Mary Clark: The Cradle Will Fall

Driving swiftly from the lot, he kept the headlights off until he was well along the road. Incredible that this was his second trip to Chapin River tonight. Suppose he hadn't been leaving the hospital when Vangie Lewis burst out of Dr. Fukhito's office and hailed him. Vangie had been close to hysteria as she limped down the covered portico to him. "Doctor, I'm going to Minneapolis tomorrow. I'm going to see the doctor I used to have, Dr. Emmet Salem. Maybe I'll even stay there and let him deliver the baby."

If he had missed her, everything would have been ruined.

Instead he had persuaded her to come into the office with him, talked to her, calmed her down, offered her a glass of water. At the last minute she'd suspected. That beautiful, petulant face had filled with fear.

And then the horror of knowing that even though he'd managed to silence her, the chance of discovery was still so great. He had locked her body in the medical supply closet and tried to think.

Her bright red Lincoln Continental had been the immediate danger. It would surely have been noticed in the hospital parking lot after visiting hours.

He knew she lived on Winding Brook Lane in Chapin River. She'd told him that her husband, a United Airlines pilot, wasn't due home until tomorrow. He'd leave her body in the closet while he took her car and handbag to the house, to make it seem as though she'd driven home. He'd dispose of the body later.

It had been unexpectedly easy. The houses in Chapin River were placed far back from the road and reached by winding driveways. He'd parked the car inside her garage.

The door from the garage to the den was unlocked. There were lamps on throughout the house, probably on a timing device. He'd hurried through the den and down the hall. The master bedroom was the last one on the right. There were two other bedrooms, one a nursery, with colorful elves and lambs on the wallpaper and an obviously new crib and chest.

That was when he realized he might be able to make her death look like a suicide. If she'd begun to furnish the nursery three months before the baby was expected, the threatened loss of that baby would provide a powerful motive. He would have to get her body back here, put it on top of her own bed! It was dangerous, but not as dangerous as dumping her body in the woods somewhere. That would have meant an intensive police investigation.

He had left her handbag on the chaise longue in the master bedroom and then walked the four miles back to the hospital. There he skirted the main entrance and let himself into his office through the door from the parking lot. It was just ten o'clock.

His coat and shoes and socks were soaked. He was shivering. He realized it would be too dangerous to carry the body out until there was a minimal chance of encountering anyone. He'd set the alarm for two o'clock, then lain down on the examining table and managed to sleep until the alarm went off.

Now for the second time that night he was pulling into Vangie's driveway. Turn off the headlights; back the car up to the garage; put on surgical gloves; open the garage door; open the trunk; carry the wrapped form past the storage shelves to the inside door. He stepped into the den. In a few minutes he'd be safe.

He hurried down the hall to the master bedroom and placed the body on the bed, pulling the blanket free. In the adjoining bathroom, he shook crystals of cyanide into the flowered blue tumbler, added water and poured most of the contents down the sink. He rinsed the sink carefully and returned to the bedroom. Placing the glass next to the dead woman's hand, he allowed the last drops of the mixture to spill on the spread. He folded the white blanket carefully.

The body was sprawled face up on the bed, eyes staring, lips contorted in an agony of protest. That was all right. Most suicides changed their minds when it was too late.

Had he missed anything? No. Her handbag, with the keys, was on the chaise; there was a residue of the cyanide in the glass. Coat on or off? He'd leave it on. The less he handled her the better. Shoes off or on? Would she have kicked them off?

He lifted the long caftan she was wearing and felt the blood drain from his face. The swollen right foot wore a battered moccasin. Her left foot was covered only by her stocking. The other moccasin must have fallen off. Where? He ran from the bedroom, searching, retracing his steps. The shoe was not in the house or garage. Frantic, he ran out to his car and looked in the trunk. The shoe was not there. It had probably come off when he was carrying her in the parking lot. Because of her swollen foot, she'd been wearing the moccasins recently. He'd heard the receptionist joke with her about them.

He would have to go back and search the parking lot. Suppose someone said, "Why, I saw her moccasin lying in the parking lot. She must have lost it on her way home Monday night"? But if she had walked even a few feet off the portico without a shoe, the sole of her stocking would be badly soiled. The police would notice that it was not.

Rushing back to the bedroom, he opened the door of the walk-in closet. A jumble of women's shoes were scattered on the floor. Most of them had impossibly high heels for a woman in her condition to wear. Then he saw a pair of sensible low-heeled shoes, the kind most pregnant women wore. They looked fairly new. Relieved, he grabbed them. Hurrying to the bed, he pulled the one moccasin from the dead woman's foot and placed the shoes on her feet. The right one was tight, but he managed to lace it. Jamming the moccasin into the wide, loose pocket of his raincoat, he picked up the white blanket and strode quickly to the garage.

At the hospital parking lot, he drove to a far corner and parked the car. Then he hurried to retrace his steps from the space where he'd kept the car to the door of the office. The shoe might have fallen off when he'd shifted the body to open the trunk. Bending forward, he searched the ground, working his way closer to the hospital.

Headlights came around the bend into the parking lot. A car screeched to a halt. The driver, probably looking for the emergency entrance, made a U-turn and raced out of the lot.

He had to get out of here. He fell forward as he tried to straighten up. His hand slid across the slippery macadam. And then he felt leather under his fingers. He had found the shoe.

Fifteen minutes later he was turning the key in the lock of his home. Peeling off the raincoat, he hung it in the foyer closet. The full-length mirror on the door reflected his image. Shocked, he realized that his trouser knees were wet and dirty. His hair was badly disheveled. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were bulging and dilated. He looked like a caricature of himself. Rushing upstairs, he undressed, bathed, got into pajamas and a robe. He was too keyed up to sleep, and savagely hungry.

The housekeeper had left slices of lamb on a plate. Crisp, tart apples were in the fruit bin of the refrigerator. Carefully he prepared a tray and carried it into the library. From the bar he poured a generous whiskey and sat at his desk. As he ate, he reviewed the night's happenings. If he had not stopped to check his calendar, he would have missed her, been unable to stop her.

Unlocking his desk, he opened the large center drawer and slid back the false bottom, where he kept his current special file. He took out a single manila folder. Then he reached for a fresh sheet of paper and made a final entry:

February 15

At 8:40 p.m. this physician was locking the rear door of his office. Subject patient had just left Fukhito. She approached this physician and said she was going home to Minneapolis and would have her former doctor, Emmet Salem, deliver her baby. Hysterical patient was persuaded to come inside. Obviously patient could not be allowed to leave. Getting her a glass of water, this physician dissolved cyanide crystals into the glass and forced patient to swallow the poison. Patient expired at 8:51 p.m. Fetus was 26 weeks old. Had it been born it might have been viable.