Эд Макбейн - Lady, Lady, I Did It!

“That’s not true, Mrs. Glennon. Claire rented a room on South First Street, and she used Eileen’s name in the transaction. We figure the room was intended for Eileen’s convalescence. Isn’t that true, Mrs. Glennon?”

“I don’t know anything about a room.”

“We found the address right here! And the note clearly indicated that Eileen was supposed to meet Claire Saturday. What time were they supposed to meet, Mrs. Glennon?”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Why was it necessary for Eileen to take a furnished room? Why couldn’t she come back here? Why couldn’t she come home?”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Did Claire arrange for the abortion?”

Silence.

“She’s dead, Mrs. Glennon. Nothing you say can hurt her any more.”

“She was a good girl,” Mrs. Glennon said.

“Are you talking about Claire or your daughter?”

Silence.

“Mrs. Glennon,” Carella said very softly, “do you think I like talking about abortion?”

Mrs. Glennon locked up at him but said nothing.

“Do you think I like talking about pregnancy? Do you think I like invading your daughter’s privacy, your daughter’s dignity?” He shook his head tiredly. “A man murdered her, Mrs. Glennon. He slaughtered her like a pig. Won’t you please help us find him?”

“And do you want more killing?” Mrs. Glennon asked suddenly.

“What?”

“Do you want someone else to be killed?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve met my son.” She nodded her head and fell silent again.

“What about him?”

“You see what he did to this fellow here, don’t you? And that was only because the man was questioningme. What do you think he’d do if he found out Eileen was... was—”

“Who are you afraid for, Mrs. Glennon?”

“My son. He’d kill him.”

“Who would he kill?”

“The... the baby’s father.”

“Who? Who is he?”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Mrs. Glennon, we’re cops,” Meyer said angrily. “We’re not gonna go telling your son—”

“I know this neighborhood,” Mrs. Glennon said wisely. “It’s like a small town. If the police know, everyone will know. And then my son will find the man and kill him. No.” She shook her head again. “Take me to jail if you want to; hold me as an access... whatever you called it. Do that. Say that I murdered my own daughter because I was trying to help her. Go ahead. But I won’t have more blood on my hands. No.”

“Did Claire know all this?”

“I don’t know what Claire knew.”

“But she did arrange for your daughter to—”

“I don’t know what she did.”

“Wouldn’t this guy marry your daughter, Mrs. Glennon?” Meyer asked.

Silence.

“I’d like to ask one more question,” Carella said. “I hope you’ll give us the answer. I want you to know, Mrs. Glennon, that all this embarrasses me. I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t like to think about it. But I know you have the answer to this question, and I want it.”

Silence.

“Who performed the abortion?”

Silence.

“Who?”

Silence.

And then, out of the silence, suddenly, “Dr. Madison. In Majesta.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Glennon,” Carella said softly.

In the car on the long drive to Majesta over the Majesta Bridge, spanning two parts of the city, a bridge as old as time, black and sooty against the sky, squat and somber in contrast to its elegant rivals, Meyer and Carella speculated on what it all meant.

“The thing I still can’t understand,” Carella said, “is Claire’s involvement.”

“Me neither. It doesn’t sound like her, Steve.”

“But she sure as hell rented that room.”

“Yes.”

“And she made plans to meet Eileen, so she obviously knew Eileen was going to have an abortion.”

“That’s right,” Meyer said. “But that’s what’s so contradictory. She’s a social worker — and a good one. She knows induced abortion is a felony. She knows if she has anything to do with it, she’s involved as an accessory. Even if she didn’t know it as a social worker, she certainly knew it as a cop’s girlfriend.” Meyer paused. “I wondered if she ever mentioned this to Bert?”

“I don’t know. I think we’re gonna have to ask him, sooner or later.”

“I’m not looking forward to it.”

“So... damn it,” Carella said, “most social workers encourage unwed mothers to have the babies and place them for adoption. Why would Claire...?”

“The son,” Meyer reminded him. “A hot-tempered little snot who’d go looking for the father of the child.”

“Claire’s boyfriend is a cop,” Carella said flatly. “She could have prepared us for that eventuality. We could have scared hell out of young Glennon with just a warning to keep his nose clean. I don’t understand it.”

“Or, for that matter,” Meyer said, “why didn’t Claire try to contact the father — arrange a marriage? I don’t get it. I can’t believe she’d get involved in something like this. I just can’t believe it.”

“Maybe our doctor friend can shed a little light on the subject,” Carella said. “What’d the phone book tell us?”

“A. J. Madison, MD,” Meyer said. “1163 37th, Majesta.”

“That’s near that park where they found the girl, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You think she’d just come from the doctor’s office?”

“I don’t know.”

“That doesn’t sound likely. She was supposed to meet Claire in Isola. She wouldn’t have hung around Majesta. And I doubt if she was sick that soon. Jesus, Meyer, I’m confused as hell.”

“You’re just a lousy detective, that’s all.”

“I know. But I’m still confused as hell.”

Thirty-seventh Avenue was a quiet residential street with brownstone houses approached by low white stoop fronts and shielded from the sidewalk by low wrought-iron fences. The impression was one of serenity and dignity. This could have been a street in Boston or Philadelphia, a subdued street hidden from the ravages of time and the pace of the twentieth century. It wasn’t. It was a street that housed Dr. A. J. Madison, Abortionist.

1163 was in the middle of the block, a brownstone, indistinguishable from the brownstones flanking it, the same low iron fence in black, the same white steps leading to the front door, which was painted a subtle green. A rectangular brass plate was set over the brass bell button. The plate read “A. J. Madison, M.D.” Carella pushed the button. This was a doctor’s office, and he didn’t have to be told the door would be unlocked. He twisted the huge brass knob and he and Meyer stepped into the large reception room. There was a desk set in one corner before a wall of books. The other two walls were done in an expensive textured wallpaper. A Picasso print hung on one wall, and two Braques were on the other. A low coffee table carried the latest issues of Life, Look, and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

“Doesn’t seem to be anybody home,” Carella said.

“Nurse is probably in back with him,” Meyer said.

They waited. In a moment they heard cushioned footsteps coming down the long hall leading to the reception room. A smiling blonde entered the room. She wore a white smock and white shoes. Her hair was held tightly at the back of her head in a compact bun. Her face was clean-chiseled, with high cheekbones and a sweeping jawline and penetrating blue eyes. She was perhaps forty years old, but she looked like a young matron, the pleasant smile, the alert blue eyes.

“Gentlemen?” she said.

“How do you do?” Carella said. “We’d like to see Dr. Madison, please.”