Mary Clark - The Cradle Will Fall

JOAN MOORE SAT DISTRACTEDLY BY THE phone in Miami. "Kay, what time did he say he'd phone?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"I told you," said the other young woman. "He said he'd be in touch with you tonight and that you should wait for his call. He sounded upset."

The doorbell rang insistently, making them both jump from their chairs. Joan ran to the door and yanked it open. "Chris-oh, Chris!" She threw her arms around him. He was ghastly white; he swayed as she held him. "Chris, what is it?"

His voice was nearly a sob. "I don't know what's happening. There's something wrong about Vangie's death, and now the only man who might have told us about it is dead too."

HE HAD planned to go directly home from the Essex House, but after he drove out of the garage, he changed his mind. He was very hungry. He needed to correct the terrible depletion of energy now that the business with Salem was over. He'd go to the Carlyle for dinner.

After tomorrow he'd be safe. Inevitably there'd be an investigation when Kathleen DeMaio died. But her former gynecologist had moved away. No old medical records would loom up from the past. Right now, at the AMA convention, doctors were probably discussing the Newsmaker article and the Westlake Maternity Concept. He was on the path to fame, and Salem, who might have stopped him, was out of the way. He was anxious to go through Vangie's medical history in Salem's file. It would be invaluable in his future research.

He parked on the street in front of the Carlyle. His bag was locked in the trunk. Salem's file on Vangie, the paperweight and the moccasin were in it. He could dispose of the shoe and the paperweight in one of the city's trash baskets. They'd be lost among the decaying food and discarded newspapers. He'd do it on the way home, under cover of darkness.

He got out of the car and carefully locked it. He walked to the entrance of the Carlyle, his dark blue suit covered by a blue cashmere coat, his shoes shined to a soft luster.

The doorman held the door open for him. "Good evening, Dr.

Highley." In the dining room, the maitre d' led him to the corner table he preferred.

Wine warmed and soothed him. The dinner restored him, as he had anticipated. He was just signing his check when the maitre d' came hurrying over. "Dr. Highley, I'm afraid there's a problem."

His fingers tightened on the pen. He looked up.

"It's just, sir, that a young man was observed prying the trunk of your car. The doorman saw him just as he got it open. Before he could be stopped, he had stolen a bag from the trunk. The police are outside. They believe it was a drug addict who chose your car because of the MD license plates."

When Highley spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady. "Do the police believe that my bag will be recovered?"

"I'm afraid they don't know, sir. It might be discarded a few blocks from here after he's taken what he wants from it, or it might never show up again. Only time will tell."

BEFORE she went to bed, Katie packed an overnight bag for her stay in the hospital. She realized how glad she'd be to get the operation over with. The sense of being physically out of tune was wearing her down. She felt depleted, exhausted, depressed. It was all physical, wasn't it? Or was part of it the thought that Richard might be involved with someone else?

By Monday she'd be feeling better. Wearily she showered, brushed her teeth and got into bed. A minute later she pulled herself up on one elbow, reached for her handbag and fished out the small bottle Dr. Highley had given her. Almost forgot to take this, she thought as she swallowed the pill with water from the glass on her night table.

GERTRUDE Fitzgerald opened the prescription bottle. The migraine was letting up. This last pill should do it.

Something was bothering her… something over and beyond Edna's death. It had to do with Mrs. DeMaio's call. Prince Charming. Edna had mentioned him in the last couple of weeks. If she could only remember. It was eluding her, the exact circumstance.

When this headache was gone she'd be able to think. She swallowed the pill, got into bed, closed her eyes. Edna's voice sounded in her ears. "And I said that Prince Charming won't…"

She couldn't remember the rest.

AT FOUR a.m. Richard gave up trying to sleep. He had phoned Scott Myerson about Emmet Salem's death, and Scott had in formed the New York police of their interest. More than that had been impossible to accomplish. Mrs. Salem was not at home in Minneapolis. Nor could he reach the doctor's nurse.

Richard got up and began making notes. "1. Why did Salem want to talk to him? 2. Why did Vangie want to see Salem? 3. The Berkeley baby."

The baby was the key. Was the Westlake Maternity Concept as successful as had been touted? Or was it a cover-up for secret adoptions? Were the women being put to bed in the hospital two months before the supposed delivery to hide the fact that they were not pregnant?

But Vangie Lewis had been pregnant. So she didn't fit into the adoptive pattern. She was desperate to have a child, but how did she expect to pass off an Oriental baby on her husband?

The malpractice suits. He had to find out the reason those people sued Highley. And Emmet Salem's office would have Vangie's medical records. That would be a place to start.

Vangie's body was back in the lab now. First thing in the morning he'd review the autopsy findings, go over the body again. There was something…

At five thirty Richard set the alarm for seven and turned out the light. When sleep came at last, he dreamed of Katie. She was standing looking in the rear window of Edna Burns's apartment, and Dr. Edgar Highley was watching her.

EDNA Burns had kept meticulous records. When the search team headed by Phil Cunningham and Charley Nugent descended on her apartment on Friday morning, they found a statement in the old-fashioned breakfront.

I leave my worldly goods to my friends, Gertrude Fitzgerald and Gana Krupshak. Mrs. Fitzgerald is to receive my diamond ring and whatever household possessions she cares to have. Mrs. Krupshak is to receive my ruby pin, my imitation fur coat and whatever household possessions Mrs. Fitzgerald does not wish to have. My $10,000 insurance policy less funeral expenses is assigned to the nursing home which took such fine care of my parents.

Methodically the team dusted for fingerprints, vacuumed for hair and fibers, searched for signs of forced entry. As the final step, they asked the neighbors if anyone had noticed any strangers in the vicinity on Tuesday night. At the last apartment they had a break. An eleven-year-old boy had just come home from school for lunch. He heard the question asked of his mother.

"Oh, I told a man in a car which apartment Miss Burns lived in," he reported. "You remember, Ma, when you made me walk Porgy just before I went to bed."

"That was about nine thirty," the boy's mother said.

"What did the man look like?" Charley asked.

"He had sort of dark hair. His car was neat. It was a Corvette."

Charley looked at Phil. "Chris Lewis drives a Corvette," he said flatly.

THROUGH the long, sleepless night, Edgar Highley rationalized the problem of the stolen bag. The odds were it would be abandoned after the thief went through it. Few people would take the trouble to return it.

Suppose the New York police recovered the bag intact? His name and address were inside it. If they phoned and asked him for a list of the contents, he'd simply mention some standard drugs and a few patients' files. They would assume that Vangie Lewis' file was his. If they asked about the shoe and the bloodstained paperweight, he'd say that the thief must have put them there.

It would be all right. And tonight the last risk would be removed. At five a.m. he gave up trying to sleep, showered and went downstairs. He was not going in to the office until noon. Meanwhile he'd go over his research notes. Yesterday's patient would be his new experiment. But he hadn't yet chosen the donor.