding the phone receiver to his ear, he had listened, and his hand had begun sweating on the black plastic. But he had told himself all along that it was only a crummy trick, did they think he was going to fall for such a cheap stunt?

Still, they had known his name; Kling had asked for Cookie. How could they have known his name unless there really was a file someplace listing guys who were involved with numbers? And hadn’t Kling mentioned something about not being able to locate him at the address they had for him in the file? If anything sounded legit, that sure as hell did. He had moved two years ago, so maybe the file went back before then. And besides, he hadn’t been home for the past few days, so even if the file was a recent one, well then they wouldn’t have been able to locate him at his address because he simply hadn’t been there. So maybe there was some truth in it, who the hell knew?

But a picture? Where would they have gotten a picture of him? Well, that was maybe possible. If the cops really did have such a file, then maybe they also had a picture. He knew goddamn well that they took pictures all the time, mostly trying to get a line on guys in narcotics, but maybe they did it for numbers, too. He had seen laundry trucks or furniture vans parked in the same spot on a street all day long, and had known—together with everybody else in the neighborhood—that it was cops taking pictures. So maybe it was possible they had a picture of him, too. And maybe that little bitch had really pointed him out, maybe so, it was a possibility. But it still smelled a little, there were still too many unanswered questions.

Most of the questions were answered for him when he read the story in the afternoon paper. He’d almost missed it because he had started from the back of the paper, where the racing results were, and then had only turned to the front afterwards, sort of killing time. The story confirmed that there was a file on numbers racketeers, for one thing, though he was pretty sure about that even before he’d seen the paper. It also explained why Fairchild couldn’t make the identification, too. You can’t be expected to look at a picture of somebody when you’re lying in the hospital with a coma. He didn’t think he’d hit the bastard that hard, but maybe he didn’t know his own strength. Just to check he’d called Buena Vista as soon as he’d read the story and asked how Patrolman Fairchild was doing. They told him he was still in coma and on the critical list, so that part of it was true. And, of course, if those jerks in the office where Cindy worked were too scared to identify the picture, well then Fairchild’s condition explained why Cindy was the only person the cops could bank on.

The word “homicide” had scared him. If that son of a bitch did die, and if the cops picked him up and Cindy said, yes, that’s the man, well, that was it, pal. He thought he’d really made it clear to her, but maybe she was tougher than he thought. For some strange reason, the idea excited him, the idea of her not having been frightened by the beating, of her still having the guts to identify his picture and promise to testify. He could remember being excited when he read the story, and the same excitement overtook him now as he looked up at the hospital windows and went over his plan.

Visiting hours ended at 8:00, which meant he had exactly ten minutes to get into the building. He wondered suddenly if they would let him in so close to the deadline, and he immediately began walking toward the front entrance. A wide slanting concrete canopy covered the revolving entrance doors. The hospital was new, an imposing edifice of aluminum and glass and concrete. He pushed through the revolving doors and walked immediately to the desk on the right of the entrance lobby. A woman in white—he supposed she was a nurse—looked up as he approached.

“Miss Cynthia Forrest?” he said.

“Room seven-twenty,” the woman said, and immediately looked at her watch. “Visiting hours are over in a few minutes, you know,” she said.

“Yes, I know, thanks,” he answered, and smiled, and walked swiftly to the elevator bank. There was only one other civilian waiting for an elevator; the rest were all hospital people in white uniforms. He wondered abruptly if there would be a cop on duty outside her door. Well, if there is, he thought, I just call it off, that’s all. The elevator doors opened. He stepped in with the other people, pushed the button for the seventh floor, noticed that one of the nurses reached for the same button after he had pushed it, and then withdrew quietly to the rear of the elevator. The doors closed.

“If you ask me,” a nurse was saying, “it’s psoriasis. Dr. Kirsch said it’s blood poisoning, but did you see that man’s leg? You can’t tell me that’s from blood poisoning.”

“Well, they’re going to test him tomorrow,” another nurse said.

“In the meantime, he’s got a fever of a hundred two.”

“That’s from the swollen leg. The leg’s all infected, you know.”

“Psoriasis,” the first nurse said, “that’s what it is,” and the doors opened. Both, nurses stepped out. The doors closed again. The elevator was silent. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to 8:00. The elevator stopped again at the fourth floor, and again at the fifth. On the seventh floor, he got off the elevator with the nurse who had earlier reached for the same button. He hesitated in the corridor for a moment. There was a wide-open area directly in front of the elevators. Beyond that was a large room with a bank of windows, the sunroom, he supposed. To the right and left of the elevators were glass doors leading to the patients’ rooms beyond. A nurse sat at a desk some three feet before the doors on the left. He walked swiftly to the desk and said, “Which way is seven-twenty?”

The nurse barely looked up. “Straight through,” she said. “You’ve only got a few minutes.”

“Yes, I know, thanks,” he said, and pushed open the glass door. The room just inside the partition was 700, and the one beyond that was 702, so he assumed 720 was somewhere at the end of the hall. He looked at his watch. It was almost 8:00. He hastily scanned the doors in the corridor, walking rapidly, finding the one marked MEN halfway down the hall. Pushing open the door, he walked immediately to one of the stalls, entered it, and locked it behind him.

In less than a minute, he heard a loudspeaker announcing that visiting hours were now over. He smiled, lowered the toilet seat, sat, lighted a cigarette, and began his long wait.

He did not come out of the men’s room until midnight. By that time, he had listened to a variety of patients and doctors as they discussed an endless variety of ills and ailments, both subjectively and objectively. He listened to each of them quietly and with some amusement because they helped to pass the time. He had reasoned that he could not make his move until the hospital turned out the lights in all the rooms. He didn’t know what time taps was in this crummy place, but he supposed it would be around 10 or 10:30. He had decided to wait until midnight, just to be sure. He figured that all of the visiting doctors would be gone by that time, and so he knew he had to be careful when he came out into the corridor. He didn’t want anyone to stop him or even to see him on the way to Cindy’s room.

It was a shame he would have to kill the little bitch.

She could have really been something.

There was a guy who came back to pee a total of seventeen times between 8:00 and midnight. He knew because the guy was evidently having some kind of kidney trouble, and every time he came into the john he would walk over to the urinals—the sound of his shuffling slippers carrying into the locked stall—and then he would begin cursing out loud while he peed, “Oh, you son of a bitch! Oh, what did I do to deserve such pain and misery?” and like that. One time, while he was peeing, some other guy yelled out from the stall alongside, “For God’s sake, Mandel, keep your sickness to yourself.”

And then the guy standing at the urinals had yelled back, “It should happen to you, Liebowitz! It should rot, and fall off of you, and be washed down the drain into the river, may God hear my plea!”

He had almost burst out laughing, but instead he lighted another cigarette and looked at his watch again, and wondered what time they’d be putting all these sick jerks to bed, and wondered what Cindy would be wearing. He could still remember her undressing that night he’d beat her up, the quick flash of her nudity—he stopped his thoughts. He could not think that way. He had to kill her tonight, there was no sense thinking about—and yet maybe while he was doing it, maybe it would be like last time, maybe with her belly smooth and hard beneath him, maybe like last time maybe he could.

The men’s room was silent at midnight.

He unlocked the stall and came out into the room and then walked past the sinks to the door and opened it just a bit and looked out into the corridor. The floors were some kind of hard polished asphalt tile, and you could hear the clicking of high heels on it for a mile, which was good. He listened as a nurse went swiftly down the corridor, her heels clicking away, and then he listened until everything was quiet again. Quickly, he stepped out into the hall. He began walking toward the end of the corridor, the steadily mounting door numbers flashing by on left and right, 709, 710, 711…714, 715, 716…

He was passing the door to room 717 on his left, when it opened and a nurse stepped into the corridor. He was too startled to speak at first. He stopped dead, breathless, debating whether he should hit her. And then, from somewhere, he heard a voice saying, “Good evening, nurse,” and he hardly recognized the voice as his own because it sounded so cultured and pleasant and matter-of-fact. The nurse looked at him for just a moment longer, and then smiled and said, “Good evening, doctor,” and continued walking down the corridor. He did not turn to look back at her. He continued walking until he came to room 720. Hoping it was a private room, he opened the door, stepped inside quickly, closed the door immediately, and leaned against it, listening. He could hear nothing in the corridor outside. Satisfied, he turned into the room.

The only light in the room came from the windows at the far end, just beyond the bed. He could see the silhouette of her body beneath the blankets, the curved hip limned by the dim light coming from the window. The blanket was pulled high over her shoulders and the back of her neck, but he could see the short blonde hair illuminated by the dim glow of moonlight from the windows. He was getting excited again, the way he had that night he beat her up. He reminded himself why he was here—this girl could send him to the electric chair. If Fairchild died, the girl was all they needed to convict him. He took a deep breath and moved toward the bed.

In the near-darkness, he reached for her throat, seized it between his huge hands and then whispered, “Cindy,” because he wanted her to be awake and looking straight up into his face when he crushed the life out of her. His hands tightened.

She sat erect suddenly. Two fists flew up between his own hands, up and outward, breaking the grip. His eyes opened wide.

“Surprise!” Bert Kling said, and punched him in the mouth.