Clues for Dr. Coffee, page 2
“I guess that’s what I’ll have to do—unless you decide to co-operate.”
“What more can I do, lieutenant? I stayed home all evening. I trust my husband implicity. He told me the whole story. I believe him completely. If I didn’t, do you think I would have sent him back looking for his tie clasp, knowing he might run into you people since he himself called police?”
“The motel manager says he called police,” Max Ritter said. “Do you mind if I have a little look around? Or do you want me to get a search warrant?”
“Help yourself, lieutenant. I have nothing to hide.”
Lieutenant Ritter walked directly from the breakfast nook to the hall closet, opened the door, felt the shoulders of the coats hanging there, dropped to his knees and examined the clutter of rubbers, galoshes, arctics, and plastic overshoes. When he returned to Betty Best he was holding aloft, with perhaps just the slightest air of triumph, a pair of galoshes.
“Funny thing,” he said, “but the insteps are packed with wet cinders.”
“That’s funny?” said Betty Best, drawing her flame-colored negligee closer around her.
“Wet,” repeated the detective.
“I’m not surprised. I ran some errands before dinner last evening.”
“I noticed when I came in,” said Lieutenant Ritter, “that your sidewalk and front steps are sprinkled with salt. I also noticed a few hours ago that the steps and pathways at the Riverside Motel are sprinkled with cinders.”
“So what does that prove?” Her expression did not change.
“Nothing. May I take these galoshes along with me?”
“Of course. You’ll release my husband this morning, I hope.”
“I ain’t sure,” Max Ritter said. “I’m holding him till the gal comes out of her coma so she can confirm or deny his story. Or till she dies. In that case, you’d be willing to take the stand, I guess, Mrs. Best? And submit to cross-examination?”
“On my husband’s behalf?” Betty Best’s lips were tightly compressed between phrases. “Of course.”
Dr. Daniel Webster Coffee, chief pathologist and director of laboratories for Pasteur Hospital, unhooked his long legs from the rungs of his tall stool, raised his eyes from the twin lenses of his microscope, and barked at the rotund, pink-turbaned Hindu across the laboratory. “Dr. Mookerji, come here. Lend me your eyes and your tropical background. Am I looking at another case of schistosomiasis?”
The round brown resident pathologist, Calcutta’s gift to Northbank on a medical scholarship, waddled to the microscope.
“Quite accurate diagnosis,” he declared, as he twisted the focusing knob. “Am perceiving clutch of bilharzia eggs incubating in blood vessel. Patient is no doubt ex-G.I.?”
“Just what I’ve been saying,” Dr Coffee said indignantly. “Our self-imposed job of policing the world is revolutionizing American medicine and nobody seems aware of it. An airman goes swimming in an Oriental pond and picks up trematodes that will live in his blood-stream for thirty years—if they let him live that long. The Army and Navy bring home diseases we had never heard of twenty years ago, except in textbooks—loa loa, Guinea worm, Ceylon mouth, kala azar. We spend a million dollars or so launching a rocket that will fall in the sea, and we spend nickels bringing our doctors up to date on parasitology and tropical diseases so they’ll recognize a case of—”
“Hi, Doc!” The pathologist was interrupted by the entrance of Lieut. Max Ritter, who for years had been using Dr. Coffee as a one-man crime lab. “I guess the swami tells you I been looking for you since early yesterday.”
“Hello, Max,” Dr. Coffee said. “I just got back. I had to travel upstate for an insurance company autopsy.”
“Maybe you’re still in an autopsy mood, then,” the detective said. “I got another one for you.”
“Homicide, Max?”
“The coroner thinks so. Me, I ain’t so sure. You know a guy named Fred Best? He says he knows you.”
Dr. Coffee nodded. “He runs a medical supply house here in town. Somebody kill Best?”
“I been holding him as a material witness,” Ritter said, “but I guess I can change that to suspicion of murder. The gal died an hour ago right here in this hospital, so the coroner says okay for you to do the p.m. He’ll call you.”
“Sit down, Max. Who’s the girl?”
The detective lowered his razorback hams gingerly to the edge of Dr. Coffee’s desk. He raised one bony knee and hugged it with both hands.
“Anne Ingersoll,” he said. “She was Fred Best’s private secretary for three-four years. Very private, if you know what I mean. Young and good-looking. Small, blonde, brown-eyed, kind of fragile build. Clinging vine type, you might say. Only she and Best come unclung about a year and a half ago. All very friendly, according to Best. She decides to go back to Toledo and marry the high-school sweetheart who always wanted to marry her, anyhow. And Best is also contemplating matrimony with a pre-Anne tomato who has been playing coy until she’s of age and Fred’s income gets high enough so he needs to write off a few dependents. Society stuff, but high class.
“Just to prove they’re still good friends, Fred gives Anne a wedding present—a little check in four-five figures so she can buy herself a mink coat or something else to remember him by. Only she don’t get married. She goes to Toledo for a while, then she turns up here again in trouble, and sends out an SOS for Fred Best, he says. Seems the high-school sweetheart also gives her something to remember him by. So—Hey, don’t go away, swami. I want you in on this.”
“If Doctor Sahib is not objecting to neglect of current duties—”
“Stick around, Dr. Mookerji,” the pathologist said.
“So this Best blows the gal to a dinner and they get a little swacked and go back to the Riverside Motel where she’s dug in,” Ritter continued. He told Best’s story almost word for word, having made Best repeat it a dozen times. He then described the events of the night of Wednesday to Thursday from the viewpoint of Wendell Schaeffer, the redheaded manager of the Riverside Motel.
“Which story do you believe?” Dr. Coffee asked.
“I ain’t sure—since the swami gets me kind of mixed up,” the detective said. He lit a cigarette and pointed the smoking match at the Hindu resident. “When you don’t come back yesterday afternoon, and the gal is still out cold, I ask the swami if maybe he can’t make some test to tell if she is kayoed by gas or by a couple of hard right jabs. He says sure, he’ll make a blood test, and he does. But no gas.”
“What test did you run, Dr. Mookerji?” the pathologist asked.
“Originally performed sodium hydroxide test for carbon monoxide.” The Hindu wagged his turbaned head twice to the left. “Result, negative. Subsequently executed Katayama’s test with ammonium sulphide and acetic acid, but bright red precipitate not forthcoming. Result dark green, likewise negative.”
“So you see, Doc,” the detective said, “when science says the Best guy is lying, why would a jury believe his accident story? Especially when the gal in question is an old flame who could dangle a paternity suit or a threat of blackmail over the guy’s happy marriage.”
“Let’s leave science out of this for a moment, Max. How long after the girl was removed from the motel did Dr. Mookerji take her blood sample?”
“Fourteen, maybe fifteen hours.”
“Then let’s not jump to conclusions, Max.”
“Then you think maybe she does die from a beating, Doc?”
“I’ll answer that one after the autopsy.”
“Personally I begin to incline to the unlucky punch theory,” Ritter said. “Because, otherwise, how come Best and this gal are in the cabin the same length of time, and he walks out but she dies?”
“That happens, Max, in gas cases. It’s a matter of individual susceptibility; things like rate of breathing, relation of body weight to the gas concentration. If the girl had more to drink than Best, that could be a factor. Tell me, Max, does Mrs. Best believe her husbands story?”
The detective puffed out his cheeks like a blowfish and allowed the air to escape in a curious piping sound that could be interpreted as either a warning wail or a sign of admiration.
“Mrs. Best,” he said, “is what you might call a lulu. She says she believes her husband, and I think she believes him because she checked up on him personally. I’m sure she followed Best and the gal Wednesday night, even if I can’t prove it in court; but she won’t admit she’s jealous or suspicious, and her husband is sure she was home in bed all night waiting up for him. I think there’s an off chance she barges into the cabin with both Best and the Old Flame out cold, and belts the Ingersoll gal with a sock full of rocks or something. I think there’s even a chance that she and Best gang up on the gal to stop any threat of blackmail. Anyhow, all day she’s calling me every hour on the hour to chew my ear off on how poor Fred wouldn’t hurt a flea. She cries her eyes out because the morning papers already got him practically sitting in the electric chair.” The detective turned on his best falsetto. “you simply must get Fred darling out of this silly mess.’ Silly, my left eye-ball!”
“Okay, Max, I’ll do the p.m. as soon as I get the nod from the coroner. And before the inquest we ought to find out whether or not the gas heater in Cabin Ten is defective. Better bring me the whole stove or heater, or whatever it is, so we can test it for imperfect combustion.”
“Can do,” Ritter said. “I was going out there today anyhow to see the motel manager. I want to look over pretty boy Schaeffer’s registers.”
“Good luck, Max.” Dr. Coffee put a fatherly arm around Ritter’s shoulders.
“Likewise, leftenant,” said Dr. Mookerji. “Am wishing you blessings of Ganesh, who is Hindu god of good luck and wisdom, and also remover of obstacles.”
Dr. Coffee had barely returned to his lab from the autopsy room in the basement when his phone rang. He put down his enameled pails and Mason jars.
“Pathology,” he said. “Hello, Max. Bringing me the stove?… The airport? … Where? Toledo?… But you’ll be back for the inquest? … Good.… The flue? … Really? … Okay, Max. Happy landings.”
The pathologist crossed the laboratory and tugged at the tail of his resident’s pink turban. The Hindu looked up from his microscope. Dr. Coffee gestured toward the jars and pails.
“Dr. Mookerji,” he said. “The gross examination indicates typical brain lesions—ring hemorrhages and areas of necrosis—but I want you to see that the tissue goes through the routine for a microscopic check. Before you put the brain into formalin, however, I want frozen sections from the anterior portion of both left and right globus pallidus and from the putamen—just in case I have to testify at the coroner’s inquest.”
“No sooner pronounced than accomplished,” said Dr. Mookerji.
The inquest into the death of Anne Ingersoll was held at Midtown Mortuary Chapel rather than at the county morgue because Fred Best, through his attorney, had insisted on underwriting a first-class funeral. The coroner’s jury had been sworn and seated. Dr. Thomas Vane, the florid, triple-chinned coroner, shuffled papers and cleared his throat impatiently, glared importantly at the witnesses and spectators in the pews, and looked at his thick gold watch.
Dr. Coffee, who had been standing at the door waiting anxiously for Max Ritter, finally took a front-row seat. He had heard nothing from Max except a telegram from Toledo saying that his mission had been accomplished and that he was flying home. When the hour approached and Max had not appeared, Dr. Coffee had suggested postponement, but the coroner had refused. After all, Lieutenant Ritter had been informed of time and place; he should have allowed for such contingencies as a plane being late.…
The coroner pounded his gravel. Fred Best, sitting between two plain-clothes men, squirmed uneasily as he glanced at the dour, bespectacled assistant district attorney who smugly returned the look with grim expectancy; he would take over where the coroner left off. Betty Best smiled encouragingly at her husband from across the aisle. The family attorney, next to her, also smiled but not encouragingly. A brooding hush hovered over the assemblage like a faint scent of flowers lingering from a just-finished funeral. The silent golden pipes of the great organ behind the jurors seemed waiting to burst into wild, tragic chords.
“Call the first witness,” the coroner said. “Mr. Wendell Schaeffer.”
The dapper young redhead who managed the Riverside Motel walked jauntily to the stand, sat down, carefully tugged at the creases of his trousers, and crossed his legs. He testified that the deceased had been living in Cabin Ten for three months, off and on; that she rented the cabin on a monthly basis although she was sometimes away on business for a week at a time; he did not know what her business was.
On Wednesday night he had seen the deceased come home with a strange man and later he had heard loud quarreling voices in Cabin Ten. One voice he recognized as that of the deceased. At two o’clock Thursday morning he had been awakened by the sound of an automobile. Thinking it was a motorist wanting a cabin, he got up and saw the car driving off. Then he noticed that the lights were still on in Cabin Ten and that the door was open. He investigated and found Miss Ingersoll lying on her bed, unconscious. She was fully dressed and her face was badly bruised and bleeding. He had called police.
“This man who came home with Miss Ingersoll,” the coroner asked, “do you see him in this chapel?”
“Yes, sir. That’s him right there.” The motel manager pointed.
“Let the record show the witness indicated Mr. Fred Best,” said the coroner to the stenotypist. “In his statement to the police, Mr. Best insists that Miss Ingersoll hurt her face by falling off the bed. Did you find her on the floor, Mr. Schaeffer?”
“No, sir. She was on the bed.”
“Did you smell gas when you entered Cabin Ten?”
“No, sir. The heater was burning, but there was no smell of gas. Anyhow, I know the heater’s okay and there’s no leak. A man from the gas company checked all the heaters and connections at the motel just last week.”
“Thank you, Mr. Schaeffer. You may step down. Next witness: Lieutenant Max Ritter.… Lieutenant Ritter?”
There was no response.
“Dr. P. L. Green,” called the coroner.
Dr. Green testified that he had examined Miss Ingersoll on her admittance to Pasteur Hospital, that he had treated her bruises and made unsuccessful attempts to revive her. She had remained in a coma until her death—from causes he had been unable to ascertain clinically.
“Isn’t it possible, Doctor,” the coroner asked, “that the blows which caused the bruises on the face of the deceased could have also caused her unconsciousness and ultimately her death?”
“Possible, yes. But why advance possibilities, since there has been an autopsy?”
While the coroner was pursuing his effort to get the witness to commit himself as to the cause of death, Dr. Motilal Mookerji made a breathless entrance into the funeral chapel and waddled rapidly down the aisle. When he reached Dr. Coffee’s pew, the Hindu panted for an instant, then leaned over to announce in a stage whisper: “Leftenant Ritter just now telephoning from aerodrome to reveal he is rushing therefrom with utmost haste. Is quite insistent that inquest be protracted to permit arrival. Emphatically suggests employment of skillful tactics of delay and prolongation.”
“Take a seat, Doctor,” murmured Dr. Coffee. “I’ll do my best.”
“Next witness, Doctor Daniel Webster Coffee.”
There was a long pause as Dr. Coffee lowered his big-boned frame into the witness chair. The coroner studied his papers with magisterial phlegm. The pathologist ran his long fingers through his unruly straw-colored hair.
“Dr. Coffee,” said the coroner at last, “did you conduct a post-mortem examination of the body of Anne Ingersoll, deceased, at Pasteur Hospital?”
“I did.”
“Would you give the jury the benefit of your findings?”
“Gladly. First, we found that the deceased had been gestating for about four months. Second, we found congestion of the lungs and viscera. Third—”.
“Just a moment, Doctor. Did your examination enable you to reach a reasonable conclusion as to the cause of death?”
“Yes, sir. Miss Ingersoll died from carbon monoxide poisoning.”
The ensuing silence was eloquent. It was followed by an excited murmur which ran through the chapel like a sudden wind rising in a pine wood. The coroner banged his gavel for quiet.
“Isn’t it a fact, Doctor,” he demanded, “that your own laboratory tested the blood of Miss Ingersoll before her death and found no trace of monoxide?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“And you still sit there, Doctor, and expect the jury to believe Miss Ingersoll came to her death by carbon monoxide poisoning?”
“Yes, sir. The chemical tests which gave negative reactions in the case of Miss Ingersoll are not sensitive to less than ten per cent of carbon in the blood. Had Miss Ingersoll died in Cabin Ten, her blood would have given a positive reaction for carbon monoxide. However, as she lived for fourteen or fifteen hours after being removed from the poisonous atmosphere, her body had eliminated the carbon from the bloodstream. As a rule, when the victim lives for a while, the system will get rid of most of the carbon in eight or ten hours.”
The coroner, who had a much better grasp of politics than of forensic pathology, pursed his lips in a gesture of learned contemplation.
“Her body got rid of the monoxide and yet she died,” he said. “Can you tell the jury why she died, and how you came to the conclusion that she was poisoned?”
“Gladly. Carbon monoxide kills by combining with the red blood cells in such a way that the blood can no longer carry oxygen. Without oxygen, brain tissue dies, causing first unconsciousness, then death. The autopsy showed typical lesions in Miss Ingersoll’s brain.”
The coroner asked: “What lesions, Doctor?”
“Tiny ring hemorrhages and areas of dead cells in certain parts of the gray matter of the brain. When they occur in these same regions of the brain, they are characteristic of monoxide poisoning.”
