James Chase: Lay Her Among the Lilies

“Who?” he asked vaguely, not interested: just a dull-witted old man with a flower.

“Janet Crosby,” I said. It was hot in the sun, and the drone of the bees, the smell of all those flowers made me a little vague myself.

“What of her?”

“You signed the death certificate.”

He dragged his eyes away from the dahlia and looked at me.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Victor Malloy. I’m a little worried about Miss Crosby’s death.”

“Why should you be worried?” he asked, a flicker of alarm in his eyes. He knew he was old and dull-witted and absent-minded. He knew by keeping on practicing medicine at his age he ran the risk of making a mistake sooner or later. I could see he thought I was going to accuse him of making that mistake now.

“Well, you see,” I said mildly, not wanting to stampede him, “I’ve been away for three or four years. Janet Crosby was a very old friend. I had no idea she had a bad heart. It was a great shock to me to hear she had gone like that. I want to satisfy myself that there was nothing wrong.”

A muscle in his face twitched. The nostrils dilated.

“What do you mean—wrong? She died of malignant endocarditis. The symptoms are unmistakable. Besides, Dr. Salzer was there. There was nothing wrong. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. What exactly is malignant endocarditis?”

He frowned blankly, and, for a moment, I thought he was going to say he didn’t know, but he got hold of himself, stirred his old withered memory and said slowly as if he were conjuring up a page from some medical dictionary, “It’s a progressive microbic infection of the heart valves. Fragments of the ulcerating valves were carried by the blood stream all over her body. She hadn’t a chance. Even if they had called me in sooner, there was nothing I could have done.”

“That’s what’s worrying me, doc,” I said, and smiled to let him know I was on his side.

“Just why did they call you in? You weren’t her doctor, were you?”

“Certainly not,” he said, almost angrily. “But it was quite proper to call me in. I live close by. It would have been unethical for Dr. Salzer to have issued the certificate.”

“Just who is Dr. Salzer?”

He began to look vague again, and his fingers went yearningly towards the dahlia. I could see he wanted to be left alone, to let his brain sleep in the peaceful contemplation of his flowers, not to be worried by a husky like me who was taking up his time for nothing.

“He runs one of those crank sanatoriums, right next door to the Crosby estate,” he said finally. “He’s a friend of the family. His position is such he couldn’t ethically issue a certificate. He is not a qualified practitioner. I was very flattered they asked for my help.”

I could imagine that. I wondered what they paid him.

“Look, doc,” I said. “I’d like to get this straight. I’ve tried to see Maureen Crosby, but she isn’t well. I’m going away, but before I go I want to get a picture of this thing. All I’ve heard is that Janet died suddenly. You say it was heart trouble. What happened? Were you there when she died?”

“Why, no,” he said, and alarm again flickered in the dim eyes. “I arrived about half an hour after she was dead. She had died in her sleep. The symptoms were unmistakable. Dr. Salzer told me she had been suffering from the disease for some months. He had been treating her. There was nothing much one can do with such cases except rest. I can’t understand why you’re asking so many questions.” He looked hopefully towards the house to see if his wife wanted him. She didn’t.

“It’s only that I want to satisfy myself,” I said, and smiled again. “You arrived at the house, and Salzer was there. Is that it?”

He nodded, getting more worried every second.

“Was there anyone else there?”

“Miss Crosby. The younger one. She was there.”

“Maureen?”

“I believe that’s her name.”

“And Salzer took you to Janet’s room? Did Maureen come, too?”

“Yes. They both came with me into the room. The the young woman seemed very upset.

She was crying.” He fingered the dahlia. “Perhaps there should have been a postmortem,” he said suddenly. “But I assure you there was no need. Malignant endocarditis is unmistakable. One has to consider the feelings of those who are left.”

“And yet, after fourteen months, you are beginning to think there should have been a postmortem?”

I put a slight edge to my voice.

“Strictly speaking, there should have been, because Dr. Salzer had been treating her, and, as he explained to me, he is a Doctor of Science, not Medicine. But the symptoms…”

“Yeah… are unmistakable. One other thing, doc. Have you ever seen Janet Crosby before? I mean, before she died?”

He looked wary, wondering if I were springing a trap.

“I’ve seen her in her car, but not to speak to.”

“And not close enough to notice if she showed any symptoms of heart trouble?”

He blinked.

“I didn’t get that.”

“I understand she was suffering from this disease for some months. You say you saw her in her car. How long ago was this: that you saw her? How long before she died?”

“A month, maybe two. I don’t remember.”

“What I’m trying to get at,” I said patiently, “is that with this disease she would have shown symptoms you might have recognized if you had seen her before she died.”

“I don’t think I should.”

“And yet the symptoms are unmistakable?”

He licked his thin lips.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and began to back away. “I can’t give you any more of my time. It is valuable. I must ask you to excuse me.”

“That’s all right, doc,” I said. “Well, thanks. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. But you know how it is. I just wanted to put my mind at rest. I liked that girl.”

He didn’t say anything, but continued to back away towards the rose beds.

“There’s just one other thing, doc,” I said. “How was it that Dr. Salzer signed Macdonald Crosby’s certificate when he was accidentally shot? Wasn’t that unethical for a non-qualified quack to do that?”

He looked at me the way you look at a big spider that has fallen into your bath.

“Don’t worry me,” he said in a quavering voice. “Ask him : don’t bother me.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s a good idea. Thank you, doc. I will.”

He turned and moved off down the path towards his roses. From the back he looked even older than he was. I watched him pick off a dead rose and noticed his hand was very shaky. I was afraid I had spoilt his afternoon.

The small bird-like woman was standing on the porch of the front door, hopefully, when I arrived back at the house. She pretended not to see me.

“I’m afraid I’ve taken up a lot of the doctor’s time,” I said, raising my hat. “He tells me it is valuable. Would five dollars cover it?”

The tired eyes brightened. The thin face lit up.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said, and looked furtively down the garden at the old bent back and the yellow panama hat.

I slipped the bill into her hand. She snapped it up the way a lizard snaps up a fly. I had an idea the old man at the bottom of the garden wouldn’t ever set eyes on it. At least, I hadn’t spoilt her afternoon.

I pushed open my office door and marched in. Jack Kerman was dozing in the armchair by the window. Paula was sitting at my desk working on one of her hundreds of card indexes: indexes that kept our fingers on the pulse of Orchid City, that told us who was who, who was in town and who had left town, who had married who, and so on. Although she had four girls working continuously on the cards, she insisted on keeping the key-cards up-to-date herself.