Verdict Suspended

  VERDICT

  Suspended

  A MYSTERY NOVEL BY

  HELEN NIELSEN

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  The Severed Key

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  The calliope on the merry-go-round at Hanson’s Pier had developed a wheeze. It meant more work for Domingo Alvarez—along with repainting the canopy and touching up the horses. And there was work to be done on the Aero-Ride, and one of the mechanical cars was ready for discard. The chores never ceased. Domingo, whose black hair was beginning to edge with white at the temples, was grateful the summer was over. By Labor Day the tourist-laden station wagons and convertibles stopped pouring down the highway from the fashionable beach hotels at Cypress Point twenty miles up the coast. The chief lure—the fishing boat old Hanson operated off the pier—nodded drowsily at anchor, and the only customers for the playground, at eight-thirty, Pacific Daylight Time, when the sky was still streaked with the crimson and coral leftovers from a late sundown, were the six grandchildren of Domingo Alvarez.

  They were having a holiday—the playground all to themselves. The four older ones were in the mechanical cars; the two youngest still begged for one more ride on the merry-go-round. Ramon, who was six, was mounted on a black horse on the outer edge of the platform. Carlos, the baby, sat behind him tugging at his waist. For these two, the pleasure of his declining years, Domingo started the ancient mechanism again, mentally calculating how much of his meager profit would go into repairing the equipment. He could get some help from Herb Catcher’s garage across the highway. Herb was a good Anglo. He wouldn’t cheat an old man trying to maintain his dignity.

  “Faster!” Ramon cried. “Make it go faster, Grandpa!”

  Children! Screaming orders like little princes. They were getting as bad as the children of the Anglos. Domingo shoved the lever forward and the calliope shattered a chord that temporarily deafened him. Domingo scowled. The trouble must be worse than he thought. And then he heard a more frightening sound—Carlos screaming in terror. Domingo looked up. The black horse was opposite the highway. Now it arced toward him. He could see Ramon’s small body stiffen in the saddle, his hands clutching tightly on the reins. Behind him, Carlos continued to howl. The two white faces whirled past. Once more they were opposite the highway—again the screams and this time Ramon pointing wildly. Domingo pulled back on the lever and leaped to the platform. He threaded his way to the black horse and caught up the baby in his arms.

  “Chito! Chito!” he ordered. “Ramón, qué pasa?”

  The old calliope whined to a mournful stop. Slowly now they circled toward the highway, Domingo holding one terrified child against his shoulder while Ramon, speechless in terror, still pointed at the object of his horror. A few yards away from the merry-go-round stood a man. He was a tall man—hatless, heavy dark hair falling over his forehead. An Anglo. He wore expensive clothing, a tweed jacket and narrow trousers, and shoes, which Domingo knew was the true sign of a gentleman, of fine leather. He stood with his feet far apart, his shoulders hunched forward, his head cast down. Then he raised his head and the baby trembled and buried his face hard against Domingo’s shoulder.

  It was the man’s eyes, mostly. They were glazed with shock and staring up at the living things on the merry-go-round with the pleading look of a hurt child. And it was the man’s face, too, with a gash over the right eye and the blood making small rivers down his cheek. Vaguely, in the background, Domingo was aware of a mass of painted metal piled against a highway barricade; but that only in a brief flash before the man, weaving drunkenly, crumpled and fell spread-eagled at his feet.

  The Cypress Point Hospital was small, but a miracle of modern design. The center corridors were never penetrated by any but staff personnel. Each room, each word, was reached by visitors from a sliding glass door leading to an outside ramp. Jaime Dodson’s room had a seaside exposure and, had he been aware of it, a spectacular view. The sky was cloudless, a mild surf nudged gently against the shore, and across the horizon a Coast Guard cutter glided like a movable prop on a too perfect stage set. But Jaime Dodson saw none of these things. He sat propped against the pillows, eyes closed, respiration steady, body relaxed. The gash over his right eye was neatly bandaged. His face still had an almost childlike quality—the stunned pathos of the face old Domingo Alvarez had seen from his merry-go-round.

  Jaime Dodson wasn’t aware of the armed guard outside his door. He was only vaguely aware in conscious moments that he was suspected of murder. At the present time he wasn’t aware of that much. The injection of sodium amytal was taking effect. The terror of the past forty-eight hours ebbed away in an artifically induced euphoria.

  “Jaime,” the voice said at his ear, “Jaime, can you hear me? This is Steve. Steve Quentin. I want to help you.”

  Outside, a pair of sea gulls wheeled across the horizon, neatly bisecting the plate-glass door. The armed guard on the ramp stepped forward and rested his arms on the rail. Below, a blue sedan nosed into the parking lot. From it emerged a plain-clothes detective who looked up at the guard, nodded, and stepped briskly into the building.

  The main-floor pavilion was a wide circle of glass and white tile. The detective crossed quickly to the reception desk and caught the attendant’s eye.

  “Captain Lennard,” she said brightly, “good morning! The patient had a quiet night.”

  Lennard was a slender man with an inner toughness that seemed to vibrate through the seams of his carefully tailored suit. He might have been a bond salesman but for a certain sharpness in his eyes that seemed instantly to take in, evaluate, and file away for future reference everything within range of vision.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “I didn’t. Is it all right to go up now?”

  The receptionist hesitated. “Mr. Quentin is with the patient,” she said.

  “Quentin?” Lennard’s mind played wisely with the thought. “We may have a battle getting an indictment if Quentin’s in charge of the defense,” he said.

  A hospital receptionist was merely a courteous, efficient face above a starched white uniform until a certain combination of words transformed her into a perfectly normal gossip-hungry woman. “Defense?” she echoed. “Then it is murder?”

  Lennard scowled. “Forget that I said anything. Just call the room, please, and tell whoever answers that I’m on my way up.”

  He left the desk quickly and strode to the elevator. Set in the wall was a bronze plaque inscribed: “Cypress Point General Hospital—1950.” and beneath it: “S. and J. Dodson, Architects.” It was ironical. The hospital was Sheilah Dodson’s first major commission. Sheilah, a brilliant, vital woman who was to become Cypress Point’s most illustrious citizen, had been barely thirty at the time. Jaime—the “J.” in the firm—was her brother: ten years younger and as moody and erratic as his sister was balanced and organized. All Lennard really knew about him, aside from village gossip, was a record of arrests for drunken driving stretching over the past decade. It wasn’t the record of a criminal, but of a mixed-up boy who wasn’t sure of himself or his directions. His direction seemed more definite now. Lennard stepped grimly into the elevator. He had just left Sheilah Dodson’s body at the morgue; now he was on his
way to the fourth floor to issue an official invitation to Jaime Dodson to attend the inquest into her death.

  The fourth-floor corridor was a wide path of light. Lennard stepped out from the elevator and walked quickly to the nurse’s desk. From long practice he mentally noted: white Caucasian; hair black; eyes brown; height 5’4”, weight 110; age 20. She was much more pleasing to the eye than the rangy man in tweeds who leaned against the desk nursing the telephone. He was middle-aged, had a sprinkling of gray in an uncontrollable mop of sandy hair, and a touch of New England in his voice.

  “I don’t care what Mrs. Carpenter dreamed last night,” he said curtly, “not even if it was in Technicolor. I want all appointments canceled for the rest of the morning.”

  Lennard caught the nurse’s eye and placed his badge case on the desk. “I want to see Jaime Dodson,” he said.

  He had no opportunity to hear the pitch of her voice. The man in tweeds dropped the telephone back in the cradle and turned to him abruptly.

  “You can’t,” he said. “Not for an hour.”

  Lennard looked at him narrowly. “I’m Captain Lennard of Homicide,” he said. “I called Dr. Pitman before I came.”

  “Pitman has nothing to do with this.” Full face, the man in tweeds resembled a pugnacious cherub. “I’m Dr. Curry,” he added. “Mr. Quentin retained me to examine his client.”

  “Retained? Aren’t there enough doctors in the hospital?”

  “I’m a psychiatrist,” Curry said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a patient waiting.”

  Curry moved swiftly down the hall and cut through a wide center corridor where the regular traffic of the hospital was contained. He paused before a closed door. Hand on the knob, he turned to find Lennard at his side.

  “Dodson’s already been examined by two psychiatrists,” Lennard protested. “Both found him sane.”

  Curry opened the door. “I’m sorry, Officer,” he said. “I can’t let you in.”

  “But I’m on official business.”

  “That doesn’t matter. You still have to wait until I’ve finished.”

  Curry stepped quickly into the room and closed the door behind him. Steve Quentin was at the bedside. He was a man of about forty—blond, quietly masculine. His face was drawn with the tensions of the past seventy-two hours; but he had found time, even in that agonizing interval, for a daily shave and change into fresh clothing. He had found no time for sleep.

  In a taut voice he asked, “Who was that?”

  Dr. Curry moved to the bedside. “A policeman with a bad disposition,” he answered. “Don’t worry about him.” Now he stood over the patient. Jaime’s breathing was labored, and his head stirred restlessly on the pillow. Curry looked up sharply. “How long has he been this way?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something’s upset him.”

  Quentin hesitated. “It might have been the noise in the hall just now,” he suggested.

  Curry’s frown was instantaneous. “It’s possible,” he said. “Sometimes a patient reacts this way. It’s always individual. We never know exactly what to expect…. Are you sure you want this interview, Quentin?”

  “Of course I want it!” Steve declared. “I’ve studied the findings of the state psychiatrists, and I know that Lennard’s here to serve notice of the inquest. The circumstantial evidence against Jaime Dodson is strong. I may have to go into a courtroom and defend him against the charge of murder. How can I do that if his mind is locked? … Don’t you understand, Doctor? Jaime remembers nothing from the time Sheilah Dodson’s houseman heard him quarreling with his sister until he was found at the merry-go-round at Hanson’s Pier nearly an hour later. I want to know what happened to cause that blackout.”

  Dr. Curry found a chair and placed it close to the bedside. “Would you mind drawing the drapes, Mr. Quentin?” he asked. “I don’t want the risk of any distraction or play of light. Under narcosis a patient is highly susceptible to suggestion.”

  Steve Quentin stepped to the window. The armed guard still lounged lazily against the railing, his interest caught by a small boat with a red sail that leaned lazily against the sky. Quentin pulled the drapes slowly. His eyes followed the red sail until it finally disappeared, and yet never really saw it at all because, behind him, Dr. Curry was beginning to probe for a piece of lost time.

  “Jaime, can you hear me? Jaime, I want to help you.”

  Steve snapped the drape shut. He turned and stood with his back to the window. Jaime’s eyes were open now; he stared dazedly into space.

  Dr. Curry’s voice continued in a soft monotone. “Do you remember your sister’s party?” he asked.

  Jaime’s mouth worked awkwardly. “Sheilah,” he said thickly.

  “Yes. Sheilah’s party.”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  Curry nodded. “The dinner party was for eight o’clock, but you came early. The houseman says you arrived before seven. He served drinks—”

  Jaime brightened. “Martinis,” he said. “Albert Trench specials.”

  “What did you and Sheilah talk about?”

  Now there was resistance. Jaime’s mind was fighting the memory. His fingers scratched nervously at the sheet.

  “Trench heard you quarreling,” Curry prodded. “What was it about, Jaime?”

  “Greta,” Jaime said. “My girl.”

  “Didn’t Sheilah like your girl?”

  “She never liked any girl I liked. I warned her. I told her not to say anything to Greta. I told her—” Jaime seemed to forget his listeners. He was going back in time. The tone of his voice changed. It rose sharply in anger. “I’m going to marry Greta…. You can’t stop me…. You can’t!”

  Curry glanced at Steve. He still stood with his back against the doors, his face slightly moist with perspiration. He started to speak but Curry gestured him to remain silent.

  “What did Sheilah say when you told her that?” Curry prompted.

  “She said, ‘I’m cutting you out, Jaime. I told Steve. I’m cutting you out without a cent.’”

  “Cutting you out of what?”

  “Out of the business … everything. I didn’t believe her…. I yelled at her…. I threw my drink at her. She stepped back and fell …”

  Jaime’s voice stopped. His mind didn’t want to go on. He stirred fitfully, fighting some private demon. When he looked up a second time, Steve stood at the foot of the bed.

  “A broken glass was found by the body,” Steve said. “A martini glass.”

  Curry was puzzled. “What did he mean—’Sheilah told Steve’?”

  “I’ll explain later. Dr. Curry, this is important. This is the point where Jaime’s mind hits a block: ‘Sheilah fell.’ He’s told the same story a dozen times, but that’s where it stops. ‘Sheilah fell.’”

  Curry’s attention returned to the patient on the bed. Distinctly, he said: “Jaime, what happened after Sheilah fell?”

  They waited. The quiet in the room was like the holding of breath. Faintly, from the corridor, came the busy noises of the nurses; but inside the room there was only the waiting and Jaime Dodson fighting a battle with his mind.

  “What happened, Jaime?” Curry asked again.

  “Sheilah fell … her foot slipped when I threw the glass.” The words came haltingly. Each syllable was being forced. “I reached down and picked up the poker”—Jaime waited for long seconds—”and then I killed her,” he said.

  The gigantic effort he had made to bring the confession from the darkest corner of his mind left Jaime exhausted. He seemed to collapse back into the pillows.

  Curry looked at Steve. The extreme tension had pocked his forehead with perspiration. His eyes were fixed anxiously on Jaime. Curry turned back to the bed.

  “You picked up the poker and killed your sister?” Curry repeated quietly.

  “I killed her! … I killed her!”

  And then Jaime broke. He turned his face against the pillow and closed his eyes on the horror Curr
y had pried from his mind. His whole body was trembling when Steve, now unnoticed by the attentive Curry, turned away. He walked quickly to the glass doors, slid them open, and stepped outside. The wind had risen. Freshness and the morning sun were a balm to tension-racked nerves. He found a cigarette in his pocket and watched the guard at the rail produce a lighter.

  “How is he?” the guard asked.

  Steve looked up, questioningly.

  “One of the nurses said you were going to try hypnosis,” the guard explained.

  “Narcosis,” Steve corrected. “He’s all right.”

  “I guess there’s not much they can’t do to get inside a man’s mind these days.”

  Steve’s hand was steady at the lighter, but it was uncomfortable to be so close to a man whose eyes were hungry for information. He thanked the guard and walked farther down the ramp. There was no red sail on the horizon now; but from this vantage point he could see the beach and the jutting crag above it where the sun glinted on the glass-peaked roof of Sheilah’s house. Like Sheilah, it was dramatic in simplicity, defiant of conventional design. To some it might be shocking—as was Sheilah; but she never contrived to shock. The unusual, the unique, the independent were hers by nature. No man had ever really known her, least of all Steve Quentin. The cigarette, forgotten, burned to his fingers. He tossed it away angrily. This was no time for morbid remembrance.

  When Dr. Curry emerged from Jaime’s room he found Steve down to his last cigarette. They couldn’t talk on the ramp; the guard was still within earshot. They returned to the room where Jaime’s bed was now concealed behind a shielding screen.

  “He’s sleeping,” Curry said, “but you have a problem. When I brought the patient out of narcosis he remembered nothing of the confession.”

  Steve was stunned. “Nothing?”

  “It’s not unusual. I’ve seen it happen before. When the guilt-producing incident is great enough the mind refuses to acknowledge it except through hypnosis or narcosis. Once the mind is out of this state, the forbidden knowledge is pushed back into the unconscious.”