Kill as Directed (14 page)

“My brother Ben died last week. In New York. He was cremated, see—”

“Yes?”

“It says in my brother's will that he wants his ashes thrown into the ocean, the Atlantic Ocean.”

“I see.”

“I know this is a lot to ask, but I'm gonna be stuck here in Frisco for a long time and I couldn't think of nobody in New York but you. Suppose you could pick up the package of ashes, the urn, or whatever it is, Doc, and as a special favor carry out my brother's last wishes? I'd be awful grateful.”

Harry moistened his lips. “Where is it? Where do I pick it up?”

“Well, the funeral parlor is up in Yonkers. You know, where they got the race track, the trotters? It ain't far from the track. Allerton Avenue. Smith and Smith Funeral Chapel. Ask for the head undertaker, Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith. Would you do this for me, Doc?”

“When? What time?”

“Tomorrow, one o'clock. I called Mr. Smith and I told him you'd probably be coming. After all, I did do you that favor, that time I was in New York, lending you the thousand bucks. Say, come to think of it, I could kill two birds with one stone, like they say. I heard you were doing pretty good now, Doc—could you possibly pay up that thousand you owe me? I mean now?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I ain't paid Smith and Smith yet for the funeral, and they won't release my brother's ashes till they get their money. By a coincidence, it comes to just a thousand bucks. You could pay them for me and pick up the ashes and we'd be all square. Okay, Doc?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“I guess you better make it cash. Can you make it cash?”

“Yes. What name? The deceased, I mean?”

“Oh, my brother. I told you—Benny. Benjamin A. Smith. Common name, huh, Doc? Undertakers named Smith, stiff named Smith. Poor old Ben—he lingered a long time with that cancer. Well! We all set, Doc? You got the name and address?”

“I marked them down.”

“One o'clock tomorrow. Don't forget to bring the money. And I thank you very much.”

And the wire went dead as Uncle Joe, in San Francisco, hung up.

That afternoon Dr. Harrison Brown called an associate, Dr. Manley Lamper, and arranged for Dr. Lamper to take over his practice during the months of September and October. He also drew up a letter notifying his patients that he would be away for the months of September and October and that his practice would be handled during that period by Dr. Manley Lamper, address and telephone number. He instructed his girl to go through the files and send a copy of the letter to all his patients, and to make a note to refer all calls beginning September first to Dr. Lamper.

The next morning, on his way to the office, he stopped into his bank and came out with a plain envelope containing ten $100 bills.

SIXTEEN

It was a two-story red brick on a nice street in Yonkers, chiefly residential. There were shade trees over the sidewalks, and neat houses with green lawns, and some stores: a supermarket, a laundry, a beauty parlor, a drugstore, a florist's, and the funeral parlor. He drove past slowly and backed into a space at the curb a hundred feet away. Before he got out of the car he touched the envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket.

He walked back without haste along the sunny street to the brick building. It had a gray marble front and wide glass doors. He pushed through the doors and found himself in a cool room with a soft gray carpet, a long gray table, gray chairs and benches, and some potted palms. At the far end of the room a blond young man sat at a small gray desk. The blond young man rose at once and came forward. He said softly, “Sir?”

“I'd like to see Mr. Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith.”

“What name, sir?”

“My name?”

“Please, sir.”

Harry said, “Smith.”

The young man smiled, exhibiting lively white teeth.

“You have an appointment?”

“Yes.”

“Please sit down, won't you?”

The young man walked sedately to the end of the room … through two glass doors similar to those at the entrance, but narrower. Harry remained standing.

The young man returned in thirty seconds.

“This way, sir.”

Harry followed him through the narrow glass doors and along a windowless corridor to an office also furnished in gray: gray carpet, gray leather armchairs, gray steel desk, gray Venetian blinds tightly closed.

“Come in, sir.” A thin man with a long wrinkled face and sparse black hair rose from behind the steel desk. His hair was obviously a toupee. His rather high voice was, to Harry's surprise, that of a cultivated man. He wore an expensive black suit and a black tie with a gray pearl stickpin. “All right, Adam.”

The blond young man went out, shutting the door.

“I'm Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith,” the mortician said. “Please sit down—Mr. Smith, did you say?”

“Harry Smith,” said Harry Brown.

The thin man smiled and gestured to the armchair beside the desk.

Harry sat. The tall man sat.

“Common name,” the tall man remarked.

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Well,” said Mr. Smith. “What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?”

“I'm here on an errand.”

“Errand?”

“For Uncle Joe.”

“Joe?”

“Uncle Joe from San Francisco.”

“Oh, yes?” said the thin mortician. He waited.

“I'm to pick up the ashes of Uncle Joe's brother Benny. Benjamin A. Smith?”

“Oh, yes?” said the mortician again. He still did not move.

“Oh,” said Harry. He took the envelope out of his pocket. “Here's the money Uncle Joe owes you.”

This time the man moved. He extended a bony hand for the envelope, opened it, took out the bills, and counted them. He returned the money to the envelope, unlocked a drawer of the steel desk, dropped the envelope into the drawer, locked the drawer and pocketed the key. Then he rose.

He said in his high voice, “Wait here, please,” and left the room. He had a long gliding stride that made him look as if he were walking on tiptoe.

Harry sat. The room was cool. He stirred uneasily.

Was it a swindle? Why not? Smith could give him an urn containing ashes, and what could he do about it? Go to the police? The thought made him laugh, and he felt better.

The man returned with an oblong package. It was wrapped in ordinary wrapping paper, seams secured by wide strips of gummed tape, and bound with heavy cord.

“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?”