Silence.
“Who performed the abortion?”
Silence.
“Who?”
Silence.
And then, out of the silence, suddenly, “Dr. Madison. In Majesta.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Glennon,” Carella said softly.
In the car on the long drive to Majesta over the Majesta Bridge, spanning two parts of the city, a bridge as old as time, black and sooty against the sky, squat and somber in contrast to its elegant rivals, Meyer and Carella speculated on what it all meant.
“The thing I still can’t understand,” Carella said, “is Claire’s involvement.”
“Me neither. It doesn’t sound like her, Steve.”
“But she sure as hell rented that room.”
“Yes.”
“And she made plans to meet Eileen, so she obviously knew Eileen was going to have an abortion.”
“That’s right,” Meyer said. “But that’s what’s so contradictory. She’s a social worker — and a good one. She knows induced abortion is a felony. She knows if she has anything to do with it, she’s involved as an accessory. Even if she didn’t know it as a social worker, she certainly knew it as a cop’s girlfriend.” Meyer paused. “I wondered if she ever mentioned this to Bert?”
“I don’t know. I think we’re gonna have to ask him, sooner or later.”
“I’m not looking forward to it.”
“So... damn it,” Carella said, “most social workers encourage unwed mothers to have the babies and place them for adoption. Why would Claire...?”
“The son,” Meyer reminded him. “A hot-tempered little snot who’d go looking for the father of the child.”
“Claire’s boyfriend is a cop,” Carella said flatly. “She could have prepared us for that eventuality. We could have scared hell out of young Glennon with just a warning to keep his nose clean. I don’t understand it.”
“Or, for that matter,” Meyer said, “why didn’t Claire try to contact the father — arrange a marriage? I don’t get it. I can’t believe she’d get involved in something like this. I just can’t believe it.”
“Maybe our doctor friend can shed a little light on the subject,” Carella said. “What’d the phone book tell us?”
“A. J. Madison, MD,” Meyer said. “1163 37th, Majesta.”
“That’s near that park where they found the girl, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You think she’d just come from the doctor’s office?”
“I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t sound likely. She was supposed to meet Claire in Isola. She wouldn’t have hung around Majesta. And I doubt if she was sick that soon. Jesus, Meyer, I’m confused as hell.”
“You’re just a lousy detective, that’s all.”
“I know. But I’m still confused as hell.”
Thirty-seventh Avenue was a quiet residential street with brownstone houses approached by low white stoop fronts and shielded from the sidewalk by low wrought-iron fences. The impression was one of serenity and dignity. This could have been a street in Boston or Philadelphia, a subdued street hidden from the ravages of time and the pace of the twentieth century. It wasn’t. It was a street that housed Dr. A. J. Madison, Abortionist.
1163 was in the middle of the block, a brownstone, indistinguishable from the brownstones flanking it, the same low iron fence in black, the same white steps leading to the front door, which was painted a subtle green. A rectangular brass plate was set over the brass bell button. The plate read “A. J. Madison, M.D.” Carella pushed the button. This was a doctor’s office, and he didn’t have to be told the door would be unlocked. He twisted the huge brass knob and he and Meyer stepped into the large reception room. There was a desk set in one corner before a wall of books. The other two walls were done in an expensive textured wallpaper. A Picasso print hung on one wall, and two Braques were on the other. A low coffee table carried the latest issues of Life, Look, and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
“Doesn’t seem to be anybody home,” Carella said.
“Nurse is probably in back with him,” Meyer said.
They waited. In a moment they heard cushioned footsteps coming down the long hall leading to the reception room. A smiling blonde entered the room. She wore a white smock and white shoes. Her hair was held tightly at the back of her head in a compact bun. Her face was clean-chiseled, with high cheekbones and a sweeping jawline and penetrating blue eyes. She was perhaps forty years old, but she looked like a young matron, the pleasant smile, the alert blue eyes.
“Gentlemen?” she said.
“How do you do?” Carella said. “We’d like to see Dr. Madison, please.”
“Yes?”
“Is he in?” Carella asked.
The woman smiled. “You don’t have an appointment, do you?”
“No,” Meyer said. “Is the doctor in?”
The woman smiled again. “Yes, the doctor is in.”
“Well, would you tell him we’re here, please?”
“Can you tell me what this is in reference to?”
“Police business,” Meyer said flatly.
“Oh?” The woman’s light eyebrows moved ever so slightly. “I see.” She paused. “What... sort of police business?”
“This is a personal matter we’d like to discuss with the doctor himself, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m afraid you’re talking to ‘the doctor himself,’ “ the woman said.
“What?”
“I’m Dr. Madison.”
“What?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “What is it you want, gentlemen?”
“I think we’d better go into your office, doctor.”
“Why? My nurse is out to lunch, and my next appointment isn’t until two o’clock. We can talk right here. I assume this won’t take long, will it?”
“Well, that depends...”
“What is it? An unreported gunshot wound?”
“It’s a little more than that, Dr. Madison.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Carella took a deep breath. “Dr. Madison, did you perform a criminal abortion on a girl named Eileen Glennon last Saturday?”
Dr. Madison seemed mildly surprised. Her eyebrows moved up an eighth of an inch, and the smile came to her mouth again. “I beg your pardon,” she said.
“I said, Dr. Madison, did you perform a criminal abortion on—”
“Yes, certainly,” Dr. Madison replied. “I perform criminal abortions every Saturday. I have special rates for weekend curettage. Good day, gentlemen.”
She was turning on her heel when Carella said, “Hold it right there, Dr. Madison.”
“Why should I?” Dr. Madison said. “I don’t have to listen to these insults! If this is your idea of a—”
“Yeah, well, you’re liable to be a little more insulted,” Meyer said. “Eileen Glennon is dead.”
“I am very sorry to hear that, but I have no idea who the girl is or why you should possibly connect me—”
“Her mother gave us your name, Dr. Madison. Now she didn’t pick the name out of a hat, did she?”
“I have no idea where she picked it — or why. I don’t know anyone named Eileen Glennon, and I have certainly never performed a criminal abortion in my life. I have a respectable practice and I wouldn’t endanger it for—”
“What’s your speciality, Dr. Madison?”
“I’m a general practitioner.”
“Must be pretty tough, huh? For a woman doctor to make a living?”
“I do very well, thank you. Your solicitude is wasted. If you’re finished with me, I have other things to—”
“Hold it, Dr. Madison. Stop running for that back room, huh? This isn’t gonna be that easy.”