Kill as Directed (4 page)

“No.”

“Dr. Welliver never got into trouble. I can protect you—”

“No.”

Gresham did not seem offended. “Well, let's drop it for the time being. Of course, it's been something of a shock to you. It's my fault, Harry; I should have prepared you. But please remember I'm not asking you to commit any crimes, just to give me your confidential help on the rare occasions—”

“
No
.”

“I won't accept that till you've had time to think it over, Harry. Let me repeat: You'll be very well paid—”

“
No
!”

But he had let Kurt Gresham walk out of his office in the small hours that night, leaving the check for five hundred dollars on the desk. And he had slipped the check into his drawer after Gresham's departure, not destroying it. And he had not reported the wounded woman, or her two subsequent visits for routine treatment—both late at night, long after hours. And the following week he had unlocked the desk drawer, slipped the check into his pocket and had gone over to his bank and cashed it.…

Yes, the mysterious dead girl was connected with Kurt Gresham in some way, with one of his night clubs. It had to be; there was simply no other explanation. But how she had got into his apartment, and for what purpose; and why had Gresham said nothing to him about it in advance—to these questions Dr. Harry Brown had no answer.

He was sure of only one thing: he was in something way over his head—in something deep, dark-and dirty.

The door of the bare precinct-room opened and Detective Lieutenant Galivan came in. “Well, Doctor? Remember anything?”

“Nothing,” Dr. Brown said.

“Your office checked out, by the way. You showered, shaved and changed all right. Here's your key.” Harry took it. “Oh. What are your office hours?”

“Twelve to two, four to seven. Otherwise, by appointment.”

“Now about the lady,” Galivan said. “We have some interesting facts.”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Unfortunately, we found no purse, so we don't know her name or where she lives. But the clothes are expensive and her body looks like a beautician's ad. Recall a woman whose initials are L. M.?”

Harry thought, “One or two patients, maybe. Why, Lieutenant?”

“L. M. was embroidered on her panties. You've prescribed narcotics in your practice, haven't you, Doctor?”

“Naturally.” The sudden question jerked his head up.

“A lot?”

“No more than normal.”

“Kept records?”

“Of course.”

“We're going to have to check them tonight. We're also going to go through them for female patients with the initials L. M. Sorry to give you such a rough night, Doc.”

“What's all this about narcotics?” Harry asked casually. At least he hoped he sounded casual.

“The girl died of an overdose of heroin. She was an addict, a mainliner. Whenever you're ready, Doc. First we'll take your formal statement.”

A police stenographer took his statement in the squad room, and then Galivan, young Murphy and two other policemen took him uptown to his office, where his records were closely examined.

“Clean on the narcotics, from the looks of it,” Galivan said.

“Thank you,” Harry said without enthusiasm.

There were three female patients with the initials L. M., all from the previous year. Despite the hour, Galivan telephoned them.

They all answered their phones, very much alive.

“That's it, Doc,” Galivan said. “It's out of your hands now and in mine. I'll keep in touch. Give you a lift home?”

Six days later, exactly at noon, Detective Lieutenant Galivan strolled into Dr. Harrison Brown's office.

“You've identified her,” Harry said.

“Finally,” Galivan answered, sitting down with a slight groan. “Routine turned the trick. Her suit, which looked pretty new, had a Lord & Taylor label. We checked all their charge accounts back two years of women-customers with the initials L. M. No dice, alive or dead and buried. So we had to wade through cash sales slips by the thousands. Police work is so glamorous. And then we made her—Lynne Maxwell, Lynne with an
e
. Ring a bell, Dr. Brown?”

“Lynne Maxwell.” Harry shook his head. “Not even a tinkle.”

“What a town this is,” said the detective sadly. “Live and die practically next door, and you might just as well have been on the moon.”

“What do you mean, Lieutenant?” Harry asked sharply.

“She was a neighbor of yours. I mean, practically. Lived on Bank Street. Artist. Studio like a movie set.”

“Artist,” frowned Harry. “How come nobody missed her?”

“Well, first, she lived alone. Second, she was very rich, inherited dough. Came from Denver, Colorado. Third, she was unmarried. Fourth, she had no steady guy, kept to herself. One like that can disappear for a long time without raising questions. Twenty-nine years old. Shame, huh?”

“Rotten shame.”

“The few people she knew say she spent money like water, mostly on herself; had a lover once in a while, nothing serious—basically a loner, no real attachments. By the way, not one of her acquaintances could link her to Dr. Harrison Brown. They never heard of Dr. Harrison Brown. That ought to please you, Doc.”

“It doesn't please me or displease me. I've told you the truth about the girl from the start.”

“Don't get hot, Doc. That's why I came all the way up here to fill you in.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Harry said mechanically, “but this thing has been bothering the hell out of me. How would you like to come home and find a dead girl you never saw or heard of before in your living room?”

“I wouldn't like it.”

“I don't like it, either. I've had my lock changed, but if someone was able to get past one lock, a second one won't protect me. I don't sleep well.”

“I don't blame you.” The detective sounded genuinely sorry for him. “So I guess you'll be glad to hear that we're keeping this case open.”

Harry stared. “Why, Lieutenant?”

“You.”

“Me?”

Galivan rubbed a knuckle on his chin. “Doctor, I'm Homicide. Now it's true that this case doesn't look like a homicide. This Lynne Maxwell killed herself, intentionally or accidentally, by injecting more junk into her body than it could tolerate. She died in her studio, or she died in the street, or maybe she even died in your apartment. If it was her studio or the street, somebody would have to deposit her in your place. Why? Or if she died in your apartment, what was she doing there? How did she get in? And why did she come? See what I mean, Doc?”

“Yes,” Harry said gloomily.

“So—case open instead of closed. Accidental death or suicide, the fact remains that you found her in your apartment, and it's an unexplained fact. When it's unexplained, whatever it is, you can't close the book on it. And brother, it sure is bugging me.”

“You and me both, Lieutenant.”

“Well, that's about it, Doc.” Galivan rose. “If anything further pops on this, no matter what or when, please let me know right away.”

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

He was in the midst of examining a patient, at one o'clock, when his office girl buzzed him.

“Mr. Gresham is on the line, Doctor. Can you speak to him?”

“Not now,” Harry said. “Tell him I'll call back.”

“He says it's important—”

“I'm examining a patient,” he snapped. “I'll call back.”

Gresham sounded displeased when Harry finally called. “I said it was important, Harry.”

“I don't take calls in the middle of an examination, Kurt,” said Harry. “What do you want?”

“I want to see you.”

“You do?” said Harry. “That's a coincidence. I want to see you, too.”

There was a silence. Then he heard Gresham chuckle. “Well. That makes it cosy. So you figured it out, Harry?”

“Figured what out?”

“About Lynne Maxwell?”

It was Harry's turn to be silent. He felt confused and angry and helpless all at the same time.

Finally he said curtly, “When and where?”

“Three o'clock? My office?” asked the prissy voice.

“I'll be there.”

THREE

Dr. Harry Brown looked him over. Really for the first time.

He was a big man, globular. He had a round ruddy face, soft, white, womanish hair and eyes clear and colorless as sun on ice. The tip of his big nose was round and the little red-lipped mouth was round. He looked guileless, good-natured, almost cherubic. He was about as harmless as a big fat round H-bomb, Dr. Harry Brown thought.

“Harry,” Kurt Gresham began, “I'm going to make a confession to you. Try to win you over. If I fail, no hard feelings. But I warn you now. If you breach my confidence by so much as a word…” The millionaire shook his head; everything shook with it. “I wouldn't like that at all. Harry. I'm not a man of violence. Quite the contrary. I consider violence the first resort of the stupid. The only times I have indulged in violence were those times when nothing less would serve—the last resort. Do I make myself clear, Harry?”

“Perfectly. You're threatening to have me murdered if I don't keep my mouth shut.”

The girlish lips opened out into a little round smile. “Crude, Harry. But I see we understand each other.”

“The hell we do, Gresham. I don't give a damn about your ‘confession,' as you put it. I want to know just one thing: why did you have the dead body of that Maxwell girl planted in my apartment?”

Gresham blinked. “You're really a very clever young man, Harry. However, I'd like, if I may, to develop this in my own time and way—”

“The hell with your time and way! Answer my question!”

The silky white brows drew together sulkily, the colorless round eyes flattened and slitted. For an absurd moment Harry Brown thought of pediatrics and the baskets of fat little baby-faces just before feedings, preparing to cry. But there was nothing infantile in Gresham's tone; it was hard, greedy, paranoiac. “You have the gall to talk to me that way? Nobody talks to me that way, Doctor.
Nobody. Nobody
!” The last word was almost a shout. And then the brows drew apart and the eyes and face became round again. “I'm sorry, Harry. You mustn't make me angry. A bad heart and a bad temper don't mix, do they?”

“I'm not here as your doctor. What about Lynne Maxwell?”

“Harry, I admire you. You're rough and tough. I want you on my side.”

“What about Lynne Maxwell?”

“I'll come to that, Harry. But first I want to talk to you about myself. About you. About our future together.”

“We have no future together, Gresham.”

“How do you know, my boy?”

“What about Lynne Maxwell?”

“Please, Harry. I beg your attention.”

Dr. Harrison Brown sat back in the enveloping armchair and looked past Gresham's globular head and out through the wide windows at the blank blue sky. They were high up, on the fifty-fifth floor. He wondered dully what was coming.

“Do you know what business I'm in, Harry?”

“Import-export.” He shook a cigarette from a package, dug in a pocket for matches.

“Do you know the chief product I import?”

“Now how would I know that?” He found the matches, tore one from the packet and struck it.

“Heroin.”

Harry's hand remained in air, the match flickering.

“Light your cigarette, Harry,” said Kurt Gresham, smiling. “You'll burn your fingers.”

He lit the cigarette, carefully deposited the charred match in a shiny jade ash tray. “Heroin?” he said. My God, he thought, my God.

“You sound shocked,” said the fat man, still smiling.

“How should I sound, Gresham? Amused?” He jumped up.

The millionaire folded his hands comfortably. “You're so young, Harry. You have so much to learn. No, sit down, please. I want you to hear me out.”

“I've heard all I want to hear!”

“Will it hurt you to listen for a few minutes? Please. Sit down.”

“All right.” Harry flung himself down. “But if you think I'm going to tie myself up to a dope racketeer—! I know what narcotics addiction does to the human body. And I have some idea of how you slugs work. Giving out free samples to high school kids through your pushers, getting them hooked, then pushing them into a life of crime to get the money for their daily fixes—”

“Oh, my, Dr. Brown, you do know a lot, don't you?” said Kurt Gresham, the whole globe shaking silently. “You know it all. Shall I tell you something, Dr. Brown? You don't know
anything
. Not about me, anyway. Not about my kind of narcotics operation.”

“And what kind would that be?” Harry sneered. “Philanthropic?”

“No,” said the millionaire, “but I perform a social service just the same.”

“Social service!” Harry choked.

“Social service,” said Gresham, nodding. “Have you any idea how many hundreds of thousands of habitual users of narcotics in this country are
not
high school children who were hooked by unscrupulous pushers and dealers? are
not
degenerates? are
not
beatniks out for kicks? are
not
the dirt of society? My clients are all upright, respectable, useful and, in many cases, distinguished people who, in one way or another—a lot of them through illness—became addicted to drugs, just as you're addicted to that nicotine you're inhaling right now. I don't sell to criminals, Harry. I have no connection with the dope rackets or racketeers. I'm a maverick operation. A specialist, you might say, with a specialized trade.”

“Of all the rationalizations—!”

“Realism, Harry. I'm preventing the proliferation of criminals.”

“By engaging in the criminal dope traffic!”