The Cradle Will Fall

CHAPTER FOUR

IN THE autopsy room of the Valley County Morgue, Richard Carroll gently removed the fetus from the corpse of Vangie Lewis. It was a boy, and he judged that it weighed about two and a half pounds. He noted that the amniotic fluid had begun to leak. Vangie Lewis could not have carried this baby much longer; she had been in an advanced state of toxemia. It was incredible that any doctor had allowed her to progress so far in this condition.

Richard had no doubt that it was the cyanide that had killed the woman. She'd swallowed a huge gulp of it, and her throat and mouth were badly burned. The burns on the outside of her mouth? Richard tried to visualize the moment she'd drunk the poison. She'd started to swallow, felt the burning, changed her mind, tried to spit it out. It had run over her lips and chin.

To him it didn't make sense.

There were fine white fibers clinging to her black coat. They looked as though they'd come from a blanket. He was having them analyzed, but, of course, they might have been picked up at any time.

Her body had become so bloated that it looked as though she had just put on any clothes she could find that would cover her.

Except for the shoes. They were an incongruous note. They were well cut, expensive and looked quite new. It was unlikely that Vangie could have been outdoors on Monday in those shoes. There were no water spots on them, even though the ankles of her panty hose were spattered. Which suggested that she must have been out, come in, decided to leave again, changed her shoes and then committed suicide. That didn't make sense either.

Another thing. Those shoes were awfully tight. Particularly on the right foot. Considering the way she was dressed, why bother to put on shoes that will kill you?

Richard straightened up. He was just about finished. Once more he turned to study the fetus. Suddenly something struck him. Was it possible? It was a hunch he had to check out. Dave Broad was the man for him. Dave was in charge of prenatal research at

Mount Sinai. He'd send this fetus to him and ask for an opinion. If what he believed was true, there was a good reason why Chris Lewis would have been upset about his wife's pregnancy. Maybe upset enough to kill her!

SCOTT Myerson, the Valley County prosecutor, had scheduled a five-o'clock meeting in his office for Katie, Richard and the two Homicide Squad detectives assigned to the Lewis suicide.

Katie arrived first. As she eased herself into a chair, Scott looked at her with a hint of a smile. He was a small man with a surprisingly deep voice. Large-rimmed glasses, a dark, neat mustache and meticulously tailored conservative suit made him look more like a banker than a law enforcer. Now he observed Katie's bandaged arm and the bruise under her eye.

"Thanks for coming in, Katie," he said. "If you start feeling rotten, you'd better go home." Then he became businesshke. "The Lewis case. What have we got on it?"

While she was talking, Richard came in with Charley Nugent and Phil Cunningham. Silently they settled in the remaining chairs. Scott listened to Katie, then turned to the detectives. "What did you come up with?"

Phil Cunningham pulled out his notebook. "That place was no honeymoon cottage. The neighbors liked Chris Lewis, but they thought Vangie was a pain in the neck. At parties she was always hanging on him; got upset if he talked more than five minutes to another woman. Then when she got pregnant she was really insufferable. Talked baby all the time."

Charley opened his notebook. "Her obstetrician's office called to make an appointment. I said we'd talk to her doctor tomorrow." Richard spoke quietly. "There are a few questions I'd like to ask that doctor about Vangie Lewis' condition."

Scott looked at Richard. "You've finished the autopsy?"

"Yes. It was definitely cyanide. She died instantly. Which leads to the crucial point."

There were some paper cups and a water pitcher on top of the file cabinet. Walking over to the file, Richard poured a generous amount of water into a cup. "Suppose this is filled with dissolved cyanide," he said. "I take a large gulp." Quickly he swallowed. He held up the paper cup. It was still nearly half full. "In my judgment, Vangie Lewis must have drunk at least the approximately three ounces I just swallowed in order to have the amount of cyanide we found in her system. But here's the problem. The outside of her lips and chin and even her neck were burned. The only way that could have happened would have been if she spit a lot of the stuff out. But would she then take another mouthful? No way. The reaction is instantaneous."

Richard went on to explain his belief that Vangie Lewis could not have walked comfortably in the shoes that had been laced on her feet. While Katie listened, she visualized Vangie's face. The face she had seen in the dream and the face she'd seen on the bed slid back and forth in her mind. She forced her attention back to the room. Charley was saying, "Richard and I feel the husband noticed something about the body that he didn't tell us."

"I think it was the shoes," Richard said. Katie turned to Scott. "I told you about the phone call Chris Lewis made."

"You did." Scott Myerson leaned back in his chair. "All right. You two"-he pointed to Charley and Phil-"find out everything you can about Lewis. See who this Joan is. Find out what time his plane came in this morning. Check on phone calls Vangie Lewis made the last few days. Katie, try to see Mrs. Lewis' doctor and get his opinion of her mental and physical condition."

"I can tell you about her physical condition," Richard said. "If she hadn't delivered that baby soon, she could have saved her cyanide."

"There's another thing. Where did she get the cyanide?"

"No trace of it in the house," Charley reported. "Not a drop."

"Anything else?" Scott asked.

"There may be," Richard said. "But it's so far out. Give me another twenty-four hours. Then I may have something."

Scott stood up. "I believe we all agree. We're not closing this as a suicide." He looked at Richard. "Is there any chance that she died somewhere else and was put back on her bed?"

Richard frowned. "It's possible."

Katie started to get up. "I know it's insane, but-" She felt Richard's arm steadying her.

"You sure look stiff," he interrupted.

She'd been about to describe the crazy dream she'd had in the hospital. His voice snapped her back to reality. What a fool she'd have appeared to them. Gratefully she smiled at Richard. "Stiff in the head mostly, I think," she commented.

HE COULD not let Edna destroy everything he'd worked for. His hands gripped the wheel. He could feel them trembling. He had to calm down.

It was ironic that she of all people had seen him drive the Lincoln out of the parking lot. Obviously she'd assumed that Vangie was with him. The minute she told her story to the police, everything would be over.

Edna had to be silenced. His medical bag was on the seat next to him. In it he had put the paperweight from his office desk. He didn't usually carry a bag anymore, but he'd taken it out this morning, planning to put the moccasins in it. He'd intended to drive into New York for dinner and leave them in separate litter cans.

But this morning his housekeeper, Hilda, had come in early. She'd stood talking to him while he put on his tweed overcoat. He'd had no chance to transfer the moccasins from his Burberry to the bag. No matter. He'd get rid of the shoes tomorrow night.

It was a stroke of luck that Edna lived quite near the hospital. Several times he'd dropped off work for her when she was laid up with sciatica. That was why he knew her apartment. He'd make it look like a murder committed during a felony; take her wallet, grab any bits of jewelry she had. Once, when he'd left some work at her place, she'd shown him a butterfly-shaped pin with a minuscule ruby, and her mother's engagement ring with a dot of a diamond in it. She kept them in a plastic jewelry box in the night-table drawer.

He thought about the apartment. How would he get in? Did he dare ring the bell? Suppose she wasn't alone? But she would be alone. He was sure of it. She was going home to drink. He could tell. That's why he waited a few hours before coming. So that she'd be drunk. Watching her from the corridor, he'd seen how agitated she was, obviously filled with the stories she wanted to tell to the police tomorrow.

He was driving into her apartment area. She lived on the ground floor at the end of her building. Thick bushes and a rusting chain link fence separated the complex from a steep ravine that dropped down a dozen feet and terminated in railroad tracks.

Edna's bedroom window backed onto the parking lot. By now she must be very drunk. He could go in and out by the window. That would lend credence to a burglary.

He parked his car, then pulled on his surgical gloves. He put the paperweight in his coat pocket and slid cautiously out, closing the door noiselessly.

Edna's bedroom shade was pulled down most of the way, but she had a plant in the window. The shade rested on the top of the plant, and he could see in clearly. The room was partially lighted by a fixture in the hall. The window was open a crack. She must be in the living room. He could hear the faint sound of a television program.

Glancing about to make sure that the area was deserted, he raised the window, pulled up the shade, carefully lifted the plant out onto the ground. He hoisted himself up to the sill.

He was inside. In the dim light he observed the virginal tidiness, the crucifix over the bed, the lace runner on the dresser. Now for the part he detested. He felt for the paperweight in his pocket and began to tiptoe down the short hall, past the bathroom, to the living room. Cautiously he peered in. The television set was on, but the room was empty. He heard the sound of a chair creaking. She must be at the table in the dinette. With infinite care he moved into the living room. This was the moment. If she saw him and screamed…

But her back was to him. Wearing a woolly blue robe, she sat slumped at the table, one hand next to a cocktail glass, the other in her lap. A tall pitcher was almost empty. Her head was on her chest. She must be asleep.

Quickly he appraised the situation. His eye fell on the hissing radiator to the right of the door. It was the old-fashioned kind with sharp, exposed pipes. Was it possible he didn't need the paperweight after all? Maybe…

"Edna," he whispered softly as he came around the table.

"Wha…" She looked up at him with bleary eyes. Confused, she began to rise, twisting in her chair. "Doctor…"

A mighty shove sent her smashing backward. Her head cracked against the radiator. Blinding lights exploded in her brain. Oh, the pain, the pain! Edna sighed, floated into darkness.

He jumped clear of the spattered blood. As he watched, the pulse in her throat flickered and stopped. He bent over her carefully. She had stopped breathing. He slipped the paperweight back into his pocket. He wouldn't need it now. He wouldn't have to bother robbing her. It would look as though she'd fallen.

Quickly retracing his steps, he went back into the bedroom. He scanned the parking area, then stepped out the window, replaced the plant, pulled down the shade and closed the window to the exact place where Edna had had it. As he did, he heard the persistent chiming of a doorbell-her doorbell! Frantically he ran back to his car. He started the engine and drove out of the apartment complex, not turning on his headlights until he approached Route 4.

Who was standing on Edna's doorstep? It had been close, so terribly close. Adrenaline pounded through his veins. Now there was only one threat left: Katie DeMaio. He would begin to remove that threat at once. Her accident had given him the excuse he needed to start medication.

It was a matter of hospital record that her blood count was low. He would order another transfusion for her on the pretense of building her up for the operation. He would give her large doses of Coumadin pills to short-circuit her blood-clotting mechanism and negate the benefits of the transfusion. By Friday, when she came to the hospital for surgery, she'd be on the verge of hemorrhaging. The surgery would then be very dangerous, and he would make it even worse by giving her heparin, another anticoagulant. The initial low blood count, the Coumadin and the heparin would be as effective on Katie DeMaio as the cyanide had been on Vangie Lewis.

AFTER THE MEETING IN SCOTT MYERSON'S office, Richard drove Katie to a rustic restaurant perched precariously on the Palisades. The small dining room was warmed by a blazing fire and lighted by candles. The proprietor obviously knew Richard well. "Dr. Carroll, a pleasure," he said as he guided them to the table in front of the fireplace.

Richard ordered a bottle of wine; a waiter produced hot garlic bread. They sat in companionable silence, sipping and nibbling.

Richard was a big man with a wholesome look, a thick crop of dark brown hair, strong, even features and broad, rangy shoulders. "Do you know I've been wanting to ask you out for months?" he said. "But you release a do-not-disturb signal. Why?"

"I don't believe in going out with anyone I work with."

"I can understand that. But that's not what we're talking about. We enjoy each other's company. We both know it. And you're having none of it. Here's the menu."

His manner changed, became brisk. "L'entrecote and steak au poivre are the specialties here," he told her. When she hesitated, he suggested, "Try the steak au poivre. It's fantastic." He ordered salads and baked potatoes, then leaned back and studied her.

"Are you having none of it, Katie?"

"The salad? The steak?"

"All right, I'm not being fair. I'm trying to pin you down and you're a captive audience. But tell me what you do when you're not at the office or your sister's. I know you ski."

"Yes. I rent a condominium in Vermont with some friends."

"Maybe you'll invite me up sometime with you." He did not wait for an answer. "Sailing is my sport. I took my boat to the Caribbean last spring… Here's your steak." They lingered over coffee. By then Richard had told her about himself. "I was engaged during med school to the girl next door."

"What happened?" Katie asked.

"We kept postponing the wedding. Jean was a very nice girl. But there was something missing." "No regrets; no second thoughts?" Katie asked. "Not really. That was seven years ago. I'm a little surprised that the 'something missing' didn't turn up long before now."

He did not seem to expect her to comment. Instead he began to talk about the Lewis case. "It makes me so angry, the waste of life. Vangie Lewis had a lot of years ahead of her."

"You're convinced it wasn't a suicide?"

"I'll need much more information before I pass judgment."

"I don't see Chris Lewis as a murderer. It's too easy to get a divorce today if you want to be free." "There's another angle to that." Richard pressed his lips together. "Let's hold off talking about it."

It was nearly ten thirty when they turned into Katie's driveway. Richard looked quizzically at the handsome fieldstone house. "How big is this place?" he asked. "How many rooms?"

"Twelve," Katie said reluctantly. "It was John's house."

Richard did not give her the chance to say good night at the door. Taking the key from her hand, he unlocked it and followed her in. "I'm not going to stay, but I do admit to an overwhelming curiosity as to where you keep yourself."

She turned on some lights and watched somewhat resentfully as he looked over the foyer, then the living room. He whistled. "Very nice." He studied John's portrait. "I hear he was quite a guy."

"Yes, he was."

"How long were you married, Katie?"

"One year."

He watched as a look of pain flickered over her face. "When did you find out that he was sick?" "Shortly after we got back from our honeymoon." "And ever since, it's been a deathwatch. Sorry, Katie; my job makes me too blunt for my own good. I'll take off now." He hesitated. "Don't you draw these drapes when you're alone here?"

She shrugged. "Why? No one's going to come barging in on me."

"You, of all people, should be aware of the number of home burglaries. Do you mind?" He went to the window and pulled the draperies shut. "See you tomorrow. How will you get to work?" "The service-station people are going to lend me a car. They'll drop it off in the morning." "Okay." For a moment he stood with his hand on the knob of the door, then in a highly credible brogue said, "I'll be leavin' ye,

Katie Scarlett. Lock your door now. I wouldn't want anyone tryin' to break into Tara." He bent down, kissed her cheek and was gone.

Smiling, Katie closed the door. The clock chimed musically. After Richard's bear-warm presence, the room seemed hollow. Quickly she turned out the lights and went upstairs.

The phone rang just as she got into bed.

"Mrs. DeMaio?" It was a man's voice.

"Yes."

"This is Dr. Highley. I hope I'm not calling too late, but I've tried several times to reach you this evening. The fact that you were in an accident and were in our hospital overnight has come to my attention. How are you feeling?"

"Quite well, Doctor. How nice of you to call."

"How is the bleeding problem?"

"I'm afraid it's about the same."

"Well, it will all be behind you by this time next week. But I do want you to have another transfusion to build you up for the surgery, and I also want you to start in on some pills. Can you come to the hospital tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I was planning to come anyhow. You've heard about Mrs. Lewis?"

"I have. A terrible situation."

"I'd like to discuss her emotional and physical states with you."

"Fine. Call in the morning to arrange a time."

"Thank you, Doctor," Katie said. As she hung up, she reflected that Dr. Highley hadn't really appealed to her at first because of his aloof attitude. It shows how you can misjudge people, she decided.