Only she retired to the doctor’s bedroom.
I glanced at him, and he must have been anticipating the glance. He made no gesture and said nothing — but I knew, when he looked at me, that it was all right.
Alex left, after a while, and Juan came in, wanting to know if there was anything the doctor wanted. He shook his head. “But you could mix a drink for Mr. Jones, here. Your preference, Mr. Jones?”
Rye, I told him, with seltzer.
Juan brought it, and the doctor told him he could go to bed now.
When we were alone, he sighed. He said: “That shadow’s been a lot less constant these last few days. Nerves, I suppose, and I’m getting over it. I should have gone to a diagnostician in the first place, instead of a detective.” Then he added: “Not that I haven’t enjoyed your company, Mr. Jones.”
He couldn’t know at the time, of course, that he would be dead within thirty-six hours.
I said: “This sounds like a termination of contract talk.”
He smiled. “Not at all. I’ll want you for another week, at least. I feel better — but not that much better.” He rose. “Good-night, Mr. Jones. If you’d care to play the phonograph, it won’t bother us, if you keep it low.”
I told him I’d brought something to read, and he left me. When his bedroom door closed, I walked over to the tall windows. The heat had persisted through the week, but it was fairly cool up here, with an almost constant breeze coming in.
I stood there a long time, trying to analyze the why and what of his words tonight. I arrived at no conclusion.
Sunday night was a dead night. Mrs. Randolph wasn’t there. The doctor wanted to know if I played chess, and I told him I did. But it didn’t take him many moves to discover how badly I played. We listened to some music, Goodman this time, and he turned in early.
Monday noon, I got the phone call from Jack. He was at the doctor’s office, and would I get to hell over there right away?
The constant shadow, it seemed, had finally caught up with Dr. Curtis Randolph.
Chapter Three
Caught by a Shadow
I got to hell over there right away. I made the Dusy talk, on the way over, jumping two red lights and otherwise ignoring the law.
The office was lousy with officials. Glen Harvey was there, and the M.E., Doc Waters, and Glen’s boss — the chief of Homicide, Devine.
Devine’s thin, nasty face looked nastier than usual. He said: “I’ll want you and Carmichael both down at Chief’s office when we’re through here.”
“Check,” I said.
Jack was pale and nervous, his face wet with perspiration. He said: “That guy’s really been giving me a work-out.”
“That’s the only routine he knows,” I said. I looked over to the chair in which Dr. Curtis Randolph was slumped. His eyes were open, his shirt soaked with blood. There was the handle of a knife protruding from his throat.
Devine was talking to Doc Waters. I motioned to Jack, and we went out into the hall. He told me how it was.
The receptionist had gone to lunch, but the doctor was still in his office. “This little fat guy came in,” Jack said, “and wanted to see the doctor. Well, he was a friendly little gent, and I couldn’t figure him for any harm, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I asked him his name, and he said: ‘Just tell the doctor his conscience is here. He’ll understand.’ I went in and told the doctor that.”
Glen Harvey was in the hallway now, and looking at us suspiciously, but Glen’s all right. He went away.
Jack said: “The doctor sort of smiled, and said, ‘Is he a little fat man?’ and I said he was. The doctor said to send him in. I sent him in.” Jack took a deep breath, and wiped his face with a damp handkerchief. “Well, the girl came back later, and was surprised to see me still there. She wanted to know if the doctor hadn’t gone to lunch. I said he hadn’t, that he’d had a visitor who’d left only a few minutes ago, and he was probably washing his hands. He did that a lot. The girl went in.” Jack shook his head. “You could hear her scream all the way down to the city hall, I’ll bet.”
Jack’s eyes were haunted. “I phoned the police, and then you. I’ll bet the Chief will pick up my license, now.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I promised him. “I’d have done the same thing in your position. You exercised all the caution that seemed reasonable.”
Glen Harvey and Devine came out into the hallway. Glen said: “Shall I take the coach back?”
“You’ll go with them,” Devine said, “in Jones’ car. I wouldn’t ride with vermin like that.”
Jack was white now. He took a step toward Devine, but I stepped in between them. I said: “Easy, Jack. We’ll play this smart.”
“That’s right,” Devine said, “like you guarded the doctor.”
“You’ll keep your license,” I said to Jack, “and I’ll probably wind up with Devine’s job.”
There was one hell of a silence. When I turned to face Devine, I almost winced. He looked ready for murder, right then. He knew, you see, that I wasn’t talking complete nonsense. He knew the Chief wanted me for the job.
Harvey said: “Well, let’s go.” He looked uncomfortable.
Devine said: “Let’s.” And to me: “You’re not much of a man, are you?”
“Only when I’m treated like one,” I answered. “There’s nobody else at the department who ever brings out the rat in me like you do.”
He had no more to say, at least, nothing audible.
Jack and I and Glen Harvey went down the steps and out into the glare of the day. The Dusy’s motor-murmur had a bit of a smirk in it, I thought.
Through the early afternoon traffic in silence, all the way down to the station. There, we went right in to the Chief’s office.
The Chief’s a big, fairly windy and competent man. He looked at us all sadly as we entered. “Mort,” he said, and shook his head. When he turned to Jack, his eyes were hard. “Let’s have it.”
Jack told him just the way it was.
When he’d finished, the Chief said to Glen: “Take him to a steno and get it all down and signed. Mr. Jones will stay here with me.”
It was quiet in the room after the others had left. The Chief, I noticed, was getting grayer every day. He was looking out the window, a habit of his. Then he swiveled around to face me.
“You could start at the beginning, Mort.”
I gave it to him straight, right from the time Dr. Randolph had come to my office. I told him everything excepting what Doc Enright had told me.
The Chief’s eyes were thoughtful. “It sounds kosher enough. Only hiring an incompetent like Jack Carmichael could almost be called criminal negligence.”
“Jack’s a good operative,” I argued. “You know he is. It’s just because he left the department they don’t like him around here. I’m going to need him, if I work on this, Chief.”
“Work on this? Why should you? Your client’s dead. There’s no money in it for you, now.”
“Call it my professional pride,” I said.
Devine stuck his head in the doorway, and the Chief beckoned him in. The Chief said: “Jones tells me he’s going to help you with this, Devine.”
Devine colored. “I can get along without that.”
The Chief smiled. “I’m sure we can.”
“O.K.,” I said. “If that’s an order.”
Devine snorted. The Chief frowned, and said doubtfully: “It’s no order. You can work on anything you want to that doesn’t conflict with our department work.” He paused. “I know you hate the word, and I guess I’ve used it enough with you, Mort, but cooperation is what we want and expect from—”
The voice went on, and on. I didn’t show my boredom; I’ve a lot of respect for the Chief.