The Cradle Will Fall

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE Newsmaker article was on the stands Thursday morning. The phone calls, had begun as soon as Highley went to his office after delivering the Aldrich baby. The response was beyond his expectations. The Dartmouth Medical School phoned. Would he consider a guest lecture? A writer for Ladies' Home Journal wanted an interview. Would Dr. Highley appear on Eyewitness News?

Smiling, he signaled for his first patient to come in. She was an interesting case: her womb was so tipped that she'd never conceive without intervention. She would be his next Vangie.

The phone call came at noon, just as he was leaving for lunch. The nurse covering the reception desk was apologetic. "It's long distance from a Dr. Emmet Salem in Minneapolis."

Emmet Salem! He picked up the phone. "Edgar Highley here."

"Dr. Highley. From Christ Hospital in Devon?"

"Yes." He felt a chill, sickening fear.

"Doctor, I learned last night that you treated my former patient Vangie Lewis. I'm leaving for New York immediately. In fact, I'm at the airport now. I am planning to consult with the medical examiner in New Jersey about Mrs. Lewis' death. I have her records with me. In fairness to you, I suggest we discuss her case first."

"Doctor, I'm troubled by your tone and insinuations."

"I'll be checking into room 3219 at the Essex House shortly before five. You can call me there." The connection was broken.

Highley was waiting at the hotel when Emmet Salem emerged from the cab. Swiftly he took an elevator to the thirty-second floor, walked past room 3219 and around a corner. Another elevator stopped at the floor. He listened as a key clicked and a bellman said, "Here we are, Doctor." A minute later the bellman emerged from the room. "Thank you, sir." Highley waited until the corridors were silent. Quickly he opened his bag and took out the paperweight He slipped it into his coat pocket, put on his gloves, grasped the bag firmly in his left hand and knocked on the door.

Emmet Salem pulled the door open. He had just removed his suit coat.

"Dr. Salem!" Highley reached for Salem's hand, walking forward, backing the older man into the room, closing the door behind him. "I'm Edgar Highley. It's good to see you again. You got off the phone so abruptly that I couldn't tell you I was coming into town for dinner. I have only a few minutes, but I'm sure we can clear up any questions." He was still walking forward, forcing the other man to retreat. The window behind Salem was wide open. He'd probably had the bellman open it because the room was very hot. The sill was low. "I tried to phone you, but your extension is out of order."

"Impossible. I just spoke to the operator." Salem stiffened.

"Then I do apologize. But I'm so anxious to go over the Lewis file with you. I have it right here." He put his bag down and reached for the paperweight in his pocket, then cried, "Doctor, behind you, watch out!"

The other man spun around. Highley crashed the paperweight on Salem's skull. Emmet Salem slumped against the windowsill. Jamming the paperweight back into his pocket, Edgar Highley cupped his palms around Salem's foot and shoved up and out.

"No. No. Please!" The half-conscious man slid out the window and landed on the roof of the extension some fifteen floors below. The body made a muffled thud.

From Salem's suit coat on the bed Highley pulled out a key ring. The smallest key fitted the attache case on the luggage rack. The Vangie Lewis file was on top. Grabbing it, he shoved it into his own bag, relocked Salem's bag, returned the keys to the suit-coat pocket. He placed the bloodstained paperweight in his bag, then glanced around. The room was in perfect order.

He opened the door and looked along the corridor. It was empty. As he stepped out, the phone in Salem's room began to ring. An elevator was just stopping. He got on, his eyes scanning the passengers. No one he knew.

At the lobby, he walked rapidly to the Fifty-eighth Street exit. Ten minutes later he reclaimed his car from a park-and-lock garage, tossed his bag into the trunk and drove away.

WHEN she left Scott's office, Katie called in Rita Castile, one of the investigators, and together they went over the material Katie would need for upcoming trials. "That armed robbery on the twenty-eighth, where the defendant had his hair cut the morning after the crime. Well need the barber to testify. It's no wonder the witnesses couldn't make a positive identification. Even though we made him wear a wig in the lineup, he didn't look the same."

Rita jotted down the barber's address.

"That's about all I have for you now," Katie said, "but I won't be coming in over the weekend, so next week will really be a mess. Be prepared."

"You won't be coming in?" Rita raised her eyebrows. "Well, it's about time. You haven't taken a full weekend in a couple of months. I hope you're planning to have some fun."

Katie grinned. "I don't know how much fun it will be. Oh, Rita, I have a hunch that Maureen is upset about something. Is it the breakup with her fiance?"

Rita shook her head. "No, that was just kid stuff, and she knew it. The problem is, just about the time they broke up she realized she was pregnant and had an abortion. She's weighted down with guilt about it. She told me that she keeps dreaming about the baby, that she'd do anything to have had it, even though she would have given it out for adoption."

Katie remembered how much she had hoped to conceive John's child. "That does explain it. Thanks for telling me. I was afraid I'd said something to hurt her."

After Rita left, Katie called Westlake Hospital. She wanted to talk again with the receptionist, Gertrude Fitzgerald. Then she would call Gana Krupshak.

The hospital told her that Mrs. Fitzgerald was home ill, and gave Katie her home phone number. When the woman answered, her voice was weak and shaking. "I have one of my migraines," she said, "and no wonder. Every time I think of poor Edna…"

"I would like to ask you something," Katie said. "Did Edna ever call either of the doctors she worked for Prince Charming?" "Prince Charming? Dr. Highley or Dr. Fukhito? Why would she call either of them Prince Charming? My heavens, no."

"All right. It was just a thought." Katie said good-by and dialed Mrs. Krupshak. The superintendent answered. His wife was out, he explained. She'd be back around five.

Katie glanced at the clock. It was four thirty. "Do you think she'd mind if I stopped to talk to her for a few minutes?" "Suit yourself," the man answered shortly.

MRS. Krupshak was home when Katie rang her bell. "Now, isn't that timing!" she exclaimed. For her, the shock of discovering Edna's body had worn off and she was enjoying the excitement.

"This is my bingo afternoon," she explained. "When I told my friends what happened they could hardly keep their cards straight."

She ushered Katie into an L-shaped living room, and they both sat down on an imitation-leather couch.

"Mrs. Krupshak," Katie said, "I wonder if you would go over with me very carefully what happened Tuesday night: how long you were with Edna; what you talked about. When she spoke to Captain Lewis, did you get the impression that she made an appointment with him?"

Gana Krupshak leaned back. "Now, let's see. I went over to Edna's right at eight o'clock, because Gus started to watch the basketball game and I thought I'd go have a beer with Edna. The thing is, Edna had made a pitcher of manhattans and they were about half gone and she was pretty rocky. She talked in a sort of rambly way about this patient who had died, how beautiful she'd been, how sick she'd been getting and how she-Edna, I mean-could tell the cops a lot about her."

"Then what happened?" Katie asked.

"Well, I had a manhattan, or two, with her and then figured I'd better get home. But I hated to see Edna drink much more, so I got out that nice canned ham for her." "And that was when she made the call to Captain Lewis and mentioned Prince Charming?"

"As God is my witness."

"All right, but one last thing, Mrs. Krupshak. Do you know if Edna kept any articles of clothing of her mother's as a sentimental keepsake? I noticed a shabby old moccasin in Edna's night-table drawer. Did she ever show it to you or mention it?"

Gana Krupshak looked directly at Katie. "Absolutely not," she said flatly.

CHRIS Lewis arrived at the Twin Cities airport at one thirty. He had an hour to wait before his plane left for Newark. Vangie's body would be on that plane. At Newark the medical examiner's office would be waiting for it.

And the prosecutors office would be waiting for him. Of course. If they were suspicious in any way about Vangie's death, they were going to look to him for answers. If they'd investigated at all, they knew by now that he'd returned to the New Jersey area Monday night. He had to see Dr. Salem, find out why he had been so upset. If Chris were detained for questioning, he might not be able to talk to him.

He also had to talk to Joan. He had the number of the stewardess, Kay Corrigan, with whom she was staying in Florida. Not knowing what he would say, he put through the call.

Kay answered. "It's Chris, Kay. Is Joan there?"

"Chris, the Valley County prosecutor's office has been calling here asking questions about you two. Joan is frantic!" "Is she there?" "No. She won't be here till about eight tonight." "Tell her to stay in till I call her. Tell her-" He broke the con nection, leaned against the phone and pushed back a sob. It was all too much. He didn't know what to do. In a few hours he'd be in custody, suspected of killing Vangie.

No. There was another way. He'd get the flight into La Guardia. He could still make it. Then he'd be able to see Dr. Salem at almost the same time he reached the hotel. Maybe Dr. Salem could help him somehow.

He barely made the La Guardia flight. On the plane, he listlessly thumbed through Newsmaker magazine. His eye caught the headline WESTLAKE MATERNITY CONCEPT OFFERS NEW HOPE TO CHILDLESS COUPLES. Westlake. He read the first paragraph. "For the past eight years, a private clinic in New Jersey has been making it possible for childless women to become pregnant The program is carried on by Dr. Edgar Highley…"

Highley. Vangie's doctor. Funny she never talked very much about him. It was always the psychiatrist, Fukhito.

The plane landed at four thirty. Chris hurried through the terminal and hailed a cab. It was five when he reached the Essex House. He headed for a lobby telephone, asked the operator for Dr. Salem's room number and dialed it. The phone rang… again… again. After six rings he hung up. He dialed the operator and asked her to try it for him.

The operator hesitated. "Sir, when Dr. Salem checked in, he told me that he expected an important call. But apparently he's stepped out. Why don't you try again in a few minutes?"

"I'll do that." Chris hung up the phone, walked over to a lobby chair facing an elevator bank and sat down. The elevators opened, dislodged passengers, filled again, disappeared.

One elevator caught his attention. There was something vaguely familiar about someone on it; a middle-aged man with a turned-up coat collar. Dr. Salem? No. Not Salem.

At five thirty Chris tried again. And at quarter to six. At five past six he heard the whispers that ran through the lobby like a flash fire. "Someone jumped out a window." From outside came the wail of an ambulance and the yip-yip of police cars.

Chris went to the bell captain's desk. "Who was it?" he asked.

"Dr. Emmet Salem. A big shot in the AMA. Room 3219."

Walking like an automaton, Chris pushed through the revolving door to Fifty-eighth Street. He hailed a cab and got in. "La Guardia, please," he said. There was a seven-o'clock flight to Miami. He had to get to Joan, try to make her understand before he was arrested.