A Multitude of Sins (16 page)

He nodded. “Miss Canfield said he’s unusually free with his car, at least, which surprised me.”

“Sure. Any of the guys want to impress a chick with the fancy wheels, he’ll turn over the keys, except when
he’s
doing the impressing, which is quite a lot.”

“He has an Elan? That’s a beautiful piece of machinery. Have you ever driven it?”

“Yes. But not because I needed it to line up any dates. I told you I dig sports cars.” He frowned uneasily. “Look, Mr. Flagg, don’t—well, I mean, I’d just as soon all this about Jim didn’t get back to Dore.”

“Don’t worry. I’m well aware that she’s a little biased when it comes to Jim.”

“Well, he’s all she’s got to call family now, and like I said, he’s all right. Maybe I just envy him.”

“Envy him what?”

“Oh, the money, I guess.” Meade’s eyes were cold slits, the amber light glinting. “Everything that goes with it.”

Conan made no response except a polite smile, wondering if in Ben’s mind “everything that goes with it” included Isadora Canfield. Then he looked at his watch and rose. “Ben, you’ll be late for class if I keep you longer.”

Meade stood up and gathered his books.

“Look, if there’s anything I can do for Dore…
”

“You’ve already done a great deal for her in answering my questions. Thanks.”

Meade hesitated, then with an uneasy shrug turned away.

“Tell her I miss her.”

Conan didn’t return directly to the parking lot where he left his car; he made a detour to the Student Union and a phone booth. The call went to Steve Travers.

“Conan, you’re running up a hell of a phone bill calling me every other day.”

“This one is cheap, Steve. I’m in Salem.”

“Oh. Well, where’re you calling from?”

“A phone booth.”

“What’s the matter? You don’t want to be seen around low types like cops?”

Conan was watching the people moving in and out of the building closely, and he laughed at that.

“Exactly. I had a tail when I left Holliday Beach this morning, but I think I shook him.”

“A tail? Okay, I suppose you have a license number for me to check.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Tan Chevy, Oregon BLC381.”

“Got it. Anything else on your mind?”

“How are your relations with the Salem city police?”

Travers laughed. “That depends on why you’re asking. If they’re good, I’m not sure I want to risk fouling them up with any of your bright ideas.”

“Would you take that risk for Sean Kelly?”

“For Sean I’d lay my badge on the line. By God, Conan, if I wasn’t a happily married man—”

“You’d still be courting Marcie Schultz. Right?”

“Probably. What’s this about Sean?”

“She conned the Canfields’ housekeeper into leaving town for a few days while she takes her place. She assures me she can take care of herself, but I’d feel better if I knew you could get the local police to her fast.”

“Tell her to call me if she needs help; I’ll see that she gets it. Now, what’s going on with this Canfield thing?”

He hesitated, the muscles of his jaw tensing.

“I’m not sure, but there’s a new factor in the equations. Drugs. That’s why I’m a little worried about Sean.”

“
Drugs.
Now, listen, what are you—I mean, if you’ve turned up anything—”

Conan let him splutter a few seconds, then cut in, “Steve, I can’t tell you any more about it. Not now.”

“What do you mean? You expect me just to
ignore
it?”

“I expect you to give me time to find out what’s going on before you jump in with both flat feet. All you’d come up with now is one sad user, and if I’m reading this thing right, the drugs are just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Okay, so what’s at the bottom of the iceberg?”

“Murder.”

“Oh, for God’s
sake—whose
murder?”

“John Canfield’s.”

“Sure, anything you say. But just as a matter of curiosity, how do you turn a heart attack into a murder?”

“You must’ve missed the class on poisons at the police academy. However, I’m not too worried about that little detail now. Do you have the report on Canfield’s death handy?”

“Just a minute, it’s on my desk somewhere. I had it out for Sean. Oh—here. What do you want to know?”

“What time did Catharine say it was when she first heard Dore screaming?”

“Uh, let’s see…here it is: 1:15
a.m.”

“I just talked to Ben Meade. He’s the young man who—”

“Yes, I know. Sean asked me about him.”

“All right. Dore told me she started to go into the library to tell her father she was home as soon as Ben left the house. He says he left at 12:30.”

Travers was silent for a while, then he asked guardedly, “This Meade, he’d swear to the time?”

“I didn’t ask him, but I’m sure he would.” Especially, Conan added to himself, if Ben thought it advisable to establish his departure from the house at that point. “Steve, if he’s right, I want to know what happened in the forty-five minutes between 12:30 and 1:15.”

“What does your client say about it?”

“Nothing. She remembers nothing after she started to go into the library until she woke up at Morningdell a week later.”

“Well, where does that leave you?”

“Up a creek.”

“And you want me to hand you a paddle?”

Conan managed a laugh. “I’m just asking you to give me a little elbow room, but have that paddle handy.”

“Okay. But damn it, keep me up to date on this.”

“I will. Steve, I have to go; I have an appointment.”

“What kind of appointment?”

“A doctor’s appointment.”

“I hope it’s a head doctor. I think you need one.”

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

CHAPTER 14

A fortress, even if it appeared to be nothing more formidable than an old Georgian mansion reincarnated in a more functional guise. Sean Kelly’s description of Morningdell Sanatorium was apt, Conan thought, as he waited at the third check-point—Dr. Milton Kerr’s reception room—where a blue-haired woman in a white uniform was speaking into the inter-office phone.

The first check-point was at the ornate iron gates where a uniformed guard made the first phone call, then directed him down a road lined with flowering plums in full vernal glory to the hospital, which was set in an expanse of lawn better tended than most golf courses.

The second check-point was in the large, sunlit lobby where another uniformed personage stopped him at the desk and made another phone call. He was then sent up a curving stairway to the second floor and this last check-point.

The receptionist hung up the phone, managing to do it without a sound, and motioned toward the door behind her.

“You may go in now. Dr. Kerr is expecting you.”

He sighed. “I should hope so.”

The room behind the door was spacious and decorous, with white enameled woodwork, Delft blue carpet and drapes, and well-stocked bookcases. Between the tall windows on the opposite wall, a massive mahogany desk presided with a cushioned armchair in attendance before it. The man behind the desk was in his forties, his bearing and appearance as refined and as calculatingly comfortable as his surroundings, his smile courteous and noncommittal.

“Mr. Flagg, won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Milton Kerr waited until Conan was seated, then began: “I think it only fair to tell you I’m a little dubious about this interview, but you had a very persuasive advocate in Isadora.” Then he added casually: “I called Lawrence Decker at Stanford, incidentally. He remembered you. In fact, he was—well, for Decker, quite complimentary.”

Conan laughed. “Then he called me nothing more insulting than a damned dilettante?”

“Something like that.” His smile warmed a little. “I’ve also had the privilege of studying under Decker, by the way.” He paused, his thoughtful scrutiny subtly shaded with skepticism. “Isadora gave me no satisfactory reason as to why she was so anxious for me to see you.”

“Perhaps because I’m the one who’s anxious to see you.”

Kerr coolly declined comment on that.

“May I ask the nature of your relationship with her?”

“It began as a client-consultant relationship, but obviously it’s more personal at this point.”

“A client-consultant relationship?”

“Yes. Among other things, I’m a licensed private investigator.”

There was a spark of interest in his eyes at that.

“That’s how you make your living?”

“Perhaps it’s one of the ways I
justify
my living. Doctor, Isadora said you diagnosed her as a latent schizoid. Is that true?”

He frowned slightly, taken off guard.

“It’s true I told her she
may
be a latent schizoid, and perhaps I was in error to give her what I tried to make clear was a tentative diagnosis.”

“But you
do
regard her as a latent schizoid?”

“Mr. Flagg, obviously Isadora has great faith in you, but that doesn’t justify my discussing her case with you.”

“Especially if my concern is simply idle curiosity?” He smiled as Kerr’s eyebrow came up a sixteenth of an inch. “I assure you it’s far more than that. Your diagnosis may be of crucial importance to her. Now, I’ll assume you wouldn’t lie to her in saying she
may
be a latent schizoid.”

“Of course not,” he replied, a little sharply.

“I’ll also assume you were being conservative with her, and actually you consider her more than a
latent
schizoid.”

“I cannot, unfortunately, prevent you from making assumptions. Mr. Flagg, you speak of Isadora as a client. Perhaps you could explain that.”

Conan repressed a smile at that deft shift of subject.

“Explain it? I sell a service, just as you do. She hired me, which makes her a client.”

“Hired you? May I ask why?”

“Isadora has great faith in you, too, Doctor, but that shouldn’t justify my discussing her case with you.” He blunted that barb with a slight smile. “But your position as her psychiatrist
does
justify it.”

“If it’s justified, then you might start by answering my question. Why did she hire you?” He was annoyed, but curious now, and perhaps a little uneasy.

“First, I should tell you how she approached me. It was rather unusual. She didn’t call me, or come to my office, or make an appointment by mail. Instead, she slipped an anonymous message into my place of business. The gist of it was that she wanted to meet with me, alone, at
my
house, and insisted on entering by a back door.”

The doctor was shocked enough to frown at that.

“Did she offer any explanation for this approach?”

“Yes. She said the secrecy was necessary to make sure no one found out she was seeing me privately.”

Kerr hesitated, his tone cautiously constrained as he asked, “Was she concerned about someone in particular?”

Conan nodded, but didn’t answer the question directly. “Doctor, consider a hypothetical case. Isadora Canfield comes to you in some similarly secretive manner and explains it by telling you she’s being followed; that two men are constantly watching her, day and night.”

Kerr learned forward. “She told you that?”

“This is a hypothetical case. She’s talking to you.”

“Oh, very well. Does she say who these men are?”

“She doesn’t know. She thinks one of them lives at Shanaway, and says he drives a red Ford.”

“Red?” A hint of regret, even defeat, etched his disciplined feature. “What else does she say about these men?”

“Very little, except she first noticed them soon after she moved to Shanaway. She’s never spoken to them, and they’ve made no overtly threatening moves; they simply follow and watch her. Now, my question is this: If Dore came to you with this story, what would your reaction be?”

Kerr studied him for some time before he replied.

“I assume these ‘hypothetical’ statements were actually made to you, and your real question is what should
your
reaction be.” He paused, but not for a response from Conan; he seemed to be trying to come to grips with a decision. “I’m…disappointed Isadora hasn’t discussed this with me. I thought her condition a temporary one catalyzed by her father’s death, but I’m at a great disadvantage, first because her initial symptoms were confused by physical illness and grief, and now because I’m getting this second hand.”

“I’m only asking for a hypothetical reaction, Doctor.”

“Then
hypothetically
,”
he said with an edge of impatience, “I’d have to reconsider my decision to release her.”

“You’d suggest she return to Morningdell?”

“Yes, I’d certainly consider that advisable.”

“And if she didn’t wish to return?”

“I’d be helpless, unless her family was willing to go through the legal procedures necessary to commit her.”

Her family. The words had a hollow ring, as if he were hearing them through Isadora’s ears. But when he spoke, he carefully restrained the impulse to irony.

“Wouldn’t you consider investigating her story?”

“Investigating it?”

“Occam’s Razor; dispose of the most obvious possibility first; in this case, the possibility that she’s telling the simple truth.”