Hamilton, Donald - Novel 02 (13 page)

 
          
“What
else has she done, besides trying to kill herself once before?” Emmett
demanded.

 
          
Kirkpatrick
shrugged. “According to Polachek, the doctor was discreet, but obviously felt
he couldn’t take the responsibility… It was the nurse who offered the alibi,
probably bribed to do it by Mr. Nicholson. The doctor was non-committal. He
gave the impression that he wasn’t exactly surprised by what had happened,
Polachek says.”

 
          
Emmett
said, “Then he’s a hell of a doctor, letting a homicidal patient run around
loose.”

 
          
“With
many of them, you can’t tell they’re homicidal until they kill somebody,” the
federal man said. “Does the girl herself give any reason for her behavior? Did
she say where she was going?”

 
          
“Didn’t
Dr. Kaufman—?”

 
          
“Yes,
but I’d like to hear Miss Nicholson’s version.”

 
          
“She
said that she was, of course, shocked by Stevens’ accusation,” Emmett said. “And
that, to confirm or deny it, she was going to see a man who had been in the
same prison where she was kept, who would know the truth.”

 
          
“And
this man’s name?”

 
          
“Kissel,”
Emmett said. “Reinhard Kissel. He’s teaching at Fairmount University, according
to a clipping Miss Nicholson carried.”

 
          
The
federal man closed his little book and put it away. “Yes,” he said, “that’s
very nice. Unfortunately Dr. Kissel is
not
at Fairmount; that press release was faked by us. Dr. Kissel happens to be
doing some very confidential work for the government down at the special
project in New Mexico. Have you ever heard of Numa, Mr. Emmett? You should, you’re
a chemist, aren’t you?”

 
          
Emmett
looked up. After a moment he nodded. He had heard of Numa, although it was not
as well known as Los Alamos; and he felt the electric tingle go down his spine
that was always set off by the names:
Los
Alamos, Nagasaki, Hiroshima, Bikini,
or the key words:
uranium, fission, atomic, nuclear.
They always made you, these
days, stop and look again, feeling that small warning shock; and then you
always went quickly on, because you did not really want to know what was being
said about them, because you did not have the answer, either.

 
          
“If
you read the article,” the big man’s voice went on, taking him deeper into
unreality, “you know that Dr. Kissel worked in an unspecified German laboratory
for some eighteen months. It happens that our scientists are very interested in
the work that was being done in that laboratory toward the end of the war,
particularly since it doesn’t now happen to be in the part of Germany under our
control. They are having the old man reconstruct the place for them as well as
he can remember it; fortunately he has a mind like flypaper. The Germans were
very close to beating us out, you know, Mr. Emmett.”

 
          
Emmett
nodded.

 
          
“Unfortunately,”
Kirkpatrick went on, “it took Dr. Kissel several years before he could persuade
the wooden-headed officials over there to take his story to the right people.
They thought he was just another DP looking for a free ride to the land of
liberty. Even so, his information is apparently considered important, since we’ve
been assigned to protect him.” The big man smiled. “Do you begin to see our
interest in Miss Nicholson?”

 
          
Emmett
said, “Yes, but you don’t really think she—!”

 
          
“Well,”
the big man said, “last Saturday there were two men in this country that we
know about, who knew the truth about Miss Nicholson, and today there’s only
one: Dr. Kissel. Maybe all she wants is to ask him a question, but I’ve got to
keep the alternative in mind, don’t I?”

 
          
Emmett
did not say anything.

 
          
“And
there’s another possibility,” the other’s voice went on. “Here I am with a man
on my hands who has to be protected. But the G in G-man doesn’t stand for God,
Mr. Emmett. I have to let Dr. Kissel live like a human being, for one thing. It’s
not just a matter of locking the old man into a bullet-proof cell every night
when he gets back from the lab; he’s got to be kept happy. He likes the movies,
he dotes on strawberry sundaes, and he likes to talk to people. If I keep
visitors away he’ll start to squawk that he’s being kept a prisoner, and that
even the Nazis let him see a human face once in a while. And then his memory
will start to go bad on him. I understand Miss Nicholson seems to have a neat
knack of forgetting things, but you should hear Dr. Kissel when something
happens he doesn’t like! He not only can’t remember anything, he can’t even
talk English any more, until whatever it is, is fixed up.” The big man grimaced
wryly and passed a hand over his mouth.

 
          
“And
then,” he said, “there’s Mr. Nicholson. Mr. Nicholson isn’t God, either, but he
can swing a certain amount of weight. He has a nice story to show why his
daughter should be allowed to talk to Dr. Kissel, if he wants to use it: do we
want to stand in the way of a sick girl’s regaining her sanity, or establishing
her innocence? Remember that if Kissel says she
didn’t
betray her husband and friends to the Nazis, there goes most
of her motive for killing Stevens. Even if she can’t remember what happened,
the State would have to work damn hard to prove that, not knowing whether she’d
betrayed them or not, she up and murdered the first man who came along and
suggested she had. After all, Stevens had got it second-hand from her husband.
She could hope that Monteux had merely jumped to the wrong conclusion when she
was captured and the whole organization arrested the following week, or that
the Nazis had got the dope from somebody else and covered their informant by
blaming it publicly on her. Hell, maybe Monteux himself did the job, and she
knows it and is covering for him. It’s a kind of coincidence that he escaped,
isn’t it? Maybe that’s what makes her act so screwy… Anyway, if Kissel
should
happen to clear her, we’d pretty
well have to admit that she was a misunderstood, if slightly neurotic, young
lady.”

 
          
Emmett
said, “Has anybody asked Kissel?”

 
          
The
big man glanced at him. “Nobody but myself has tried. Interesting, isn’t it,
Mr. Emmett? You’d think her doctor, or her parents, would jump to hear what Dr.
Kissel had to say the minute they learned he was in this country, but I can
tell you for certain that nobody’s approached him. It almost looks, doesn’t it,
as though they already knew—?”

 
          
“But
what does Kissel say?”

 
          
Kirkpatrick
smiled. “When I called him this morning, he wouldn’t answer the question. He
claimed he wanted to see the girl before he gave an answer. Even that is
suggestive, don’t you think? If he was going to say something pleasant, do you
think he’d be so careful of whom he said it to?” Emmett looked down and found
his hand holding his pipe; he put the stem in his mouth and searched himself
for a match. Kirkpatrick leaned across the table to give him a light from a
windproof lighter.

 
          
“But
consider my predicament, Mr. Emmett,” he said. “Suppose her father should
insist on her seeing Dr. Kissel; after all, he’s almost got to insist, now, and
hope for the best, since his daughter’s started the business. Otherwise it
looks as if he believed her to have been a traitress… Well, if I block him, I
have a fight on my hands; there may be publicity, which is just what we don’t
want, obviously. But if I let the girl in, then I’ve got to let him in, too;
and the doctor and the nurse to take care of her in case she gets an unpleasant
shock; and maybe even you, Mr. Emmett. And with a man of Mr. Nicholson’s
standing I’d look silly as hell searching his daughter and medical advisers and
friends, wouldn’t I? If I’m going to antagonize him, I might as well not let
him in at all. But,” the big man said heavily, leaning forward on his elbows, “it
would take only one little fountain pen shooting bullets instead of ink to make
certain people very happy. And they’ve taken a couple of cracks at him already,
Mr. Emmett.”

 
          
“You
mean, somebody’s tried to—?”

 
          
Kirkpatrick
said, “You see, the Nazi laboratory where Dr. Kissel worked as a prisoner has
been moved piecemeal and reassembled, Mr. Emmett, considerably to the east of
where it was. We know that some very intensive work has been going on in that
laboratory. The people in charge haven’t any desire for us to learn even as
much as what the place looked like four years ago. They must be getting pretty
damn desperate by now. Pretty soon it’ll be too late: we’ll have everything
Kissel knows down on paper, doublechecked, and reconstructed to scale. And just
at this point, Mr. Emmett,” Kirkpatrick said, smiling gently, “I’m supposed to
believe that the appearance of you and Dr. Kaufman and the beautiful nurse,
with this poor crazy girl and her not very bright parent, is a coincidence?
Clever, but not very convincing, Mr. Emmett. Just a little too elaborate.” He
sat up and there was anger on his brown face. “Why don’t you leave the kid
alone? Haven’t you done enough to her already? Why don’t you people give up and
go home, Emmett? Or will they liquidate you for failing?”

 
          
Emmett
walked slowly back to the hotel. Clouds were rising over the mountains to the
westward, and the mountains themselves hidden behind the buildings across the
street, but the sun was still bright and hot. He could not make himself think
coherently. Reaching the hotel, he walked blindly through the lobby, dark after
the sunshine outside, to the telephone booths behind the cigar counter. He
looked up a number in the city directory and stepped into a booth. The light
going on above his head, as he closed the door, startled him vaguely. He called
the number, and presently a friendly girl’s voice answered.

 
          
“This
is Arapahoe six two six two.”

 
          
Emmett
said, “I’d like to speak to Mr. Edward Kirkpatrick.”

 
          
The
voice said without hesitation, “Mr. Kirkpatrick isn’t in right now. Would you
like to leave a message?”

 
          
Emmett
started to hang up. As if sensing his action, the friendly voice said quickly, “I
can give you Mr. Long.” Emmett dropped the receiver hastily on the hook before,
he told himself wryly, the girl gave him J. Edgar Hoover, just to be nice. The
small private joke made him feel a little better, and somehow it was reassuring
to know that apparently the big man was exactly what he had claimed to be, at
least he was known around the office. Emmett thought,
Well, he still didn’t go through that routine and turn me loose again
without a reason. He’s playing a different game from what he’d like to have me
think.

 
          
There
was something comforting and secure about the four walls of the booth, as if
the world outside had become somewhat too large to handle for the moment. He
stuffed tobacco into his pipe slowly, presently discovering that he had
forgotten to shake out the ashes of the previous load. He sat picking at the
mess with the small blade of his penknife, and wondered what would happen if he
simply got on a train and went away somewhere. Home, perhaps. But on the other
hand, if you were going to be questioned and maybe arrested by police or
federal officials, it would do less damage if it happened where nobody knew
you. He got his pipe emptied, and refilled, and lighted. Somebody tapped
impatiently at the door of the booth.

 
          
He
glanced up, rose, and opened the door. Stepping out, he was aware that the
woman waiting was staring at him with what was probably a dirty look for
occupying the booth so long; he did not look at her directly to make sure.

 
          
“Sorry,”
he said, starting away.

 
          
“Please,”
she said softly. “Mr. Emmett—”

 
          
He
stood quite still for a fraction of a second. Even before he had turned he knew
that the girl was not the one he had, in the first moment of hearing her voice,
thought it might be, but his breathing had stopped momentarily. It seemed to
him peculiar and a little frightening that, in spite of what he knew and
guessed about her, every stranger who telephoned him should be for a moment Ann
Nicholson; every strange voice addressing him, Ann Nicholson’s voice.

 
          
He
turned to see the girl who had spoken come after him, and recognized the nurse,
Miss Bethke. There was always something arrogant and gaudy about a blonde
wearing green, and today she was wearing a white dress drawn together at the
waist by a bright green sash; and her wide hat, the purse and gloves she
carried in her hand, and her high-heeled sandals, were all the same brilliant
shade of green. Her legs, he noticed, were bare and a little sunburned.

 
          
“Darling!”
she exclaimed, her voice a protest. “Really, I’ve been waiting
hours!”
Before he could pull away, she
had taken his hand, tucking it firmly beneath her elbow. “Come on, we’re going
to have to simply
dash
to make it!”

 
          
He
found himself being led rapidly back through the lobby, her strong fingers
tightening on his hand to counteract the sudden slipperiness of perspiration.
If he wanted loose, her grip said, he could damn well put his foot in her side
and pull. She was not going to be polite about it. He could either come along
like a good boy or involve both of them in a ridiculous tug of war in front of
the desk clerk and the half-dozen people scattered through the lobby.

 
          
He
was aware of her face, serene and handsome beneath the brim of the large green
hat; he was aware of a bald man at the desk turning away from the clerk to look
at them as they went past—the man’s interest seemed to be mainly centered about
the nurse’s ankles. No one else seemed to be paying any attention. Outside, the
sunlight was like a blow in the face. Emmett felt his hand released.

 
          
“I’ve
got to talk to you, Emmett.” Miss Bethke’s voice was a little breathless with
strain or excitement.

 
          
Emmett
took out a handkerchief to dry his hand. He saw that she was rubbing hers
against her dress. His hand was striped with the red-and-white marks left by
her fingers.

 
          
The
doorman said, “Taxi, sir?”

 
          
He
nodded before he knew that he had come to a decision. He walked slowly across
the sidewalk to the curb, the blonde girl beside him. She got in ahead of him.
She was pulling on her green gloves as the cab started away.

 
          
“Estes
Hotel,” she said to the driver. Then she turned to Emmett. “The drug,” she
said, “the seconal she tried to kill herself with. Emmett, where the hell did
she get the stuff?”

 
          
He
had had the feeling all morning that the whole world had got ahead of him while
he slept—that everybody knew more than he did—that he had somehow lost contact.
Now he stared at the girl blankly, for a moment not even sure of what she was
talking about. Ann Nicholson’s attempted suicide seemed to belong to the past
so completely that it had even lost its quality of shock; it was only a link in
a chain of evidence. Then something stirred in his mind, and he glanced at the
girl beside him.

 
          
“Why
do you want to know?” he asked warily.

 
          
She
smiled and patted his knee with a green-gloved hand, and leaned forward to tell
the driver to pull up at the side entrance. He followed her into the hotel with
a sense of deliberately walking into danger. It seemed like a rather stupid
thing to do.

 
          
Her
key admitted them to a room on the twelfth floor that was large enough to hold
a small sofa, a comfortable chair, and a small, low cocktail table between
them. There were also a writing desk, a dresser, and a vanity table, all white.
The bed apparently folded out of sight behind the double doors in one wall. The
room looked light and spacious, illuminated by two large, neatly curtained
windows. The nurse reached back to close the door behind them.

 
          
“It’s
part of Mr. Nicholson’s suite,” she said, explaining the expensive look of the
room. “Miss Nicholson uses it, as a matter of fact, but since she’s not here…
Anyway, I’m staying here until Mr. Nicholson makes up his mind whether the
patient is going to need me again. At least, that’s what he says,” she finished
cryptically.

 
          
He
watched her fling back the shining mane of her hair and walk across the room to
the white telephone.

 
          
“What
do you mean?” he asked.

 
          
She
turned to smile at him over the mouthpiece of the instrument. “I think he wants
to keep an eye on me, Emmett. Hello, room service—?” She put her hand over the
mouthpiece. “Rum Cokes all right?”

 
          
When
she had finished ordering, she slid from the arm of the sofa to the seat and
raised herself to pull her dress into place. She leaned forward and ran a
gloved hand down her leg.

 
          
“Damn,”
she said, “I need a shave.” She began to peel off the gloves. Then she looked
up at him abruptly. “Sit down, darling. I’m not going to bite you; don’t stand
there with your bare face hanging out. My God!”

 
          
He
came forward uncomfortably, but an unconcerned part of his mind was studying
her objectively and deciding that there was too much stuff with gloves and
purse, and with dress and hair and legs; altogether too much stuff: the girl
was nervous as a kitten. There were two of him, one who wanted to get out of
there before the trap closed, and one who wanted to stay and see what would
happen, who thought he could probably take care of himself. This second guy, he
thought, was probably mistaken. He felt as stiff and awkward as if wearing his
first pair of long trousers, as he sat down in the chair facing her. Then he
had to get up again and take care of the boy with the drinks.

 
          
As
he gave her a glass, she looked up at him searchingly and said, “Listen, if you
have business in the john, it’s the door over there; and if you haven’t, for
God’s sake relax before I throw something at you.”

 
          
He
sat down. “Did you bring me here to ask me something?” he demanded. “Or just to
have somebody to crack wise to?”

 
          
She
laughed, and put her glass aside to remove her hat and throw it, with her
gloves, to a corner of the sofa. Then she glanced at him again.

 
          
“What
did she tell you about me, anyway?”

 
          
Emmett
hesitated.

 
          
The
blonde girl smiled, not very pleasantly. “I was making up to her father, wasn’t
I?”

 
          
Emmett
said, “No, to Dr. Kaufman.”

 
          
The
nurse’s smile faltered, and died. Suddenly she looked plain and rather tired. “I
swear, Emmett,” she said wearily, “next case I take, the patient’s either going
to be damn good and sane, or so screwy I have to pick her off the chandeliers.
This business of trying to keep it a secret that little Angelface isn’t quite
hitting on all six—”

 
          
Emmett
found that things people told him seemed to have stopped carrying conviction
some time ago. He had stopped trying to sort out the truths from the
falsehoods; he no longer believed anything, he merely filed it for reference.
He was merely collecting information and waiting for a hunch. As a chemist you
learned that, contrary to the popular idea of scientific procedure, one good
hunch was often worth a ream of data.

 
          
He
said, “All right. So she called you a bitch, and you call her crazy, and what
have we got? Let’s stick to this drug you were interested in, Miss Bethke. Why
did you practically kidnap me to ask where she got it?”

 
          
She
made a small ceremony of opening her purse to examine her appearance in the
mirror, then putting it down on the table between them.

 
          
“If
you were a nurse, Emmett,” she said deliberately, “and your patient took an
overdose of sedative once, and you managed to get out of the mess without even
losing your job… If you were that lucky once, Emmett, you’d make damn sure it
didn’t happen again, wouldn’t you? And if she did do it again, and you knew
that you had all the drugs you’d ever brought into the house safely locked away
except what had been used up—” She made a little despairing gesture with her
hand. “Hell, I’ve even got the aspirin under cover, that’s how careful I’ve
been, Emmett.”

 
          
He
frowned, not quite sure of the significance of what she was telling him. “You
mean, you don’t think she got it from you?”

 
          
“I
know she didn’t get it from me! That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” the nurse
said sharply. “The first time, yes. The first time, nobody’d bothered to tell
me I was taking care of a mental case. I was told it was a simple matter of
hardship and undernourishment. I had no idea she might try anything like that.
But this time—”

 
          
Emmett
said flatly, “It was a regular prescription bottle.”