“The sheriff helped to send Carl up, didn’t he? That could have been worth a lot of money to Jerry.”
“Nuts,” she said. “You’re completely off the beam. Maybe Ostie did want Carl out of the way, but if he did, it had nothing to do with Jerry. Ostie’s been after Milly to divorce Carl and marry him for a long time.”
“He hasn’t been very successful in his wooing.”
“No.” She laughed raucously, like a parrot. “Well, climb on your horse, big boy. Don’t let me keep you.”
“Why don’t you come along?”
“So I can listen to you some more, telling me how Jerry framed his brother? No, thanks.” She turned and looked at the body. “This little guy wasn’t much use to me, but he had his points. I’ll stay here with him.”
“Are you all right by yourself?”
“I won’t be by myself. There’s a deputy inside–” she jerked a thumb towards the passageway that led into the house “–and more on the way. What’s the matter, can’t you make up your mind? A minute ago Carl was framed, to hear you tell it. Now he’s a lurking menace again. Come on now, which is it.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You’re right. I haven’t made up my mind.”
I left her keeping her unlikely vigil. Looking back from outside, I saw her hefting the light target pistol in her hand. She waved it at me derisively.
The sheriff drove inconsistently, slowing gradually on the long dull straightaways and speeding up on the curves. I was tempted to pass him more than once, but I wanted to keep an eye on him and the girl. She sat on the extreme righthand side of the front seat, as if to avoid any possible contact with him.
I followed his undercover plates over the Pass, down Sunset and across to Santa Monica Boulevard. He parked eventually on a side street near the center of Beverly Hills. I parked behind his radio car and got out.
Ostervelt and Mildred went up a flagstone walk which led to a low pink building standing well back from the street. It was flat-roofed and new-looking, walled with glass bricks in front and masked with well-clipped shrubbery. A small bronze plate on the doorpost announced discreetly: J. Robert Grantland, M.D.
I followed them into a bright waiting room furnished in net and black iron. A receptionist’s desk was set at an angle in one corner. There were several abstract paintings on the walls. I touched one and felt the brushmarks. Originals. Everything about the place said money, but meant front.
Mildred opened a heavy white door. We went through into a smaller room furnished with white oak office furniture. I pointed at the wide low telephone desk against one walclass="underline"
“Is this the desk he took the money from?”
She had assumed a professional mask as soon as she entered the office. “Yes. Please keep your voice down. I think the doctor has a patient with him.”
I listened, and heard a drone of voices behind an inner door. One of them was a woman’s. It said:
“Is that why I fall in love with Terry’s friends?”
A lower voice, as rich and thick as molasses, answered her. I couldn’t hear what it said.
“Break it up, will you, Milly?” the sheriff said. “We can’t wait here all day.”
She looked at him primly, her finger to her lips. “Dr. Grantland hates to be interrupted. And promise me you won’t say anything nasty to him. He couldn’t help it if Carl took his gun.”
The sheriff grunted. “We’ll see.” He put his evidence case on top of the desk and pulled out the top drawer.
Looking over his shoulder, I saw that it was empty, except for a little silver in a coin compartment at one end, and, shoved far back in the drawer, a carton of .32 shells.
“Is this where the gun was kept?”
“I think so. I’ve seen it there.”
“What was Grantland doing with a gun?”
“I don’t know. I never asked him. Some of his patients get pretty – excited sometimes. I suppose he kept it for protection.”
There were footsteps in the inner room. The door clicked sharply, and opened. A heavy man in English tweeds came out. The artificial light gleamed on his head, which was prematurely bald, and flashed on his spectacles.
“What is this, Mrs. Heller? Who are these men?”
She cringed and stammered. Ostervelt answered for her:
“Remember me, Doctor? Jack Ostervelt, sheriff of Buena County. We met at the Heller place a couple of times.”
“Sure enough, we did. How are you, Sheriff?”
He closed the door behind him, but not before I caught a glimpse of a dark-haired woman with a raddled face, putting on a hat.
“I’m well enough myself. Your friend Jerry Heller is pretty poorly, though. In fact he’s dead.”
“Jerry dead?” The doctor’s jaw dropped so far I could see the gold in his molars.
“He was killed with this gun a couple of hours ago.” The sheriff opened his black box. “Take a good look, but don’t touch it. Recognize it?”
“Why, it looks like my revolver.”
“That’s what I thought,” Ostervelt said flatly.
“Surely you don’t imagine that I shot Jerry?” The doctor glanced anxiously at the door behind him, and lowered his voice with an effort. “My revolver was taken from my desk this morning. I reported it stolen to the police.”
“Who stole it?”
He looked at Mildred. Her gaze met his, and dropped. Her face was miserable.
“Carl Heller did,” he said. “He also took about fifty dollars in cash, which I kept in the same drawer.”
I said: “Do you know for a fact that he took your gun?”
His fat chest pouted out, and he looked at me with hostility. “You can take my word for it. Just who are you, by the way?”
“The name is Archer,” I said. “Have you been here all day, Doctor?”
“Certainly I have.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Of course I can. Mrs. Monaco has been here with me for the past two hours, if you insist on proof.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Ostervelt said. “You’re absolutely certain that Carl Heller took your gun?”
Grantland’s face flushed. “This is ridiculous. Of course I am. I saw him run out of here with the gun in his hand. I did my best to stop him, but he was too fast for me.” He turned to Mildred. “You saw him, didn’t you?”
“I guess so,” she said hopelessly. “Yes, I saw him.”
Her body began to slump. Thinking that she was going to faint, I started for her. Ostervelt got to her first, circling her slender body with his arm. She leaned against him, with her eyelids fluttering.
Dr. Grantland brought her a glass of water. “You’d better go home, Mrs. Heller. You’ve been under quite a strain. You need a rest.”
“Yes.” Her voice was like a tired little girl’s.
“I’ll take her,” Ostervelt said. “Be glad to. With that crazy husband of hers still on the loose, she needs somebody to look out for her.”
Grantland looked him up and down, sardonically. “No doubt.”
“Sorry to bother you, Doctor. I guess when it comes to trial, we’ll be needing you as a witness.”
Ostervelt closed the evidence case and picked it up in one huge hand. He and Mildred went out, his thick possessive arm still supporting her. Grantland said to me:
“Is there something else?”
“Just a little matter of your professional opinion. It’s been suggested to me that Carl Heller wasn’t really dangerous.”
“I thought so myself at one time. Obviously he is, though. He’s killed two people, and the proof of the pudding is always in the eating.”
“I don’t quite follow.”
“No, I suppose not. You wouldn’t.” He looked at me with intellectual distaste. “I’ll spell it out for you. Five or six years ago I formed the opinion, based on observation and interviews, that Carl Heller wasn’t likely to become dangerous. He was ill, of course, no question about that – definitely a victim of paranoid schizophrenia. But shock therapy seemed to do him a lot of good. He was released from the state hospital, not as cured, you understand, but as an arrested case, who needed supportive treatment. Schizophrenia isn’t really curable, you know. We psychiatrists hate to admit failure, but that’s the simple truth. Still, I concurred in the institution’s fairly hopeful prognosis, and I was glad to see him let out on indefinite leave of absence.”