“If you don’t think he killed himself, you must think—”
“I think he was murdered. Yes.”
“Who do you think murdered him, Mrs. Gifford?”
“I think—”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the voice said from the opened French doors leading to the terrace. Melanie turned. Her housekeeper stood there apologetically. “It's Dr. Nelson, ma’am.”
“On the telephone?” Melanie said, rising.
“No ma’am. He's here.”
“Oh.” Melanie frowned. “Well, ask him to join us, won’t you?” She sat immediately. “Again,” she said.
“What?”
“He was here last night. Came over directly from the show. He's terribly worried about my health. He gave me a sedative and then called twice this morning.” She folded her arms across her knees, a slender graceful woman who somehow made the motion seem awkward. Carella watched her in silence for several moments. The terrace was still. On the lawn, one of the golden retrievers began barking at a laggard autumn bird.
“You were about to say, Mrs. Gifford?”
Melanie looked up. Her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.
“We were discussing your husband's alleged murder.”
“Yes. I was about to say I think Carl Nelson killed him.”
4
Dr. Carl Nelson came onto the terrace not two minutes after Melanie had spoken his name, going first to her and kissing her on the cheek, and then shaking hands with Meyer, whom he had met the night before. He was promptly introduced to Carella, and he acknowledged the introduction with a firm handclasp and a repetition of the name, “Detective Carella,” with a slight nod and a smile, as if he wished to imprint it on his memory. He turned immediately to Melanie then, and said, “How are you, Mel?”
“I’m fine, Carl,” she said. “I told you that last night.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes.”
“This has been very upsetting,” Nelson said. “I’m sure you gentlemen can understand.”
Carella nodded. He was busy watching the effect Nelson seemed to be having on Melanie. She had visibly withdrawn from him the moment he stepped onto the terrace, folding her arms across her chest, hugging herself as though threatened by a strong wind. The pose was assuredly a theatrical one, but it seemed genuine nonetheless. If she was not actually frightened of this tall man with the deep voice and the penetrating brown eyes, she certainly appeared suspicious of him; and the suspicion seemingly forced her to turn inward, to flee into icy passivity.
“Was the autopsy conducted?” Nelson asked Meyer.
“Yes, sir.”
“May I ask what the results were? Or are they classified?”
“Mr. Gifford was killed by a large dose of strophanthin,” Carella said.
“Strophanthin?” Nelson looked honestly surprised. “That's rather unusual, isn’t it?”
“Are you familiar with the drug, Dr. Nelson?”
“Yes, of course. That is, I know of it. I don’t think I’ve ever prescribed it, however. It's rarely used, you know.”
“Dr. Nelson, Mr. Gifford wasn’t a cardiac patient, was he?”
“No. I believe I told that to Detective Meyer last night. Certainly not.”
“He wasn’t taking digitalis or any of the related glycosides?”
“No, sir.”
“What was he taking?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was he taking any drugs?”
Nelson shrugged. “No. Not that I know of.”
“Well, you’re his personal physician. If anyone would know, it’d be you, isn’t that so?”
“That's right. No, Stan wasn’t taking any drugs. Unless you want to count headache tablets and vitamin pills.”
“What kind of headache tablets?”
“An empirin-codeine compound.”
“And the vitamins?”
“B-complex with vitamin C.”
“How long had he been taking the vitamins?”
“Oh, several months. He was feeling a little tired, run-down, you know. I suggested he try them.”
“You prescribed them?”
“Prescribed them? No.” Nelson shook his head. “He was taking a brand called PlexCin, Mr. Carella. It can be purchased at any drugstore without a prescription. But I suggested it to him, yes.”
“You suggested this specific brand?”
“Yes. It's manufactured by a reputable firm, and I’ve found it to be completely relia—”
“Dr. Nelson, how are these vitamins packaged?”
“In a capsule. Most vitamins are.”
“How large a capsule?”
“An O capsule, I would say. Perhaps a double O.”
“Dr. Nelson, would you happen to know whether or not Mr. Gifford was in the habit of taking his vitamins during the show?”
“Why, no, I…” Nelson paused. He looked at Carella and then turned to Melanie, and then looked at Carella again. “You certainly don’t think…” Nelson shrugged. “But then, I suppose anything's possible.”
“What were you thinking, Dr. Nelson?”
“That perhaps someone substituted strophanthin for the vitamins?”
“Would that be possible?”
“I don’t see why not,” Nelson said. “The PlexCin capsule is an opaque gelatin that comes apart in two halves. I suppose someone could conceivably have opened the capsule, removed the vitamins, and replaced them with strophanthin.” He shrugged again. “But that would seem an awfully long way to go to…” He stopped.
“To what, Dr. Nelson?”
“Well…to murder someone, I suppose.”
The terrace was silent again.
“Did he take these vitamin capsules every day?” Carella asked.
“Yes,” Nelson answered.
“Would you know when he took them yesterday?”
“No, I—”
“I know when,” Melanie said.
Carella turned to her. She was still sitting on the low stool, still hugging herself, still looking chilled and lost and forlorn.
“When?” Carella asked.
“He took one after breakfast yesterday morning.” Melanie paused. “I met him for lunch in town yesterday afternoon. He took another capsule then.”
“What time was that?”
“Immediately after lunch. About two o’clock.”
Carella sighed.
“What is it, Mr. Carella?” Melanie asked.
“I think my partner is beginning to hate clocks,” Meyer said.
“What do you mean?”
“You see, Mrs. Gifford, it takes six minutes for a gelatin capsule to dissolve, releasing whatever's inside it. And strophanthin acts immediately.”
“Then the capsule he took at lunch couldn’t have contained any poison.”
“That's right, Mrs. Gifford. He took it at two o’clock, and he didn’t collapse until about eight-fifty-five. That's a time span of almost seven hours. No, the poison had to be taken while he was at the studio.”
Nelson looked thoughtful for a moment. “Then wouldn’t it be wise to question—” he began, and stopped speaking abruptly because the telephone inside was ringing furiously, shattering the afternoon stillness.
David Krantz was matter-of-fact, businesslike, and brief. His voice fairly crackled over the telephone wire.
“You called me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How's Melanie?”
“She seems fine.”
“You didn’t waste any time getting over there, did you?”
“We try to do our little jobs,” Carella said dryly, remembering Meyer's description of his encounter with Krantz, and wondering whether everybody in television had such naturally nasty tone of voice.
“What is it you want?” Krantz said. “This phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning. Every newspaper in town, every magazine, every cretin in this city wants to know exactly what happened last night! How do I know what happened?”