Pushing Murder (5 page)

He looked back at us. “Who'll fill in for me here?”

I said, “No one needs to. We know where he is.” The thought made me a little sick.

Dan shook his head. “We won't know where he is after two o'clock, and suppose I'm delayed getting back here?”

“I'd planned to stay the afternoon anyway.” Sadd pulled a book from his pocket, and Dan left.

Janet looked at Henry wanly. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Look—you've fingered him for us. At least we know who has it in for Mom. Can I get you a cab?”

“No, thank you. I want to visit the chapel here first.”

“Chapel?” I said, surprised.

“Oh, yes. It's a lovely little one. In the children's wing. It even has a tiny library. I used to visit it often.” She buttoned her coat and added simply, “My husband died in this hospital, you know.”

“Really, Janet?” Surprise jerked me out of my terrible concern for her.

“Yes, we used to have an apartment on Ninth Street for coming into New York to the theater. Lewis loved the theater. He was taken ill the night we'd been to see Julie Andrews in
The Boy Friend
—why does one remember details like that?—and he was brought here. He never left the hospital.” She came to the bed and kissed me. “Will you call me at the Plaza as soon as that young man—Dan, is it?—gets back with the letter, please God?” She held out her hand to Sadd as he stood up. “They call you Sadd, as I recall. I knew Harriet.”

“So Clara said. Shall I come down with you?”

“Absolutely not.”

Henry had been fidgeting as his father always did when his mind was teeming. Janet held out her hand to him, and he said, “Mrs. Folsom—”

“Please—Janet.”

“Janet—for God's sake, be careful. No way is this man going to give up his wife and his meal ticket.”

She continued to hold his hand, nodding almost reflectively. Then she said, “If we can get that letter from your mother's mailbox, she's in the clear. Right?”

“I guess so, but you'll still—”

“Henry, I'll be so happy to free Clara from this nightmare, I don't think anything would frighten me.” She took a pair of gloves from her coat pocket. “Did any of you ever see the play
Murder in the Cathedral?
”

“I did,” said Sadd. “And I've read it a dozen times.”

Janet took a step toward him eagerly. “Do you remember what Thomas à Becket says to his friends when they tell him his murderers are at the door?”

Sadd blinked at the ceiling. “Something to the effect … that … they shouldn't worry because…” He shook his head. “Finish it for me.”

“‘I am in no danger; only near to death.'” Janet smiled at us serenely and went out.

“That,” said Sadd sitting down again, “is what I call spiritual poise.”

“And this whole business,” I said, lying back exhausted, “is what
I
call rotten and shocking. My poor, poor Sal!”

“Tina's going to be horrified.” Henry wrapped his scarf about his neck. “She's fond of Sal.”

“Aren't we all?” Sadd stared out the streaked window. “It's ghastly. Ghastly.”

Ghastly. Henry came to the bed to kiss me, and I fingered the stubby fringe of his scarf. “Do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“I'm going to call Sal. I want to know if she has even a remote inkling. Will you listen in?”

“Sure.”

I checked the pad where Sal had scribbled the number for Pushing Murder, punched numbers, and got a voice that said, “Jiffy Cleaners.” Damn. I started again, realized my hand was shaking, and looked imploringly at Henry. He said, “I'll do it.” Sadd stood up and handed me the other receiver.

“Let Henry talk. You listen.”

Sal's cheery voice said, “Pushing Murder.”

“Sal—it's Henry Gamadge.”

“Hi, Henry. How's your mom?”

“Pretty good.”

“I tried to get her a while ago, but they said no calls.”

“She just needs rest. How's business?”

“Kind of slow. I wish it would stop snowing.”

“Is Dwight there?”

“No, he's gone out to do errands.”

Oh, God.

“When do you expect him back?”

“I have no idea. Shall I have him call you?”

“No, it's not important.”

“Are you calling from the hospital? Can I speak to Clara?”

“Er—I'm at the office.”

“Oh. Well, come see us soon.”

“I'll do that. Bye, Sal.”

He hung up, and I let my receiver drop beside me. Sadd said, “Unconscious of the sword of Damocles?”

“Totally.”

Henry stood staring at the phone. He said, “As I see it, there are three possible scenarios. One—”

The door was pushed open, and Sister Agnes backed in with a tray. She said, “I thought a cup of tea might…” Sister's instructions had evidently included a suggestion to pamper this slightly cuckoo old lady. “And some macaroons. I made them myself.”

“Sister, you're a saint.” Sadd helped himself to one of the macaroons and Henry to another. I grabbed the last one as she smiled and withdrew. “Go on, Henry. One?”

“One, Dunlop gets the letter, Clara is safe, and Janet is dead. Two, Dan gets the letter, and Mom's back in jeopardy. Three, he doesn't return from his ‘errands.' He's vamoosed, and Sal never sees him again.”

“Not the last. Not that man.” I lay back feeling horribly depressed.

Sadd said, “This is what I don't understand: other than his meal ticket, what good is Sal to him? Small specialty stores—in particular bookstores—are notoriously shaky propositions. They seldom make a dime. Unless Sal has a lot of money—”

“She does,” I said wearily.

“What?” The two spoke as one.

“Well, quite a bit. Her brother died last year and left her some. That's what she's using.”

Henry rewrapped his scarf. “Then Dunlop will have to move fast—before she runs through it all.”

6

Four o'clock. Where was Dan?

Sister had been back to take my blood pressure. She'd clucked approvingly at my progress, admired the nightgown Tina had sent me, and we'd talked about the snow. I suppose I dozed. The early kind of winter darkness was descending on the room, and Sadd, my protector, was asleep in his chair. The same tinny sound of a carol drifted up from the street. This time it was “Joy to the World.”

The hall was unusually quiet, or was my imagination creating a sinister lull during which a visitor might pad to my door? Kit was due on duty in an hour. Oh, Dan, where are you? Please, God, don't let me have to tell his wife—

The phone rang. Sadd woke up with a start as I grabbed my receiver.

“Hi, Clara, this is Dwight.”

No. No.
No!

“Sal said Henry called me. Is he there?”

“No.” This one aloud.

“She said you couldn't take calls this morning. Not a setback, I hope.”

“No.” Did I know another word? Sadd, thank God, had picked up the other receiver.

“Dwight, this is Sadd. Clara's been told the facts, and she's pretty shocked, naturally.”

“Of course she is, poor dear. Are you still on, Clara?”

“Yes.” Ah—a new word.

“You mustn't worry, my dear. We'll get to the bottom of this awful business. Make them give you a good strong sleeping pill and go off remembering we're all rooting for you.”

I managed to add “Thank you” to my vocabulary and hung up. Sadd did the same, looking rather shaken. He said, “My God, the man has nerves of steel. Does he think he's in the clear? Does this mean he has the letter? What happened while I was asleep at my post?”

“Nothing. Oh, where's Dan?”

Sadd looked around dazedly. “Not back yet? What time is it?”

“After four.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “Let me relieve myself before I have to contemplate another crisis.”

He went into the bathroom, and I lay back in a stew. That voice on the phone with its fake concern had reduced me to jelly. I was desperate for outside contact, for information and reassurance—even consolation. I would
not
call Henry and Tina; they'd been subjected to enough. I only hoped Paula would not call
me;
the slightest indication of my distraught state, and she'd be on a plane back to New York.

Oh, Dan,
come.

It was Kit who came. Usually she put her head in the door and said, “Reporting for duty.” This time she walked into the room and up to the bed and said, “Now, don't be upset.”

Had the girl never studied psychology? That command, of all commands, sends one into a distractedly upset state. I grabbed her arm.

“What? What?”

“Dan was mugged in the hospital garage. He's okay.”

“What's ‘okay'? What's ‘okay'?” I had a case of the repeats.

“He has abrasions and a broken wrist. It's being set down in Emergency.”

I flung back my covers. “Get me a wheelchair!”

“Mrs. Gamadge—no!”

“Clara, are you mad?” Sadd emerged from the bathroom to see my cast flailing.

I said, “Dan's been hurt, and I'm going—”

“Not badly,” protested Kit, “and he's coming up here just as soon as—”

“Either I get a wheelchair, or I
crawl
down to Emergency.”

“Hold on a second.” Kit took both my hands. “You told me last night that the orthopedist said maybe you could have a wheelchair today.”

“He did! He did!” The repeats were back like hiccups.

“Let me check and see if he left word. If he did, you get one.”

She started for the door, and Sadd said, “I don't think I've met this young lady. Dan's wife, right?”

“Kit, this is my cousin, Mr. Saddlier.” Quick and ungracious. “Get the chair.” Kit smiled at Sadd and left.

“Attractive,” said Sadd, and I muttered something to the effect that he'd notice attractiveness in a woman who was pushing him off a cliff. I added, “Hand me my bathrobe, please. It's in the closet.”

“Not till we know if you need it, Clara. Get back under the covers. I suppose you know you're still a target till we find out what happened to Dan.”

“I just know one thing: Dan's grandparents were friends of mine, and if anything serious—”

“Clara, he's a detective for heaven's sake. You know this is all in a day's work.”

“I don't care. He has a nice wife and a little boy Hen's age.”

“You sound mawkish and unprofessional.”

Kit came through the door followed by Disapproving Nurse pushing a wheelchair. Kit said, “Look what I found! Where's your robe?”

They helped me into it, and with D.N. on one side and Kit on the other, I emerged gingerly from the bed. D.N. said, “Put your weight on the good leg,” and I revolved and sank triumphantly into place.

“Onward and upward,” said Sadd.

“Downward, actually,” I said, “to Emergency.”

“Emergency?” D.N. looked aghast.

Why had I opened my mouth? “Well, a friend of mine is being treated there. I hoped I could—”

“Mrs. Gamadge, I'm sure the doctor only meant for you to take a turn up and down the hall.”

“Perfectly right. Up and down the hall,” I said. She patted my shoulder and departed. “But she didn't say
which
hall,” I added, and Kit began to laugh. Sadd said, “Jesuitical reasoning if ever I heard it.”

“Is there an elevator somewhere out of sight?” I asked.

“Right around the corner,” said Kit. She asked Sadd to push because she wanted her hands free.

It was an odd feeling of emergence into the world again. My room had been a cocoon for what seemed ages, and the hall felt like another country. I gazed from left to right into rooms where poor, recumbent souls gazed back. We passed people pushing intravenous apparatus on casters and people hobbling on crutches; we stopped for a bed rolling out of a room bearing a white-faced, wide-eyed girl. I thought grimly that at least none of them had to fear an unguarded door, a threatening presence. Kit walked beside me, her vigilant, sweeping glance taking in everything.

We turned at the end of the hall where a little corner waiting room boasted a Christmas tree. Two other occupants of wheelchairs and their visitors looked at us as we stopped before the elevator.

Kit said, “We don't get in here with anybody else. If somebody makes a run for it as the door starts to close, we get out.”

No one did, and down we went. The door opened, and we emerged to confront Dan, a badly ripped parka over his shoulders, his right arm in a cast from palm to elbow, and evidence of a struggle on his face and in his hair.

He looked astonished, then aghast. “Turn right around and get back in that elevator!”

“No, siree.” I grabbed his good hand. “I'm out of my cage, and I love it. Where can we go for a drink?”

Dan laughed. “There's a waiting room at the end of this hall. However, much as I could use a drink—”

“There's a packie across the street,” said Sadd. “I'm getting to know this neighborhood.”

“What's a packie?” asked Kit, her eyes on the stream of passersby.

Sadd sighed. “What children. Doesn't anybody call liquor stores that anymore?”

“Look!” Over the flow of moving heads I saw a sign with an arrow:
TO CHAPEL
. I pointed to it. “There lies salvation.”

Sadd looked startled. “Drinks in the chapel?”

“Of course not. In the library next to it that Janet told us about.”

“I'll make it wine,” said Sadd. “That will be more appropriate for chapel precincts.” He took off.

Dan and Kit, who had not for a minute relaxed their vigilance, began to laugh. Dan said, “I wish Gramps and Mr. Gamadge were here.”