A Multitude of Sins (15 page)

“Any other symptoms since your release?”

“No. Just a few minor hallucinations. I guess I
am
insane, Conan. Most of the time I’m all right, but sane people don’t have things like that going on in their heads.”

“You’d be amazed at what ‘sane’ people have going on in their heads. Have you ever had any aural hallucinations?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sounds that aren’t there; voices, for instance.”

“No. You’d think I’d at least hear music.”

“What does Dr. Kerr say about your sanity?”

“Not much; he’s so damned cagey. I kept trying to pin him down, and he finally went out on a limb far enough to say I
might
be a
latent
schizoid.” She paused, then, “Schizophrenia is the one they can’t cure, isn’t it?”

“I gather you’ve taken Psych I. Dore, it isn’t that simple. Schizophrenia has many forms; as many as each victim needs to satisfy the psychic demands made on him.”

“You seem to have gone well past Psych I.”

“Far enough to know better than to jump to conclusions.” He took a puff on his cigarette, studying her. “What can you tell me about your stay in Morningdell?”

“Not much, really. At first, I thought I was in the university infirmary because of the flu. Of course, the virus didn’t help matters any. My first clear memory was a week after Dad died, although I didn’t remember he was dead. Jim was there. He came every day at first, and I’ll always be grateful for that. I needed him desperately then.”

“He told you about your father?”

“Yes. Just that he was dead. The details came out later in my sessions with Dr. Kerr. He seemed anxious to get at that lost week.”

“And you?”

She frowned, and it was a moment before she answered. “I’m not really sure I want to know about that week. I don’t even like to think about it. That’s when the hallucinations seem to—oh, Conan, I don’t understand it. I mean, when Mother died, it was bad, but it wasn’t anything like this. But maybe it’s all just part of—of the symptoms.”

He tapped the ash from his cigarette impatiently. “Symptoms of insanity?”

She gave him a sharp look, then mustered a smile.

“Dr. Kerr had the same complaint. Self-diagnosis. Very dangerous, he says, but I can’t stop wondering and looking for explanations.”

“Well, it’s hard to draw a line between ‘know thyself’ and self-diagnosis. Dore, I want to talk to Dr. Kerr.”

“That’s fine with me, but getting him to agree won’t be so easy. I told you he’s cagey.”

“Yes, but a word from you would help, and I think I can line up a character reference that might impress him.”

“From whom?”

“A man I studied with at Stanford a few years ago. I was a sort of assistant and guinea pig for some experiments he was conducting. Dr. Lawrence Decker.”

She tilted her head to one side. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn you had a degree in psychology.”

“Sorry to disillusion you, but I can’t claim a degree in anything. Will you talk to Dr. Kerr for me?”

“Of course, but I don’t understand what this has to do with the surveillance.” Then before he could protest, she added: “I do have faith, but I can’t help wondering.”

“And worrying? I have to look at all the angles, Dore. For instance, I’ve given some thought to what that ‘label’ of insanity does for you in a legal sense. You’re an heiress, remember? Now, there’s someone else I want to talk to, and I’ll need a word from you again. Ben Meade.”

“Ben? But—” She stopped herself before she asked
why
,
and Conan laughed at that.

“Because he took you home the night your father died, and I assume his memory wasn’t confused by flu.”

She still had more
whys
,
but she didn’t voice them. He turned her face toward him, his hand against her cheek.

“Be patient, Isadora.” Then he kissed her lightly. “By the way, do you have to work tonight?”

She gave him a slow smile.

“This is my night off, Conan.”

He paused, then returned her smile.

“About time.”

CHAPTER 13

The hectic hum of Salem’s early morning traffic was audible in the distance, but here on the tree-shaded walks, the spacious lawns separating the venerable, red brick, college gothic buildings, was a purposeful hush.

Conan watched the students moving toward their rendezvous with teachers and classrooms as he moved toward a rendezvous of his own, taking a circuitous route that brought him finally to the Physics Building.

Near the entrance was a stone bench occupied by an angular young man totally absorbed in the book on his lap, lank blond hair falling forward over his forehead.

“Ben Meade?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Conan Flagg.”

Meade put his book aside, regarding Conan with a steady, speculative gaze as he sat down at the end of the bench.

“Description fits. Maybe Dore should’ve given me a password.”

Conan laughed, although Meade didn’t seem amused at his own attempt at humor.

“It isn’t so Machiavellian as that. Miss Canfield explained my purpose here when she called you, didn’t she?”

“She said you were private fuzz, and she hired you to ‘find a lost week.’” His eyes, pale yellowish brown, had the vitreous gleam of amber. “She also said she trusts you.”

Conan curbed his inclination to smile at the shading of jealous suspicion in that.

“Obviously, she trusts you, too. This is a very personal inquiry. She gave me specific instructions; none of her family or friends are to be told about it without her approval.”

“Is that what you call a subtle hint? Dore told me to keep it to myself, and I will.” His steady gaze faltered. “How…how is she?”

“She seems to be quite well.”

“Did she say when she’s coming back to school?”

“She hasn’t discussed her plans with me.” He paused, watching Meade’s face. “She speaks very highly of you.”

“Highly?” He laughed bitterly. “Look, I know what you mean. It won’t be news to Dore that I’m in love with her, and it isn’t news to me that it’s one-sided. But I’ve got patience, if that’s what it takes, and I’m not afraid of her money or her name.” He hesitated, then: “Mr. Flagg, I have a class at eight. Dore said you wanted to ask me some questions.”

Conan didn’t respond for a moment. He was trying to assess the depth of purpose behind those quiet eyes. Isadora called him single-minded, and no doubt she judged him well.

“Ben, Miss Canfield’s memory lapse begins the night of her father’s death. What I’m trying to do now is reconstruct the events of that night as accurately as possible. How are your powers of recall?”

“I have nearly perfect recall,” he said with a curiously egoless confidence.

“Good. I’m particularly interested in details. Sometimes a very trivial incident or image will bring back a memory.” He took a notebook from his breast pocket. His jottings would be superfluous; it was primarily a prop, useful because it was expected, “Miss Canfield said you took her to the infirmary when she became ill, then to her dormitory to pick up a few personal things.”

Meade leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Yes, then I drove her home.”

“Let’s start there. That’s where her memory begins to fail. I understand the house is surrounded by a stone wall and there’s a gate on the drive. Do you remember if it was open?”

“Yes. It’s always left open.”

“All right. Now, when you were approaching the house, do you remember seeing anything—a car, for instance—on the drive?”

“Not on the drive, but there was one parked outside the gate on the street.”

“What kind of car? I mean, was there anything unusual about it?”

“Well, I guess I noticed it because I’m kind of a sports car nut; I have an old MGA. It was a Lotus Elan.”

Conan made an indecipherable notation, disciplining his features against any real show of interest.

“What color was it?”

“I don’t know; the light wasn’t very good. It was a dark color, though. It looked like Jim’s car, but I guess he was at the Lambda Delt house that night.”

“Did you see anything else unusual, or maybe Miss Canfield commented on something she noticed?”

“I don’t remember anything like that.”

“Were there any lights on in the house?”

“Only the one in the library. It’s a spooky old place, you know. I remember thinking how weird it looked with just the one light.”

“The porch light wasn’t on?”

“No. I guess they weren’t expecting anybody at that time of night.”

Isadora’s words found an echo in that…
no one was expecting me.

“What time was it when you arrived—approximately?”

“I can tell you exactly: 12:28.”

Conan stared blankly at him.

“Are you sure of that?”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m sure. Dore said something about her dad working late, and I looked at my watch.”

Conan scrawled a few words in the notebook to give himself time to recover, then moved hurriedly to the next question.

“You took her into the house then?”

“Yes.”

“She says she’s sure she had a suitcase with her. Did she?”

“Not exactly a suitcase. One of those small overnight cases. I carried it in for her and left it by the library door.” His big hands knotted together. “Then she told me to go on; said her father would look after her. That’s one of those ‘if only I’d known’ things. Damn, I should’ve stayed with her.”

“But you couldn’t have known, Ben, could you?”

Meade shot him a quick, searching look, but Conan only smiled vaguely and turned a fresh page.

“Now, perhaps you could describe the foyer for me as it was that night.”

He leaned back, frowning in concentration.

“Well, the only light was a table lamp upstairs on the landing. When you go into the foyer, there’s a set of double doors on both sides. The ones on the left go into what you’d call a parlor, I guess; the ones on the right into the library. Then straight ahead, on the left, there’s a door leading to the kitchen and dining room and the back of the house. All the doors were closed.”

“Could you see any of the upstairs rooms?”

“Yes. The Senator’s and Mrs. Canfield’s bedrooms are at the top of the stairs. I think…yes, both doors were open, but there weren’t any lights.”

“Miss Canfield said you’d been in the house several times. Did you see anything—well, out of place; different?”

“No. Nothing ever gets changed around because of Mrs. Canfield. I mean, her being blind. I wish there
had
been something different; something to give me a warning.”

“Do you remember any unusual sounds?”

He thought a moment, then shook his head.

“No, I didn’t hear anything. Of course, I wasn’t inside the house more than two minutes total.”

“When you were leaving you heard nothing? No cries or screams?”

“You mean from Dore?” he asked hotly. “If I had, do you think I’d have just driven off?”

Conan put a hint of apology in his reply. “No, of course not. Well, that should cover it then, unless you can think of something I haven’t asked about.”

Meade loosed a sigh. “No. Everything was so…so normal. The only thing I was worried about was Dore. She was so sick, and it hit so damned fast. Maybe that’s why she can’t remember anything.”

Conan didn’t point out that amnesia wasn’t generally associated with viral infections. He made a show of checking his notes, nodding approvingly.

“Perhaps some of this will serve to revive her memory. You went directly to the Lambda Delta house after you left her? I thought she might’ve tried to phone you or Jim when she found her father.”

“Well, I didn’t go straight to the house. I took a drive up the West Bank Road. Didn’t get back till two.”

Conan wondered why he volunteered that, especially the time of his return.

“Did you talk to Jim about the Senator’s death or Miss Canfield?”

“No. Nothing beyond the usual word of sympathy. Jim and I aren’t exactly buddies. He’s out of my league. I mean, I can’t afford to approach life as one big party.”

Conan closed his notebook, choosing his words carefully.

“I understand Jim hasn’t adjusted to wealth and prestige too well.”

Meade laughed sarcastically. “Oh, he’s adjusted fine. If John Canfield had known about some of the parties Jim threw at that beach house, he probably would’ve unadopted him fast.”

Conan smiled at that. “Those parties were a mainstay of gossip in Shanaway. On the third telling, they made Hollywood’s versions of Roman orgies sound tame.”

Meade was relaxing now with the notebook out of sight. “Well, the music was different. I went to one of his parties. It was supposed to be just some guys from the fraternity; a weekend surfing. But Jim brought a few cases of booze and some girls. I’m not against booze and girls, but I don’t think any of those chicks had seen eighteen yet, and besides, somebody pulled out some pot and acid, and I don’t have a Senator to bail me out if
I
get busted. Then when Jim started playing games with hypnosis, I’d about had it.” He paused, laughing at the memory. “The funny part was, after he put on this big build-up, he couldn’t get the girl under. She just sat there and giggled. Jim’s big with games, you know.”

“Yes, I got that impression. I’m not sure I’d find him entertaining.”

Meade shrugged, turning predictably defensive.

“Oh, sometimes he’s a real kick. Like he has this routine with imitations; the famous people bit, voices and the whole bag. He’s damned good, too. I’ve seen a lot worse on TV. Jim’s all right. I mean, if you ever need anything, he’ll come through with no strings.”