Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

“Do the dogs bite?” Meyer asked cautiously.

“No, they’re very gentle. Besides, Mrs. Gifford is with them.”

“Thank you,” Carella said. They turned away from the door and began walking on the flagstone path leading to the rear of the house. A woman appeared almost the moment they turned the corner of the building. She was coming out of a small copse of birch trees set at the far end of the lawn, a tall blonde woman wearing a tweed skirt, loafers, and a blue cardigan sweater, looking down at the ground as two golden retrievers ran ahead of her. The dogs saw the detectives almost immediately and began barking. The woman raised her head and her eyes curiously, and then hesitated a moment, her stride breaking.

“That's Melanie Gifford,” Meyer whispered.

The dogs were bounding across the lawn in enormous leaps. Meyer watched their approach uneasily. Carella, who was a city boy himself, and unused to seeing jungle beasts racing across open stretches of ground, was certain they would leap at his jugular. He was, in fact, almost tempted to draw his pistol when the dogs stopped some three feet away and began barking in furious unison.

“Shhh!” Meyer said, and he stamped his foot on the ground. The dogs, to Carella's immense surprise, turned tail and ran yelping back to their mistress, who walked directly toward the detectives now, her head high, her manner openly demanding.

“Yes?” she said. “What is it?”

“Mrs. Gifford?” Carella asked.

“Yes?” The voice was imperious. Now that she was closer, Carella studied her face. The features were delicately formed, the eyes gray and penetrating, the brows slightly arched, the mouth full. She wore no lipstick. Grief seemed to lurk in the corners of those eyes, and on that mouth; grief sat uninvited and omnipresent on her face, robbing it of beauty. “Yes?” she said again, impatiently.

“We’re detectives, Mrs. Gifford,” Meyer said. “I was here last night. Don’t you remember?”

She studied him for several seconds, as if in disbelief. The goldens were still barking, courageous now that they were behind her skirts. “Yes, of course,” she said at last, and then added, “Hush, boys,” to the dogs, who immediately fell silent.

“We’d like to ask you some questions, Mrs. Gifford,” Carella said. “I know this is a trying time for you, but—”

“That's quite all right,” she answered. “Would you like to go inside?”

“Wherever you say.”

“If you don’t mind, may we stay out here? The house…I can’t seem to…it's open out here, and fresh. After what happened…”

Carella, watching her, had the sudden notion she was acting. A slight frown creased his forehead. But immediately, she said, “That sounds terribly phony and dramatic, doesn’t it? I’m sorry. You must forgive me.”

“We understand, Mrs. Gifford.”

“Do you really?” she asked. A faint sad smile touched her unpainted mouth. “Shall we sit on the terrace? It won’t be too cool, will it?

“The terrace will be fine,” Carella said.

They walked across the lawn to where a wide flagstone terrace adjoined the rear doors of the house, open to the woods alive with autumn color. There were white wrought-iron chairs and a glass-topped table on the terrace. Melanie pulled a low white stool from beneath the table and sat. The detectives pulled up chairs opposite her, sitting higher than Melanie, looking down at her. She turned her face up pathetically, and again Carella had the feeling that this, too, was carefully staged, that she had deliberately placed herself in a lower chair so that she would appear small and defenseless. On impulse, he said, “Are you an actress, Mrs. Gifford?”

Melanie looked surprised. The gray eyes opened wide for a moment, and then she smiled the same wan smile and said, “I used to be. Before Stan and I were married.”

“How long ago where you married, Mrs. Gifford?”

“Six years.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

Carella nodded. “Mrs. Gifford,” he said, “we’re primarily interested in learning about your husband's behavior in the past few weeks. Did he seem despondent, or overworked, or troubled by anything?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Was he the type of man who confided things to you?”

“Yes, we were very close.”

“And he never mentioned anything that was troubling him?”

“No. He seemed very pleased with the way things were going.”

“What things, Mrs. Gifford?”

“The show, the new stature he’d achieved in television. He’d been a night-club comic before the show went on the air, you know.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yes. Stan started in vaudeville many years ago, and then drifted into night-club work. He was working in Vegas, as a matter of fact, when they approached him to do the television show.”

“And it's been on the air how many years now?”

“Three years.”

“How old was your husband, Mrs. Gifford?”

“Forty-eight.”

“And how old are you?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Was this your first marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Your husband's?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Would you say you were happily married, Mrs. Gifford?”

“Yes. Extremely happy.”

“Mrs. Gifford,” Carella said flatly, “do you think your husband committed suicide?”

Without hesitation, Melanie said, “No.”

“You know he was poisoned, of course?”

“Yes.”

“If you don’t think he killed himself, you must think—”

“I think he was murdered. Yes.”

“Who do you think murdered him, Mrs. Gifford?”

“I think—”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the voice said from the opened French doors leading to the terrace. Melanie turned. Her housekeeper stood there apologetically. “It's Dr. Nelson, ma’am.”

“On the telephone?” Melanie said, rising.

“No ma’am. He's here.”

“Oh.” Melanie frowned. “Well, ask him to join us, won’t you?” She sat immediately. “Again,” she said.

“What?”

“He was here last night. Came over directly from the show. He's terribly worried about my health. He gave me a sedative and then called twice this morning.” She folded her arms across her knees, a slender graceful woman who somehow made the motion seem awkward. Carella watched her in silence for several moments. The terrace was still. On the lawn, one of the golden retrievers began barking at a laggard autumn bird.

“You were about to say, Mrs. Gifford?”

Melanie looked up. Her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.

“We were discussing your husband's alleged murder.”

“Yes. I was about to say I think Carl Nelson killed him.”

Dr. Carl Nelson came onto the terrace not two minutes after Melanie had spoken his name, going first to her and kissing her on the cheek, and then shaking hands with Meyer, whom he had met the night before. He was promptly introduced to Carella, and he acknowledged the introduction with a firm handclasp and a repetition of the name, “Detective Carella,” with a slight nod and a smile, as if he wished to imprint it on his memory. He turned immediately to Melanie then, and said, “How are you, Mel?”

“I’m fine, Carl,” she said. “I told you that last night.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.”

“This has been very upsetting,” Nelson said. “I’m sure you gentlemen can understand.”

Carella nodded. He was busy watching the effect Nelson seemed to be having on Melanie. She had visibly withdrawn from him the moment he stepped onto the terrace, folding her arms across her chest, hugging herself as though threatened by a strong wind. The pose was assuredly a theatrical one, but it seemed genuine nonetheless. If she was not actually frightened of this tall man with the deep voice and the penetrating brown eyes, she certainly appeared suspicious of him; and the suspicion seemingly forced her to turn inward, to flee into icy passivity.