The Nanny (25 page)

“I don't know where Sarah is. Why are you copying out of that book?”

“Because I think people should know what's in it.” He held it up so Joey could read the title:
Rebel Without a Cause
. “It's about a psychopath, Joey.”

“What's a psychopath?”

“I'll read you what I've copied out: ‘All his efforts hidden, under no matter what guise, represent investments designed to satisfy his immediate wishes and desires.… Like a red thread the predominance of this mechanism for immediate satisfaction runs through the history of every psychopath. It explains not only his behavior but also the violent nature of his acts.' You want to read the book, Joey?” He wanted him to. To know, to guess, to struggle, the way he had before, to try to save himself. And he
might
guess. As Lindner stated, “All those psychological functions … which are held to be components of ‘intelligence' have in the psychopath superimposed on them an aura of shrewdness and secretive cunning, of calculating canniness.”

“When are Mommy and Daddy coming?” Joey asked.

Maybe he
had
guessed, at that. “Soon. The police are upstairs now. Joey, you're not scared of the police, are you?”

“A course not.”

“Of course not. They'll call us when they're ready for us, Joey.”

“Hey, they can't call! Look,” Joey said, pointing, “the telephone's not in the—”

“Cradle.” Murderer in the cradle, from the cradle. “You're right, Joey!” And for a good reason. “Maybe Mommy tried to call us and couldn't. I'll call her.”

“I know our number,” Joey said. “Let me dial it. I know how to dial it.”

He looked like any boy of eight who was pleased that he had remembered his telephone number and was young enough to get a kick out of dialing. No one but him would know that this was Joey's sly way of making sure he really did call. “Okay, you dial, Joey, but I'll speak. Okay?”

Just as he hoped, the cop who answered said that Mrs. Fane was being questioned now. “You tell the boy that, please. He wants his mother.”

The cop told the boy to take it easy.

Dr. Meducca asked how long it would be before they were through up there. The cop said another hour, anyway. “We got a certain routine, you get me, Doc.”

So he had another three quarters of an hour.

Victor said in a low voice that she kept going on that Joey had told the truth, but could it be? He never liked her, he said—the—the Svengali act turned his stomach. “She just had to
look
at you, Virgie! But a murderer? A child-murderer?”

“I found out she told Dr. Meducca I was frightened of Joey. That was a lie, Victor! She
knew
I was frightened for him, that I'd do something again, fail him again. You were right to blame me!”

“Who told you I blamed you?”

“You told me.”

“Like hell I did!
She
told you. I see it now, that was her gimmick.…
She
got you scared of me!” But he saw that this didn't matter now, that only Joey mattered now. “Do you think that it was when she discovered that he'd put that stuff in the tunafish—that she could bring herself to do such a thing? Virgie, do you know about that?”

“The girl told me. You don't think Joey did that, do you?”

“He could have, Virgie.” He had gone over what had happened in his mind. He told Virgie what he remembered, but she could barely wait for him to finish.

“Joey never even heard of that medicine, Victor! She wanted to give it to the children, but Dr. Evans told her not to.”

Victor said gently that Nanny had explained that to Dr. Meducca. “It's in the statement. She said we asked her not to give it to the kids, but she did anyhow. Why don't you read the statement, darling? It's all there. She told Joey that it would kill a person if he got more than three drops. Virgie, don't glare at me. My God, my God, I'd give my right arm if what Joey thinks happened … and he thinks so, darling … weren't a figment of his—Darling, he's sick. He's sick!”

A throat cleared itself behind them. It was one of the two undertakers wanting to talk to him. “Excuse me,” Victor said to Virgie, noticing her blank eyes which saw only Joey now. He went up the stairs to where the undertaker stood. After he had heard, he said, “Oh, for Christ's sake!” And Virgie was at his side. “It's nothing, darling. Okay,” he said to the undertaker, “I'll sign it. Let me sign it and get out.”

Virgie said icily, “I-want-to-know-what-it-is-Victor.”

She stamped her foot at his second, “Nothing, darling. Really.” He put his hand on her arm. “This has nothing to do with Joey, Virgie. Oh, okay, okay! This man here wants me to sign something.”

“Mister, you don't know the trouble we run into in our business if we don't get a release.”

“Don't-get-
what?
”

“If they don't get my signature on a release saying that they can take Mrs. Gore-Green's body and cremate her with a goddamned embroidered handkerchief which may not belong to the deceased still in her hand.”

“Sometimes the relatives raise hell,” the man said. “You know how it is. At a time like this, they don't care about anything, but later … later, let me tell you from experience, they care! They sue the boss is how much they care, so we want a release just in case this embroidered handkerchief is yours, lady.”

“You asked for it,” Victor said, furious again.
“Rigor mortis
has set in and they will have to break her hand if …”

“My handkerchief?”

“This is your apartment, lady. This cop had the guy take pictures of the deceased and that handkerchief's going to show. It can be valuable, how do I know? Like this.” He drew scallops in the air. “There's a piece sticking out like this.” He drew the scallops again.

“What was she doing with my handkerchief?”

“Blowing her nose,” Victor said. “That's how we die, not with a bang. With a sneeze! Well, Virgie, is it okay for me to release what might be your valuable handkerchief to go up in smoke with Mrs. Gore-Green?”

She had her hand to the long narrow neck he wanted to choke. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“I'm sorry, too, darling.” He recognized Virgie in the trembling lips, but then, leaning up against the wall of the bedroom passage, he had to sign the release and then he went with the long wicker basket to the front door to open it for them. He had offended the undertaker, who cast his eyes down in a manner more befitting a Victorian heroine than a fat man in a dark suit with his balding hair done in a careful fan across the top of his head. When he came back Virgie was already rummaging around in the room Nanny had used, no longer trembling. She was pulling out the drawers of the white chest which had been first Joey's and then Ralphie's. “Virgie, stop. Virgie, if you're looking for proof and want it to count legally, you better call in one of the cops to witness your finding it.”

“When I find it, then I'll call them. They might try to stop me.”

He would like to see them try! But the drawers of the white chest were empty. Apparently Nanny had packed all her belongings and then unpacked only her precious picture gallery and her night clothes. “Are you going to go through her packed stuff?”

“No, Victor, because Mrs. Gore-Green wouldn't have seen anything Nanny packed. It has to be something she could have
seen
.”

Now she was looking at the bed, but except for the missing pillow, it was just a neatly made bed. He looked at the rocker where he had hated to see the old bat sitting and brushing Virgie's hair. This had been what he called her Svengali act, when she had hypnotized Virgie with the hair brush. He thought: Samson and Delilah, not Svengali, Samson and Delilah in reverse, because it was only now that the long golden hair was cut that Virgie had her strength back, could pull down the Nanny temple!

He hurried across the passage to where Virgie was. Without a quiver, even though it was still warm from the dead woman's body, or still cold from it, of course, she was examining that bed, the bed table, the dressing table, then under the beds.

She said, “Oh, there's nothing here!”

He wondered what she had hoped to find, or whether she simply had to have something to do, whether it was make-work rather than detective work, but had no chance to ask because then the detective wanted to see him. Returning to the big room, Victor saw that most of the crew were gone. At any rate, the two detectives were the only ones in the big room. The meeting, Victor thought, was now in executive session. He asked whether they could all have that drink now and when the detectives refused—cliché—he fixed one for Virgie and one for himself. Virgie did not refuse hers, simply didn't touch it. She didn't interrupt, allowing him to tell Joey's story this time, although occasionally she frowned, as if he weren't putting Joey's best foot forward.

“Joey told you this? Then we better speak to Joey.”

And then she was all there, all attention, Maria-Hemingway defying the Fascisti. “Honey, why not? Joey must be getting impatient down there. He must want us.”

“No.”

The doctor didn't believe Joey's story. How could he inform Virgie that it would be better if Joey talked to the cops in the—in the full flush of his delusions? “Please, Virgie!” It had gotten across. She gave in. They called the doctor. He said Joey was right there. Okay. He said he didn't want the boy talked to until a psychiatrist was present. First call a psychiatrist.

“Come on, I'm not going to be rough on the kid, Mrs. Fane. I know he's eight years old. Third degree?”

“I've got kids of my own,”
Victor supplied from the cliché book.

“I've got three of my own, what do you take me for? Come on, let's go down and talk to the kid.”

“Call Dr. Blair, Victor. And call your lawyer, too.”

As he went to telephone—there was no disobeying Virgie now—he had a tragically funny picture of Joey in court; no, Joey before a Senate investigation. Fred Sanforth sitting in a chair beside Joey, whispering advice as to his Constitutional rights, and Joey saying that he stood on the Fifth Amendment. Saying, “I have no statement to make at this time.” Saying, “I don't recall.”

“When the psychiatrist comes, then you can question Joey.”

If the detectives went down now, Dr. Meducca would tell them what was in the statement. Over her dead body.

But there was still another dead body in the apartment. A policeman came in from the hall and told the detectives that the wagon was downstairs and could they take her now?

So two other men came with another long wicker basket which they carried into the kitchen, being careful, Victor couldn't help noting, of the dining room chairs as they passed. (Did people in whose house a murder had been committed sue the city for destruction of property as, according to the undertaker, they sued his boss?) Victor thought, “For once it's easier for Virgie than for me. Blessed are the single-hearted. Blessed are the blind, for they shall not see.” Now they carried the second basket out. The old woman was heavy and the two men showed the strain. One of the cops stationed outside the door held it open, the other rang the elevator bell.

“Sammy,” the shorter detective said, “you get that room sealed now.”

Virgie said sharply, “No. Don't.”

The detective looked puzzled. “Lady, we got to.” He couldn't make Virgie out. “You wouldn't want to
use
the room now, would you?”

“No. I want to see it.”

“Nothing to see, lady. You already saw what there was to see.” During his shrug at his partner, Virgie moved. “Hey! You can't go in there!”

She said over her shoulder, “Come in with me, then.”

It was a peculiar feeling to be dragged captive at Virgie's chariot wheels. Victor and the first detective now followed the second, who had followed Virgie. But the room was the same, Victor told himself, except that there was no old woman sprawled across the floor with her leg caught in the rope. They had drawn the cliché chalk outline on the floor where her big body had lain and within the outline, now fully revealed, was the pillow which Dr. Meducca said Nanny had brought because Joey asked her for it, and which Joey said she brought to smother him with.

Victor was doing what? Attempting, he believed, to ward off all that Virgie was feeling, because if once he did feel to the hilt, he would, like Virgie, go nuts. Then he heard Virgie gasp and saw her step over the rope and the detective high-step after her and grab her as she bent over.

Virgie said, “Leave me alone! I'm not touching anything, I'm just looking!”

Then she called him to come and look, too. The detective nodded a belated permission and then Victor's eyes followed Virgie's trembling pointing finger to the pillow. As he bent to see what she had meant him to see, her other hand grasped his forearm and her nails bit through his sleeve.

“What is it, darling?”

“The ruffle, Victor. Look!”

Both detectives were bending with him, peering, suspicious.

“There's a piece of the ruffle torn off. Look,
there
. Victor, a
scalloped ruffle!
Victor, the handkerchief in Mrs. Gore-Green's hand!”

“What's this all about? What handkerchief?”

“Victor! Call the undertaker. Hurry!” Clutching his sleeve, she pulled him back over the rope, the two detectives after them. “Hurry! Hurry!”

“What's this all about? Hey!”

She was as grand as a duchess. “Later,” she said grandly.

Victor ran to the telephone. Althea had said she wanted the cremation as soon as possible, and, for all he knew—what the hell did he know—they might simply dump a body from the basket into the oven. It wasn't like a funeral. He picked the receiver out of the cradle, then set it back, miserably. “Virgie, I don't know which undertaker!”