The Man Who Loved His Wife (29 page)

“I didn't say that, dear.” To Ralph with one of his candid, boyish glances Don explained, “I told her I wasn't familiar with the California law in regard to that special request.”

“Why can't you show it to her, Sergeant Knight?”

Knight's hand tightened on it as though the reproduced diary were an amulet. He beheld himself with it in court, envisioned
the explosive effect of entries such as the one he had just read, saw his name and picture in the papers, considered the effect on his career of a front-page trial, foresaw the pleasure of his mother. Since he had first read Fletcher Strode's prophecies, he had dwelt in a dream.

The head of the Homicide Department, Knight's boss, had been skeptical about the diary. The Chief had been in agreement. The department's head psychologist had been consulted. In the conference with Lowell Hanley, these three had argued with dark cynicism. The District Attorney had been inclined toward Knight's viewpoint. No one realized more acutely than this ambitious man that the diary could be a publicity bombshell, but he was too experienced not to reckon that a bomb can explode in more than one direction. The District Attorney's ambitions were of no lesser intensity than Knight's, but on a higher level, and handled with subtler tactics. After a hot argument, it had been decided that Knight was to pursue the investigation, using the diary's contents as a means of obtaining more solid evidence. Discretion had been commanded. Privately, Knight had been informed that Mr. Hanley was one hundred percent behind him and that his personal cooperation would be given freely at any hour of the day or night.

Knight's answer showed both discretion and a tolerant spirit. “If you knew the full contents of the diary, Doctor, you wouldn't want her to read it.”

“I know them.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I've read the diary.”

“That's impossible.” Knight's urbanity showed a raveled edge. “You don't mean to say that Mr. Strode allowed you to . . .”

“Dr. McIntosh asked my advice.”

Knight's nod showed recognition of the name while Ralph explained to the others that McIntosh, an old schoolmate, was chief psychologist to the Police Department. “Since I knew Mr. Strode, he asked my opinion of the validity.”

“And what did you make of it?”

“Bullshit.”

Cindy gurgled.

“No apologies,” Ralph said.

“You're honestly convinced of that?” fretted Knight.

“I have no doubts whatsoever.”

“Mr. Hanley was much impressed by the diary.”

“The diary, if valid, would serve our District Attorney well. In court and the newspapers,” Ralph said drily.

“One would expect a more considered opinion from you, Doctor.” Knight paused like a political speaker about to make a point. “It's obvious that you're prejudiced in favor of the lady, but I should think that your conclusions, as a man of science, would be more objective.”

“Objectively and scientifically, I think the diary from beginning to end is plain bullshit.”

“Doctor, there are ladies present.”

“I chose my words with the ladies in mind. To dispel fear,” he cast a veiled glance toward Elaine, and with a direct stare at Cindy, added, “and destroy any illusions they may cherish.”

“Please answer one question for me. Objectively. As a man of science.”

“I promise not to use dirty words.”

Knight let the levity pass. “What I want is your frank opinion as to the reason a man of Mr. Strode's intelligence,” Knight raised his hand in warning against interruption, “and you surely won't deny that Mr. Strode had considerable mentality to have reached a high point of financial success. Then why should a brilliant man think he could deceive us all, the police as well as those nearest and dearest, with statements he knew to be false? If they were false!”

“I doubt that he considered them false.”

“But, Doctor, you just said—”

“I said I didn't believe the hogwash in that diary, but that doesn't mean that the writer wasn't convinced.”

“Which means, I take it, that you believe Mr. Strode was not sane?”

Cindy tried to speak, but Don prevented it.

“I think he had become more and more disturbed. If you read the diary carefully, you'll notice a definite deterioration in his reasoning. I went over it carefully last night and looked through it again, superficially, this morning. It seems to me that the fantasies grew stronger and that he had come to believe them.”

“Nonsense.” Don was on his feet. “Shit, if you prefer the doctor's language. I lived in the house with him all summer and if I ever saw a sane and strong-minded character, it was Fletcher Strode.”

“That's for sure. My father was perfectly sane.”

“Let's say he was sick. That's the popular term now,” Ralph said. “A sick man who hated and distrusted himself and who'd lost the desire to go on living, but hadn't the will to kill himself.”

“You've certainly changed your opinion.” Don aimed his forefinger at Ralph's temple. “You were so sure it was suicide.”

“I'm still sure. I've done some reading since this happened, and find that the publications confirm my opinion. The suicide urge is common in laryngectomy patients. That diary was a symbol, a direct invitation to death by a man afraid to commit the final act.”

“Do you mean he wanted his wife to kill him?”

“Let's say he wanted to think he wanted it.”

Knight stalked over to Elaine. “How do you feel about it? You knew him best. Do you believe he wanted you to kill him?”

“I don't know,” she said in a flat voice.

“Don't know!” Don had come to stand beside Knight. The three men surrounded the crouching figure. “You must certainly know what you told me so confidentially last week.”

Elaine answered with a quick dip of her head. Don spoke in the manner of a prosecuting attorney. “You told me very clearly that you were afraid he'd kill himself. Is that all you were afraid of?”

“I don't understand you, Don.” Crouched on the ottoman in the classic pose of despair, she spoke without looking up at him.

“What don't you understand? Have you forgotten telling me about some TV show you and he saw together? About a mercy killing? And the question he asked afterward?” Don spoke with
the objectivity of a man sure of his facts. “The thought's been on your mind ever since, hasn't it?”

Elaine gave no sign of having heard. Even when he demanded, less objectively, “Can't you answer the question, Elaine?” she remained silent. Don's authoritative, prosecuting attorney voice had not reached her. “Lovable,” she heard in broken tones. Her hands protected a wound in her own neck; her eyes sought him where the other man sat at his desk. The diary had been a refuge, solace for the maimed ego, a substitute for the lost voice.

“You don't deny it?”

Don had become querulous.

Knight sat still, fingertips pressed together, hands forming a steeple. Through experience he had learned that passion reveals more truth than the most thorough and ruthless interrogation. He had made no accusations, taken no action that could cause criticism of police tactics. He had only to sit back and let the Strode family do the job for him.

“She can't deny anything. She killed my father.”

“Cindy, my dear,” admonished Don, “you have no right to make such an accusation. Nothing's been proved, has it, sir?” With charming deference of a prep school boy trying to please a master, he strolled toward Knight. Although his wife was vindictive, Don Hustings showed decent objectivity. Pockets hid hands clenched as passionately as if they already protected the Strode fortune.

Suddenly he felt himself seized by the shoulder, whirled about, and made to confront Ralph Julian's fury. There was no color in the lean face, no tremors in the hands that gripped his shoulders.

“What the hell is this all about? Do you want to find Elaine guilty?”

Knight and Corbin leaped at them. “Easy, lad,” Knight said. Corbin seized Ralph from behind.

Ralph let go.

Don smiled sadly. “I've been trying to guard Elaine's interests,
sir. Sincerely.” Once again appealing to the headmaster, the boy showed respect. “We're all interested in the same thing, aren't we? To get at the truth.”

“Seems to me you and your wife are more interested in getting her hanged.”

“He's the crazy one,” said Cindy with a hollow laugh.

“I resent that,” replied Don with dignity. “Though I do understand wanting to protect his own interests. Since you were mentioned in the diary as her lover.”

“Fletcher couldn't have written that.” Elaine dared not look at Ralph. She had told him with conviction that Fletcher had not known the lover's identity.

And Ralph said, “I must have missed the name.”

“Perhaps you overlooked an embarrassing item,” Don said, “but if you went over it twice, I don't see how you could have missed the bit about the redheaded doctor. How many redheaded doctors does Elaine have?”

Elaine sprang to life, flaming. “You said you hadn't read the diary, Don.”

“I did?”

“You know you did.” Fury flamed her cheeks, hardened her voice, caused every nerve to twitch. “When we gave Sergeant Knight the diary. You said you hadn't read it. Didn't he?” She ran over to accost Knight with her question.

“Let's try to keep calm, Mrs. Strode.”

“I don't seem to remember.” Don spoke in the lofty tone of a man who could not be bothered by the trivialities cherished by women.

Don had told Knight at lunch that he had not read the diary. Nothing was said of this. A slight pursing of the lips gave the only indication that Knight was aware of the falsehood.

“You lied. Why, Don? Why can't you tell the truth about it?” Elaine's questions were rhetorical, more the expression of scorn than a demand for reason. “You knew what the diary said and you told Sergeant Knight that it might be useful. It was you who told him that Fletcher kept a diary.”

“If I did,” Don fixed earnest, schoolboy eyes on Knight, “it doesn't change anything. None of the facts are the least bit altered.”

“There are other things in the diary. Perhaps Don overlooked them,” Ralph said and coolly took the document from the desk. “There's an item that might answer your question, Elaine.”

“Unless it's relevant, let's not waste Sergeant Knight's time,” Don said.

“It's relevant,” said Ralph, peering at the pages.

“Read it,” said Knight.

Ralph read dully and without inflection:

“I always believed that a man ought to be ready when opportunity knocks at his door. I still think it is a good idea except that nowadays a lot of young men are so busy waiting for the knock that they forget about the real hard work that invites opportunity to come in. The way the world is getting now a young man would just as soon knock down old ladies and push baby buggies in front of speeding trucks if he thought he saw opportunity across the street. An A-1 genuine door-watcher has moved into my house and I hope no old ladies or baby buggies get in his way.”

The air conditioner groaned. Cindy yawned. Knight considered Don's profile, the curve of sculptured lips, the elegantly cut features, the smooth forehead, and melting eyes. Don listened with the superior expression of a man forced to sit through a dull play.

Ralph finished and told Knight, “Mr. Strode would have recognized the motive behind Don's lies.”

Knight had a question. “But if he was not, according to your diagnosis, in his right mind, why do you make so much of his observations about life in general?”

“A person who is paranoid on one subject may see other things with complete clarity.”

“Was there anything in the diary about me?” put in Cindy.

“Speaking of opportunities—” Knight crossed the room as silently as a cat, pounced down upon Ralph, and said, “May I?”
The request for permission was not necessary. He had already taken the pages from Ralph's hand. “I won't waste your time reading all of Mr. Strode's clear and relevant observations, Doctor, because you've probably noticed certain entries about opportunities in common household objects, but here's an idea we haven't considered.” With a flourish that might have drawn from its scabbard, he took a pair of heavily rimmed spectacles from a monogrammed leather case, adjusted them on his nose, and read:

“Why does she always place temptation in my way? All over this house are dangerous objects. Many are even marked with warnings. If I resist too long, she may become impatient and take the fatal step herself. On the surface she is sweet and soft but underneath there's the deadly will of a woman who will get her own way at all costs.”

“As you'll notice, no specific object is named.” Knight looked at Corbin, nodding briefly. “But there were—and probably still are—warnings placed most conveniently close to Mr. Strode. Corbin, will you get the article we placed in the car?”