Eighty Million Eyes

7

Every time Kling went downtown to the lab on High Street, he felt the way he had when he was eleven years old and his parents gave him a Gilbert Chemistry Set for Christmas. The lab covered almost half the first-floor area of the Headquarters building, and although Kling realized it was undoubtedly a most mundane place to Grossman and his cohorts, to him it was a wonderland of scientific marvel. To him, there was truth and justice in the orderly arrangement of cameras and filters, spotlights and enlargers, condensers and projectors. There was an aura of worlds unknown in the silent array of microscopes, common and stereoscopic, comparison and polarizing. There was magic in the quartz lamp with its ultraviolet light, there was poetry in the beakers and crucibles, the flasks and tripods, the burettes and pipettes, the test tubes and Bunsen burners. The police lab was Mechanics Illustrated come to life, with balance scales and drafting tools, tape measures and micrometers, scalpels and microtomes, emery wheels and vises. And hovering over it all was the aroma of a thousand chemicals, hitting the nostrils like a waft of exotic perfume caught in the single sail of an Arabian bark.

He loved it, and he wandered into it like a small boy each time, often forgetting that he had come there to discuss the facts of violence or death.

Sam Grossman never forgot the facts of violence or death. He was a tall man, big-boned, with the hands and face of a New England farmer. His eyes were blue and guileless behind thick-rimmed eyeglasses. He spoke softly and with a gentility and warmth reminiscent of an era long past, even though his voice carried the clipped stamp of a man who dealt continually with cold scientific fact. Taking off his glasses in the police lab that Monday morning, he wiped the lenses with a corner of his white lab coat, put them back on the bridge of his nose, and said, “You gave us an interesting one this time, Bert.”

“How so?”

“Your man was a walking catalog. We found traces of everything but the kitchen sink in that fragment.”

“Anything I can use?”

“Well, that depends. Come on back here.”

The men walked the length of the lab, moving between two long white counters bearing test tubes of different chemicals, some bubbling, all reminding Kling of a Frankenstein movie.

“Here’s what we were able to isolate from that fragment. Seven different identifiable materials, all embedded in, or clinging to, or covering the basic material, which in itself is a combination of three materials. I think you were right about him having carried it on his shoe. Any other way, he couldn’t have picked up such a collection of junk.”

“You think it was caught on his heel?”

“Probably wedged near the rear of the shoe, where the sole joins the heel. Impossible to tell, of course. We’re just guessing. It seems likely, though, considering the garbage he managed to accumulate.”

“What kind of garbage?”

“Here,” Grossman said.

Each minute particle or particles of “garbage” had been isolated and mounted on separate microscope slides, all of them labeled for identification. The slides were arranged vertically in a rack on the counter top, and Grossman ticked off each one with his forefinger as he explained.

“The basic composition is made up of the materials on these first three slides, blended to form a sort of mastic to which the other elements undoubtedly clung.”

“And what are those three materials?” Kling asked.

“Suet, sawdust, and blood,” Grossman replied.

“Human blood?”

“No. We ran the Uhlenhuth precipitin reaction test on it. It’s definitely not human.”

“That’s good.”

“Well, yes,” Grossman said, “because it gives us something to play with. Where would we be most likely to find a combination of sawdust, suet, and animal blood?”

“A butcher shop?” Kling asked.

“That’s our guess. And our fourth slide lends support to the possibility.” Grossman tapped the slide with his finger. “It’s an animal hair. We weren’t certain at first because the granulation resembled that of a human hair. But the medullary index—the relation between the diameter of the medulla and the diameter of the whole hair—was zero point five. Narrower than that would have indicated it was human. It’s definitely animal.”

“What kind of an animal?” Kling asked.

“We can’t tell for certain. Either bovine or equine. Considering the other indications, the hair probably came from an animal one would expect to find in a butcher shop, most likely a steer.”

“I see,” Kling said. He paused. “But…” He paused again. “They’re stripped by the time they get to a butcher shop, aren’t they?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the hide’s been taken off by that time.”

“So?”

“Well, you just wouldn’t find a hair from a steer’s hide in a butcher shop, that’s all.”

“I see what you mean. A slaughterhouse would be a better guess, wouldn’t it?”

“Sure,” Kling said. He thought for a moment. “There’re some slaughterhouses here in the city, aren’t there?”

“I’m not sure. I think all the slaughtering’s done across the river, in the next state.”

“Well, at least this gives us something to look into.”

“We found a few other things as well,” Grossman said.

“Like what?”

“Fish scales.”

“What?”

“Fish scales, or at least a single minute particle of a fish scale.”

“In a slaughterhouse?”

“It doesn’t sound likely, does it?”

“No. I’m beginning to like your butcher shop idea again.”

“You are, huh?”

“Sure. A combined butcher shop and fish market, why not?”

“What about the animal hair?”

“A dog maybe?” Kling suggested.

“We don’t think so.”

“Well, how would a guy pick up a fish scale in a slaughter-house?”

“He didn’t have to,” Grossman said. “He could have picked it up wherever he went walking. He could have picked it up anyplace in the city.”

“That narrows it down a lot,” Kling said.

“You’ve got to visualize this as a lump composed of suet, blood—”

“Yeah, and sawdust—”

“Right, that got stuck to his shoe. And you’ve got to visualize him walking around and having additional little pieces of garbage picked up by this sticky wad of glopis—”

“Sticky wad of what?”

“Glopis. That’s an old Yiddish expression.”

“Glopis?”

“Glopis.”

“And the animal hair was stuck to the glopis, right?”

“Right.”

“And also the fish scale?”

“Right.”

“And what else?”

“These aren’t in any particular order, you understand. I mean, it’s impossible to get a progressive sequence of where he might have been. We simply—”

“I understand,” Kling said.

“Okay, we found a small dot of putty, a splinter of creosoted wood, and some metal filings that we identified as copper.”

“Go on.”

“We also found a tiny piece of peanut.”

“Peanut,” Kling said blankly.

“That’s right. And to wrap it all up, the entire sticky suet mess of glopis was soaked with gasoline. Your friend stepped into a lot.”

Kling took a pen from his jacket pocket. Repeating the items out loud, and getting confirmation from Grossman as he went along, he jotted them into his notebook:

“That’s it, huh?”

“That’s it,” Grossman said.

“Thanks. You just ruined my day.”

The drawing from the police artist was waiting for Kling when he got back to the squadroom. There were five artists working for the department, and this particular pencil sketch had been made by Detective Victor Haldeman, who had studied at the Art Students League in New York and later at the Art Institute in Chicago before joining the force. Each of the five artists, before being assigned to this special duty, had held other jobs in the department: two of them had been patrolmen in Isola, and the remaining three had been detectives in Calm’s Point, Riverhead, and Majesta respectively. The Bureau of Criminal Identification was located at Headquarters on High Street, several floors above the police lab. But the men assigned to the artists’ section of the bureau worked in a studio annex at 600 Jessup Street.

Their record was an impressive one. Working solely from verbal descriptions supplied by witnesses who were sometimes agitated and distraught, they had in the past year been responsible for twenty-eight positive identifications and arrests. So far this year, they had made sixty-eight drawings of described suspects, from which fourteen arrests had resulted. In each case, the apprehended suspect bore a remarkable resemblance to the sketch made from his description. Detective Haldeman had talked to all of the people who had been present when Vollner’s office was invaded Wednesday afternoon, listening to descriptions of face, hair, eyes, nose, mouth from Miles Vollner, Cindy Forrest, Grace Di Santo, and Ronnie Fairchild, the patrolman who was still hospitalized. The composite drawing he made took three and a half hours to complete. It was delivered to Kling in a manila envelope that Monday morning. The drawing itself was protected by a celluloid sleeve into which it had been inserted. There was no note with the drawing, and the drawing was unsigned. Kling took it out of the envelope and studied it.

Andy Parker, who was strolling past Kling’s desk on his way to the toilet, stopped and looked at the drawing.

“Who’s that?”

“Suspect,” Kling said.

“No kidding? I thought maybe it was Cary Grant.”

“You know what you ought to do, Andy?” Kling asked, not looking up at him as he put the drawing back into the manila envelope.

“What?” Parker asked.

“You should join the police force. I understand they’re looking for comical cops.”

“Ha!” Parker said, and went out to the toilet where he hoped to occupy himself for the next half hour with a copy of Life Magazine.

Forty miles away from the precinct that Monday morning, twenty-five miles outside the city limits, Detectives Meyer and Carella drove through the autumn countryside on their way to Larksview and the home of Mrs. Stan Gifford.

They had spent all day Saturday and part of Sunday questioning a goodly percentage of the 212 people who were present in the studio loft that night. They did not consider any of them possible suspects in a murder case. As a matter of fact, they were trying hard to find something substantial upon which to hang a verdict of suicide. Their line of questioning followed a single simple direction: They wanted to know whether anyone connected with the show had, at any time before or during the show, seen Stan Gifford put anything into his mouth. The answers did nothing to substantiate a theory of suicide. Most of the people connected with the show were too busy to notice who was putting what into his mouth; some of the staff hadn’t come across Gifford at all during the day; and those who had spent any time with him had definitely not seen anything go into his mouth. A chat with David Krantz revealed that Gifford was in the habit of forestalling dinner until after the show each Wednesday, eating a heavy lunch to carry him through the day. This completely destroyed the theory that perhaps Gifford had eaten again after meeting his wife. But it provided a new possibility for speculation, and it was this possibility that took Meyer and Carella to Larksview once more.

Meyer was miserable. His nose was stuffed, his throat was sore, his eyes were puffed and swollen. He had been taking a commercial cold preparation over the weekend, but it hadn’t helped him at all. He kept blowing his nose, and then talking through it, and then blowing it again. He made a thoroughly delightful partner and companion.

Happily, the reporters and photographers had forsaken the Gifford house now that the story had been pushed off the front page and onto the pages reserved for armchair detection. Meyer and Carella drove to the small parking area, walked to the front door, and once again pulled the brass knob set into the jamb. The housekeeper opened the door, peeked out cautiously, and then said, “Oh, it’s you again.”

“Is Mrs. Gifford home?” Carella asked.

“I’ll see,” she said, and closed the door in their faces. They waited on the front stoop. The woods surrounding the house rattled their autumn colors with each fresh gust of wind. In a few moments, the housekeeper returned.

“Mrs. Gifford is having coffee in the dining room,” she said. “You may join her, if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Carella said, and they followed her into the house. A huge, winding staircase started just inside the entrance hall, thickly carpeted, swinging to the upper story of the house. French doors opened onto the living room, and through that and beyond it was a small dining room with a bay window overlooking the backyard. Melanie Gifford sat alone at the table, wearing a quilted robe over a long pink nylon nightgown, the laced edges of the gown showing where the robe ended. Her blonde hair was uncombed, and hung loosely about her face. As before, she wore no makeup, but she seemed more rested now, and infinitely more at ease.

“I was just having breakfast,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m a late sleeper. Won’t you have something?”

Meyer took the chair opposite her, and Carella sat beside her at the table. She poured coffee for both men and then offered them the English muffins and marmalade, which they declined.

“Mrs. Gifford,” Carella said, “when we were here last time, you said something about your husband’s physician, Carl Nelson.”

“Yes,” Melanie said. “Do you take sugar?”

“Thank you.” Carella spooned a teaspoonful into his coffee, and then passed the sugar bowl to Meyer. “You said you thought he’d murdered—”

“Cream?”

“Thank you—your husband. Now what made you say that, Mrs. Gifford?”

“I believed it.”

“Do you still believe it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I see now that it would have been impossible. I didn’t know the nature of the poison at the time.”

“Its speed, do you mean?”

“Yes. Its speed.”

“And you mean it would have been impossible because Dr. Nelson was at home during the show, and not at the studio, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“But what made you suspect him in the first place?”

“I tried to think of who could have had access to poison, and I thought of Carl.”

“So did we,” Carella said.

“I imagine you would have,” Melanie answered. “These muffins are very good. Won’t you have some?”

“No, thank you. But even if he did have access, Mrs. Gifford, why would he have wanted to kill your husband?”

“I have no idea.”

“Didn’t the two men get along?”

“You know doctors,” Melanie said. “They all have God complexes.” She paused, and then added, “In any universe, there can only be one God.”

“And in Stan Gifford’s universe, he was God.”

Melanie sipped at her coffee and said, “If an actor hasn’t got his ego, then he hasn’t got anything.”

“Are you saying the two egos came into conflict occasionally, Mrs. Gifford?”

“Yes.”

“But not in any serious way, surely.”

“I don’t know what men consider serious. I know that Stan and Carl occasionally argued. So when Stan was killed, as I told you, I tried to figure out who could have got his hands on any poison, and I thought of Carl.”

“That was before you knew the poison was strophanthin.”

“Yes. Once I found out what the poison was, and knowing Carl was home that night, I realized—”

“But if you didn’t know the poison was strophanthin, then it could have been anything, any poison, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. But—”

“And you also must have known that a great many poisons can be purchased in drugstores, usually in compounds of one sort or another. Like arsenic or cyanide…”

“Yes, I suppose I knew that.”

“But you still automatically assumed Dr. Nelson had killed your husband.”

“I was in shock at the time. I didn’t know what to think.”

“I see,” Carella said. He picked up his cup and took a long deliberate swallow. “Mrs. Gifford, you said your husband took a vitamin capsule after lunch last Wednesday.”

“That’s right.”

“Did he have that capsule with him, or did you bring it to him when you went into the city?”

“He had it with him.”

“Was he in the habit of taking vitamin capsules with him?”

“Yes,” Melanie said. “He was supposed to take one after every meal. Stan was a very conscientious man. When he knew he was going into the city, he carried the vitamins with him, in a small pillbox.”

“Did he take only one capsule to the city last Wednesday? Or two?”

“One,” Melanie said.

“How do you know?”

“Because there were two on the breakfast table that morning. He swallowed one with his orange juice, and he put the other in the pillbox, and then put it in his pocket.”

“And you saw him take that second capsule after lunch?”

“Yes. He took it out of the pillbox and put it on the table the moment we were seated. That’s what he usually did—so he wouldn’t forget to take it.”

“And to your knowledge, he did not have any other capsules with him. That was the only capsule he took after leaving this house last Wednesday.”

“That’s right.”

“Who put those capsules on the breakfast table, Mrs. Gifford?”

“My housekeeper.” Melanie looked suddenly annoyed. “I’m not sure I understand all this,” she said. “If he took the capsule at lunch, I don’t see how it could possibly—”

“We’re only trying to find out for sure whether or not there were only two capsules, Mrs. Gifford.”

“I just told you.”

“We’d like to be sure. We know the capsule he took at lunch couldn’t possibly have killed him. But if there was a third capsule—”

“There were only two,” Melanie said. “He knew he was coming home for dinner after the show, the way he did every Wednesday night. There was no need for him to carry more than—”

“More than the one he took at lunch.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Gifford, do you know whether or not your husband had any insurance on his life?”

“Yes, of course he did.”

“Would you know in what amount?”

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

“And the company?”

“Municipal Life.”

“Who’s the beneficiary, Mrs. Gifford?”

“I am,” Melanie replied.

“I see,” Carella said.

There was a brief silence. Melanie put down her coffee cup. Her eyes met Carella’s levelly. Quietly, she said, “I’m sure you didn’t mean to suggest, Detective Carella—”

“Mrs. Gifford, this is all routine—”

“—that I might have had anything to do with the death of—”

“—questioning. I don’t know who had anything to do with your husband’s death.”

“I didn’t.”

“I hope not.”

“Because, you see, Detective Carella, a hundred thousand dollars in insurance money would hardly come anywhere near the kind of income my husband earned as a performer. I’m sure you know that he recently signed a two-million-dollar contract with the network. And I can assure you he’s always been more than generous to me. Or perhaps you’d like to come upstairs and take a look at the furs in my closet or the jewels on my dresser.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Mrs. Gifford.”

“I’m sure it won’t. But you might also like to consider the fact that Stan’s insurance policy carried the usual suicide clause.”

“I’m not sure I follow you, Mrs. Gifford.”

“I’m saying, Detective Carella, that unless you can find a murderer—unless you can prove there was foul play involved in my husband’s death—his insurance company will conclude he was a suicide. In which case, I’ll receive only the premiums already paid in, and not a penny more.”

“I see.”

“Yes, I hope you do.”

“Would you know whether or not your husband left a will, Mrs. Gifford?” Meyer asked.

“Yes, he did.”

“Are you also a beneficiary in his will?”

“I don’t know.”

“You never discussed it with him?”

“Never. I know there’s a will, but I don’t know what its terms are.”

“Who would know, Mrs. Gifford?”

“His lawyer, I imagine.”

“And the lawyer’s name?”

“Salvatore Di Palma.”

“In the city?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t mind if we call him?”

“Why should I?” Melanie paused again, and again stared at Carella. “I don’t mind telling you,” she said, “that you’re beginning to give me a severe pain in the ass.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Does part of your ‘routine questioning’ involve badgering a man’s widow?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gifford,” Carella said. “We’re only trying to investigate every possibility.”

“Then how about investigating the possibility that I led a full and happy life with Stan? When we met, I was working in summer stock in Pennsylvania, earning sixty dollars a week. I’ve had everything I ever wanted from the moment we were married, but I’d gladly give all of it—the furs, the jewels, the house, even the clothes on my back—if that’d bring Stan to life again.”

“We’re only—”

“Yes, you’re only investigating every possibility, I know. Be human,” she said. “You’re dealing with people, not ciphers.”

The detectives were silent. Melanie sighed.

“Did you still want to see my housekeeper?”

“Please,” Meyer said.

Melanie lifted the small bell near her right hand, and gave it a rapid shake. The housekeeper, as though alert and waiting for the tiny sound, came into the dining room immediately.

“These gentlemen would like to ask you some questions, Maureen,” Melanie said. “If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I’ll leave you alone. I’m late for an appointment now, and I’d like to get dressed.”

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Gifford,” Carella said.

“Not at all,” Melanie said, and walked out of the room.

Maureen stood by the table, uncertainly picking at her apron. Meyer glanced at Carella, who nodded. Meyer cleared his throat, and said, “Maureen, on the day Mr. Gifford died, did you set the breakfast table for him?”

“For him and for Mrs. Gifford, yes, sir.”

“Do you always set the table?”

“Except on Thursdays and every other Sunday, which are my days off. Yes, sir, I always set the table.”

“Did you put Mr. Gifford’s vitamin capsules on the table that morning?” Meyer asked.

“Yes, sir. Right alongside his plate, same as usual.”

“How many vitamin capsules?”

“Two.”

“Not three?”

“I said two,” Maureen said.

“Was anyone in the room when you put the capsules on the table?”

“No, sir.”

“Who came down to breakfast first? Mr. Gifford or Mrs. Gifford?”

“Mrs. Gifford came in just as I was leaving.”

“And then Mr. Gifford?”

“Yes. I heard him come down about five minutes later.”

“Do these vitamin capsules come in a jar?”

“A small bottle, sir.”

“Could we see that bottle, please?”

“I keep it in the kitchen.” Maureen paused. “You’ll have to wait while I get it.”

She went out of the room. Carella waited until he could no longer hear her footfalls, and then asked, “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. But if Melanie Gifford was alone in the room with those two capsules, she could have switched one of them, no?”

“The one he was taking to lunch, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Only one thing wrong with that theory,” Carella said.

“Yeah, I know. He had lunch seven hours before he collapsed.” Meyer sighed and shook his head. “We’re still stuck with that lousy six minutes. It’s driving me nuts.”

“Besides, it doesn’t look as though Melanie had any reason to do in her own dear Godlike husband.”

“Yeah,” Meyer said. “It’s just I get the feeling she’s too cooperative, you know? Her and the good doctor both. So very damn helpful. He right away diagnoses poison and insists we do an autopsy. She immediately points to him as a suspect, then changes her mind when she finds out about the poison. And both of them conveniently away from the studio on the night Gifford died.” Meyer nodded his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Maybe that six minutes is supposed to drive us nuts.”

“How do you mean?”

“Maybe we were supposed to find out which poison killed him. I mean, we’d naturally do an autopsy anyway, right? And we’d find out it was strophanthin, and we’d also find out how fast strophanthin works.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“So we’d automatically rule out anybody who wasn’t near Gifford before he died.”

“That’s almost the entire city, Meyer.”

“No, you know what I mean. We’d rule out Krantz, who says he was in the sponsor’s booth, and we’d rule out Melanie, who was here, and Nelson, who was at his own house.”

“That still needs checking,” Carella said.

“Why? Krantz said that was where he reached him after Gifford collapsed.”

“That doesn’t mean Nelson was there all night. I want to ask him about that. In fact, I’d like to stop at his office as soon as we get back to the city.”

“Okay, but do you get my point?”

“I think so. Given a dead end to work with, knowing how much poison Gifford had swallowed, and knowing how fast it worked, we’d come to the only logical conclusion: suicide. Is that what you mean?”

“Right,” Meyer said.

“Only one thing wrong with your theory, friend.”

“Yeah, what?”

“The facts. It was strophanthin. It does work instantly. You can speculate all you want, but the facts remain the same.”

“Facts, facts,” Meyer said. “All I know—”

“Facts,” Carella insisted.

“Suppose Melanie did switch that lunch capsule? We still haven’t checked Gifford’s will. She may be in it for a healthy chunk.”

“All right, suppose she did. He’d have dropped dead on his way to the studio.”

“Or suppose Krantz got to him before he went up to the sponsor’s booth?”

“Then Gifford would have shown symptoms of poisoning before the show even went on the air.”

“Arrrggh, facts,” Meyer said, and Maureen came back into the room.

“I asked Mrs. Gifford if it was all right,” she said. She handed the bottle of vitamin capsules to Carella. “You can do whatever you like with them.”

“We’d like to take them with us, if that’s all right.”

“Mrs. Gifford said whatever you like.”

“We’ll give you a receipt,” Meyer said. He looked at the bottle of vitamins in Carella’s hand. The capsules were jammed into the bottle, each one opaque, and colored purple and black. Meyer stared at them sourly. “You’re looking for a third capsule,” he said to Carella. “There’re a hundred of them in that bottle.”

He blew his nose then, and began making out a receipt for the vitamins.