sidney sheldon - Master of the Game

"Information. You had lunch with Mellis's wife ten days ago." He pressed the button on a tape recorder on the desk. "We're going on the record now, Peter. Tell me about that lunch. How did Alexandra Mellis behave? Was she tense? Angry? Hysterical?"

"Nick, I've never seen a more relaxed, happily married lady."

Nick Pappas glared at him and snapped off the tape recorder. "Don't shaft me, my friend. I went to see Dr. John Harley this morning. He's been giving Alexandra Mellis medication to stop her from committing suicide, for Christ's sake!"

Dr. John Harley had been greatly disturbed by his meeting with Lieutenant Pappas. The detective had gotten right to the point. "Has Mrs. Mellis consulted you professionally recently?"

"I'm sorry," Dr. Harley said. "I'm not at liberty to discuss my patients. I'm afraid I can't help you."

"All right, Doc. I understand. You're old friends. You'd like to keep the whole thing quiet. That's okay with me." He rose to his feet. "This is a homicide case. I'll be back in an hour with a

warrant for your appointment records. When I find out what I want to know, I'm going to feed it to the newspapers."

Dr. Harley was studying him.

"We can handle it that way, or you can tell me now what I want to know, and I'll do what I can to keep it quiet. Well?"

"Sit down," Dr. Harley said. Nick Pappas sat. "Alexandra has been having some emotional problems lately."

"What kind of emotional problems?"

"She's been in a severe depression. She was talking about committing suicide."

"Did she mention using a knife?"

"No. She said she had a recurrent dream about drowning. I gave her Wellbutrin. She came back and told me it didn't seem to be helping, and I prescribed Nomifensine. I—I don't know whether it helped or not."

Nick Pappas sat there, putting things together in his mind. Finally he looked up. "Anything else?"

"That's everything, Lieutenant."

But there was more, and John Harley's conscience was bothering him. He had deliberately refrained from mentioning the brutal attack George Mellis had made on Eve Blackwell. Part of his concern was that he should have reported it to the police at the time it happened, but mainly Dr. Harley wanted to protect the Blackwell family. He had no way of knowing whether there was a connection between the attack on Eve and George Mellis's murder, but his instincts told him that it was better not to bring up the subject. He intended to do everything possible to protect Kate Blackwell.

Fifteen minutes after he made that decision, his nurse said, "Dr. Keith Webster is on line two, Doctor."

It was as if his conscience was prodding him.

Keith Webster said, "John, I'd like to stop by this afternoon and see you. Are you free?"

"I'll make myself free. What time?"

"How's five o'clock?"

"Fine, Keith. I'll see you then."

So, the matter was not going to be laid to rest so easily.

At five o'clock, Dr. Harley ushered Keith Webster into his office. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you, John. I don't drink. Forgive me for barging in on you like this."

It seemed to John Harley that every time he saw him, Keith Webster was apologizing about something. He was such a mild, little man, so inoffensive and eager to please—a puppy waiting to be patted on the head. It was incredible to John Harley that within that pale, colorless persona there lurked such a brilliant surgeon.

"What can I do for you, Keith?"

Keith Webster drew a deep breath. "It's about that—you know—that beating George Mellis gave Eve Blackwell."

"What about it?"

"You're aware she almost died?"

"Yes."

"Well, it was never reported to the police. In view of what's happened—Mellis's murder and everything—I was wondering if maybe I shouldn't tell the police about it."

So there it was. There seemed no way to escape the problem.

"You have to do whatever you think best, Keith."

Keith Webster said gloomily, "I know. It's just that I'd hate to do anything that might hurt Eve Blackwell. She's a very special person."

Dr. Harley was watching him cautiously. "Yes, she is."

Keith Webster sighed. "The only thing is, John, if I do keep quiet about it now and the police find out later, it's going to look bad for me."

For both of us, John Harley thought. He saw a possible out. He said casually, "It's not very likely the police would find out, is it? Eve certainly would never mention it, and you fixed her up perfectly. Except for that little scar, you'd never know she'd been disfigured."

Keith Webster blinked. "What little scar?"

"The red scar on her forehead. She told me you said you were going to remove it in a month or two."

Dr. Webster was blinking faster now. It was some kind of nervous tic, Dr. Harley decided.

"I don't re— When did you last see Eve?"

"She came in about ten days ago to talk about a problem involving her sister. As a matter of fact, the scar was the only way I could tell it was Eve instead of Alexandra. They're identical twins, you know."

Keith Webster nodded slowly. "Yes. I've seen photographs of Eve's sister in the newspapers. There's an amazing likeness. And you say the only way you could tell them apart was by the scar on Eve's forehead from the operation I performed?"

'That's right."

Dr. Webster sat there, silent, chewing on his lower lip. Finally he said, "Perhaps I shouldn't go to the police just yet. I'd like to think about this a little more."

"Frankly, I think that's wise, Keith. They're both lovely young women. The newspapers are hinting that the police think Alexandra killed George. That's impossible. I remember when they were little girls ..."

Dr. Webster was no longer listening.

When he left Dr. Harley, Keith Webster was lost in thought. He had certainly not left even the trace of a scar on that beautiful face. Yet, John Harley had seen it. It was possible that Eve could have gotten a scar afterward in another accident, but then why had she lied? It made no sense.

He examined it from every angle, going over all the different possibilities, and when he had come to a conclusion, he thought, If I'm right, this is going to change my whole life....

Early the following morning, Keith Webster called Dr. Harley. "John," he began, "excuse me for disturbing you. You said that Eve Blackwell came in to talk to you about her sister, Alexandra?"

"That's right."

"After Eve's visit, did Alexandra happen to come in to see you?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, she came to my office the following day. Why?"

"Just curious. Can you tell me what Eve's sister came to see you about?"

"Alexandra was in a deep depression. Eve was trying to help her."

Eve had been beaten and almost killed by Alexandra's husband. And now the man had been murdered and it was Alexandra who was being blamed.

Keith Webster had always known he was not brilliant. In school he had had to work very hard in order to achieve barely passing grades. He was the perennial butt of his classmates' jokes. He was neither an athlete nor a scholar, and he was socially inept. He was as close as one could come to being a nonentity. No one was more surprised than his own family when Keith Webster was admitted to medical school. When he elected to become a surgeon, neither his peers nor his teachers expected him to become a competent one, let alone a great one. But he had surprised them all. There was a talent deep inside him that was nothing short of genius. He was like some exquisite sculptor working his magic with living flesh instead of clay, and in a short time Keith Webster's reputation spread. In spite of his success, however, he was never able to overcome the trauma of his childhood. Inside he was still the little boy who bored everyone, the one atwhom the girls laughed.