“No.”
“Dr. Welliver never got into trouble. I can protect you—”
“No.”
Gresham did not seem offended. “Well, let’s drop it for the time being. Of course, it’s been something of a shock to you. It’s my fault, Harry; I should have prepared you. But please remember I’m not asking you to commit any crimes, just to give me your confidential help on the rare occasions—”
“No.”
“I won’t accept that till you’ve had time to think it over, Harry. Let me repeat: You’ll be very well paid—”
“No!”
But he had let Kurt Gresham walk out of his office in the small hours that night, leaving the check for five hundred dollars on the desk. And he had slipped the check into his drawer after Gresham’s departure, not destroying it. And he had not reported the wounded woman, or her two subsequent visits for routine treatment — both late at night, long after hours. And the following week he had unlocked the desk drawer, slipped the check into his pocket and had gone over to his bank and cashed it...
Yes, the mysterious dead girl was connected with Kurt Gresham in some way, with one of his night clubs. It had to be; there was simply no other explanation. But how she had got into his apartment, and for what purpose; and why had Gresham said nothing to him about it in advance — to these questions Dr. Harry Brown had no answer.
He was sure of only one thing: he was in something way over his head — in something deep, dark-and dirty.
The door of the bare precinct-room opened and Detective Lieutenant Galivan came in. “Well, Doctor? Remember anything?”
“Nothing,” Dr. Brown said.
“Your office checked out, by the way. You showered, shaved and changed all right. Here’s your key.” Harry took it. “Oh. What are your office hours?”
“Twelve to two, four to seven. Otherwise, by appointment.”
“Now about the lady,” Galivan said. “We have some interesting facts.”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Unfortunately, we found no purse, so we don’t know her name or where she lives. But the clothes are expensive and her body looks like a beautician’s ad. Recall a woman whose initials are L. M.?”
Harry thought, “One or two patients, maybe. Why, Lieutenant?”
“L. M. was embroidered on her panties. You’ve prescribed narcotics in your practice, haven’t you, Doctor?”
“Naturally.” The sudden question jerked his head up.
“A lot?”
“No more than normal.”
“Kept records?”
“Of course.”
“We’re going to have to check them tonight. We’re also going to go through them for female patients with the initials L. M. Sorry to give you such a rough night, Doc.”
“What’s all this about narcotics?” Harry asked casually. At least he hoped he sounded casual.
“The girl died of an overdose of heroin. She was an addict, a mainliner. Whenever you’re ready, Doc. First we’ll take your formal statement.”
A police stenographer took his statement in the squad room, and then Galivan, young Murphy and two other policemen took him uptown to his office, where his records were closely examined.
“Clean on the narcotics, from the looks of it,” Galivan said.
“Thank you,” Harry said without enthusiasm.
There were three female patients with the initials L. M., all from the previous year. Despite the hour, Galivan telephoned them.
They all answered their phones, very much alive.
“That’s it, Doc,” Galivan said. “It’s out of your hands now and in mine. I’ll keep in touch. Give you a lift home?”
Six days later, exactly at noon, Detective Lieutenant Galivan strolled into Dr. Harrison Brown’s office.
“You’ve identified her,” Harry said.
“Finally,” Galivan answered, sitting down with a slight groan. “Routine turned the trick. Her suit, which looked pretty new, had a Lord & Taylor label. We checked all their charge accounts back two years of women-customers with the initials L. M. No dice, alive or dead and buried. So we had to wade through cash sales slips by the thousands. Police work is so glamorous. And then we made her — Lynne Maxwell, Lynne with an e. Ring a bell, Dr. Brown?”
“Lynne Maxwell.” Harry shook his head. “Not even a tinkle.”
“What a town this is,” said the detective sadly. “Live and die practically next door, and you might just as well have been on the moon.”
“What do you mean, Lieutenant?” Harry asked sharply.
“She was a neighbor of yours. I mean, practically. Lived on Bank Street. Artist. Studio like a movie set.”
“Artist,” frowned Harry. “How come nobody missed her?”
“Well, first, she lived alone. Second, she was very rich, inherited dough. Came from Denver, Colorado. Third, she was unmarried. Fourth, she had no steady guy, kept to herself. One like that can disappear for a long time without raising questions. Twenty-nine years old. Shame, huh?”
“Rotten shame.”
“The few people she knew say she spent money like water, mostly on herself; had a lover once in a while, nothing serious — basically a loner, no real attachments. By the way, not one of her acquaintances could link her to Dr. Harrison Brown. They never heard of Dr. Harrison Brown. That ought to please you, Doc.”
“It doesn’t please me or displease me. I’ve told you the truth about the girl from the start.”
“Don’t get hot, Doc. That’s why I came all the way up here to fill you in.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Harry said mechanically, “but this thing has been bothering the hell out of me. How would you like to come home and find a dead girl you never saw or heard of before in your living room?”
“I wouldn’t like it.”
“I don’t like it, either. I’ve had my lock changed, but if someone was able to get past one lock, a second one won’t protect me. I don’t sleep well.”
“I don’t blame you.” The detective sounded genuinely sorry for him. “So I guess you’ll be glad to hear that we’re keeping this case open.”
Harry stared. “Why, Lieutenant?”
“You.”
“Me?”
Galivan rubbed a knuckle on his chin. “Doctor, I’m Homicide. Now it’s true that this case doesn’t look like a homicide. This Lynne Maxwell killed herself, intentionally or accidentally, by injecting more junk into her body than it could tolerate. She died in her studio, or she died in the street, or maybe she even died in your apartment. If it was her studio or the street, somebody would have to deposit her in your place. Why? Or if she died in your apartment, what was she doing there? How did she get in? And why did she come? See what I mean, Doc?”
“Yes,” Harry said gloomily.
“So — case open instead of closed. Accidental death or suicide, the fact remains that you found her in your apartment, and it’s an unexplained fact. When it’s unexplained, whatever it is, you can’t close the book on it. And brother, it sure is bugging me.”
“You and me both, Lieutenant.”
“Well, that’s about it, Doc.” Galivan rose. “If anything further pops on this, no matter what or when, please let me know right away.”
“Of course, Lieutenant.”
He was in the midst of examining a patient, at one o’clock, when his office girl buzzed him.
“Mr. Gresham is on the line, Doctor. Can you speak to him?”
“Not now,” Harry said. “Tell him I’ll call back.”
“He says it’s important—”
“I’m examining a patient,” he snapped. “I’ll call back.”