Sins of the Flesh Page 19

  Rha and Rufus, Ivy noted when she came in at six o’clock Saturday night to add the finishing touches, were looking more cheerful than they had in some time; both were wearing black trousers, but Rha was sporting a blue lamé pullover shirt, and Rufus a magnificent pirate’s shirt in dark red silk, its extremely full sleeves pulled and gathered into long, tight cuffs. King Cophetua must be okay.

  “What’s happened on the King Cophetua scene to make the pair of you look like cats in cream?” she asked.

  Rufus eyed his surrogate sister affectionately. She was in fine form herself tonight, he was thinking—who would ever guess her real age? Her dress was a simply cut reddish-purple tunic under a gauzy tabard of paisley droplets in toning colors; its resemblance to a chasuble gave her the air of a priestess, an image he knew she enjoyed giving. Not a line on her face, even at the corners of her eyes or her lips! Whatever the genes Ivor Ramsbottom had owned, they were youthful ones.

  “We dragged Roger Dartmont up from the Big Apple, kicking and screaming the whole way—he actually accused us of kidnap! Darling, we should have done it weeks ago!” Rha said, handing out drinks. “It’s a flimsy plot, but aren’t they always? Writers live in lofts, darling, what do they know about life? The good part turned out to be Roger’s age—we decided to play Cophetua as a silly old sugar-daddy, and Servilia as a KGB major rather than as a consumptive Bolshoi ballerina. Silk Stockings gone wrong. The librettist is coming up this week to make the changes.”

  “Will he buck?” Ivy asked.

  “Thetford Leminsky?” Rha laughed. “He’s a pussycat.”

  “What’s with tonight, Ivy?” Rufus asked, settling in his favorite chair with a glass of red wine.

  “I suspect Jess is in trouble with the cops.”

  “Ohhh!” said Rufus, grimacing. “What do you need from us?”

  “We have to make her see she has friends over and above that awful monster Walter Jenkins. She’s so alone in the world!”

  “How do you know that, sis?” Rha asked quietly.

  “From what she doesn’t say. I have never heard her mention her family, where she comes from, even which medical school she graduated from,” Ivy said. “We all have secrets, and I’m not trying to dig up any bodies she may have buried—”

  “Unfortunate metaphor, Ivy,” Rufus said dryly.

  Ivy went on as if Rufus hadn’t spoken. “I just want her to know some of the security I feel every day of my life because I have two brothers on my side no matter what. Jess isn’t as tough as she makes out she is, and those psychiatrists of hers I would not call friends. Ari Melos wants her job, and the Castigliones—well, maybe they’re not cruising sharks, but they could well be the scouts for a school of piranha. We three rejoice in each other’s successes, but I don’t get those vibes from Jess’s shrinks. As for Walter Jenkins—he literally is a monster.”

  Rha got up and went to kiss his sister’s brow. “For what it’s worth, Ivy, we’ll try to help.” His head tilted. “There goes the doorbell. I’ll be back.”

  Jess arrived in a black pantsuit and black cotton sweater, her body more an adolescent boy’s than a mature woman’s, though privately Rufus considered it devoid of any sex, and wondered if perhaps when intellect was poured out in such huge quantities, one of the penalties might be dehumanization. With a different personality, Jess Wainfleet had Audrey Hepburn potential—that gamine face, those alluring dark eyes … Instead she repelled, she repulsed. Taking her to bed would be like coupling with a hybrid of Medea the sorceress and Medusa the stonifier.

  Rufus adored Ivy, one of the truly stabilizing influences in a strange life, but gazing at Jess, her friend, he admitted yet again that she impaled him on the horns of a dilemma, for he just couldn’t like her. How then could he do as Ivy wished, support her? And support her in what? A general, moral support, apparently.

  For Rha, Ivy’s blood brother, it was simultaneously harder and easier than it was for Rufus. Understanding the lyricism and romance in Ivy that she was utterly unable to bring to the surface, he knew too that Ivy was in love with Jess, though she experienced no sexual desires. What grieved Rha was Jess’s unsuitability as an object of love; feeling no soft emotions herself, Jess never saw them in others. If only Delia had been there all those years ago! But she hadn’t, it was Jess at the center of Ivy’s dreams. Juggernaut Jess, said Rha to himself, rolling and grinding over everyone she encountered on her voyage to fulfillment.

  So, as the four of them sat down in comfortable tub chairs to enjoy a superb meal, Ivy had no idea that her brothers didn’t like Jess, and cared not a scrap for her welfare. It was Ivy whom they set out to protect and cheer up, not Jess.

  The conversation was merry and appreciation of the food in center stage as the meal progressed; no one had yet mentioned Jess’s visit to police headquarters, Rha and Rufus content to leave the broaching of that subject to Ivy or Jess.

  “Let’s stay here,” said Ivy when the remains of the casserole were cleared away. “Anyone for coffee?”

  No one was; out came the cheese board, fresh fruit and the after-dinner liqueurs, while a curious tension began to steal into what had been a pleasant, satiated, relaxed mood.

  “What happened when you saw Captain Delmonico?” Ivy asked.

  “Oh, I see! I have to sing for my supper,” Jess said.

  “You won’t turn me off with answers like that, Jess, and you know it,” Ivy said sternly. “Everyone at this table is a friend of many years, and friends confide in each other, stick together, circle their wagons when they have to—but never split their own ranks. As a psychiatrist you know better than most that it’s not wise to bottle up your feelings. As a person you know perfectly well that no one here tonight has a prurient interest. So cut the injured innocence crap and tell us.”

  A silence fell; Jess studied the bubbles in her glass of sparkling mineral water, her wide mouth compressed, hooded lids down to hide her eyes. After a while she shrugged.

  “Why not?” she asked, but to whom she put the question, not one of the other three knew, for each felt it was directed at someone else. “Why not? Has anybody got a cigarette?”

  Rufus stood, went to the sideboard and returned with a box. He opened it for her to take a cigarette, then lit it.

  “That’s better. Sometimes a cigarette helps my thought processes. She lifted her eyes, gleaming derisively. “It appears that I am the main suspect in a series of six murders.”

  “Delia’s Shadow Women?” Ivy asked, astonished but not surprised.

  “Yes.” Jess blew a stream of smoke.

  “But why on earth would they think that?”

  “Because I performed neurosurgery on each of them.”

  Three pairs of eyes were riveted on her, though only Ivy spoke.

  “You operated as a group? Or one at a time?”

  “One at a time, over a period of six years.”

  “Were they inmates at HI?”

  “No, private patients. I saw each one only when I operated.”

  “Why do the police deem you a suspect?”

  “Because they’re desperate, and I link the six missing women together. Unfortunately my professional ethics don’t permit me to give them an A to Z of each woman, and it’s police mentality to assume guilt from refusal to answer all questions. Delmonico won’t believe that I saw these women only for surgery, and genuinely know nothing else about them. He thinks I must be lying, whereas the truth is that I have no more to tell him. That’s why I never spoke up about the Shadow Women. I knew speaking up would achieve only one thing—my own obvious guilt,” Jess said, her voice calm, quiet and matter-of-fact.

  “Are they going to charge you?” Ivy asked, horrified.

  Jess looked scornful. “Of course not! They have not an atom of proof that I did murder, and since I didn’t, nothing can come of their suspicions. What’s more, I was absolutely open and candid about operating on the women—the police had no idea until I told them that the women were psychiatric cases. In
reality, I imagine each woman is, at this moment, alive and well, and mentally calm enough to enjoy some kind of ordinary existence.”

  Rha spoke. “The cops had no idea you operated on them?”

  “None,” said Jess. “To me, it was no concern of the police’s or anybody else’s that I had performed surgery on their brains—before their renting Holloman apartments and then disappearing, I emphasize. I’m innocently entangled, as I knew I would be if my involvement were to become known.”

  “Can they prosecute you for withholding information, or else contempt of court or obstruction of justice?” Rufus asked.

  Her cigarette finished, Jess Wainfleet got up. “Let them try!” she said militantly. “However, I might need a good attorney.”

  “Anthony Bera is the best,” Rha said. “He could get you off if you shot your husband dead in a very public arena, so I guess your case would be a sinecure.”

  “Then I shall retain him.” She smiled. “Thank you for a magnificent dinner, but even more for your obvious concern.”

  Ivy conducted Jess to the front door. “I wish there was something positive I could do,” she said, on the verge of tears.

  Jess’s face softened. “You’re here, Ivy, and that’s a huge comfort. It’s nice to know I’m not alone.”

  Rha and Rufus sat wordless until Ivy returned.

  “A great dinner, but the offer of help went down like a lead balloon,” Rufus said. “She’s Kipling’s cat, if ever I saw one.”

  Ivy sighed. “She won’t confide in us, will she?”

  Rha laughed wryly. “She leaves me in the dark, does Jess.”

  “What we do know is that she’s suspected of six murders, and that’s serious,” Ivy said. “Poor wretch! If only she weren’t so proud! Chin up and face the world, that’s Jess.”

  “Don’t cry, Ivy darling,” Rufus said, fluffing out his handkerchief and giving it to Ivy. “The slur will be hard to get rid of, but the charge will never stick. I think Jess knows that too. She’s no dummy, guys, never forget that!”

  “You’re right, Rufus love, but there’s even more,” Rha said. “All that really matters to Jess is her work, and she sees the cops as imperiling her work. That’s bad—for the cops.” His voice became musing, as if he were dredging up his thoughts from buried layers of his mind. “Psychiatrists are like the Catholic confessionals or the tribal shaman—a receptacle of secrets. Things that weigh on the spirit have to be confided to at least one other person, and if there’s no family to listen, then he who is weighed down will seek a trusted confidant. In the old days these confidants swore sacred oaths to keep the secrets—priests still do, and I think psychiatrists do as well. And if Jess keeps secrets, nothing the cops can do will force them out of her.”

  “You mean she might not be the murderer, but she might know who the murderer is?” Ivy asked.

  “Exactly!” said Rha.

  “Do you mean that Jess can’t tell us anything because the cops might question us at some stage?” Rufus asked.

  “Think about it! We’re not professionally bound by any oath of secrecy, but we are bound to answer cop questions truthfully. Jess can’t confide in us, and that doesn’t make her guilty.”

  “Yes, I see,” Ivy said.

  “So do I,” said Rufus.

  “I don’t think Jess is in much danger, and I also think she knows it,” Rha announced loudly. “What worries her is how much of the odium will stick after the fuss dies down. Say Captain Delmonico decided to charge her with six counts of murder, put her under arrest, and the D.A. sent her for trial. No matter how suspicious her conduct might look, what solid evidence could the Prosecution produce to convict her? All they’ve got is her refusal to explain herself on grounds of professional ethics. No jury would buy into it. In fact, no D.A. would buy into it.”

  “There are no bodies,” said Rufus. “Doesn’t habeas corpus mean you have to produce a body? Like, ‘I have the body!’?”

  Rha clawed at the air with taloned fingers. “Oh, Rufus, really! The body you have to produce under habeas corpus is the body of the accused, and it had better be alive. It means the Law has to try you in a court before it can imprison you. In other words, no one can throw you in the pokey without a trial first. Capice?”

  “Clever bird!” said Rufus.

  “Stupid turd!” said Rha.

  Walter was waiting in her office when Jess walked into it shortly after eleven. How well he looked! was her first thought, followed by the guilty realization that as yet she hadn’t sat down with him for that exhaustive interrogation aimed at discovering how many new pathways he was opening up. His eyes, her disobedient mind went on, were the most beautiful she had ever seen, between their amazing aquamarine color and the lucent glimmers in their depths, both heightened by his long, thick, crystal-fair lashes. Am I experiencing the Pygmalion syndrome? Is he my Galateus? No, I cannot let that happen! I must not!

  “A good dinner?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. Ivy is a superb cook.”

  “What did you eat?”

  “A unique seafood cocktail, then a beef casserole.”

  “I had mac-and-cheese.”

  “With vegetables, I hope?”

  “No, I didn’t feel like rabbit food.”

  “Where did you hear vegetables described as rabbit food?”

  “Television.”

  “Is that what you did tonight? Watched television?”

  “Only a movie on Nine or Eleven, On the Waterfront, with Marlon Brando. It was good. But most of the time I sat at my window looking at the dark and thinking.”

  “Thinking about what?”

  “I was trying to remember what it was like before I knew you. What it was like to be a maniac and a monster.”

  “I’ve told you before, Walter, that the staff call you things they don’t even begin to understand. May I offer you some advice?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you’re in the mood to look at the dark and think, don’t direct your mind backward into the past—that’s wasted effort. The past and who you used to be can never come back again. One of the things I hope I gave you was the ability to think ahead—to plan. It’s forethought makes a man far more than a mere animal, and you’re so lucky, Walter. You have a clean page to write on, to fill with brand-new plans. Forget the past, it’s irrelevant. You’re Walter Jenkins, a thinking man, and you have a lot to think about. You’re relatively young, and it’s possible that before you grow old, the review panels will be enlightened enough to offer you a chance at life outside in the world. In the meantime, life inside HI can be planned. You should think about the things you like to do, then work out a schedule that fits them in enjoyably. For instance, you’re very good at wiring things up, at electronic gadgets—maybe you’d like to do a course by mail in electronics? Whatever, I’m just throwing things at you. You’re very good at architectural drawing, I’m sure we could find a correspondence course in that. The important thing is, do you see what I’m driving at? Do you understand how important it is to keep your brain occupied and interested?”

  He had listened to this speech—long, for Walter—with eyes fixed on her face, and comprehension in them. “Yes, I see what you’re driving at, and I do understand how important it is to keep my brain occupied with interesting things.”

  “Have you any preferences?”

  “Lots of them,” he said solemnly. “I have to think longer and harder before I can tell you anything.” He rose to his feet. “Coffee? I just ground it before you came in.”

  Her face lit up. “Oh, I’d love some! It was the one thing Ivy didn’t serve, and I have to work tonight.”

  Waiting for her coffee, she put the last few minutes under a second review, and knew disquiet. There was something—yes, there was something going on, and Walter wasn’t being entirely frank about it or himself. Looking at the dark … Why did that ring alarm bells? Because it didn’t mean the dark outside his window. It meant the dark inside his mind. And why did he want to
seek the dark? It was where everyone’s monsters dwelled, even the sanest of men’s, and this was a man had known his monster with the intimacy of a sadistic killer—no laws, no limitations. He had come so far, and at a speed that awed her; now she found herself wondering exactly how much she knew about the progress of this psychological triumph. All the tests had been applied, and didn’t really apply; his I.Q. was phenomenally high, but she was responsible enough to assume that beneath the monster he had always been the brilliant man. His abilities were astounding, from his manual dexterity to his ambidexterity, but again she had to assume that they had always been there below the monster. What a tragedy! she had thought each time a new facet of his mental physicality appeared; what might Walter Jenkins have been if the wiring of his brain hadn’t banished all his gifts behind the door flung open to liberate the monster?

  The coffee mug and the aroma arrived together; she blinked, gave Walter a specially warm smile.

  “I heard something today,” he said, sitting with his own mug of coffee. “I’ll help you with the files in a minute.”

  “What did you hear?” she asked placidly.

  “That the cops accused you of six murders.”

  “No, they didn’t. They can’t, they have no evidence. Just ignore the gossip, Walter. That’s all it is.”

  “No one will arrest you, Jess. I wouldn’t let them.”

  A laugh escaped her; were he anyone else, she would have put an affectionate hand on his arm, but Walter’s personal space was inviolate. “Thank you, but it’s not necessary,” she said. “I’ve committed no murders, and the police know that very well. What they’re really after is information about the victims I don’t have, but they’re convinced I do. The situation is like many of life’s situations—time will prove it a dead end. They’ll realize that, and abandon the theory that embroils me.”