The Cradle Will Fall (10 page)
Read The Cradle Will Fall Online
Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Thrillers, #Suspense
WHEN Richard returned to his office after the meeting with Scott
and the others, he stood for a long time staring out the window.
In the pocket-size park in front of the courthouse a flurry of snow
pelted the already frozen grass.
He glanced up at the sky. Vangie Lewis' body was being flown
to Newark from Minneapolis on a two-thirty flight. It would be
brought to the morgue, and tomorrow morning he'd reexamine
it. There was something about her left foot or leg that he had
noticed and dismissed as irrelevant. He pushed that thought aside.
It was useless to speculate until he could reexamine the body.
Sighing, he snapped on the intercom and asked Marge to bring in
his phone messages.
She hurried in with a sheaf of slips in her hand. "None of these
are too important," she said. "But I got the statistics on the Westlake
obstetrical patients. In the eight years of the Westlake Maternity
Concept, sixteen patients have died either in childbirth or of
toxic pregnancies."
"Sixteen?"
"Sixteen," Marge repeated with emphasis. "However, the practice
is huge. And all the women who died had been warned by
other doctors that they were high pregnancy risks."
"I'll study the fatalities," Richard said. "Anything else?"
"Maybe. Two people filed malpractice suits against Dr. High-
ley. Both were dismissed. And a cousin of his wife's claimed that
he didn't believe she'd died of a heart attack. The prosecutor's
office contacted her physician, Dr. Alan Levine, and he said the
cousin was crazy. The cousin had been the sole heir before Winifred
Westlake married Dr. Highley."
"I'll have a talk with Dr. Levine."
"And these are the people who filed the malpractice suits."
Richard looked down at the two names on the sheet of paper
Marge handed him. Anthony Caldwell, Old Country Lane, Pea-
pack, New Jersey, and Anna Horan, 415 Walnut Street, Ridgefield
Park, New Jersey. "You do nice work, Marge," he said.
She nodded. "I know."
He phoned Dr. Levine and caught him as he was leaving his
office. They agreed to meet at the Parkwood Country Club.
Alan Levine was a Jimmy Stewart look-alike, which endeared
him to his older patients. He and Richard enjoyed the easy cordiality
of professionals who respected each other. At the club,
Richard came directly to the point. "Winifred Westlake was your
patient. Her cousin suggested that she did not die of a heart attack.
What can you tell me about it?"
Levine sipped his martini and glanced out the picture window at
the snow-covered fairway. "I have to answer that question on a
couple of levels. First: Winifred for years had all the classic
symptoms of a duodenal ulcer, except it never showed up on
X ray. When she'd experience pain, I'd prescribe an ulcer diet
and she'd feel relief almost immediately. No great problem.
"Then the year before she married Highley she had a severe
attack of gastroenteritis, which actually altered her cardiogram.
I put her in the hospital for a suspected heart attack. But after two
days the cardiogram was well within the normal range."
"So there might or might not have been a heart problem?"
"I didn't think there was. But her mother died of a heart attack
at fifty-eight, and Winifred was nearly fifty-two when she died.
She was older than Highley by some ten years. Several years after
her marriage she began to complain of frequent chest pains. The
tests produced nothing significant. I told her to watch her diet."
"And then she had a fatal attack?" Richard asked.
The other doctor nodded. "One evening, during dinner, she
had a seizure. Highley had his service call me. When I got there,
he was still trying to revive her. But it was hopeless. She died a
few minutes after I arrived."
"And you're satisfied it was heart failure?"
There was a hint of hesitation. "I was satisfied at the time."
"At the time." Richard underscored the words.
"I suppose the cousin's absolute conviction that something was
wrong about her death has troubled me these three years. I practically
threw Glenn Nickerson out of my office when he came in
and as much as accused me of falsifying records. But he is a family
man, active in his church, on the town council; certainly not the
kind to go off half-cocked at being disinherited. And he must have
known that Winifred would leave her estate to her husband. She
was crazy about Highley. Why, I never could see. But I've got to
hand it to him. He's an excellent doctor."
"Excellent enough to have chemically induced a heart attack in
his wife?"
Dr. Levine looked directly at Richard. "Frankly, I've often
wished I'd insisted on an autopsy."
They parted at the entrance to the bar. Richard fished in his
pocket for change, went over to the public telephone and dialed
the Essex House in New York. "Dr. Emmet Salem, please."
There was the repeated sound of a phone ringing. The operator
broke in. "I'm sorry, but there's no answer."
"Are you sure Dr. Salem has checked in?" Richard asked.
"Yes, sir. He called specifically to say that he was expecting an
important call and he wanted to be sure to get it. That was only
twenty minutes ago. But I guess he changed his mind. Because
we are definitely ringing his room and there's no answer."
THE Newsmaker article was on the stands Thursday morning.
The phone calls, had begun as soon as Highley went to his office
after delivering the Aldrich baby. The response was beyond his
expectations. The Dartmouth Medical School phoned. Would he
consider a guest lecture? A writer for Ladies' Home Journal wanted
an interview. Would Dr. Highley appear on Eyewitness News?
Smiling, he signaled for his first patient to come in. She was an
interesting case: her womb was so tipped that she'd never conceive
without intervention. She would be his next Vangie.
The phone call came at noon, just as he was leaving for lunch.
The nurse covering the reception desk was apologetic. "It's long
distance from a Dr. Emmet Salem in Minneapolis."
Emmet Salem! He picked up the phone. "Edgar Highley here."
"Dr. Highley. From Christ Hospital in Devon?"
"Yes." He felt a chill, sickening fear.
"Doctor, I learned last night that you treated my former patient
Vangie Lewis. I'm leaving for New York immediately. In fact,
I'm at the airport now. I am planning to consult with the medical
examiner in New Jersey about Mrs. Lewis' death. I have her records
with me. In fairness to you, I suggest we discuss her case first."
"Doctor, I'm troubled by your tone and insinuations."
"I'll be checking into room 3219 at the Essex House shortly
before five. You can call me there." The connection was broken.
Highley was waiting at the hotel when Emmet Salem emerged
from the cab. Swiftly he took an elevator to the thirty-second floor,
walked past room 3219 and around a corner. Another elevator
stopped at the floor. He listened as a key clicked and a bellman
said, "Here we are, Doctor." A minute later the bellman emerged
from the room. "Thank you, sir." Highley waited until the corridors
were silent. Quickly he opened his bag and took out the paperweight
He slipped it into his coat pocket, put on his gloves,
grasped the bag firmly in his left hand and knocked on the door.
Emmet Salem pulled the door open. He had just removed his
suit coat.
"Dr. Salem!" Highley reached for Salem's hand, walking forward,
backing the older man into the room, closing the door behind
him. "I'm Edgar Highley. It's good to see you again. You
got off the phone so abruptly that I couldn't tell you I was coming
into town for dinner. I have only a few minutes, but I'm sure we
can clear up any questions." He was still walking forward, forcing
the other man to retreat. The window behind Salem was wide
open. He'd probably had the bellman open it because the room
was very hot. The sill was low. "I tried to phone you, but your extension
is out of order."
"Impossible. I just spoke to the operator." Salem stiffened.
"Then I do apologize. But I'm so anxious to go over the Lewis
file with you. I have it right here." He put his bag down and
reached for the paperweight in his pocket, then cried, "Doctor,
behind you, watch out!"
The other man spun around. Highley crashed the paperweight
on Salem's skull. Emmet Salem slumped against the windowsill.
Jamming the paperweight back into his pocket, Edgar Highley
cupped his palms around Salem's foot and shoved up and out.
"No. No. Please!" The half-conscious man slid out the window
and landed on the roof of the extension some fifteen floors below.
The body made a muffled thud.
From Salem's suit coat on the bed Highley pulled out a key
ring. The smallest key fitted the attache case on the luggage rack.
The Vangie Lewis file was on top. Grabbing it, he shoved it into
his own bag, relocked Salem's bag, returned the keys to the suit-
coat pocket. He placed the bloodstained paperweight in his bag,
then glanced around. The room was in perfect order.
He opened the door and looked along the corridor. It was empty.
As he stepped out, the phone in Salem's room began to ring. An
elevator was just stopping. He got on, his eyes scanning the passengers.
No one he knew.
At the lobby, he walked rapidly to the Fifty-eighth Street exit.
Ten minutes later he reclaimed his car from a park-and-lock
garage, tossed his bag into the trunk and drove away.
WHEN she left Scott's office, Katie called in Rita Castile, one of
the investigators, and together they went over the material Katie
would need for upcoming trials. "That armed robbery on the
twenty-eighth, where the defendant had his hair cut the morning
after the crime. Well need the barber to testify. It's no wonder the
witnesses couldn't make a positive identification. Even though we
made him wear a wig in the lineup, he didn't look the same."
Rita jotted down the barber's address.
"That's about all I have for you now," Katie said, "but I won't
be coming in over the weekend, so next week will really be a
mess. Be prepared."
"You won't be coming in?" Rita raised her eyebrows. "Well,
it's about time. You haven't taken a full weekend in a couple of
months. I hope you're planning to have some fun."
Katie grinned. "I don't know how much fun it will be. Oh, Rita,
I have a hunch that Maureen is upset about something. Is it the
breakup with her fiance?"
Rita shook her head. "No, that was just kid stuff, and she knew
it. The problem is, just about the time they broke up she realized
she was pregnant and had an abortion. She's weighted down with
guilt about it. She told me that she keeps dreaming about the
baby, that she'd do anything to have had it, even though she
would have given it out for adoption."
Katie remembered how much she had hoped to conceive John's
child. "That does explain it. Thanks for telling me. I was afraid
I'd said something to hurt her."
After Rita left, Katie called Westlake Hospital. She wanted to
talk again with the receptionist, Gertrude Fitzgerald. Then she
would call Gana Krupshak.
The hospital told her that Mrs. Fitzgerald was home ill, and
gave Katie her home phone number. When the woman answered,
her voice was weak and shaking. "I have one of my migraines,"
she said, "and no wonder. Every time I think of poor Edna . . ."
"I would like to ask you something," Katie said. "Did Edna ever
call either of the doctors she worked for Prince Charming?"
"Prince Charming? Dr. Highley or Dr. Fukhito? Why would
she call either of them Prince Charming? My heavens, no."
"All right. It was just a thought." Katie said good-by and dialed
Mrs. Krupshak. The superintendent answered. His wife was out,
he explained. She'd be back around five.
Katie glanced at the clock. It was four thirty. "Do you think
she'd mind if I stopped to talk to her for a few minutes?"
"Suit yourself," the man answered shortly.
MRS. Krupshak was home when Katie rang her bell. "Now, isn't
that timing!" she exclaimed. For her, the shock of discovering
Edna's body had worn off and she was enjoying the excitement.
"This is my bingo afternoon," she explained. "When I told my
friends what happened they could hardly keep their cards
straight."
She ushered Katie into an L-shaped living room, and they both
sat down on an imitation-leather couch.
"Mrs. Krupshak," Katie said, "I wonder if you would go over
with me very carefully what happened Tuesday night: how long
you were with Edna; what you talked about. When she spoke to
Captain Lewis, did you get the impression that she made an appointment
with him?"
Gana Krupshak leaned back. "Now, let's see. I went over to
Edna's right at eight o'clock, because Gus started to watch the
basketball game and I thought I'd go have a beer with Edna.
The thing is, Edna had made a pitcher of manhattans and they
were about half gone and she was pretty rocky. She talked in
a sort of rambly way about this patient who had died, how
beautiful she'd been, how sick she'd been getting and how she-
Edna, I mean—could tell the cops a lot about her."
"Then what happened?" Katie asked.
"Well, I had a manhattan, or two, with her and then figured I'd
better get home. But I hated to see Edna drink much more, so
I got out that nice canned ham for her."
"And that was when she made the call to Captain Lewis and
mentioned Prince Charming?"
"As God is my witness."
"All right, but one last thing, Mrs. Krupshak. Do you know if
Edna kept any articles of clothing of her mother's as a sentimental
keepsake? I noticed a shabby old moccasin in Edna's night-
table drawer. Did she ever show it to you or mention it?"
Gana Krupshak looked directly at Katie. "Absolutely not," she
said flatly.
CHRIS Lewis arrived at the Twin Cities airport at one thirty.
He had an hour to wait before his plane left for Newark. Vangie's
body would be on that plane. At Newark the medical examiner's
office would be waiting for it.
And the prosecutors office would be waiting for him. Of course.
If they were suspicious in any way about Vangie's death, they
were going to look to him for answers. If they'd investigated at
all, they knew by now that he'd returned to the New Jersey area
Monday night. He had to see Dr. Salem, find out why he had
been so upset. If Chris were detained for questioning, he might not
be able to talk to him.
He also had to talk to Joan. He had the number of the stewardess,
Kay Corrigan, with whom she was staying in Florida. Not
knowing what he would say, he put through the call.
Kay answered. "It's Chris, Kay. Is Joan there?"
"Chris, the Valley County prosecutor's office has been calling
here asking questions about you two. Joan is frantic!"
"Is she there?"
"No. She won't be here till about eight tonight."
"Tell her to stay in till I call her. Tell her-" He broke the con
nection, leaned against the phone and pushed back a sob. It was
all too much. He didn't know what to do. In a few hours he'd be
in custody, suspected of killing Vangie.
No. There was another way. He'd get the flight into La Guardia.
He could still make it. Then he'd be able to see Dr. Salem at almost
the same time he reached the hotel. Maybe Dr. Salem could help
him somehow.
He barely made the La Guardia flight. On the plane, he listlessly
thumbed through Newsmaker magazine. His eye caught
the headline WESTLAKE MATERNITY CONCEPT OFFERS NEW HOPE
TO CHILDLESS COUPLES. Westlake. He read the first paragraph.
"For the past eight years, a private clinic in New Jersey has been
making it possible for childless women to become pregnant The
program is carried on by Dr. Edgar Highley...."
Highley. Vangie's doctor. Funny she never talked very much
about him. It was always the psychiatrist, Fukhito.
The plane landed at four thirty. Chris hurried through the
terminal and hailed a cab. It was five when he reached the Essex
House. He headed for a lobby telephone, asked the operator for
Dr. Salem's room number and dialed it. The phone rang . . .
again . . . again. After six rings he hung up. He dialed the operator
and asked her to try it for him.
The operator hesitated. "Sir, when Dr. Salem checked in, he told
me that he expected an important call. But apparently he's stepped
out. Why don't you try again in a few minutes?"
"I'll do that." Chris hung up the phone, walked over to a lobby
chair facing an elevator bank and sat down. The elevators opened,
dislodged passengers, filled again, disappeared.
One elevator caught his attention. There was something
vaguely familiar about someone on it; a middle-aged man with a
turned-up coat collar. Dr. Salem? No. Not Salem.
At five thirty Chris tried again. And at quarter to six. At five
past six he heard the whispers that ran through the lobby like a
flash fire. "Someone jumped out a window." From outside came
the wail of an ambulance and the yip-yip of police cars.
Chris went to the bell captain's desk. "Who was it?" he asked.
"Dr. Emmet Salem. A big shot in the AMA. Room 3219."
Walking like an automaton, Chris pushed through the revolving
door to Fifty-eighth Street. He hailed a cab and got in. "La
Guardia, please," he said.
There was a seven-o'clock flight to Miami. He had to get to
Joan, try to make her understand before he was arrested.