Shadow of a Broken Man

12

On my way to the bottom of things I took an elevator to the newspaper morgue in the basement.

There was no listing for a Marianne Morton in any of the borough directories. It was possible she had an unlisted number, but I considered it more likely that she'd remarried. If so, there was reason to assume that the marriage had made the society pages; Arthur Morton had been a big name, and he hadn't exactly left his widow penniless. I was hoping she'd decided to stay around New York City.

I started with a newspaper dated a month after Morton's death and worked my way toward the present. I finally found what I was looking for in an issue dated two years to the day after Morton had been murdered. Marianne Morton, the widow of Dr. Arthur Morton, had married an import- export magnate by the name of Khalil Vahanian. The accompanying photographs showed a respectable middle-aged couple. Vahanian was dark, apparently Middle Eastern; he looked embarrassed, like a man who didn't enjoy having his picture taken. Marianne Vahanian's picture was blurred, but I could see that she was smiling.

A Vahanian Import-Export Company was in the Manhattan directory, but there was no home phone listing for its president. I called the company and was told the president was away. They wouldn't tell me where he lived, or how I could get in touch with him. I got lucky when I took a flier and started combing through the directories of the outlying counties. There was a Khalil Vahanian in the town of Tuxedo Park, a small, exclusive, walled-in community of millionaires in Orange County. It had to be the same one.

From what I'd heard of Tuxedo Park, it was going to be difficult dropping in unannounced, but I was going to have to find a way. I couldn't think of a way of sliding into a phone conversation about the death of Marianne Vahanian's first husband gracefully, and I didn't want to turn her off before I'd had a chance to talk to her in person.

I rented a car and drove up the West Side Highway, across the George Washington Bridge, and up the Palisades Parkway. It felt good to be out of the city. The foliage on the trees along the Palisades was lush and green, and the strip of concrete beneath the wheels seemed like a suspended highway snaking through some primeval jungle. It was a pleasant, otherworldly effect, very relaxing. I almost forgot for a few minutes the ugly, bloody threads unraveling behind me.

A glance into the rearview mirror revealed that I was not alone. A green Cadillac was coming up fast. As I watched, its driver eased off the accelerator and the car settled down, about a hundred yards back, to a speed matching my own.

I took my gun out of its holster and put it on the seat beside me, then pulled off onto the shoulder. The Caddy sped right past. The two men in it seemed totally absorbed in an animated conversation, taking no notice of me. They went by too fast for me to get a good look at them, but the man on the passenger's side had curly red hair and was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. I waited until they were out of sight, then drove back onto the highway.

I reached Tuxedo Park at three forty-five. A short drive along the high stone fence brought me to a locked gate, where I honked my horn. A tall, uniformed private guard emerged from a kiosk and peered aristocratically at me from the other side of the gate. He was tall and held his chin high, shoulders back, like a general personally guarding some military installation. He opened the gate but didn't move out of the way as I inched forward; he was a man who would defend the residents of Tuxedo Park with his life.

I braked and smiled up at him.

"Yes?" He said. The "sir" was pointedly missing. He had a slight lisp.

"I'm here to see Mrs. Vahanian."

"Is Mrs. Vahanian expecting you?"

"Of course. My name is Dr. Frederickson." I was hoping the title would get me through the gate. It didn't; the guard went into his kiosk and picked up a phone.

He emerged a few moments later. He looked confused, and I took that as a good sign. "No one answers," he said uncertainly.

"She's probably out in the garden," I said, deciding to take a chance. I watched him carefully as I said, "You know how much time Mrs. Vahanian spends on her roses."

The guard looked up at the sky as if waiting for divine guidance. Finally he cleared his throat and said, "Mrs. Vahanian usually tells me when she's expecting somebody."

"So? Today she forgot. Look, I'm not going to take it kindly if I have to go all the way back to New York without seeing Mrs. Vahanian, and Mrs. Vahanian isn't going to take it kindly if I don't take it kindly." I paused for effect, then whispered conspiratorially, "You know how these rich folks are."

He knew how rich folks were. He made a half-bow and stepped out of my way. "No offense, sir."

"Don't worry about it."

"I'm paid to worry, sir. Please don't forget to honk at the S-turn."

I drove up a narrow, twisting lane, honked at the turn, then emerged into the community proper. I drove around for a while until I found Wood Lane. There were only three homes on the street, and the largest one belonged to the Vahanians. I parked at the curb and walked across a vast sea of manicured lawn toward a white, colonial-style home with an air of decadent tackiness that had probably cost extra.

There was no answer when I rang the bell, so I walked around to the back, politely calling Mrs. Vahanian's name. I found her at the rear of the house standing under a rose bower next to a metal garden table. The pitcher on the table contained a clear liquid that looked a bit thicker than water. The glass in her hand was half empty, which could account for the fact that she hadn't heard the phone, or me. She was sipping at her drink, staring at her roses.

I came closer. "Mrs. Vahanian?"

She wheeled, almost spilling her drink. She was a handsome woman, with hair a shimmering silver that hadn't come out of a bottle. Her eyes were green, momentarily bright with shock, which gradually faded. She stared at me for a long time, then suddenly laughed. It was a hearty, infectious sound. "Who the hell are you?" she boomed.

I held out my hand. "My name's Frederickson," I said, grinning and making a half-bow. "I tried the front door, but couldn't get an answer."

"How did you get in here?"

"Dwarf charm. I'm a private investigator. I'd appreciate it very much if you'd answer some questions."

Her eyes filled with the kind of fear wealthy people have for strangers and private detectives, and especially strange private detectives. "About what?" Her voice was breathy and the laughter was gone from it.

"Your first husband."

She shook her head quickly. She looked as if she were getting ready to have me thrown off the property. "I don't understand. What is it that you want?"

"There's no trouble, Mrs. Vahanian." I put my hand on the back of one of the garden chairs and spoke quickly.

"I've been hired to look into the death of a man by the name of Victor Rafferty. He was one of Dr. Morton's patients."

"Victor? Victor's been dead for five years. He died soon after …" Her voice trailed off, and she quickly poured herself another drink. Her eyes had gone out of focus, as though she were staring at something that had leaped out at her from the past.

"I came across the facts of Dr. Morton's death while I was investigating Rafferty. I was thinking that the one death just might have had something to do with the other."

"I've always thought so," she said distantly. Her eyes suddenly snapped back into focus on me. "I've always felt that the police did not do an adequate job in trying to apprehend Arthur's killer."

"There's at least one policeman who's very anxious to solve the case, but he needs more information. If you want, I'll relay anything you tell me to him."

"Why isn't he here himself?"

"This is out of his jurisdiction. He's a New York City policeman."

She turned her face away for a moment. "Would you like a martini?" she asked quietly. "It's the maid's day off, and that's the only thing I know how to make."

"All right, Mrs. Vahanian. Thank you."

She disappeared into the house and returned a few minutes later with a glass. She walked very slowly, as if carrying an invisible burden I'd brought to her. I filled the glass, then set it down on the table.

"What do you want to know?" she whispered.

"Anything and everything you can remember about the relationship between Victor Rafferty and your first husband. Were they friends before the car accident?"

"Oh, yes. They were both very famous men in their own right. Arthur was a neurosurgeon, so it was only natural that he take Victor as his patient after the accident. Arthur told me that it was one of the worst skull fractures he'd ever seen in which the victim had lived. Part of the skull was literally pulverized, and the brain area beneath was damaged."

She paused and emptied her glass, started to pour a refill, thought better of it. She set the pitcher down and moved away from the table. "Arthur was sure Victor would die. He never said so, but I'm almost positive that he wanted to let Victor die on the operating table. He just… couldn't do that. Every second Victor lived after that horrible accident was considered a miracle. Anyway, Arthur did a series of operations. He stopped the hemorrhaging, then replaced the missing skull section with a steel plate." She plucked nervously at her print skirt. "After that, Arthur was afraid that Victor would live."

"Why?"

"Brain damage is irreversible, and it's dysfunctional: it destroys the capacities of the brain. Arthur was certain that Victor, if he did survive, would be nothing more than a vegetable, kept alive only by machines. Arthur didn't want that for Victor."

"But it obviously didn't work out that way."

"It certainly didn't. For a while it seemed that half the doctors in the world were asking for permission to come and observe Victor Rafferty. Victor was still very weak, of course, and Arthur put him on an exercise program to build up his body. There didn't seem to be anything at all the matter with his brain. That was the amazing thing. Arthur couldn't get over that. For all intents and purposes, Victor seemed to be on the way to complete recovery. Then… something happened."

"What was that, Mrs. Vahanian?"

"I don't really know. Arthur became very close-mouthed about it. It started with a telephone call he received one night from Victor."

"Did he tell you what Rafferty said?" I asked.

"No. Arthur did mention something about hallucinations, but he didn't seem to take it too seriously. At first."

"But he did later?"

"Yes," she said tightly. "Victor telephoned one afternoon about a week after the first call. Arthur wasn't here, so I took the call. Victor sounded very upset, but coherent. He said he had to talk to Arthur. When Arthur came home he called Victor back, and I believe they made an appointment to meet that evening. Also-and I'm not sure this is related-Arthur called one of his colleagues, Dr. Mary Llewellyn. She's a clinical psychologist with offices in the same professional building. I remember because Arthur asked me to help him find his professional directory. Dr. Llewellyn had an unlisted phone number, and he had to reach her at home. I believe he called her just before he left the house to meet Victor."

"Did he say why he wanted to talk to her?"

"No."

"But you think he wanted this Dr. Llewellyn to meet with him and Rafferty?"

"I really don't know." She walked back to the table, poured another drink, and sipped at it. "As I said, I'm not certain the one thing had anything to do with the other. I just mentioned it because I do remember it happening. Anyway, Arthur was very upset when he got home."

"How upset?"

She smiled wryly. "It was always hard to tell with Arthur. He was a stoic type who didn't like to let his feelings show. I suppose that's why he and Victor got on so well; both could seem like pretty cold fish."

"I've heard that about Rafferty."

She glanced up sharply. "If that's all you've heard about Victor, then you don't have the whole story."

"Victor Rafferty is a hard man to get a fix on, Mrs. Vahanian. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me more."

She dabbed at her eyes, then laughed wanly. "The man loved cheap hamburgers. He could afford to eat filet mignon three times a day, but he ate fast-food hamburgers. Isn't that strange?"

"Some people might think so, Mrs. Vahanian. I'm more interested in other things."

It was a long time before she spoke again. "It's true that Victor could be cold and aloof. He was also terribly absent- minded about things that didn't involve his work. He was the kind of man who didn't really need other people in a personal way; because he didn't need them, he didn't really have time for them. But that doesn't mean he didn't care about them. What most people don't realize is that Victor had a real social consciousness. He did a great deal of volunteer work for the U.N."

"I've heard that, too."

"All right, I suppose you could say he loved mankind in the abstract more than he loved individuals; but that's no crime, is it?"

"No, it isn't, Mrs. Vahanian. Please go on."

"Where was I?"

"Dr. Morton was very upset after he returned from a meeting with Rafferty."

"Oh, yes. He was distracted. I could tell that. It was very late when he got back, but I always woke up when he came home. But instead of coming to bed, he stayed awake for hours, pacing back and forth in his study. I went down once to see if he wanted to talk, but he shooed me back to bed. I finally went to sleep, but I don't think he went to bed at all that night. At the time I thought he was simply worried about Victor's condition. Now I believe it was much more than that."

She stared at a point in space just over my head, listening to the voices in a movie from the past. "Arthur canceled all his appointments for the next few days," she continued. "And he postponed his operations, except for the most urgent. He spent a great deal of time down in his study, and slept very little. Dr. Llewellyn called once, and I'm sure they argued over the phone. I heard Arthur talking loudly, but I couldn't tell what he was saying." She paused. "He also bought a lot of books."

"What kind of books?"

"Oh, they were mostly medical books with long titles. But there was one book he used a lot. It had a single-word title: Psychology-something, or something-Psychology. Yes. It had a P in front of it."

"Psychology has a P in front of it," I prompted.

"No, this was a longer word with a P in front of it." She strained to remember, then shook her head in resignation. "Anyway, Arthur spent hours on end with those books."

"He never said why?"

"No. But it was almost as if he were … studying. I think he was trying to understand something."

I watched Mrs. Vahanian. The pain of memory moved back and forth across her green eyes in waves. "Tell me about the night he was murdered, if you will, Mrs. Vahanian."

She trembled slightly, then set her drink down beside mine. "I'm afraid there isn't much to tell," she said distantly. "Arthur was so disturbed by. . all this. In the middle of the night he simply decided he wanted to go to his office."

"Could a meeting have been arranged for that hour?"

"I can't see how. Arthur hadn't set his alarm; he just woke up. It must have been around two thirty. I woke up and asked him what he was doing. He said he couldn't sleep and wanted to go down to his office. That was the last time I saw him alive."

She looked shaky. I took her elbow and guided her into one of the chairs. "We know he was killed in his office," I said gently. "Someone must have been there when he arrived. He surprised them, and he was killed. The police report said nothing was taken from the office. Is that true?"

"I really have no way of knowing. I was cooperating with the police, but they just seemed to lose interest at some point along the way. One day they simply stopped asking questions. I called them a few times, but all they would say was that they were working on it."

"Did anyone else come to see you besides the police?"

"Yes. A Mr…. I can't remember his name. A strange man. It was summer, but he was wearing a heavy overcoat. He was always shivering. He said he was from some government agency, but I don't remember which one."

I set my drink down and straightened up in the chair. "About when was this, Mrs. Vahanian?"

"It was August; the second or third week in August, but I can't be sure. That was 1969."

"What did this man want?"

She pursed her lips. "He said the government had an interest in the case and he wanted to ask me some questions about Arthur's work."

"Did he ask specifically about Victor Rafferty?"

"Only once. He seemed more interested in how much Arthur talked to me about his various patients. I told him what I told you: Arthur didn't discuss his work at home. Then he asked me about Victor."

Lippitt had been touching all the bases, I thought; he'd been retracing steps, determining who knew what about Victor Rafferty.

"The house was broken into a few days after the murder," Mrs. Vahanian added. "Did I mention that?"

"No, I don't think you did." And there'd been no mention of it in the police report.

"The only thing they took was a file Arthur had kept at home on Victor. I reported that to the police, but…"

Her voice trailed off. She sat in silence for a few minutes, then abruptly stood up, once again in control of herself. She looked at me hard. "It would give me a great deal of satisfaction to see Arthur's killers finally brought to justice,

Mr. Frederickson. I'm happily married now, and, frankly, I'm closer to Khalil-my husband-than I ever was to Arthur. But Arthur didn't deserve to die like that."

"I agree, Mrs. Vahanian."

"I don't know whether this has anything to do with the matter, but Victor was drinking a great deal after the accident. It wasn't like him. I saw him once or twice after the accident and he always smelled like a brewery. It was strange, though: he never seemed to be drunk. Even his eyes didn't show it. The only way you could tell he'd been drinking was by smelling his breath. I believe he took to carrying a flask with him." Her eyes went out of focus again and her voice became distant. "Poor Victor. He must have been in a great deal of pain."

"Did you know Mrs. Rafferty?"

"Yes. We weren't really friends, but we occasionally saw each other socially."

"What was her reaction to the first accident?"

Marianne Vahanian cleared her throat. "I'll be frank with you: Victor and Elizabeth didn't have a particularly happy marriage. Which is not to say that they didn't love each other; but it's difficult being married to a man of genius. I know. Their work is always their first love. Victor was like that. Anyway, it became even worse after the accident. Elizabeth became increasingly upset-and aloof. She gradually stopped seeing her friends. I tried to contact her a few times, but she didn't seem to want to talk to anyone. In fact, she didn't even come to Arthur's funeral. I haven't seen or talked to her since. I don't even know if she's still in the area."

"You've been very helpful, Mrs. Vahanian," I said. "Is there anything else? Anything at all, no matter how small?"

She gazed down into the depths of her glass, finally shook her head. "I don't think so," she said carefully. "It all seems so … long ago."

"I understand."

"There are some books up in the attic," she said. "They were all packed in boxes when we moved, and we've never gotten around to unpacking them. Many of the books were Arthur's. I have no idea what's there, but you're welcome to rummage around if you don't mind getting sweaty and dirty."

I told her I didn't mind getting sweaty and dirty.

Mrs. Vahanian guided me through the cathedral-like house to the second floor, then up a drop ladder to the attic. She pointed to a section filled with packing crates and cardboard boxes, then returned to the cool, air-conditioned world below while I waded through the sea of heat surrounding the boxes.

I wasn't at all sure exactly what I was looking for, and there was always the risk that I'd miss something important just because it had a fifteen-word title. After opening two boxes I estimated that there were more than two thousand books to examine-everything from gothic romances to barely decipherable tomes on brain surgery. Still, I knew I had to make the effort.

Mrs. Vahanian appeared a half hour later with a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade and a towel. I needed both. She looked at the books a little sadly, then left. I wrapped the towel around my neck to absorb the dripping perspiration and went back to work. After an hour I'd worked myself into such a rhythm that I almost missed what I'd been looking for. A large book, bound in black leather, carried the title Parapsychology: An Inquiry and Overview. It filled the bill for a book on psychology with a P in front of it.

I opened the volume and scanned the title page. The first thing that struck me was that this book was qualitatively different from the other medical texts, since it seemed written for the sophisticated layman. It was also massively comprehensive, covering a wide range of topics under the general heading of Extrasensory Perception. There were sections on everything from mental telepathy to occult spirit guides, with additional sections on tarot cards and the use of hallucinogens to alter perception.

It was hard to tell what part of the book Morton had been interested in, as I could see by leafing through the volume that, regrettably, he hadn't been in the habit of underlining.

I toweled off, finished the lemonade, then leaned back against one of the packing crates and began to go through the book more slowly. There was a chapter on psychic healers, from Joshua to Oral Roberts to a man known only as Esteban who could affect the growth of enzymes in glass tubes merely by holding the tubes in his hands. In a long section on Research, the Institute for Parapsychology in Durham, North Carolina, was prominently mentioned. It seemed that the Institute had been carrying on research experiments for many years and enjoyed a good reputation.

There was a chapter on dreams, and another one on telekinesis-the ability to move objects simply by willing it. The book mentioned a Russian woman who could supposedly move small objects simply by passing her hands over them, and another Russian woman reportedly able to tell the color of objects by feeling alone.

And still more: the intelligence of plants, and Kirlian photography-a process for photographing the "aura" of life energy around living things. The book ended with a section on witchcraft.

It all seemed like an odd grab bag of fact, speculation, and pure fantasia: curious reading for a neurosurgeon; perhaps not so curious for a psychologist-which could tie in with Mary Llewellyn.

Halfway through the book on my second run-through, a five-by-seven manila envelope fell out. I'd missed the envelope on the first scan because it had been compressed tightly and wedged into the binding, as though whoever put it there had wanted to make sure it wouldn't fall out. I opened the envelope and carefully spread the contents on the floor. There were a half-dozen newspaper clippings which seemed to indicate that Arthur Morton had been interested in rather specific areas of parapsychology-namely, mental telepathy and its ramifications.

I was mildly surprised to find from the clippings that a sizable number of scientists took things like Kirlian photography and telepathy seriously. It seemed the Russians were considered pioneers in the field. The Pentagon, not to be outdone, had ordered up a series of experiments of its own; most of the testing had been done at the Institute for Parapsychology in Durham.

There was also a piece of paper that was not a newspaper clipping. The paper seemed to have been folded and refolded a number of times, as if by someone who had been very nervous; the creases were worn thin.

I carefully unfolded the sheet and studied it. There were four symbols printed at the top of the paper: a square, a circle, a triangle, and a parallelogram; and beneath each symbol was a column of boxes. There were checks in some of the boxes, distributed among the four columns in what appeared to be random order. The checks in the boxes toward the bottom of the page were darker, shakier, heavier, as though the writer had been growing increasingly nervous and had been pressing harder. None of it made any sense to me.

I refolded the paper and slipped it into my pocket, then repacked the books and went downstairs, taking the book on parapsychology with me. I found Mrs. Vahanian in the kitchen, staring out a window. I thought she'd been crying, but her eyes were dry when she turned to me.

"Was your search fruitful, Mr. Frederickson?"

I showed her the book. "Is this the book you mentioned?"

She nodded. "I remember because Arthur spent so much time reading it at home. He didn't usually do that."

"Does this mean anything to you?" I asked, taking the paper out of my pocket and pressing it across the counter top.

She looked at the paper and shook her head. "Where did you find it?"

"It was wedged into the binding of this book. Did you ever see Dr. Morton writing on this kind of paper?"

"No, I can't say that I did."

"Do you mind if I keep these things for a few days?"

She shrugged. "Not if you think they'll help. Do you really think the book and paper mean anything?"

"It's hard to say, Mrs. Vahanian."

After the sodden heat of the attic, the chill of the air conditioning was threatening me with a terminal case of pneumonia. I thanked Mrs. Vahanian again and left her staring out the window.

Outside, I wedged the paper back into the binding of the book, which I put in the trunk of my car. Then I made a U-turn and headed toward the gate. I was anxious to get back to New York and begin the task of finding Mary Llewellyn.

Slowing down for the S-curve, I honked, then began to accelerate. I was halfway around the second bend of the S when the green Caddy loomed in front of me.

Somewhere along the line I'd missed a move. Or the men in the car had known where I was going all along. There was no one in the car, which meant that the two men were hiding in the bushes somewhere, probably lining me up in their gunsights at that very moment.

There was no way of getting by the car without wrapping myself around a tree, so I jammed on the brakes and pulled the wheel hard to the left; the car's rear end fish- tailed and slammed into the Cadillac, but I was turned around. I slammed my foot down on the accelerator and started back up the road.

A short, dark man in a shiny gabardine suit calmly stepped out into the road a hundred feet in front of me. He had a pipe clenched tightly between his teeth and a Sten gun braced on his hip, pointed at the windshield of the car.

There were three choices: try to run the man over and get killed; try to swerve around him and get killed; or stop and maybe live a while longer. If the man wanted to kill me, he could have done it already. I braked to a halt a few feet from where he was standing. His face was calm, almost smiling; I found his air of total self-assurance annoying as hell. Something about him struck me as being distinctly European.

He motioned with his gun for me to get out of the car. I did so slowly, tensing, waiting for some kind of opening while I looked around for his red-haired partner. But the two of them were fast and professional; I never saw or heard the second man move up behind me. There was just a sharp blow to the base of my skull, and then nothing.