Too Many Murders(136)
Smith’s room was filled with flowers. That, together with the soft lilac of its walls and padded vinyl furniture, gave it an un-hospital look at first glance. Then, past such things, the eyes noticed the sterility of the bed, the ropes and pulleys, the incredible way any occupant of such an infernal rack was automatically shrunken in size, stripped of authority and power.
This Philip Smith looked older than his sixty years, his handsome face collapsed in on itself a little, his blue-grey eyes unutterably weary.
When Carmine entered, only those eyes moved. Smith probably had to be turned and adjusted by a nurse, given his arm and shoulder. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a nurse in attendance.
“I’ve been expecting you for several days,” Smith said.
“Where’s your private nurse?”
“Fool of a woman! I told her to wait at the station until I buzzed. I’m grateful for the attention when I need it, but I loathe gratuitous solicitude. Can I do this for you, can I do that for you? Pah! When I want something, I’m capable of asking.”
Carmine sat in a padded lilac vinyl chair. “For what they charge, these should be covered in Italian kid,” he said.
“So a visitor’s toddler can wee on them? Have a heart!”
“True. Save Italian kid for boardrooms and executive offices. Where you’re going, Mr. Smith, there won’t even be vinyl. Just hard plastic, steel, mattress ticking and concrete.”
“Rubbish! They’ll never convict me.”
“Holloman will. Have you been interviewed by the FBI?”
“Interminably. That’s why I’ve hungered to see your face, Captain. It has a certain Romanesque nobility the FBI faces have lacked. I think the only person who hasn’t made the journey from Washington to see me is J. Edgar Hoover himself, but I hear that he’s a disappointment in the flesh—soft and rather chubby.”
“Appearances can be deceiving. Have you been charged?”
“With espionage? Yes, but they won’t follow through.” Smith’s lips drew back to reveal teeth yellowed by his hospital stay. “I lost my luck,” he said simply. “It ran foul of yours.”
“Men your age shouldn’t drive twelve-cylinder sports cars, more like. It was wet, the road was a mess, you were going way too fast, and you weren’t concentrating,” Carmine said.
“Don’t rub it in. I must have driven that road a hundred times to board a hired plane. I guess it was the thought that this time I’d be boarding my own plane.”
“I’m charging you with the murder of Dee-Dee Hall, Mr. Smith. We found your coveralls and the razor.”
The hatred blazed; his body stiffened, battling to shed its restraints until the pain struck. He groaned. “That unprintable, unmentionable whore! She deserved to die as all whores should—cut from ear to ear! The scarlet yawn for a scarlet woman!”
“I’m more interested in why Dee-Dee didn’t flee or fight.”
“I need the nurse,” he said, groaning again.
Carmine pressed the buzzer.
“Now look at what you’ve done!” the woman chided, slotting a syringe into an outlet on his IV drip.
“Speak not in ignorance, you moron!” Smith whispered.
Bridling indignantly, she left.
“I’d like to know the why of Dee-Dee,” Carmine said.
“Would you indeed? The thing is, do I feel like telling you?” Smith asked, settling into his pillows gratefully as the pain ebbed. “Are we alone? Are you recording what I say?”
“We are alone, and I am not recording us. A tape would not be valid evidence in a court of law without witnesses present and your consent. When I charge you formally, I’ll have witnesses, and remind you of your rights under the Constitution.”
“So much solicitude, and all for me!” Smith mocked. His eyes clouded a little. “Yes, why not? You’re a cross between a mastiff and a bulldog, but there’s cat in there too. Curiosity is your besetting sin, Erica said to me, very frightened.”
His lids fell, he dozed. Carmine waited patiently.
“Dee-Dee—!” he said suddenly, eyes open. “I suppose you searched for my Peace Corps daughter?” he asked.
“Yes, but I couldn’t find one.”
“Anna wasn’t interested in good works,” Philip Smith said. “Her bent was purely destructive, and America suited her because here there are so few social brakes one can apply to headstrong children. She was the wrong age to make the move from West Germany to Boston and then Holloman—the bleakness of her old life was blown away on the gale of indulgence, promiscuity, infantile aspirations, undisciplined passions. The wrong age, the wrong place, the wrong child…” Smith stopped.