Lay Her Among The Lilies

I swerved half across the road, missed a truck that was pounding along and minding its own

business, and had the driver curse at me. I edged back to the near side.

“I told you to watch it,” Kerman said, and grinned. “Hot, isn’t it?”

“Go on : what else?”

“About twenty-three years ago she was a throat and ear specialist in San Francisco. Crosby

met her when she treated Janet for a minor complaint. He married her. She kept her practice,

over-worked, had a nervous breakdown and had to quit. Crosby and she didn’t hit it off. He

caught her fooling with Salzer. He divorced her. When he moved to Orchid City, she moved

too, to be near Maureen. Like it?”

“Well, it helps,” I said. We were now on the Los Angeles and San Francisco Highway, and

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LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

I had my foot hard down on the gas pedal. “It explains quite a lot of things, but not

everything. It accounts for why she took a hand in the game. Naturally she’d be anxious her

daughter should keep all that money. But for the love of Mike! Imagine going to the lengths

she’s gone to. It’s my bet she’s crazy.”

“Probably is,” Kerman said complacently. “They were cagey about her at the Medical

Association. Said she had a nervous breakdown and wouldn’t enlarge on it. She chucked a

dummy right in the middle of an operation. One nurse I talked to said if it hadn’t been for the

anesthetist she would have cut the patient’s throat: as bad as that.”

“Salzer any money?”

“Not a bean.”

“I wonder who promoted the sanatorium: probably Crosby. She’s not going to get away

with Nurse Gurney’s death. When the police find the body I’m going to tip Mifflin.”

“They may never find her,” Kerman said. He had a very low opinion of the Orchid City

police.

“I’ll help them, after I’ve seen Maureen.”

We drove for the next ten minutes in silence while I did some heavy thinking.

Then Kerman said, “Aren’t we wasting time going to see old man Freedlander? Couldn’t

we have telephoned?”

“You get bright ideas a little late, don’t you? He may not be anxious to have her back. A

telephone conversation can be closed down too easily. I have a feeling he’ll need talking to.”

We crossed the Oakland Bay Bridge a few minutes after three o’clock, turned off 3rd into

Montgomery Street, and left into California Street.

Freedlander’s place was halfway down on the right-hand side. It was one of those

nondescript dwelling-houses: six storeys of rabbit warren, blaring radio and yelling children.

A party of kids came storming down the stone steps to welcome us. They did everything to

the car except puncture the tyres and drop lighted matches into the petrol tank.

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LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

Kerman picked out the biggest and toughest of them and gave him half a buck.

“Keep your pals off this car and you’ll get the other half,” he said.

The boy hauled off and socked a kid around the ears to show his good faith. We left him

booting another.

“Nice neighbourhood,” Kerman said, stroking his moustache with his thumb-nail.

We went up the steps and examined the two long rows of mail-boxes. Freedlander’s place

was on the fifth floor: No. 25. There was no elevator, so we walked.

“It’s going to make me a happy day if he’s out,” Kerman panted as he paused on the fourth

landing to mop his brow.

“You drink too much,” I said, and began to climb the stairs to the next floor.

We came to a long, dingy passage. Someone’s radio was playing jazz. It blasted like a hot

breath the length and breadth of the passage.

A slatternly looking woman came out of a room near by. She had on a black straw hat that

had seen its best days, and in one hand she clutched a string shopping-bag. She gave us a look

full of inquisitive interest, and went on down the passage to the head of the stairs. She turned

to stare again, and Kerman put his thumbs to his ears and waggled his fingers at her. She

went on down the stairs with her nose in the air.

We walked along the passage to No. 25. There was no bell or knocker. As I lifted my hand

to rap, a muffled bang sounded beyond the door: the sound a paper bag makes when you’ve

blown it up and slapped it with your hand.

I had my gun out and my hand on the door handle before the sound had died away. I turned

the handle and pushed. To my surprise the door opened. I looked into a fair-sized room: a

living-room if you judged by the way it was furnished.

I could hear Kerman breathing heavily behind me. I took in the room with a quick glance.

There was no one to see. Two doors led off the room, and both were closed.

“Think it was a gun?” Kerman murmured.

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I nodded, stepped quietly into the room, motioning him to stay where he was. He stayed

where he was. I crossed the room and listened outside the right-hand door, but the noise from

the blaring radio killed any other sound.

Waving to Kerman to get out of sight, I turned the handle and set the door moving with a

gentle push, and at the same time stepped aside and pressed myself against the wall. We both

waited and listened, but nothing happened. Through the open door drifted the strong, acid