Eighty Million Eyes

8

Dr. Carl Nelson’s office was on Hall Avenue in a white apartment building with a green awning that stretched to the curb. Carella and Meyer got there at 1:00, took the elevator up to the fifth floor, and then announced themselves to a brunette nurse, who said the doctor had a patient with him at the moment, but she’d tell him they were here, wouldn’t they please have a seat?

They had a seat.

In ten minutes’ time, an elderly lady with a bandage over one eye came out of the doctor’s private office. She smiled at the two detectives, either soliciting sympathy for her wound, or offering sympathy for whatever had brought them to see a doctor. Carl Nelson came out of his office with his hand extended.

“How are you?” he said. “Come in, come in. Any news?”

“Well, not really, doctor,” Carella said. “We simply wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Happy to help you in any way I can,” Nelson said. He turned to his nurse and asked, “When’s my next appointment, Rhoda?”

“Two o’clock, doctor.”

“No calls except emergencies until then, please,” Nelson said, and he led the detectives inside. He sat immediately at his desk, offered Carella and Meyer chairs, and then folded his hands before him in a professionally relaxed, patiently expectant way.

“Are you a general practitioner, Dr. Nelson?” Meyer asked.

“Yes, I am.” Nelson smiled. “That’s a nasty cold you’ve got there, Detective Meyer. I hope you’re taking something for it.”

“I’m taking everything for it,” Meyer said.

“There’re a lot of viruses going around,” Nelson said.

“Yes,” Meyer agreed.

“Dr. Nelson,” Carella said, “I wonder if you’d mind telling us a little about yourself.”

“Not at all,” Nelson said. “What would you like to know?”

“Well, whatever you feel is pertinent.”

“About what? My life? My work? My aspirations?”

“Any of it, or all of it,” Carella said pleasantly.

Nelson smiled. “Well…” He paused, thinking. “I’m forty-three years old, a native of this city, attended Haworth University here. I was graduated with a BS in January 1944, and got drafted just in time for the assault on Cassino.”

“How old were you at the time, Dr. Nelson?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Was this Army?”

“Yes. The Medical Corps.”

“Were you an officer or an enlisted man?”

“I was a corporal. I was attached to a field hospital in Castelforte. Are you familiar with the country?”

“Vaguely,” Carella said.

“There was some fierce fighting,” Nelson said briefly. He sighed, dismissing the entire subject. “I was discharged in May 1946. I began medical school that fall.”

“What school was that, Dr. Nelson?”

“Georgetown University. In Washington, DC.”

“And then you came back here to begin practice, is that it?”

“Yes. I opened my own office in 1952.”

“This same office?”

“No, my first office was uptown. In Riverhead.”

“How long have you been at this location, doctor?”

“Since 1961.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“Yes. I was divorced seven years ago.”

“Is your former wife alive?”

“Yes.”

“Living in this City?”

“No. She lives in San Diego with her new husband. He’s an architect there.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“You said something about your aspirations, doctor. I wonder…”

“Oh.” Nelson smiled. “I hope to start a small rest home one day. For elderly people.”

“Where?”

“Most likely in Riverhead, where I began practice.”

“Now, Dr. Nelson,” Carella said, “it’s our understanding that you were at home last Wednesday night when Mr. Krantz called to tell you what had happened. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Were you home all night, Dr. Nelson?”

“Yes, I went home directly from here.”

“And what time did you leave here?”

“My usual evening hours are from five o’clock to eight o’clock. I left here last Wednesday night at about ten minutes past eight.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“Yes, Rhoda left with me. Miss Barnaby, my nurse; you just met her. We both left at the same time. You can ask her if you like.”

“Where did you go when you left the office?”

“Home. I already said I went directly home.”

“Where do you live, Dr. Nelson?”

“On South Fourteenth.”

“South Fourteenth, mmm, so it should have taken you, oh, fifteen minutes at the most to get from here to your house, is that right?”

“That’s right. I got home at about eight-thirty.”

“Was anyone there?”

“Just my housekeeper. Mrs. Irene Janlewski. She was preparing my dinner when the call came from the studio. Actually, I didn’t need the call.”

“Why not?”

“I’d seen Stan collapse.”

“What do you mean, Dr. Nelson?”

“I was watching the show. I turned it on the moment I got home.”

“At about eight-thirty, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s about when I got home.”

“What was happening when you turned on the show?” Meyer asked.

“Happening?”

“Yes, on the screen,” Meyer said. He had taken out his black notebook and a pencil and seemed to be taking notes as Nelson spoke. Actually, he was studying the page opposite the one on which he was writing. On that page, in his own hand, was the information George Cooper had given him last Wednesday night at the studio. The folk singers had gone off at 8:37, and Gifford had come on immediately afterward, staying on camera with his Hollywood guest for two minutes and twelve seconds. When the guest went off to change…

“Stan was doing a commercial when I turned the set on,” Nelson said. “A coffee commercial.”

“That would have been at about eight-forty,” Meyer said.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Actually, it would have been exactly eight-thirty-nine and twelve seconds,” Meyer said, just to be ornery.

“What?” Nelson asked.

“Which means you didn’t turn the set on the moment you got into the house. Not if you got home at eight-thirty.”

“Well, I suppose I talked with Mrs. Janlewski for a few minutes, asked if there were any calls, settled a few household problems, you know.”

“Yes,” Meyer said. “The important thing, in any case, is that you were watching Gifford when he got sick.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Which was at exactly eight-forty-four and seventeen seconds,” Meyer said, feeling a wild sense of giddy power.

“Yes,” Nelson agreed. “I suppose so.”

“What did you think when you saw him collapse?”

“I didn’t know what to think. I rushed to the closet for my hat and coat, and was starting out when the telephone rang.”

“Who was it?”

“David Krantz.”

“And he told you that Gifford was sick, is that right?”

“Right.”

“Which you already knew.”

“Yes, I already knew it.”

“But when you saw Gifford collapse, you didn’t know what was wrong with him.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Later on, Dr. Nelson, when I spoke to you at the studio, you seemed certain he’d been poisoned.”

“That’s true. But that—”

“It was you, in fact, who suggested that we have an autopsy performed.”

“That’s correct. When I got to the studio, the symptoms were unmistakable. A first-year med student could have diagnosed acute poisoning.”

“You didn’t know what kind of poison, of course.”

“How could I?”

“Dr. Nelson,” Carella said, “did you ever argue with Stan Gifford?”

“Yes. All friends argue every now and then. It’s only acquaintances who never have any differences of opinion.”

“What did you argue about?”

“I’m sure I don’t remember. Everything. Stan was an alert and well-informed person, with a great many opinions on most things that would concern a thinking man.”

“I see. And so you argued about them.”

“We discussed them, might be a better way of putting it.”

“You discussed a wide variety of things, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“But you did not argue about these things?”

“Yes, we argued, too.”

“About matters of general concern.”

“Yes.”

“Never about anything specific. Never about anything you might consider personal.”

“We argued about personal matters, yes.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I can’t remember any offhand. But I know we argued about personal matters from time to time.”

“Try to remember, Dr. Nelson,” Carella said.

“Has Melanie told you?” Nelson asked suddenly. “Is that what this is about?”

“Told us what Dr. Nelson?”

“Are you looking for confirmation, is that it? I can assure you the entire incident was idiotic. Stan was drunk, otherwise he wouldn’t have lost his temper that way.”

“Tell us about it,” Meyer said calmly.

“There’d been a party at his house, and I was dancing with Melanie. Stan had been drinking heavily, and he…well, he behaved somewhat ridiculously.”

“How did he behave?”

“He accused me of trying to steal his wife, and he…he tried to strike me.”

“What did you do, Dr. Nelson?”

“I defended myself, naturally.”

“How? Did you hit him back?”

“No. I simply held up my hands—to ward off his blows, you understand. He was very drunk, really incapable of inflicting any harm.”

“When was this party, Dr. Nelson?”

“Just after Labor Day. In fact, a week before the show went on the air again. After the summer break, you know. It was a sort of celebration.”

“And Stan Gifford thought you were trying to steal his wife, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Merely because you were dancing with her.”

“Yes.”

“Had you been dancing with her a lot?”

“No. I think that was the second time all evening.”

“Then his attack was really unfounded, wasn’t it?”

“He was drunk.”

“And that’s why you feel he attacked you, because he was drunk?”

“And because David Krantz provoked him.”

“David Krantz? Was he at the party, too?”

“Yes, most of the people involved with the show were there.”

“I see. How did Mr. Krantz provoke him?”

“Oh, you know the stupid jokes some people make.”

“No, what sort of jokes, Dr. Nelson?”

“About our dancing together, you know. David Krantz is a barbarian. It’s my considered opinion that he’s oversexed and attributes evil thoughts to everyone else in the world, as compensation.”

“I see. Then you feel it was Krantz who gave Gifford the idea that you were trying to steal his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He hated Stan. He hates all actors, for that matter. He calls them cattle, that’s supposed to endear them to him, you know.”

“How did Gifford feel about him?”

“I think the feelings were mutual.”

“Gifford hated Krantz, too, is that what you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did he take Krantz seriously that night?”

“What do you mean?”

“At the party. When Krantz said you were trying to steal Mrs. Gifford.”

“Oh. I don’t know. He was drunk. I guess a man will listen to anyone when he’s drunk.”

“Um-huh,” Carella said. He was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “But in spite of this incident, you remained his personal physician, is that right?”

“Oh, of course, Stan apologized to me the very next day.”

“And you continued to be friends?”

“Yes, certainly. I don’t even know why Melanie brought this up. I don’t see what bearing—”

“She didn’t,” Meyer said.

“Oh. Well, who told you about it then? Was it Krantz? I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s a goddamn troublemaker.”

“No one told us, actually,” Meyer said. “This is the first we’ve heard of the incident.”

“Oh.” Nelson paused. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’d rather you heard it from me than from someone else who was at the party.”

“That’s very sensible of you, Dr. Nelson. You’re being most cooperative.” Carella paused. “If it’s all right with you, we’ll simply verify with your nurse that you left here with her at about ten minutes past eight last Wednesday night. And we’ll—”

“Yes, you certainly may verify it with her.”

“And we’d also like to call your housekeeper—with your permission, of course—to verify that you arrived home at about eight-thirty, as you say, and remained there until after Krantz’s phone call.”

“Certainly. My nurse will give you my home number.”

“Thank you, Dr. Nelson. You’ve been very cooperative,” Carella said, and they went out to talk to Miss Barnaby, who told them the doctor had arrived at the office at 4:45 last Wednesday afternoon and had not left until office hours were over, at ten minutes past 8:00. She was absolutely certain about this because she and the doctor had left at the same time. She gave them the doctor’s home number so that they could speak to Mrs. Janlewski, the housekeeper, and they thanked her politely and went downstairs and then out of the building.

“He’s very cooperative,” Carella said.

“Yes, he’s very, very cooperative,” Meyer agreed.

“Let’s put a tail on him,” Carella said.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Meyer said. “Let’s put a tail on him and Krantz both.”

“Good idea.”

“You agree?”

“Sure.”

“You think one of them did it?”

“I think you did it,” Carella said, and suddenly slipped his handcuffs from his belt and snapped one of them onto Meyer’s wrist. “Come along now, no tricks,” he said.

“You know what a guy needs like a hole in the head when he’s got a bad cold?” Meyer said.

“What?”

“A partner who plays jokes.”

“I’m not playing jokes, mister,” Carella said, his eyes narrowing. “I happen to know that Stan Gifford took out a seven-million-dollar insurance policy on his life, payable to your wife Sarah as beneficiary in the event that he died on any Wednesday between eight-thirty and nine-thirty P.M. during the month of October. I further happen to know—”

“Oh, boy,” Meyer said, “start up with goyim.”

Back at the squadroom, they made two telephone calls.

The first was to Municipal Life, where they learned that Stanley Gifford’s insurance policy had been written only a year and a half ago, and contained a clause that read, “Death within two years from the date of issue of this policy, from suicide while sane or insane, shall limit the company’s liability hereunder to the amount of the premiums actually paid hereon.”

The second was to Mr. Salvatore Di Palma, Gifford’s lawyer, who promptly confirmed that Melanie Gifford had not been familiar with the terms of her husband’s will.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked.

“We’re investigating his murder,” Carella said.

“There’s nothing in Stan’s will that would have caused Melanie to even consider murder,” Di Palma said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I know what’s in the will.”

“Can you tell us?”

“I would not regard it as appropriate for me to reveal the contents of the will to any person until it has first been read to Mr. Gifford’s widow.”

“We’re investigating a murder,” Carella said.

“Look, take my word for it,” Di Palma said. “There’s nothing here to indicate—”

“You mean he doesn’t leave her anything?”

“Did I say that?”

“No, I said it,” Carella said. “Does he, or doesn’t he?”

“You’re twisting my arm,” Di Palma said, and then chuckled. He liked talking to Italians. They were the only civilized people in the world.

“Come on,” Carella said, “help a working man.”

“Okay, but you didn’t hear it from me,” Di Palma said, still chuckling. “Stan came in early last month, asked me to revise his will.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say. The will now leaves his house and his personal property to Mrs. Adelaide Garfein, that’s his mother, she’s a widow in Poughkeepsie, New York.”

“Go ahead.”

“It leaves one-third of the remainder of his estate to the American Guild of Variety Artists, one-third to the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences, and one-third to the Damon Runyon Cancer Fund.”

“And Melanie?”

“Zero,” Di Palma said. “That’s what the change was all about. He cut her out of it completely.”

“Thank you very much.”

“For what?” Di Palma said, and chuckled again. “I didn’t tell you anything, did I?”

“You didn’t say a word,” Carella said. “Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it,” Di Palma said, and hung up.

“So?” Meyer asked.

“He left her nothing,” Carella said. “Changed the will early last month.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.” Carella paused. “That’s pretty funny, don’t you think? I mean, here’s this sweet woman who had led a full and happy life with her husband, and who wants to take us upstairs to show us all her furs and jewelry and such—and just last month he cuts her out of his will. That’s pretty funny, I think.”

“Yeah, especially since just last month he also took a sock at our doctor friend and accused him of trying to steal his wife.”

“Yeah, that’s a very funny coincidence,” Carella said.

“Maybe he really believed Nelson was trying to steal his wife.”

“Maybe so.”

“Mmm,” Meyer said. He thought for a moment and then said, “But she still looks clean, Steve. She doesn’t get a cent either way.”

“Unless we find a murderer, in which case it’s no longer suicide, in which case she collects a hundred G’s from the insurance company.”

“Yeah, but that still leaves her out. Because if she’s the one who did it, she wouldn’t plan it to look like a suicide, would she?”

“What do you mean?”

“This thing looks exactly like a suicide. Listen, for all I know, it is one.”

“So?”

“So if you’re hoping to get a hundred thousand dollars on an insurance policy that has a suicide clause, you’re sure as hell not going to plan a murder that looks like a suicide, right?”

“Right.”

“So?” Meyer said.

“So Melanie Gifford looks clean.”

“Yeah.”

“Guess what I found out?” Carella said.

“What?”

“Gifford’s real name is Garfein.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So what? My real name is Rock Hudson.”