“Here it is,” said the mortician. He handed the package to Harry. “I’m to remind you that it’s to be thrown into the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Yes,” said Harry.
“A good deep place is best for its last resting place. You’ll remember that, won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Harry. The hell I will, he thought.
“Well, good luck, Mr. Smith.”
“Thank you,” said Harry.
The tall man shut the door on him immediately.
The blond young man was back at his desk.
“Goodbye, sir.”
“Goodbye,” said Harry.
He pushed through the glass doors into the heat of the street. The package, not heavy, was heavy. He did not hold it by the cord. He held it in the crook of his arm tightly. At the car, he put it carefully into the trunk. He did not dare open it. His clothes were pasted to his body. He removed his jacket, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He got into the car and drove off.
He did not speed. He did not attempt to beat any lights. He kept strictly to the right, gave hand signals on every turn. It took him a long time to get back to his office. He had told his receptionist he would be back by two. It was almost two-thirty before he got there.
The package weighed heavily in the crook of his arm as he let himself in through his street door.
He almost dropped it. There was someone waiting for him in the waiting room.
Not a patient.
Lieutenant Galivan.
Seventeen
“Hi,” said Lieutenant Galivan.
“Hello, there,” said Dr. Brown.
“I was in the neighborhood, figured I’d drop in. Your girl here said you’d be back about two, so I waited. Nice and cool.”
“That’s air conditioning for you.”
“A boon to civilization.”
“Anything for me?” said Dr. Brown to his receptionist. He was trying to squeeze the package into invisibility.
“Yes, Doctor. You have three house calls to make.” She handed him three slips of paper. “And Mr. Murphy will be here at four-fifteen, and Frieda Copeland at four-thirty.”
“Busy all of a sudden,” smiled Dr. Brown. He glanced at the slips. “Any of these emergency?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Will you excuse me a moment, Lieutenant?”
“Sure thing,” said Lieutenant Galivan.
“I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Take your time, Doc.”
Harry closed his consultation room door behind him very softly. He placed the brown package in a cabinet and locked the cabinet. He hung away his jacket; took off his tie, shirt, undershirt. He went into the bathroom and stooped low over the sink and ran cold water on his head. Then he washed his torso and soaped and washed under his arms, dried himself and combed his hair and got into fresh linen and a fresh white jacket. He felt a great need for the jacket. The office jacket made him a doctor. It covered his sins.
He opened the door to the waiting room. “I feel better now, Lieutenant. Come on in.”
The tall, elderly detective ambled into the consultation room.
“Sit down.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” The lieutenant sat down and crossed his legs.
Harry sat down behind his desk. A desk makes all the difference, he thought.
“How’ve you been, Doc?”
“Fine,” said Harry. “Lieutenant, I don’t want to hurry you — certainly not if it’s important—”
“Oh, this won’t take long.”
“It’s just that I have some house calls to make, and my office hours in the afternoon are four to seven—”
“Anything crop up on the Lynne Maxwell thing, Doctor?”
“Nothing, or I’d have called you.”
The lieutenant nodded. “You know, we just came across a funny bit.”
“Oh?”
“We keep poking around when the file isn’t closed. You know that Mrs. Gresham you were with that night in the restaurant, with that lawyer-friend of yours?”
“Yes?” He could feel the sweat spring out of his skin again.
“Well, it turns out Mrs. Gresham knew Lynne Maxwell.”
“She did? I didn’t know that, Lieutenant.”
Galivan brought out his pipe. He did not fill it. He held it cupped in his hands. “Doctor, there’s no suspicion of murder in the Maxwell case. Just that bit about her winding up in your apartment dead, with no apparent explanation.”
“We’ve been all through that.”
“I understand your impatience. Sorry, but this is police talk now.”
“Oh?” He could hear his voice rising.
“Mrs. Gresham is your patient.”
“I told you that. She and her husband.”
“Very attractive woman.”
“I suppose so.”
“Married to an old man.”
He forced coldness back into his voice. “What’s the point, Lieutenant?”
“Doctor, you’re not going to like this question, but I’ve got to ask it. Is Mrs. Gresham anything more to you than a patient?”
He was not prepared for it. It was the last thing he had expected. Did Galivan know? Or was this a shot in the dark? A wrong answer now might come back to haunt him... afterward. He thought desperately.
Was it possible Galivan was having him followed? Possible, but unlikely. He was in the clear for the Maxwell girl’s death; he had had nothing to do with it; he was sure Galivan was convinced of that. He decided it was a safe gamble.
“You mean am I sleeping with her?”
Galivan laughed. “Are you?”
“No. However, we do have more than a doctor-patient relationship, as I think I told you. We’ve become friends as well. Why do you ask, Lieutenant?”
“We figured that if you and Mrs. Gresham were cosying up, you might have given her a key to your apartment. And since she knew Lynne Maxwell, that key might explain how the girl got in.”
“Well, it doesn’t. Because Mrs. Gresham doesn’t have a key to my apartment.” He felt confident now; it was true.
“How about her husband? Ever give him a key?”
“Lord, no. Why would I do that? I told you, Lieutenant — there’s no other key to my apartment.”
Galivan produced a pouch and filled his pipe. He took his time lighting it and puffed slowly. Between puffs he asked, “How long have you known Mrs. Gresham?”
“She’s been a patient of mine for... oh, a few months.”
“Kurt Gresham, too?”
“They came to me at the same time.”
“You didn’t know Mrs. Gresham before that?”
“No.”
“Mr. Gresham, either?”
“That’s right, Lieutenant.”
“How did they happen to come to you, Doctor?”
“I was recommended to them by Tony Mitchell.”
“You’ve known Mitchell a long time?”
“Since I was a kid. He knew my father. My father was a lawyer, too.”
“I know. So the four of you are buddy-buddies.”
“Look, Lieutenant,” said Dr. Brown. “The Greshams have become my most important patients. Kurt Gresham is a cardiac. When his old doctor retired, Mr. Gresham retained me on an annual basis at a very healthy fee. I don’t mind telling you he’s been a godsend to me. I wish I had a dozen patients like him... By the way, on the first of September he’s taking me to Europe with him for a couple months, as his personal physician. Don’t ask me if it’s going to pay me; it will. I’m getting twenty-five thousand dollars for those two months, and all expenses paid, to boot. I’m a young guy just starting out in practice, Lieutenant, and I’ve been pinching myself ever since I met Mr. Gresham. For some obscure reason he’s taken a shine to me, and I’m going to keep the old boy alive if I have to open him up and pump his heart with my bare hands every hour on the hour. Do you blame me? And have I been frank enough for you, Lieutenant? And will there by anything else before I make those house calls?”