A Multitude of Sins (25 page)

“No doubt. Is he making any trouble?”

“No. He’s delighted to dump it in the state’s lap. He expressed his opinion, then went home to bed. By the way, the sheriff’s office had a call from a ‘neighbor’ at Shanaway; said he heard a shot from the Canfield cottage.”

“Sure. Harry was closer than any neighbors, and he couldn’t hear a shot in that storm. When was the call made?”

“8:55. No name or address, of course.”

“Any calls to the state police?”

“No. I checked.”

“An open-and-shut case. Well, Sheriff Wills has demonstrated why he was called.”

“Maybe, but right now it looks like an open-and-shut case from the state’s point of view, too. Your client
was
found by the body with the murder weapon in her hand, and on top of that, she took a pot shot at the first person to walk in, which happened to be you—her fiancé, no less.”

His eyes narrowed. “Fiancé? Where’d you get that?”

“Catharine Canfield.”

“Oh.” He smiled and sipped at his bourbon. “That’s interesting. Don’t worry about it; it’s only a ploy.”

Travers laughed. “I already figured that out. You may have slipped once, but you’re too confirmed a bachelor to slip twice.”

“Maybe Isadora is too confirmed a spinster. Does the state intend to simply ignore a few rather pertinent facts?”

“Like what, Conan? Can you think of any facts a good prosecutor couldn’t dispose of without any trouble?”

“I won’t bother with the surveillance; that’ll be explained as concern for Dore’s mental stability. Except it’s interesting that Garner and Hicks and tan Chevy have apparently left town. Carl couldn’t find any of them.”

“I know; I talked to Carl. Oh, I forgot to tell you, I got a name on the tan Chevy. Everett Worth, himself.”

“Well, he’s no more subtle than his employees. Is your prosecutor going to ignore Jenny’s unknown visitor?”

“No, but he’s out as a suspect. I mean, for murder. Pushing drugs, yes. But that stash in the bedroom says he went away happy. The point is, he went away
before
Jenny called Isadora at the Surf House. That’s according to
your
operatives. Munson said the car left the cottage at 8:45; Carl said Jenny called Isadora at 8:50.”

“Munson also said
no
calls were made from the cottage at 8:50. He phoned me tonight after he checked the tapes.”

“I know. So, maybe he had a mechanical failure.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Steve—”

“He
recorded
no call, but Max Heinz
took
a call.”

“And Max would recognize Jenny’s voice?”

“Maybe not, but supposedly your client would. Max said she used Jenny’s name during the conversation, and afterward she told him, ‘Jenny’s in trouble.’”

Conan’s shoulders sagged. “You think she was capable of recognizing Jenny’s voice in her mental state?”

“I don’t know, but I can guess what a jury would say.”

“All right, but what about the coagulation of the blood? Steve, it was already beginning to dry at—at the edges. Now, I wasn’t more than a minute behind Dore when she reached the cottage. It couldn’t have reached that state of coagulation in one minute.”

“But who saw the wound
at that time
? Munson just had a glance at the body, then he was busy with Isadora. He didn’t get a close look until after you left. By then it was too late for the state of coagulation to mean anything.”

“And
my
testimony wouldn’t mean anything?”

“Oh, Conan, you know any prosecutor worth his salt would tear you apart if you got on the stand. You aren’t exactly an unbiased witness when it comes to Isadora Canfield.”

“All right, but just answer me this: What possible motive would she have to kill Jenny?”

Travers’s laugh was devoid of humor.

“Motive? Look, nobody’s going for murder one. Not when your client has a history of mental illness.”

Conan said angrily, “My client spent a month in a private hospital recovering from the shock of her father’s death. That doesn’t make a history of mental illness.”

“You want to add the scars on her wrists and try that on a jury?”

He didn’t respond immediately; instead, he went back to his chair and took a swallow of his drink. It tasted flat.

“So, the prosecutor will ask for mandatory institutionalization to lock away this insane menace to society.”

“Probably,” Travers said dully.

“That should please John Canfield’s killer. It’s exactly what he wanted from the beginning. If she ever recovers her memory her testimony will be inadmissible; no one will even listen to her. And you can be sure she’ll never see her inheritance, nor anything beyond the gates of Morningdell for the rest of her life. She’d be better off with a murder one conviction; at least she’d have the hope of appeal or parole. But constitutional rights don’t exist for anyone
accused
of mental illness.” He stopped, cradling his head in his hands, his mind and memory full of music.

“Steve, have you ever heard her play?”

“No. I understand she’s pretty good.”

“She’s more than good. Something so rare, so vital, you can’t name it; you can only feel it.” And weep for it, he added privately. “I wonder if they have a concert grand at Morningdell.”

There was a short silence, then Travers said quietly, “I haven’t called the case closed yet. Have you?”

Conan looked up at him, bridling at the question until he realized that was exactly his purpose.

“Is that what you call a rhetorical question?”

“It better be. But if you’re interested in keeping the case open, we’ve got some figuring to do.”

Conan’s laugh was simply an expression of relief.

“All right, Steve. Where do we start?”

“With the facts; we’ll get to the theories later. I want to know everything
you
know; every piece of information you’ve collected since Isadora Canfield first came to you.”

He nodded. “I hope you have plenty of time.”

“Not that much, probably, but I’ll take it.”

When Conan finally finished his account, Travers’s glass was empty and his own was down to a watery mix barely colored with bourbon. But Travers showed no sign of impatience during the long recital, listening and questioning, outwardly so relaxed he seemed on the verge of torpor, except for the intent, horizon-spanning squint.

Now, he peered at his glass and rose. “Refill?”

“No. Help yourself.”

Conan rose to replenish the fire, noting when Steve returned that the drink he’d mixed was both pale and short. “Okay, Conan, let’s talk about John Canfield.”

“His murder?”

“I guess so. Bring on your theories. I’m braced.”

He watched the fire a moment, then satisfied with his efforts, returned to his chair.

“I’ve only one basic theory, Steve; that Isadora witnessed her father’s murder.”

“How’d you arrive at that?”

He laughed. “Logically, of course; a gut feeling that something didn’t ring true with that very convenient heart attack. The surveillance made me wonder why someone was so worried about Dore. I couldn’t accept concern for her mental state as the reason for that, unless it was concern for her amnesia; for the possibility she might
recover
from it. The memory blackout begins right before she discovered her father’s body, which made me wonder if that was all she discovered. Besides, the amnesia, and her attitude toward his death—in fact, everything about this so-called mental breakdown—smells. Steve, a lot more went on that night than showed up in the police reports. And, yes I
do
have some tangible evidence. Ben Meade gave it to me.”

“That forty-five-minute time lapse?”

“Yes, and her overnight case. Ben said he left it by the library door, but when she supposedly cut her wrists, it was upstairs in her bathroom; that’s where the razor blade came from. So, how did it get upstairs? Would Dore make a trip upstairs with it before going in to talk to her father? Or when Jenny found her in screaming hysterics, would she pick it up when she took her to her room? Or when Jim arrived, would he even notice it, much less bother to take it with him when he went up to help Jenny with Dore?”

Travers slouched a little deeper into the couch.

“Not likely. You think somebody took it upstairs during that forty-five minutes? Why?”

“So the razor blade would be handy.”

“By the way, what do you mean by her
supposedly
cutting her wrists? Was that a figment of somebody’s imagination?”

Conan took time to light another cigarette, frowning at the dry, hot taste of it.

“They were cut. With a double-edged blade. Now, I defy anyone, particularly in a highly emotional state, to use a double-edged blade to cut
anything
without ending up with sliced fingers. Look at Dore’s hands. Pianists are nearly manic about taking care of their hands, and hers are devoid of scars—except for her wrists.”

“Well, I’ll take your word for the state of her hands.”

He managed a smile, but lost it as he went on.

“Take Sean’s word for this: Dore had a bottle of Seconal handy in her medicine cabinet, so why would she choose a razor blade instead? That suicide attempt was just icing on the cake of her insanity. Someone cut her wrists
for
her, and thank God it was only for effect; no real damage was done. Steve, I don’t know what Dore saw when she went into the library, but it was enough to make her a threat to someone. At the very least she saw Canfield’s killer. And the way he handled her was very ingenious, considering what an unexpected shock her arrival must have been. He couldn’t just kill her, too. Designing another ‘natural’ death on the spur of the moment would be rather difficult, and an unnatural one would draw undue attention to Canfield’s. What he did was establish that history of mental illness you were talking about. It almost has a legalistic twist.”

Travers looked at him intently. “Carleton?”

“I don’t know. There was an Elan outside the gate, and Jim is alibied by three of his brothers at Lambda Delta.”

He nodded. “Let’s get back to the way the killer theoretically handled Isadora.”

“The same way he handled her tonight. What did Nicky tell you about this ‘attack’ of Dore’s?”

Travers eyed him skeptically. “She said it looked like a classic bad trip. Now, I notice you seem to think Jenny was the only user in this case, so how do you explain that?”

Conan said flatly, “Isadora isn’t a user.”

“Then Nick’s off her nut?”

“No. The term implies
voluntary
use of drugs.”

“Is that how she was ‘handled’? Some kind of drug?”

“Yes. Specifically LSD. The night of her father’s death, I think she was also given a particularly bad set; something so terrifying, she’s locked it away in amnesia—along with whatever she saw in the library. That’s what was going on during that forty-five minutes.”

“But don’t you think they could tell the difference between a bad trip and a schizoid attack at Morningdell?”

“She was already sedated when she arrived at Morningdell, and she was physically ill. No one there saw the symptoms like Nicky did tonight. And remember, when LSD was first discovered, it was called a ‘psychotomimetic’ because it mimicked psychotic states, particularly schizophrenia. Steve, they weren’t looking for LSD symptoms. They had no reason to suspect it when she was admitted, and later Dr. Kerr diagnosed her as an unlikely candidate for drug abuse. But I’ve seen one recurrence myself, and there were others; the sensory disfunction, distorted body perception, the absence of aural hallucinations—it’s all there.”

“But the amnesia isn’t normal with LSD.”

“No, it’s just a normal means of dealing with something intolerable, and it was probably encouraged with the initial set.”

Travers brooded over his glass, then, “That metal cylinder Sean found—she said it looked like a perfume spray—you didn’t explain why you think it’s a murder weapon.”

“The amyl nitrate. It’s something I encountered back in my G-2 days; a favorite technique of Smersh. Prussic or hydrocyanic acid fired in the form of a vapor into the victim’s face. Death is almost instantaneous, and any pathologist will read it as simple heart failure.”

“What about the amyl nitrate?”

“Protection for the assassin in case he gets a whiff of the vapor. Hydrocyanic acid is a vaso-constrictor; it constricts the vessels of the heart. Amyl nitrate is a vaso-dilator. An antidote of sorts.”

“Then you think that cylinder had hydrocyanic acid in it? That’s how Canfield was killed?”

“Yes. That’s what caused ‘cardiac arrest’ in a perfectly healthy man with no history of heart disease.”

“But that cylinder and the drug stash was in Jenny’s room. How do you figure that?”

“It doesn’t mean she had anything to do with Canfield’s murder; she wouldn’t keep the evidence so handy. But if anyone ever decided to investigate it, as an addict she was an ideal scapegoat, and she was already set up for the role.”

“What about your theories on Jenny’s death? You think she knew something about Canfield’s murder? Maybe she was killed to shut her up.”

“Yes, but not necessarily about the murder. Just the fact she could name her supplier would be motive enough. That wasn’t a problem when she was safely hooked, but unhooked she was definitely a threat, and I had the impression she made that quite clear when she called her pusher.”