Death Trap (21 page)

John Tennant and Larry Arma were in the waiting-room. They stood up when we came in. We were all known to each other. We talked in the hushed tones you use in any hospital.

“What’s going on now?” I asked John.

“The girl is in there with her mother and the two doctors and a nurse. I don’t know what they’re doing to her. The older one—Rikert—said they’d tell us when we could come in. What’s this all about, Hugh?”

“Is it a secret?” Arma asked.

“I don’t want to try to explain. I want you to just listen. It might not work. It may mean a waste of time.”

“You wasted a hell of a lot of my time last night, Hugh,” John said heavily.

“I apologized on the phone.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about on the Quillan thing.” Arma said.

Don Higel came out and closed the door behind him. He could not have had any more sleep than we had, but he looked as refreshed and alert as Vicky did. “He’s bringing her along nicely,” he said. “It shouldn’t be much longer now. Her mother made quite a fuss, but she’s quieted down now. It’s a fascinating thing to watch. He’s an expert. I’ve been learning a lot.”

“Will I be able to take notes, Doctor?” Larry Arma asked.

“Of course.”

The nurse opened the door and nodded. We filed in. Mrs. Paulson was seated at the left. She gasped audibly when she recognized Vicky. She started to say something in a high, thin, whining voice but the nurse hurried to her and whispered to her and she retreated into a sulky silence. Nancy sat in an arm chair that looked comfortable. The blinds were closed against the morning sunlight and her back was to the windows. Her arms rested on the arms of the chair. Her head was back, eyes open but unfocused, lips parted, breathing deep and slow, the lower part of her face curiously slack.

Doctor Rikert was a stocky, powerful man with black hair carefully and intricately combed to disguise incipient baldness. His jowls were so heavy as to give his face a square look. His brows were heavy and black, his expression one of alert and vital intelligence. He nodded briskly at us and spoke in a resonant voice far too loud for the hush of the room. He seemed to appreciate an audience. “Please take those chairs there. This a very good subject, very receptive. We find our best subjects among adolescent females of sensitivity and a good order of intelligence. She cannot hear me now. She cannot hear any sound at all. When I speak her name she will hear that and from then on she will hear only my voice, so you may speak freely among yourselves if you care to do so.

“There were certain difficulties. I had to bring her out of a semi-comatose state to full awareness before I could place her properly in a hypnotic trance. This is a deep trance. Somnambulistic. I’ve given her the standard tests. She has been responding nicely to age regression techniques. Her mother has verified the accuracy of her memory. I understand from Doctor Higel that her hysteria results from an incident that happened on a Labor Day week end when she was eleven years old. The memory block may be too great. I believe we are about ready to determine that.”

He moved close to her. “Nancy! You can hear me now and you will answer my questions. Your sleep is very deep, but you can hear me and you can answer me. How old are you, Nancy?”

The slack lips moved, became more firm. “Four—teen.” Her voice was so low we had to strain to hear. Her tone was thin and childish.

“Now you are going to become younger, Nancy. You are going to become smaller and younger, and you are going to answer my questions. Now you are thirteen. When I speak to you again, you will be twelve years old. Now you are twelve years old, Nancy. In a moment, when I speak to you again, you will be eleven years old. Now I speak to you again and you are eleven years old, Nancy. Eleven years old and you can talk to me and you can answer my questions. You will answer my questions. What is your favorite dress? What color is it? What is the color of your favorite dress?”

“—Blue.”

“Do you have a favorite dolly? What is the name of your favorite dolly, Nancy? What is her name?”

“—Alice.”

“Stop!” Mrs. Paulson cried. “Oh, please, stop!” The nurse went to her again, sat beside her, held her hand. Dr. Rikert gave her one look of annoyance and continued.

“Now it is summer, Nancy, and you are eleven years old. Soon you will be going back to school. It is summer and you are at Morgan’s Lake and pretty soon you will have to go back to school. Who is at the lake with you, Nancy?”

“Mommy and Jane Ann—and Aunt Angela.”

“Where is your father?”

“He works in the store. Uncle Billy works in the store too. In a different store.”

Her answers were less hesitant; but her voice was still light, childish, barely audible.

“Now it is Labor Day and your father and your Uncle Billy are working on the camp. What are they doing?”

“—Hammering. On the roof.”

“But you like to take walks in the woods? Do you like to take walks in the woods?”

“—Yes.” For the first time there was a troubled expression on the placid face.

“Now you are walking by yourself in the woods. Is it a nice day?”

“Warm day.”

“You are walking in the woods and you are happy. Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Nancy, I am going to ask you to tell me a story. I am going to ask you to tell me about a bad thing that happened while you were walking in the woods. It will be hard for you to tell me, but you are going to tell me because I want you to tell me. You will tell me about the bad thing that happened.”

There was a long silence. Her lips moved. She did not speak.

“Now you are ready to tell me, Nancy. You will tell me now. When I count to three, you will be ready to tell me about the bad thing.”

Again the silence. When he seemed about to speak to her again she said in a pale thin voice, “I am walking. I have a feather. I have a blue feather from a blue bird.”

Her hand moved. Rikert said quickly, “You are deep asleep. You will stay asleep until I awaken you. Tell me about the bad thing.”

When she spoke again I felt the stir of hair at the back of my neck, a prickling on the backs of my hands. “Daddy?” she said, in the loudest tone she had used. “Is that… Hello, Uncle Billy.” She waited for his response.

“It’s a feather, see? A blue feather… No, I’m going to give it to Mommy… Give it back! You let me have it! … You
spoiled
it! See? You’re bad… What are you doing? Don’t do that! I don’t like that! You stop it! Stop it or I’ll tell!… I don’t want you to give me another doll. I’m going to tell what you did… Stop it! You’re hurting my arm! You’re hurting me! No. No! Don’t! Don’t!” She had begun to writhe and twist in the chair, her head rolling back and forth. And then, in a shocking, gasping, screaming voice she shouted,
“Mommeeee! Mom
…
”

The sound stopped with a brutal abruptness. She slumped sideways in the chair, hands moving spasmodically, and held in a most curious way, as though she clasped the wrists of hands that held her throat. Her face darkened and I realized she had stopped breathing.

Rikert slapped her cheek with his fingertips. “Nancy! The story is over. Nancy! Now you are deep asleep and the story is over and you are quiet and you are not afraid.”

Her hands dropped slowly back to the arms of the chair. She breathed deeply. Her face relaxed. I realized I was standing and I had taken two steps toward the girl. I went back to my chair. Mrs. Paulson’s hands covered her face. Vicky was chalk pale. Arma looked as though he had tasted something bitter. John Tennant sat with his eyes shut, his lips moving, as though he prayed.

“Now you will sleep for two minutes. You will be sound asleep, a deep, restful, refreshing sleep. When I count to three you will go to sleep and be deep asleep for two minutes and you will not be able to hear anything, not even my voice, until I speak your name again. One. Two. Now go into the deep warm sleep. Three.”

He turned his back on her. “That was quite rugged,” he said. “That was quite a response. Do you people have what you need?”

“God, yes,” Tennant said.

I could hear the quiet sound of Mrs. Paulson as she wept. I took Vicky’s hand. It was like ice.

“Will she remember any of this?” Tennant asked.

“I could arrange it either way,” Rikert said. “I think it will be best if she does remember. It’s been buried long enough. We may get a violent reaction when she awakens, and I may have to use sedation. I’ll instruct her to remember everything when I wake her up. I’ll want to keep her here a few days. There’s no reason for you people to watch the rest of this. Don, I want you to stay. And Mrs. Paulson, of course.”

We walked through the clean sunlight to where I had parked the car. Vicky shuddered visibly and said, “Ugly. Ugly.”

“There’s nothing uglier. It must have given Mackin a horrible turn when he found out he hadn’t killed her. And he must have sweated for a long, long time before he was certain her memory wouldn’t return.”

“He was lucky.”

“And now I think he’s fresh out of luck.”

Tennant joined us at the car. “I think I know where we go from here,” he said. “I have a half-baked plan of procedure. It needs a lot of work. We’ll need the girl, I think, for the
coup de theatre.
Miss Landy, the first step is to get a stay of execution for your brother. And that, I am afraid, may be the easiest part of this thing. The next step is a conference, Hugh. A conclave. Miss Landy, if the way you look at this tangle-footed specimen is any indication, he has my premature congratulations. See you in my office at two this afternoon, Hugh.”

He walked away. I kissed the blushing Miss Landy.

AT ELEVEN-THIRTY ON A CLOUDY WEDNESDAY MORNING, two days after Alister Landy had been originally slated to die, a group was assembled in a small private dining-room at the MacClelland Inn. The three windows looked out over the side garden. We sat around a table. Vicky, Dr. Don Higel, John Tennant and I were having coffee. Larry Arma was having a Coke. Chief Perry Score was having nothing. He sat at the head of the table. There were eight chairs at the table. The one at the foot of the table was empty, as was the one at the right of Chief Score.

Nancy Paulson was in the adjoining room with her mother. Her father was at home because after Mr. Paulson had been informed of Mackin’s act seven years ago, Higel had had to keep him under constant heavy sedation.

In the expectant silence Perry Score kept glaring at me. It annoyed him that Quillan, after a chat with Larry Arma, refused to sign a complaint against me.

Score said irritably, “I don’t like this at all. It isn’t legal procedure. It’s a damn parlor game.”

“Sometimes,” Tennant said, “the ends of justice are better served by informal methods. We have an eighteen-year-old girl involved here. She is reacting remarkably well to all this. But what would a public scandal do to her? Would you care to take that chance?”

“This is all just a fancy way of saying you have absolutely no evidence against Billy Mackin,” Score said. “It’s a coincidence. The Landy boy killed the other Paulson girl.”

Vicky spoke up, her voice cool. “There is not one other person at this table who believes that, sir.”

Score retreated into a grumpy silence.

Larry Arma riffled the pages of his stenographic notebook, then glanced at his watch. “Think he’ll show, John? He’s ten minutes overdue.”

“I hope he doesn’t show,” Tennant said. “I hope he runs like a rabbit. But if he does show, I want to repeat to you people what I said before. And you pay particular attention, Score. I’m going to do some lying. Back me up. Play it by ear.”

Charlie Staubs opened the door and stuck his head in. “He’s coming,” he said.

“Send him in,” Tennant said.

Billy Mackin came into the room thirty seconds later. He paused inside the door, smiling, hat in his hand. His glance took in all of us, and the smile did not slip.

“Sorry I’m a little late,” he said. “Very mysterious summons. What’s it all about?” As he spoke he took off his topcoat, hung coat and hat on the tree, and headed for the chair next to Score.

“Please sit at the end of the table, Mr. Mackin,” Tennant said. “You are intelligent enough, I know, to make a good guess as to what this is all about. I’m sure you know everybody here, and you know what we all have in common.”

Mackin sat down, took out his cigarettes. “The Landy case, I suppose. I don’t know why I should be here.”

“That’s what we want to explain to you.”

Mackin looked disapprovingly at Arma. “This man is taking notes. Is there something official about this? Is this some kind of a hearing?”

“This is entirely informal. It has no official cachet. You are free to leave at any time, Mr. Mackin. But a record will be kept. Should you wish to leave, I am certain you will have the opportunity of speaking up at a more official hearing.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Tennant?”

“No. We have come into the possession of certain facts. If you can make a satisfactory explanation of those facts, it will save all the risk and embarrassment and publicity of a false arrest. Is that fair?”

“I—I suppose so,” he said.

Tennant slowly turned the pages of a small brown notebook. “We have sworn statements from two minors that Jane Ann Paulson received money from you in odd amounts on no set schedule, but that over a period of time, it added up to a considerable sum. We have a record of many expensive purchases she made, and her father’s statement that she received no allowance. Can you explain that?”

Mackin smiled and said with assurance, “I certainly can. Jane Ann was a wild kid, but she was a good kid. I guess you know, all of you, that I’m very close to the Paulsons. I’m like an uncle to those two girls. Dick was too hard on Jane Ann. A girl likes pretty things. She likes a little fun. I helped her out when she needed money. I can’t see any harm in that.”

Tennant turned another page. “In February of this year you defaulted on a note and it was renewed. It was rather a small note. Many weeks after Jane Ann was murdered over eight hundred dollars was found in her room. Do you not think you were over-generous?”