The Man Who Loved His Wife (30 page)

Corbin was already on his way.

“I took the liberty of making a search of your house,” Knight told Elaine. “I didn't ask permission this time because I thought you'd rather not have your conversation with the doctor disturbed. You two seemed very absorbed.”

“Thanks.” Elaine tried not to show annoyance, but she was uncomfortable at the discovery that she and Ralph had been watched. What had they said? Nothing that could be useful to Knight, she was sure, yet the knowledge irritated her. She sat erect, folded her hands in her lap, and waited attentively.

Don and Cindy were not surprised to see Corbin carry in Cindy's beige organza dress in a plastic bag. After their visit to the undertaker's, they had gone downtown to Police Headquarters where Cindy had signed a confession stating that she had found the bag on her father's body, removed and hidden it. She had been assured that by this voluntary act she would escape
punishment, but now, although she might have expected it, the sight of the bag affected her nerves. She began to tremble.

Like an actor playing detective, Knight examined the bag, slipped it off the hanger, held it up for them to look at, shook it, listened to the faint rustle, brought it closer, and read aloud: “Top Drawer Cleaners. Ladies' and Gentlemen's Fine Custom Cleaning.” And in lower pitch, “Warning: To avoid danger of suffocation keep away from babies and small children. Do not use in cribs, carriages, beds, or playpens. This bag is not a toy.”

Everyone was silent. There were no human noises in the room, no sounds of breathing, no sniffles, no sighs, no tap of fingers, no creaking of chairs under nervous buttocks.

“A medical question, Dr. Julian. Could such a bag smother”—Knight held on to the word while darting a veiled look at Elaine—“a man in Mr. Strode's condition?” He touched his throat as people always did when they spoke of Fletcher's wound.

“It could kill an ox,” Ralph said.

“We call it the cheap suicide,” put in Corbin.

The word was unfortunate. Knight winced. And Cindy looked angry.

“It would have to be placed over the nose and mouth in a way to prevent inhalation of air,” said Knight and drew from his pocket a square of the thin plastic material of which such bags are made. “Allow me to demonstrate.” He held the stuff over his face and breathed in. The plastic clung to his mouth and nostrils. “In the same way,” he said, pulling it off, “it would adhere to the opening in Mr. Strode's neck, sealing it tight so that no air could enter. And since we know, both by his wife's statement and our laboratory tests, that he had taken barbiturates, there is no doubt that he was in a deep sleep so that the bag could be fixed firmly over the throat without his knowing. And that he did not wake and push it off as people do when blankets interfere with their breathing.”

“For a man speaking of possibilities, you seem very sure of your facts,” remarked Ralph.

“They are facts. We know positively that Mr. Strode died
of suffocation caused by this bag.” With a brief smile Knight added, “You seem astonished, Doctor. I don't wonder, since you were the first to examine the body.”

“There was no sign of a bag when I got there.”

“It had been removed and concealed.”

“Is that true?” Ralph turned toward Elaine.

“I didn't hide it.”

“Mrs. Hustings,” announced Knight with a nod toward Cindy, “has confessed that she removed the bag.”

“What the hell for?” asked Ralph.

“To protect her father's memory against the disgrace of suicide.” This time Knight bowed as though he honored Cindy for the act.

She failed to recognize the chivalry, but sat like a mute or a dreamer. Don spoke for her. “Thank you, sir.”

Too acutely Elaine remembered the moment when Don, holding the bundle from the cleaner's, had kissed her. The bags had been a wall between their bodies. When Fletcher walked in, the bags had slipped to the floor. Fletcher had helped pick them up without a word of reproach, but Elaine had felt guilty and tried to excuse herself.

“So we know what caused Mr. Strode's death,” Ralph said, “but can his loyal daughter tell us who put the bag over him?”

“I didn't want people to think my father—”

“
Sh-sh
,” commanded Don. His fists were clenched, his jaws jutted.

“Let's keep our heads. I'm sure Dr. Julian did not mean to infer anything derogatory to your wife,” Knight said.

“I agree with her. The diagnosis was correct, I'm sure. The plastic bag points definitely to suicide.” Ralph nodded at Corbin. “Cheap suicide.”

“We have no proof of that,” Knight argued.

“We have no proof that it wasn't. And since the only person who would know definitely will never be able to tell us—”

Ralph stopped dead. A car horn, raucous and unexpected, struck their ears like an echo of the maimed voice. Elaine's back arched like a cat's. Don turned toward the window as though he
expected to see the curtains parted by a ghostly hand. Cindy groped for her package of paper handkerchiefs.

“I am forced to disagree with you, Dr. Julian. There
may
be one person who knows definitely how that bag happened to be on the body. Do I make myself clear?”

“Almost too clear,” Ralph answered. “Clearer than you know. I hope your bosses appreciate your zeal.”

Knight's urbanity was not disturbed. He studied the plastic bag as though he had never before seen such a thing, then held it up for them all to see again. “Do you recognize this bag, Mrs. Strode?”

“It's like all the others. They all look alike.”

“You recognize the name on it?”

“Certainly. We always send our things to the Top Drawer.”

“Are there any other such bags in the house?”

Elaine answered scornfully, “You ought to know, you've made a thorough search.”

“Please answer my question.”

“Yes, there are. Some in my husband's closet and perhaps in Cindy's and Don's room, too.”

“No, not in our room! You can look if you want,” Cindy said feverently.

With the diffident laugh that accompanies a confession of economy, Don admitted, “We use a cheaper cleaner. Top Drawer's a bit out of our class.”

“Mrs. Strode, didn't you mention the fact that the cleaner's boy delivered some of those bags recently?” Knight erred deliberately. He saw Elaine stiffen and scowl as she looked at Don.

“He must have told you.”

Smiling ruefully, “I did,” he said. “After Cindy confessed to Sergeant Knight about finding and hiding it, he asked if I'd seen the bag before, and I told him how I'd helped you hang up several of them.”

“I see,” Knight said slowly as if pondering a difficult problem. “Do you remember when that was, Mrs. Strode?”

“Why don't you ask Don? He remembers everything.”

Don reminded her that they had been in the pavilion together
when they heard the truck stop in the driveway. It was no wonder, he told Knight, that Elaine was not too clear about it because she had been rather distraught at the time.

Knight wanted to know what had upset her, and Don said that it was just when she was telling him that she feared Fletcher would kill himself.

“I see. Naturally she'd be upset. Naturally,” Knight said as though this were all new to him. “And what did you do with the bags, Mrs. Strode?”

“You've heard it all from Don. We hung them up.”

“In Mr. Strode's closet?”

“They were over his suits.”

“Tell me why”—Knight's softest tone was most menacing, his slow and sensuous walk a threat in pantomime—“when you believed your husband suicidal, you hung those dangerous bags in his bedroom.”

Her head went up, her eyes met Knight's in challenge. “Why don't you read the diary again? You've got such faith in it, perhaps you'll find your answer there.” Insolence was deliberate. She was worn out, emotionally drained and, like a weary child, wayward and bent upon opening herself to attack.

Ralph sprang toward her. “Don't say any more. You don't have to, you know. Let me get you a good lawyer.”

Don looked supremely indifferent.

“One more question, Mrs. Strode.” Knight made a statement of it, rather than a question. “Do you remember how many suits covered with plastic bags the cleaner delivered that afternoon?”

“Two. And the cashmere jacket.”

“Three?”

Don confirmed this with a nod.

“Are those three bags still there, over the garments, Mrs. Strode?”

“You've made a thorough search. Don't you know?” A mask had formed, giving her face a remote and haughty expression.

“Shall we go and look?” Knight stepped aside so that Elaine could precede him. The others followed in a straggling procession and formed a tight group beside the bedroom door.

The air conditioner in Fletcher's room had not been turned on. Heat assaulted them. Light from the ceiling lamp struck their faces. Knight created dramatic effects by underplaying. He opened the closet door quietly. No plastic gleamed over the suits. He asked Elaine to identify the two which had been delivered by the cleaner, and the cashmere jacket. They all hung uncovered.

“Where are those three bags?” Knight asked.

Elaine walked toward the closet stiffly, looked inside, and then back at Knight. “I don't know.”

“You don't know? But I thought you hung them in here a few days ago. Did you remove them?”

Elaine seemed not to be with them in the hot, bright room. Rapt, controlled, driven by some force beneath her dark look, she stood alone and remote. Ralph, aware of all the shards of tension, every flick of an eyelid, each startled glance, all the twitches and tremors, saw her as a stranger.

“I asked a question, Mrs. Strode. I'd appreciate an answer.” Urbanity had collapsed. Knight used a brusque tone.

“What was your question?”

“What became of the three plastic bags? One, we know, was found on your husband's body and was removed by Mrs. Hustings. We've got that one. But the other two? Why were they removed? So the absence of the third wouldn't be noticed?”

Cindy dropped her cigarette. It lay smoldering on the carpet.

Elaine said, “What became of them, Don?”

Don favored Knight with his frankest youthful expression.

“I've told you everything I know, sir.”

“I asked you, Mrs. Strode, why those bags were removed.”

Corbin leaped to stamp out the small flame. The carpet was singed and gave off a rancid smell. Elaine kept them waiting. The others showed their feelings more clearly: Cindy's tremors, Don's deceptive charm, Ralph's ill-contained anger, the zest and suspense Knight could no longer keep hidden.

Ralph took Elaine's arm. “Don't say any more. Try to control yourself before you speak.” To Knight he barked, “She doesn't have to answer. Quit tormenting her.”

“She knows that,” Don hastened to put in. “I've advised her several times. There's no reason to get so excited. It's only circumstantial evidence.”

“Evidence, hell! What are you trying to do to her?”

“Keep out of this, Doctor,” ordered Knight, who had become more and more the cop. “Mr. Hustings is trying to help her.”

“What's your game?” Ralph took off his glasses as though, by uncovering his eyes, he could penetrate deeper into the detective's mind. “Why are you straining so hard to turn a simple suicide into murder? Publicity? Your career? Advancement? Is Lowell Hanley behind this? Big stuff for you boys, mysterious death, sensational diary, beautiful girl—”

Pale with fury, shaken, Knight snapped, “I'd advise you to keep your prejudices to yourself. They won't do your girl friend any good.”

“Please, please, Ralph, let me speak for myself.” No longer icy and remote, Elaine had become herself again, graceful in the pride of her carriage as she shook off his hand and moved toward Knight. She had made a decision, was free of uncertainty, spoke in a silky, provocative voice. “I've decided not to say any more without my own lawyer.”

Knight looked down at the diamonds and arabesques of the carpet and at Elaine's long, bare feet and painted toenails. Sadly, and courteous again, he said, “Then I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to come downtown for further questioning.”

“Now?” cried Ralph.

“I'm afraid that's necessary, Doctor.”

“But it's getting late. Why not tomorrow? She's exhausted. This has been a long ordeal.”

“Those were my instructions.”

“Why didn't you mention them earlier?”

“I'm allowed to exercise my own judgment. After obtaining certain answers to certain questions. Or failing to obtain them.”

“Don't worry about me, Ralph. I'm perfectly willing to go.”