Mary Clark - The Cradle Will Fall

"Ham on rye with mustard and lettuce," Maureen said.

Katie looked up, surprised. "Am I that predictable?"

The girl was about nineteen, with a mane of red-gold hair, emerald-green eyes and a lovely pale complexion. "Katie, about food you're in a rut." The door closed behind her.

You're on a deathwatch. You're in a rut. Katie was astonished to realize she was close to tears. I must be sick if I'm getting this thin-skinned, she thought.

When the lunch arrived she ate it, only vaguely aware of what she was having. Vangie Lewis' face was constantly before her. But why had she seen it in a nightmare?

RICHARD Carroll was in his office just after nine. Twice he tried phoning Katie, hoping to catch her between court sessions. He wanted to hear the sound of her voice. For some reason he'd felt edgy about leaving her alone in that big house last night. Why did he have a hunch that something was troubling her?

He went out on a case. When he returned to his office at four thirty, he was absurdly pleased to see that Katie had returned his calls. Quickly he phoned her, but the switchboard operator said that she had left for the day.

That meant he wouldn't get to talk to her today. He was having dinner in New York with Clovis Simmons, a TV actress. Clovis was fun, but the signs were that she was getting serious.

Richard made a resolve. This was the last time he'd take Clovis out. It wasn't fair to her. Refusing to consider the reason for that sudden decision, he turned his thoughts again to the Lewis case.

He had not been exaggerating when he'd said that if Vangie Lewis had not delivered her baby soon, she wouldn't have needed cyanide. How many women got into that same condition under the Westlake Maternity Concept? Had there been anything unusual about the ratio of deaths among Westlake's patients? Richard asked his secretary to come in.

Marge was in her mid-fifties, an excellent secretary who thoroughly enjoyed the drama of the department.

"Marge," he said, "I want to do some unofficial investigating of Westlake Hospital's maternity section. I'd like to know how many patients died either in childbirth or from complications during pregnancy. I also want to know the ratio of deaths to the number of patients treated there. Do you know anybody at Westlake who might look at the hospital records for you on the quiet?"

His secretary frowned. "Let me work on it." "Good. And check into any malpractice suits that have been filed against either of the doctors."

Satisfied at getting the investigation under way, Richard dashed home to shower and change. Seconds after he left his office a call came for him from Dr. David Broad at Mount Sinai Hospital. Marge took the message asking Richard to contact Dr. Broad in the morning. The matter was urgent.

KATIE was a few minutes early for her appointment with Dr. Highley. The other receptionist, Mrs. Fitzgerald, was coolly pleasant, but when Katie asked about Edna's illness, the woman seemed nervous. "It's just a virus," she replied stiffly.

A buzzer sounded. The receptionist picked up the phone. "Mrs. DeMaio, Dr. Highley will see you now," she said.

Katie walked quickly down the corridor to Dr. Highley's office. She knocked, then opened the door and stepped inside. The office had the air of a comfortable study. Bookshelves lined one wall; pictures of mothers with babies nearly covered another. A club chair was placed near the doctor's elaborately carved desk. The doctor stood up to greet her. "Mrs. DeMaio." His tone was courteous, the faint British accent barely perceptible. His face was round and smooth-skinned. Thinning sandy hair, streaked with gray, was carefully combed in a side part. Eyebrows and lashes, the same sandy shade, accentuated protruding steel-gray eyes. Not an attractive man, but authoritative.

As they sat down, Katie thanked him for the phone call. He dismissed her gratitude. "If you had told the emergency-room doctor that you were my patient, he would have given you a room in the west wing. Far more comfortable, I assure you. And about the same view."

Katie fished in her shoulder bag and took out her notebook and pen. She looked up quickly. "Anything would be better than the view I thought I had the other night…" She stopped. She was here on official business, not to talk about her nightmares. "Doctor, if you don't mind, let's talk about Vangie Lewis." She smiled. "I guess our roles are reversed for a few minutes. I get to ask the questions."

His expression became somber. "That poor girl. I've thought of little else since I heard the news."

Katie nodded. "When was the last time you saw her?"

He leaned back in the chair. His fingers interlocked under his chin. "It was last Thursday evening. I'd been having Mrs. Lewis come in weekly since the halfway point of her pregnancy."

"How was she," Katie asked, "physically and emotionally?"

"Her physical condition was a worry. There was danger of toxic pregnancy, which I was watching very closely. But every additional day she carried increased the baby's chance of survival."

"Could she have carried the baby to full term?"

"Impossible. In fact, I warned Mrs. Lewis last Thursday that we'd have to bring her in soon and induce labor." "How did she respond to that news?" He frowned. "I expected her to be concerned for the baby's life.

But the closer she came to delivery, the more it seemed to me that she was morbidly fearful of giving birth."

"Did she show any specific depression?"

Dr. Highley shook his head. "I did not see it. But Dr. Fukhito should answer that. He saw her on Monday night, and he's better trained than I to recognize the symptoms." "A last question," Katie said. "Your office is right next to Dr. Fukhito's. Did you see Mrs. Lewis at any time Monday night?"

"I did not."

"Thank you. You've been very helpful." She slipped her notebook back into her bag. "Now it's your turn to ask questions." "You answered them last night. Now, when you've finished talking with Dr. Fukhito, please go to room 101. You'll be given a trans fusion. Wait about half, an hour before driving after you've received it. Also…" He reached into the side drawer of his desk and selected a bottle containing a number of pills. 'Take one of these tonight. Then one every four hours tomorrow; the same on Friday. I must stress that this is very important. If this operation does not cure your problem, we must consider more radical surgery, perhaps a hysterectomy."

"I'll take the pills," Katie said.

"Good. You'll be checking in around six o'clock Friday evening. I'll look in on you." He opened the door for her. "Till Friday, then, Mrs. DeMaio," he said softly.

THE investigative team of Phil Cunningham and Charley Nugent returned to the prosecutor's office at four p.m. exuding the excitement of hounds who have treed their quarry. Rushing into Scott's office, they proceeded to lay their findings before him.

"The husband's a liar," Phil said crisply. "He wasn't due back till yesterday morning, but his plane developed engine trouble. The passengers were off-loaded in Chicago, and he and the crew deadheaded back to New York. He got in Monday evening."

"Monday evening!" Scott exploded.

"Yeah. We talked to his crew on the Monday flight. Lewis gave the purser a ride into Manhattan. Told him his wife was away and he was going to stay in the city overnight and take in a show. He parked the car and checked in at the Holiday Inn on West Fifty-seventh Street; then he and the purser had dinner together. The purser left him at seven twenty. After that, Lewis got his car. The garage records show he brought it back at ten. And get this. He took off again at midnight and came back at two."

Scott whistled. "He lied to us about his flight. He lied to the purser about his wife. He was somewhere in his car between eight and ten and between midnight and two a.m. And Vangie Lewis died between eight and ten."