I Found Him Dead!. Gale Gallegher
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ma’am?” His tone softened.
“I thought I did,” I said breathlessly. “I came so far . . .”
The myopic eyes peered with embarrassing directness in the general area of my waist. I was thankful for the bunchy coat.
“Did you have an appointment for this night?” he persisted.
“It’s—April twenty-fifth, isn’t it?”
“It is that,” he said, edging out of the enclosure as he fumbled in his pants pocket. “Doctor’s a great hand for comin’ unbeknownst to me. Sometimes meetin’ his patients right here on the step. Would you be early now?”
“I might. Is it eight-thirty?”
“ ’Tisn’t that yet,” he said in obvious relief, and went before me up the steps. “I shouldn’t be lettin’ you in, but the night’s damp an’ in your condition . . .”
He unlocked the front door, switched on the lights, and led me into the big living room. I took a bill from the wallet in my pocket, pressed it into the gnarled hand.
“You’ve been so kind,” I murmured.
He beamed under thatched brows. “Nothin’ at all, ma’am. My wife went through it eleven times an’ I always say if you stay out of the night air . . .”
I sat in a large leather chair near the double doors, and picked up a magazine as the old fellow left. I didn’t move until I heard him go down the outer steps and close the basement door.
Luck, I decided, was riding with me. I couldn’t be sure there were any fourteen-year-old files here, but it was too good a possibility to pass. The answer to the whole thing—whether or not Dawn Ferris’s child and Bette Alexander were the same person—might be tucked away in some neat corner in this office.
I waited until everything was quiet. No sound at all if you counted out the pounding of my own heart. But the janitor might be somewhere below, listening. I kicked off my pumps, moved cautiously, in stockinged feet. The carpet pricked through my nylons as I crossed the room. A gloomy room, long, narrow, and high-ceilinged; the windows, only at the front, were shrouded in long, beige draperies. There was a scattering of heavy dark furniture and an aura reminiscent of the convent infirmary, a mixture of closed rooms and medications.
I reached the dark oak doors with the frosted glass paneling that formed the office partition. Except for my shoes, I was still dressed for the street, including gloves. I took a firm grip on the knob and turned gently. The door opened.
The light from the one lamp behind me revealed only shadow on the waxed linoleum floor. I reached out for the wall switch, found a panel with several buttons, pressed one.
Instantly I was bathed in glaring white light, sudden as a scream. I shut it off quickly, but the picture of the room was fixed in my mind, like a scene viewed by lightning. I could have diagramed the desk, chairs, files, and bookcases, the two long windows at the rear with shades drawn level with the sills. There was no evidence of surgical equipment. This must be an office and consulting room.
In the far corner beyond the desk was a group of filing cabinets, on which stood a gooseneck lamp. Not trusting the light buttons, I followed the line of the wall, my cold feet in sweat-damp stockings sliding on the waxed floor. The light from the living room guided me past major hazards. Carefully I reached the lamp, tipped the shade low, and turned the switch. For once I was happy to see the dim yellow gleam of a twenty-five-watt bulb.
Before me were two tiers of green metal filing cabinets. I pulled gently at the top drawer. The doctor evidently wasn’t worried about intruders. The drawer slid open easily. It was filled with eight-by-five folder-type cards, designed for the history of the patient and his correspondence.
Only there was no correspondence. The folder sections were empty. The cards, however, were all filled out in the same neat square handwriting. It was the second bit of unusual penmanship I’d seen that day. But this was the extreme opposite of Eddie Wells’s florid, show-card hand. This script recalled the writing on library cards when I was a kid. Every card in every drawer was written in that same style. Hundreds of them, and every entry made by the same person.
I squatted on my heels to reach the W’s in the bottom drawer and flipped through the carefully filed cards. Dr. Wurber had a passion for organization. He could give Patsy lessons in filing. Welch—Weller—Wells . . .
My hand shook as I drew out the large card. The writing danced before my eyes. I held the card closer to the dim light. Wells, Norma . . . I could almost taste my disappointment. Quickly I went back to the file. The next card was Wellward. I put it back slowly.
Were these really case histories? If so, how far back did they date? I pulled out the record of Norma Wells again. It was dated January 1942, but there was no street address or telephone number on the lines provided for that information. The many other entries looked like algebra problems, with letters and numbers together. Obviously the thing was in code.
I looked at several others. All the same. Names only and one date. All other entries coded. I ran through other cards in the W’s, noting dates. They went back to 1928. If Ethel Wells had ever been here, there should be a card.
Putting the file in order, I closed the drawer. These might be records of foster mothers. If Dr. Wurber delivered Ethel Wells’s child, he would have placed her for adoption. And if that child was now known as Bette Alexander . . . I started to rise but my legs were stiff from the cramped position. I stretched up slowly. Slowly, too, I was aware of a change.
The house was no longer still. Not that there was any definite noise. Simply that the place was no longer empty. Without turning, I realized there was someone close. Someone behind me, in the doorway. It could be the Irish janitor, but I knew it wasn’t. I continued upward by slow motion to a standing position. My own breathing seemed to stop.
“I would stay right there, if I were you.”
The voice was querulous but authoritative, as if the words were reinforced with steel—or lead. I stood rigid, staring at the gracefully curving gooseneck lamp.
“I am surprised,” the voice went on, in an injured tone, “that he would resort to such methods. Does he think I’m a fool?”
There was obviously no answer to that, so early in our acquaintance. But who did he think I was?
“Face me!”
I moved very slowly, trying to frame a good out. It was only seconds. Then I confronted a short, plump, middle-aged man. He was totally bald and his round face hairless except for thick sandy eyebrows, unexpected as parsley on a custard. His tan gabardine suit was smartly tailored, his linen custom made, his surprisingly small narrow shoes gleaming. In his small fat hand he held a small square gun. In that peculiar way my mind works, the hand reminded me of the writing on those cards.
If my initial survey was thorough, it was also quick. He, in turn, looked me over with irritating deliberation from my Knox hat to my shoeless feet.
“You are lovely,” he said finally. “He told me you were but I didn’t believe it. I expected something younger and cheaper. The floozy type. What does he have to offer a girl like you?” He was moving around me. “Take off your hat.”
I took it off. He moved closer, teetering like an unsure ballet dancer. I had an unpleasant feeling that he was going to touch my hair. I didn’t like those lard-white hands. I didn’t like him. If only I could find out who I was supposed to be . . .
“A brunette on the auburn side. I thought you were more of a redhead,” he said. “Intelligent, too. Much too intelligent to get involved with a down-at-heel punk like Eddie Wells.”
I gave an involuntary start. Noting it, his lips parted in an unpleasant variation of a smile.
“You see I did know you, Cora. Eddie told me about you when I went to see him in that hole—last Thursday.” He made a disgusted sound in his throat. “He didn’t mention that he would send you to search my office.”