Kurtz and Barent Mystery Series: Books 1-3, page 73
Moran held up a hand. “Shut up,” he said. “Please.”
Jason Lester’s breath came faster. He opened his mouth, coughed, cleared his throat.
“Yes, Mister Lester? What are you trying to say?”
The old man’s hand came up and rested on Moran’s arm, as light as paper. “I…”
“Yes, Mister Lester?”
“I…only…drove,” he whispered. “I…only…drove. I didn’t…kill…” His hand dropped away. He swallowed and closed his eyes.
“You didn’t kill who?” Moran asked.
Jason Lester’s breath whistled slowly in and out. He appeared not to have heard. “Who didn’t you kill?” Moran repeated.
“I think you’ve bothered him quite enough,” Penny said. “More than enough.”
The old man’s head had returned to its original position. His mouth was opened, the tongue peeking out of the left corner. His eyes were half opened, focused on nothing. Moran passed a hand in front of his eyes. There was no response. “Right,” Moran said. “You bet.”
“According to Charles, Jason Lester was the Herbert’s chauffeur.” “He only drove,” Moran said. “He didn’t kill.”
“Who did kill?” Arnie Figueroa asked.
“Yeah,” Barent said, “and who did he kill?”
“Claire Reisberg was strangled.”
“Joe Junior hung himself,” Moran said.
“Did he now? Did he really?” Barent squinted at him through the haze of smoke in the office. “Do we know that for sure? How well was Joseph P. Herbert’s death investigated? His father was a rich man with ties to organized crime. I wouldn’t doubt that he could have hushed things up if he wanted to, particularly since it’s obvious that Harold Van Gelden was on his payroll.”
Moran shrugged, his face expressionless.
“How does Gina Cole and Mark Woodson’s murder tie in to Joseph P. Herbert, Junior? What did Eleanor Herbert, a seven year old girl, see or find out?”
“Murder?” Arnie asked.
“Whose murder? Claire Reisberg? Joseph P. Herbert, Junior? Somebody else?”
“Maybe Gina Cole knew,” Moran said. “Maybe that’s why she was killed.” There was silence while all three men pondered this suggestion. Arnie Figueroa sipped a cup of coffee. Barent idly blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.
“I think it’s time to have another talk with the only surviving victim,” Barent finally said.
“Eleanor Herbert?”
“Yeah,” Barent said. “Eleanor Herbert.”
Chapter 33
They made a detour to Kurtz’ apartment, where Barent, looking none too pleased about it, asked Kurtz to accompany them. Kurtz found himself unable to suppress a grin at Barent’s sour expression. “You bet,” he said.
Lenore glanced at Barent, then gave Kurtz a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t you have surgery in the morning?”
“Not until ten,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll get a good night’s sleep.”
“I don’t think we’ll be late,” Barent said.
Lenore looked at Barent and gave a faint snort.
“Don’t wait up,” Kurtz said.
“Sure,” Lenore said. She kissed him again. “Be careful.”
Three minutes later, they were on the road. Kurtz appreciated the invitation, grudging though it might have been. He was with them, Barent explained, because Kurtz could present the medical facts better than Barent could, their theory regarding insulin shock and lacunar infarcts in the brain and Harold Van Gelden, sixty years in the past. “I don’t know much about CAT scans. You tell her.” Aside from this, the next few miles were almost silent. Moran shook his head now and then. Barent was glum.
After awhile, Kurtz asked, “So what else have you found out?”
Barent grinned faintly. “Wait till we get there. I don’t want to have to explain it twice.”
It was Barent’s show. Kurtz shrugged. “Sure,” he said.
Eleanor Herbert was awake when they arrived, as usual, drinking tea. Her great-nephew, Jerome Herbert, was sitting with her in the drawing room. “Gentlemen,” he said, and raised his teacup. “How nice to see you again.”
From the way he slurred his words, it seemed obvious that Jerome Herbert had until recently been drinking something stronger than tea.
Eleanor Herbert gave her nephew a tired smile, patted his hand and otherwise ignored him. She looked at Kurtz and Barent with sharp eyes. “I’ve been hoping you would come by,” she said, “or at least call.”
“I’m sorry,” Barent said. “We wanted to know more before talking to you.”
“And now you know more?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
She nodded primly. “Then sit down.”
“A mystery?” Jerome Herbert said. “How exciting!” He settled back in his chair and pasted an intent expression on his face.
Barent looked at him. “I would prefer it if we spoke in private.”
“Don’t mind me,” Jerome Herbert said. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”
Barent said nothing. Eleanor Herbert frowned. “I’m sorry, Jerry,” she said. “I think you had better leave.”
Jerome Herbert drew a reproachful sigh and heaved himself tiredly to his feet. “Never around for the good parts. The story of my life.” He swayed, shook his head once to clear it, then shuffled toward the door.
“Wait,” Eleanor Herbert said. Jerome Herbert stopped, blinking his eyes at her. “You’re in no condition to drive. Charles will find you a room.”
He yawned. “Perhaps you’re right. Gentlemen…” He smiled at Barent, Kurtz and Moran. “Goodnight.”
Barent waited until the door had closed before saying to Eleanor Herbert, “Doctor Kurtz will speak to you first. After that, we’ll tell you what else we’ve discovered.”
“Very well, Doctor,” Eleanor Herbert said. “Tell me your story.”
Kurtz told her. He told her about a seven year old girl who screamed and threw things and broke out into tears. He told her about chloral hydrate and the side effects of insulin shock and electroconvulsive therapy and lacunar infarcts in the brain. He showed her the pictures of the CAT scan. Eleanor Herbert listened silently and intently and nodded at the pictures. When Kurtz had finished, her face was pale. The only sound that they could hear was the faint ticking of a clock across the room. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Caroline McFadden…” she said.
“You mentioned the name to me,” Kurtz said.
Eleanor Herbert nodded. Her shoulders were slumped, her expression grave. “She never told me this.”
“She was afraid,” Barent said.
“Afraid of what? Afraid of me?”
“Afraid of your family. Afraid of looking like an idiot. She had no proof of anything, you see.”
“No. I suppose she didn’t.” Eleanor Herbert sighed slowly. “Those years are a blur to me. Just a blur.”
“If we’re correct, they were supposed to be. That was the idea.”
Eleanor Herbert raised her teacup to her lips, sipped, put it down. “Is that all?” she asked.
“No,” Barent said.
She looked at him and gave a tired grin. “You have been busy. Tell me the rest of it.”
Barent looked at her, concern evident on his face. Eleanor Herbert arched a brow. “I’m tougher than I look,” she said. “Just tell me.”
“Alright,” Barent said. He drew a deep breath. “First of all, you said that you first saw Regina Cole at the annual dinner for the medical center benefactors. You said that something about her disturbed you. You had trouble sleeping that night and the next day, you suffered a heart attack. You almost died. During your resuscitation, you dreamed that you saw the dead body of Regina Cole lying on a bed.”
“That’s correct.”
“And two days later, Regina Cole turned up dead. She had been strangled, just as you dreamed.”
“So I have been told,” Eleanor Herbert said. She gave a wintry smile. “I myself have not seen the body.”
Barent ignored her comment. “The day after Regina Cole’s body was found, I came here for the first time and talked to your brother. In the hallway leading to the den, I saw a series of paintings. One of them is a portrait of your older brother, Joseph P. Herbert, Junior. Do you know the portrait?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“It’s an interesting portrait, quite life-like. When I first saw it, I thought that your brother looked vaguely familiar to me but I thought nothing more of it at that time. I remembered that feeling of familiarity only when I found this.” Barent took out the picture of Joseph P. Herbert, Junior, Veronica Nye and Claire Reisberg and handed it to Eleanor Herbert.
She stared at it, turning it back and forth in her fingers. “I never saw this picture,” she finally said. “Where did you get it?”
“It was in the possession of a young man named Mark Woodson. Mark Woodson was a former boyfriend of Regina Cole’s. She broke up with him shortly before she was murdered. Mark Woodson went on a scuba diving vacation to the island of Aruba. He disappeared. His body was found a few weeks later with a spear gun through the head.”
Eleanor Herbert grimaced. “And what do you make of all this?”
“Wait,” Barent said. “There’s more. Do you recognize either of the young women in the picture?”
She stared at it. Her hand began to tremble. Kurtz cleared his throat and started to rise from his chair. Barent held up a hand. Kurtz stopped. “I don’t know,” Eleanor Herbert said in a strangled whisper. “This one,”—she tapped the picture of Claire Reisberg—“she looks as if I should know her.”
“That is a picture of Claire Reisberg. She was a nurse at the Van Gelden Institute.”
Eleanor Herbert glanced at Kurtz. “You mentioned her to me.”
Kurtz nodded. Barent looked annoyed. He shook his head and continued. “On the night of April 24, 1935, Claire Reisberg was strangled to death. One of the patients was accused of the crime. He admitted it. A few days later, your brother, Joseph P. Herbert, Junior, hung himself.”
Eleanor Herbert closed her eyes tightly. She reached up her hands and rubbed at the sides of her face. “Is that all?” she asked.
“No. I’m afraid that it isn’t.”
A small scratching sound came from the doorway. Barent stopped and nodded his head at Moran. Soundlessly, Moran stepped forward and opened the door. Vincent Herbert stood outside in the hallway.
“Come in, Mister Herbert,” Barent said. “I think you should hear this.” Vincent Herbert’s face was pale, his eyes wide. “Though it appears,” said Barent, “as if you already have.”
“Vincent?” Eleanor Herbert said.
Vincent Herbert blinked. He looked back and forth between Barent and Moran.
“Do you have anything to add to what I’ve said so far, Mister Herbert?” Barent asked.
“No,” Vincent Herbert said.
“Vincent?” Eleanor Herbert said again.
“No.” Vincent Herbert’s voice was hoarse. “No. Nothing.” He sat down heavily in a chair.
Barent gave him a faint smile. “Then I’ll go on.”
Vincent Herbert stared at the wall. He took no apparent notice of Barent’s words.
“The other woman in the picture,” Barent said, “the one who Joseph P. Herbert, Junior has his arm around, has been identified as Veronica Nye, the great-grandmother of Regina Cole.”
Vincent Herbert continued to stare at the wall. Eleanor Herbert stared at him. Kurtz, who had heard none of this before but who thought he could see where it was all heading, suppressed a giddy urge to laugh.
“Gina Cole’s grandmother, whose maiden name was Lena Nye, was born on August 15, 1931, at her mother’s home in Manhattan. The birth certificate on record with the city lists the father as unknown. A letter, however, written by Joseph P. Herbert, Junior, to Veronica Nye prior to that date, discusses the pregnancy. The letter implies, though not in so many words, that if Veronica Nye wishes to seek an abortion, he would be willing to help her out.”
Slowly, Eleanor Herbert’s eyes rose to meet Barent’s. “My brother has been dead for nearly seventy years,” she said. “Why are you telling me this, now?”
Barent shrugged. “Gina Cole has been dead for only two weeks.”
“Gina Cole…” Eleanor Herbert stared at her brother. “You’re telling me that Gina Cole was my niece, aren’t you? My niece. And I didn’t even know she existed.”
“When I first saw this picture,” Barent said, “and read the letter from your brother, I realized why his portrait had seemed so familiar to me. His face was Regina Cole’s face.”
“Yes,” Eleanor Herbert whispered. “I can see it now. I can see it. That’s why her face disturbed me so.” She hesitated. “Her face looked like death.”
Barent said, “The laws of inheritance in New York state that if a man dies without leaving a will, then his property is divided among his wife and his ‘natural heirs.’ Joseph P. Herbert, Junior was unmarried. He had no legitimate children. The law states that paternity of illegitimate children must be acknowledged prior to death for them to inherit. The letter that we found is not exactly an acknowledgement of paternity. However, the Cole household was recently burned to the ground. We have reason to believe that it was burglarized. It could be that other evidence of paternity still exists.” Barent shrugged. “Or existed. It could be argued that Regina Cole, and Regina Cole’s mother, and Regina Cole’s grandmother, if she were still alive, all have a claim on Joseph P. Herbert, Junior’s estate.”
“After seventy years?” Eleanor Herbert said.
“There is no statute of limitations on the right to inherit.”
“Vincent?” Eleanor Herbert said.
Vincent Herbert shook his head slowly. “Except for the night of the party, I never met Gina Cole,” he said.
“No?” Barent said. “Then how about Claire Reisberg? Did you ever meet Claire Reisberg?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions,” Vincent Herbert said.
Kurtz could see Barent hesitate. This was true. They had no leverage on Vincent Herbert. Whatever crimes had been committed so many years ago could not be proven today. “But it’s so coincidental, isn’t it?” Barent said. “Claire Reisberg knew your brother, and she also knew Veronica Nye. And later, when Joseph P. Herbert, Junior was a patient at the Van Gelden Institute, Claire Reisberg was his nurse. How did that come about? We know nothing at all about Joseph P. Herbert’s relationship with Claire Reisberg but we do know that Claire Reisberg was pregnant when she died. Claire Reisberg never married. The infant’s father never came forward, was never identified. Was Joseph P. Herbert, Junior, the father of her unborn child? Is that why she died? Is that why Regina Cole died? To protect your inheritance?”
“No,” Vincent Herbert said. Slowly, his eyes came up to meet Barent’s. His breath came faster. His head reared up and his nostrils flared and a terrible light seemed to burn in his eyes. “No,” he said, “that’s not why she died.”
Barent nodded, almost to himself. Moran sat with a faint smile on his face. Kurtz sat unmoving, feeling as if the faintest sound or movement on his part would break the spell. Barent said, “Then what did your sister, your seven year old sister, see that caused Harold Van Gelden to burn the memory out of her brain? Of course, there are other explanations. For instance, you must have known Claire Reisberg, too. You visited your brother frequently, twice a month, we were told. Somewhere along the line, you must have met his nurse. Did your sister Eleanor stumble upon you and Claire Reisberg in a back bedroom, making love? Or did she see you kill her?” Barent smiled thinly. “By the way, your family chauffeur at the time, a man named Jason Lester? He’s still alive. He’s given us a statement that he transported Claire Reisberg’s dead body.” Not exactly true, Barent thought, but it would do for the moment. “The body was found at the Van Gelden Institute, and so, if what Mister Lester told us is correct, then she must have been strangled somewhere else. “Unfortunately, Mister Lester is very old. He was unable to tell us anything more than that. Miss Herbert, you’ll remember, dreamed that she saw old wooden doors and old wooden windows. This is an old house. The doors are made out of wood. The windows are modern, but what did the windows look like sixty years ago? Where was Claire Reisberg killed? Was it here? We don’t know.” Barent raised a brow and smiled at Vincent Herbert. “But I’ll bet you do.”
Slowly, saying not a word, Vincent Herbert rose to his feet and staggered from the room. Moran took a step forward, as if to go after him. Barent shook his head and Moran stopped. He shrugged and resumed his seat. Eleanor Herbert gave a deep, slow sigh, and sipped her tea. The expression on her face was thoughtful, almost serene, but her hand, as she raised the teacup to her lips, was trembling.
Chapter 34
By 11:00 AM the next morning, Kurtz had already been operating for an hour. Luckily, it was a routine case, an inguinal hernia in a healthy, fifty-year old male—since Kurtz more than once found his mind wandering, his fingers cutting and sewing more by instinct than design. His thoughts kept returning to the events of the night before. After their agonizing interview with Eleanor and Vincent Herbert, the ride back to the city had been nearly silent.
Eleanor Herbert had been calm. She had thanked them politely for their efforts. She had refused to believe that her brother might be responsible for the deaths of either Claire Reisberg or Regina Cole. “My brother is a gentle, considerate man,” she had said. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’ve lived with him for a very long time. I know him. You don’t.” Her voice had been calm but had brooked no argument. “You will admit, I am sure, that your evidence is entirely circumstantial.”
“Considerably less circumstantial than your evidence against Doctor Adler,” Kurtz said.
“This is true,” Eleanor Herbert said, unruffled. “It’s also irrelevant.” She fixed Barent with a sharp eye. “Is this all that you’ve discovered?”
Barent hesitated. There was no way to determine if the loan that Stardust Realty had made to the Herbert Development Corporation had ever been repaid. The two companies had merged in 1937. Herbert Development had merged with and bought out numerous competitors over the years, and still Herbert Development survived, an institution, a colossus. What this all might mean to their case, and why Mark Woodson had felt it important enough to hide, they had not yet found out, and Barent did not feel it wise to mention any of this to Eleanor Herbert.
Jason Lester’s breath came faster. He opened his mouth, coughed, cleared his throat.
“Yes, Mister Lester? What are you trying to say?”
The old man’s hand came up and rested on Moran’s arm, as light as paper. “I…”
“Yes, Mister Lester?”
“I…only…drove,” he whispered. “I…only…drove. I didn’t…kill…” His hand dropped away. He swallowed and closed his eyes.
“You didn’t kill who?” Moran asked.
Jason Lester’s breath whistled slowly in and out. He appeared not to have heard. “Who didn’t you kill?” Moran repeated.
“I think you’ve bothered him quite enough,” Penny said. “More than enough.”
The old man’s head had returned to its original position. His mouth was opened, the tongue peeking out of the left corner. His eyes were half opened, focused on nothing. Moran passed a hand in front of his eyes. There was no response. “Right,” Moran said. “You bet.”
“According to Charles, Jason Lester was the Herbert’s chauffeur.” “He only drove,” Moran said. “He didn’t kill.”
“Who did kill?” Arnie Figueroa asked.
“Yeah,” Barent said, “and who did he kill?”
“Claire Reisberg was strangled.”
“Joe Junior hung himself,” Moran said.
“Did he now? Did he really?” Barent squinted at him through the haze of smoke in the office. “Do we know that for sure? How well was Joseph P. Herbert’s death investigated? His father was a rich man with ties to organized crime. I wouldn’t doubt that he could have hushed things up if he wanted to, particularly since it’s obvious that Harold Van Gelden was on his payroll.”
Moran shrugged, his face expressionless.
“How does Gina Cole and Mark Woodson’s murder tie in to Joseph P. Herbert, Junior? What did Eleanor Herbert, a seven year old girl, see or find out?”
“Murder?” Arnie asked.
“Whose murder? Claire Reisberg? Joseph P. Herbert, Junior? Somebody else?”
“Maybe Gina Cole knew,” Moran said. “Maybe that’s why she was killed.” There was silence while all three men pondered this suggestion. Arnie Figueroa sipped a cup of coffee. Barent idly blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.
“I think it’s time to have another talk with the only surviving victim,” Barent finally said.
“Eleanor Herbert?”
“Yeah,” Barent said. “Eleanor Herbert.”
Chapter 33
They made a detour to Kurtz’ apartment, where Barent, looking none too pleased about it, asked Kurtz to accompany them. Kurtz found himself unable to suppress a grin at Barent’s sour expression. “You bet,” he said.
Lenore glanced at Barent, then gave Kurtz a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t you have surgery in the morning?”
“Not until ten,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll get a good night’s sleep.”
“I don’t think we’ll be late,” Barent said.
Lenore looked at Barent and gave a faint snort.
“Don’t wait up,” Kurtz said.
“Sure,” Lenore said. She kissed him again. “Be careful.”
Three minutes later, they were on the road. Kurtz appreciated the invitation, grudging though it might have been. He was with them, Barent explained, because Kurtz could present the medical facts better than Barent could, their theory regarding insulin shock and lacunar infarcts in the brain and Harold Van Gelden, sixty years in the past. “I don’t know much about CAT scans. You tell her.” Aside from this, the next few miles were almost silent. Moran shook his head now and then. Barent was glum.
After awhile, Kurtz asked, “So what else have you found out?”
Barent grinned faintly. “Wait till we get there. I don’t want to have to explain it twice.”
It was Barent’s show. Kurtz shrugged. “Sure,” he said.
Eleanor Herbert was awake when they arrived, as usual, drinking tea. Her great-nephew, Jerome Herbert, was sitting with her in the drawing room. “Gentlemen,” he said, and raised his teacup. “How nice to see you again.”
From the way he slurred his words, it seemed obvious that Jerome Herbert had until recently been drinking something stronger than tea.
Eleanor Herbert gave her nephew a tired smile, patted his hand and otherwise ignored him. She looked at Kurtz and Barent with sharp eyes. “I’ve been hoping you would come by,” she said, “or at least call.”
“I’m sorry,” Barent said. “We wanted to know more before talking to you.”
“And now you know more?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
She nodded primly. “Then sit down.”
“A mystery?” Jerome Herbert said. “How exciting!” He settled back in his chair and pasted an intent expression on his face.
Barent looked at him. “I would prefer it if we spoke in private.”
“Don’t mind me,” Jerome Herbert said. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”
Barent said nothing. Eleanor Herbert frowned. “I’m sorry, Jerry,” she said. “I think you had better leave.”
Jerome Herbert drew a reproachful sigh and heaved himself tiredly to his feet. “Never around for the good parts. The story of my life.” He swayed, shook his head once to clear it, then shuffled toward the door.
“Wait,” Eleanor Herbert said. Jerome Herbert stopped, blinking his eyes at her. “You’re in no condition to drive. Charles will find you a room.”
He yawned. “Perhaps you’re right. Gentlemen…” He smiled at Barent, Kurtz and Moran. “Goodnight.”
Barent waited until the door had closed before saying to Eleanor Herbert, “Doctor Kurtz will speak to you first. After that, we’ll tell you what else we’ve discovered.”
“Very well, Doctor,” Eleanor Herbert said. “Tell me your story.”
Kurtz told her. He told her about a seven year old girl who screamed and threw things and broke out into tears. He told her about chloral hydrate and the side effects of insulin shock and electroconvulsive therapy and lacunar infarcts in the brain. He showed her the pictures of the CAT scan. Eleanor Herbert listened silently and intently and nodded at the pictures. When Kurtz had finished, her face was pale. The only sound that they could hear was the faint ticking of a clock across the room. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Caroline McFadden…” she said.
“You mentioned the name to me,” Kurtz said.
Eleanor Herbert nodded. Her shoulders were slumped, her expression grave. “She never told me this.”
“She was afraid,” Barent said.
“Afraid of what? Afraid of me?”
“Afraid of your family. Afraid of looking like an idiot. She had no proof of anything, you see.”
“No. I suppose she didn’t.” Eleanor Herbert sighed slowly. “Those years are a blur to me. Just a blur.”
“If we’re correct, they were supposed to be. That was the idea.”
Eleanor Herbert raised her teacup to her lips, sipped, put it down. “Is that all?” she asked.
“No,” Barent said.
She looked at him and gave a tired grin. “You have been busy. Tell me the rest of it.”
Barent looked at her, concern evident on his face. Eleanor Herbert arched a brow. “I’m tougher than I look,” she said. “Just tell me.”
“Alright,” Barent said. He drew a deep breath. “First of all, you said that you first saw Regina Cole at the annual dinner for the medical center benefactors. You said that something about her disturbed you. You had trouble sleeping that night and the next day, you suffered a heart attack. You almost died. During your resuscitation, you dreamed that you saw the dead body of Regina Cole lying on a bed.”
“That’s correct.”
“And two days later, Regina Cole turned up dead. She had been strangled, just as you dreamed.”
“So I have been told,” Eleanor Herbert said. She gave a wintry smile. “I myself have not seen the body.”
Barent ignored her comment. “The day after Regina Cole’s body was found, I came here for the first time and talked to your brother. In the hallway leading to the den, I saw a series of paintings. One of them is a portrait of your older brother, Joseph P. Herbert, Junior. Do you know the portrait?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“It’s an interesting portrait, quite life-like. When I first saw it, I thought that your brother looked vaguely familiar to me but I thought nothing more of it at that time. I remembered that feeling of familiarity only when I found this.” Barent took out the picture of Joseph P. Herbert, Junior, Veronica Nye and Claire Reisberg and handed it to Eleanor Herbert.
She stared at it, turning it back and forth in her fingers. “I never saw this picture,” she finally said. “Where did you get it?”
“It was in the possession of a young man named Mark Woodson. Mark Woodson was a former boyfriend of Regina Cole’s. She broke up with him shortly before she was murdered. Mark Woodson went on a scuba diving vacation to the island of Aruba. He disappeared. His body was found a few weeks later with a spear gun through the head.”
Eleanor Herbert grimaced. “And what do you make of all this?”
“Wait,” Barent said. “There’s more. Do you recognize either of the young women in the picture?”
She stared at it. Her hand began to tremble. Kurtz cleared his throat and started to rise from his chair. Barent held up a hand. Kurtz stopped. “I don’t know,” Eleanor Herbert said in a strangled whisper. “This one,”—she tapped the picture of Claire Reisberg—“she looks as if I should know her.”
“That is a picture of Claire Reisberg. She was a nurse at the Van Gelden Institute.”
Eleanor Herbert glanced at Kurtz. “You mentioned her to me.”
Kurtz nodded. Barent looked annoyed. He shook his head and continued. “On the night of April 24, 1935, Claire Reisberg was strangled to death. One of the patients was accused of the crime. He admitted it. A few days later, your brother, Joseph P. Herbert, Junior, hung himself.”
Eleanor Herbert closed her eyes tightly. She reached up her hands and rubbed at the sides of her face. “Is that all?” she asked.
“No. I’m afraid that it isn’t.”
A small scratching sound came from the doorway. Barent stopped and nodded his head at Moran. Soundlessly, Moran stepped forward and opened the door. Vincent Herbert stood outside in the hallway.
“Come in, Mister Herbert,” Barent said. “I think you should hear this.” Vincent Herbert’s face was pale, his eyes wide. “Though it appears,” said Barent, “as if you already have.”
“Vincent?” Eleanor Herbert said.
Vincent Herbert blinked. He looked back and forth between Barent and Moran.
“Do you have anything to add to what I’ve said so far, Mister Herbert?” Barent asked.
“No,” Vincent Herbert said.
“Vincent?” Eleanor Herbert said again.
“No.” Vincent Herbert’s voice was hoarse. “No. Nothing.” He sat down heavily in a chair.
Barent gave him a faint smile. “Then I’ll go on.”
Vincent Herbert stared at the wall. He took no apparent notice of Barent’s words.
“The other woman in the picture,” Barent said, “the one who Joseph P. Herbert, Junior has his arm around, has been identified as Veronica Nye, the great-grandmother of Regina Cole.”
Vincent Herbert continued to stare at the wall. Eleanor Herbert stared at him. Kurtz, who had heard none of this before but who thought he could see where it was all heading, suppressed a giddy urge to laugh.
“Gina Cole’s grandmother, whose maiden name was Lena Nye, was born on August 15, 1931, at her mother’s home in Manhattan. The birth certificate on record with the city lists the father as unknown. A letter, however, written by Joseph P. Herbert, Junior, to Veronica Nye prior to that date, discusses the pregnancy. The letter implies, though not in so many words, that if Veronica Nye wishes to seek an abortion, he would be willing to help her out.”
Slowly, Eleanor Herbert’s eyes rose to meet Barent’s. “My brother has been dead for nearly seventy years,” she said. “Why are you telling me this, now?”
Barent shrugged. “Gina Cole has been dead for only two weeks.”
“Gina Cole…” Eleanor Herbert stared at her brother. “You’re telling me that Gina Cole was my niece, aren’t you? My niece. And I didn’t even know she existed.”
“When I first saw this picture,” Barent said, “and read the letter from your brother, I realized why his portrait had seemed so familiar to me. His face was Regina Cole’s face.”
“Yes,” Eleanor Herbert whispered. “I can see it now. I can see it. That’s why her face disturbed me so.” She hesitated. “Her face looked like death.”
Barent said, “The laws of inheritance in New York state that if a man dies without leaving a will, then his property is divided among his wife and his ‘natural heirs.’ Joseph P. Herbert, Junior was unmarried. He had no legitimate children. The law states that paternity of illegitimate children must be acknowledged prior to death for them to inherit. The letter that we found is not exactly an acknowledgement of paternity. However, the Cole household was recently burned to the ground. We have reason to believe that it was burglarized. It could be that other evidence of paternity still exists.” Barent shrugged. “Or existed. It could be argued that Regina Cole, and Regina Cole’s mother, and Regina Cole’s grandmother, if she were still alive, all have a claim on Joseph P. Herbert, Junior’s estate.”
“After seventy years?” Eleanor Herbert said.
“There is no statute of limitations on the right to inherit.”
“Vincent?” Eleanor Herbert said.
Vincent Herbert shook his head slowly. “Except for the night of the party, I never met Gina Cole,” he said.
“No?” Barent said. “Then how about Claire Reisberg? Did you ever meet Claire Reisberg?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions,” Vincent Herbert said.
Kurtz could see Barent hesitate. This was true. They had no leverage on Vincent Herbert. Whatever crimes had been committed so many years ago could not be proven today. “But it’s so coincidental, isn’t it?” Barent said. “Claire Reisberg knew your brother, and she also knew Veronica Nye. And later, when Joseph P. Herbert, Junior was a patient at the Van Gelden Institute, Claire Reisberg was his nurse. How did that come about? We know nothing at all about Joseph P. Herbert’s relationship with Claire Reisberg but we do know that Claire Reisberg was pregnant when she died. Claire Reisberg never married. The infant’s father never came forward, was never identified. Was Joseph P. Herbert, Junior, the father of her unborn child? Is that why she died? Is that why Regina Cole died? To protect your inheritance?”
“No,” Vincent Herbert said. Slowly, his eyes came up to meet Barent’s. His breath came faster. His head reared up and his nostrils flared and a terrible light seemed to burn in his eyes. “No,” he said, “that’s not why she died.”
Barent nodded, almost to himself. Moran sat with a faint smile on his face. Kurtz sat unmoving, feeling as if the faintest sound or movement on his part would break the spell. Barent said, “Then what did your sister, your seven year old sister, see that caused Harold Van Gelden to burn the memory out of her brain? Of course, there are other explanations. For instance, you must have known Claire Reisberg, too. You visited your brother frequently, twice a month, we were told. Somewhere along the line, you must have met his nurse. Did your sister Eleanor stumble upon you and Claire Reisberg in a back bedroom, making love? Or did she see you kill her?” Barent smiled thinly. “By the way, your family chauffeur at the time, a man named Jason Lester? He’s still alive. He’s given us a statement that he transported Claire Reisberg’s dead body.” Not exactly true, Barent thought, but it would do for the moment. “The body was found at the Van Gelden Institute, and so, if what Mister Lester told us is correct, then she must have been strangled somewhere else. “Unfortunately, Mister Lester is very old. He was unable to tell us anything more than that. Miss Herbert, you’ll remember, dreamed that she saw old wooden doors and old wooden windows. This is an old house. The doors are made out of wood. The windows are modern, but what did the windows look like sixty years ago? Where was Claire Reisberg killed? Was it here? We don’t know.” Barent raised a brow and smiled at Vincent Herbert. “But I’ll bet you do.”
Slowly, saying not a word, Vincent Herbert rose to his feet and staggered from the room. Moran took a step forward, as if to go after him. Barent shook his head and Moran stopped. He shrugged and resumed his seat. Eleanor Herbert gave a deep, slow sigh, and sipped her tea. The expression on her face was thoughtful, almost serene, but her hand, as she raised the teacup to her lips, was trembling.
Chapter 34
By 11:00 AM the next morning, Kurtz had already been operating for an hour. Luckily, it was a routine case, an inguinal hernia in a healthy, fifty-year old male—since Kurtz more than once found his mind wandering, his fingers cutting and sewing more by instinct than design. His thoughts kept returning to the events of the night before. After their agonizing interview with Eleanor and Vincent Herbert, the ride back to the city had been nearly silent.
Eleanor Herbert had been calm. She had thanked them politely for their efforts. She had refused to believe that her brother might be responsible for the deaths of either Claire Reisberg or Regina Cole. “My brother is a gentle, considerate man,” she had said. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’ve lived with him for a very long time. I know him. You don’t.” Her voice had been calm but had brooked no argument. “You will admit, I am sure, that your evidence is entirely circumstantial.”
“Considerably less circumstantial than your evidence against Doctor Adler,” Kurtz said.
“This is true,” Eleanor Herbert said, unruffled. “It’s also irrelevant.” She fixed Barent with a sharp eye. “Is this all that you’ve discovered?”
Barent hesitated. There was no way to determine if the loan that Stardust Realty had made to the Herbert Development Corporation had ever been repaid. The two companies had merged in 1937. Herbert Development had merged with and bought out numerous competitors over the years, and still Herbert Development survived, an institution, a colossus. What this all might mean to their case, and why Mark Woodson had felt it important enough to hide, they had not yet found out, and Barent did not feel it wise to mention any of this to Eleanor Herbert.
