Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

“I was just having breakfast,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m a late sleeper. Won’t you have something?”

Meyer took the chair opposite her, and Carella sat beside her at the table. She poured coffee for both men and then offered them the English muffins and marmalade, which they declined.

“Mrs. Gifford,” Carella said, “when we were here last time, you said something about your husband’s physician, Carl Nelson.”

“Yes,” Melanie said. “Do you take sugar?”

“Thank you.” Carella spooned a teaspoonful into his coffee, and then passed the sugar bowl to Meyer. “You said you thought he’d murdered—”

“Cream?”

“Thank you—your husband. Now what made you say that, Mrs. Gifford?”

“I believed it.”

“Do you still believe it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I see now that it would have been impossible. I didn’t know the nature of the poison at the time.”

“Its speed, do you mean?”

“Yes. Its speed.”

“And you mean it would have been impossible because Dr. Nelson was at home during the show, and not at the studio, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“But what made you suspect him in the first place?”

“I tried to think of who could have had access to poison, and I thought of Carl.”

“So did we,” Carella said.

“I imagine you would have,” Melanie answered. “These muffins are very good. Won’t you have some?”

“No, thank you. But even if he did have access, Mrs. Gifford, why would he have wanted to kill your husband?”

“I have no idea.”

“Didn’t the two men get along?”

“You know doctors,” Melanie said. “They all have God complexes.” She paused, and then added, “In any universe, there can only be one God.”

“And in Stan Gifford’s universe, he was God.”

Melanie sipped at her coffee and said, “If an actor hasn’t got his ego, then he hasn’t got anything.”

“Are you saying the two egos came into conflict occasionally, Mrs. Gifford?”

“Yes.”

“But not in any serious way, surely.”

“I don’t know what men consider serious. I know that Stan and Carl occasionally argued. So when Stan was killed, as I told you, I tried to figure out who could have got his hands on any poison, and I thought of Carl.”

“That was before you knew the poison was strophanthin.”

“Yes. Once I found out what the poison was, and knowing Carl was home that night, I realized—”

“But if you didn’t know the poison was strophanthin, then it could have been anything, any poison, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. But—”

“And you also must have known that a great many poisons can be purchased in drugstores, usually in compounds of one sort or another. Like arsenic or cyanide…”

“Yes, I suppose I knew that.”

“But you still automatically assumed Dr. Nelson had killed your husband.”

“I was in shock at the time. I didn’t know what to think.”

“I see,” Carella said. He picked up his cup and took a long deliberate swallow. “Mrs. Gifford, you said your husband took a vitamin capsule after lunch last Wednesday.”

“That’s right.”

“Did he have that capsule with him, or did you bring it to him when you went into the city?”

“He had it with him.”

“Was he in the habit of taking vitamin capsules with him?”

“Yes,” Melanie said. “He was supposed to take one after every meal. Stan was a very conscientious man. When he knew he was going into the city, he carried the vitamins with him, in a small pillbox.”

“Did he take only one capsule to the city last Wednesday? Or two ?”

“One,” Melanie said.

“How do you know?”

“Because there were two on the breakfast table that morning. He swallowed one with his orange juice, and he put the other in the pillbox, and then put it in his pocket.”

“And you saw him take that second capsule after lunch?”

“Yes. He took it out of the pillbox and put it on the table the moment we were seated. That’s what he usually did—so he wouldn’t forget to take it.”

“And to your knowledge, he did not have any other capsules with him. That was the only capsule he took after leaving this house last Wednesday.”

“That’s right.”

“Who put those capsules on the breakfast table, Mrs. Gifford?”

“My housekeeper.” Melanie looked suddenly annoyed. “I’m not sure I understand all this,” she said. “If he took the capsule at lunch, I don’t see how it could possibly—”

“We’re only trying to find out for sure whether or not there were only two capsules, Mrs. Gifford.”

“I just told you.”

“We’d like to be sure. We know the capsule he took at lunch couldn’t possibly have killed him. But if there was a third capsule—”

“There were only two,” Melanie said. “He knew he was coming home for dinner after the show, the way he did every Wednesday night. There was no need for him to carry more than—”

“More than the one he took at lunch.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Gifford, do you know whether or not your husband had any insurance on his life?”

“Yes, of course he did.”

“Would you know in what amount?”

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

“And the company?”

“Municipal Life.”

“Who’s the beneficiary, Mrs. Gifford?”

“I am,” Melanie replied.

“I see,” Carella said.

There was a brief silence. Melanie put down her coffee cup. Her eyes met Carella’s levelly. Quietly, she said, “I’m sure you didn’t mean to suggest, Detective Carella—”

“Mrs. Gifford, this is all routine—”

“—that I might have had anything to do with the death of—”

“—questioning. I don’t know who had anything to do with your husband’s death.”

“ I didn’t.”

“I hope not.”

“Because, you see, Detective Carella, a hundred thousand dollars in insurance money would hardly come anywhere near the kind of income my husband earned as a performer. I’m sure you know that he recently signed a two-million-dollar contract with the network. And I can assure you he’s always been more than generous to me. Or perhaps you’d like to come upstairs and take a look at the furs in my closet or the jewels on my dresser.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Mrs. Gifford.”

“I’m sure it won’t. But you might also like to consider the fact that Stan’s insurance policy carried the usual suicide clause.”

“I’m not sure I follow you, Mrs. Gifford.”

“I’m saying, Detective Carella, that unless you can find a murderer—unless you can prove there was foul play involved in my husband’s death—his insurance company will conclude he was a suicide. In which case, I’ll receive only the premiums already paid in, and not a penny more.”

“I see.”

“Yes, I hope you do.”

“Would you know whether or not your husband left a will, Mrs. Gifford?” Meyer asked.

“Yes, he did.”

“Are you also a beneficiary in his will?”

“I don’t know.”

“You never discussed it with him?”

“Never. I know there’s a will, but I don’t know what its terms are.”

“Who would know, Mrs. Gifford?”

“His lawyer, I imagine.”

“And the lawyer’s name?”

“Salvatore Di Palma.”

“In the city?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t mind if we call him?”

“Why should I?” Melanie paused again, and again stared at Carella. “I don’t mind telling you,” she said, “that you’re beginning to give me a severe pain in the ass.”