The Naked Face

It was almost midnight. Judd had wearily reiterated the story of Moody’s phone call for the tenth time. McGreavy, hunched up in his overcoat, sat there watching him, chewing savagely on a cigar. Finally he spoke. "Do you read detective stories?"

Judd looked at him, surprised. "No. Why?"

"I’ll tell you why. I think you’re just too goddam good to be true, Dr. Stevens. From the very beginning I’ve thought that you were in this thing up to your neck. And I told you so. So what happens? Suddenly you turn into the target instead of the killer. First you claim a car ran you down and – "

"A car did run him down," Angeli reminded him.

"A rookie could answer that one," McGreavy snapped. "It could have been arranged by someone who’s in this with the doctor." He turned back to Judd. "Next, you call Detective Angeli with a wild-eyed yarn about two men breaking into your office and trying to kill you."

"They did break in," said Judd.

"No, they didn’t," snapped McGreavy. "They used a spe cial key." His voice hardened. "You said there were only two of those keys to that office – yours and Carol Roberts’."

"That’s right. I told you – they copied Carol’s key."

"I know what you told me. I had a paraffin test run. Carol’s key was never copied, Doctor." He paused to let it sink in. "And since I have her key – that leaves yours, doesn’t it?"

Judd looked at him, speechless.

"When I didn’t buy the loose maniac theory, you hire a detective out of the yellow pages, and he conveniently finds a bomb planted in your car. Only I can’t see it because it’s not there any more. Then you decide it’s time to throw me another body, so you go through that rigmarole with Angeli about a phone call to meet Moody, who knows this mysteri ous nut who’s out to kill you. But guess what? We get here and find him hanging on a meat hook."

Judd flushed angrily. "I’m not responsible for what happened."

McGreavy gave him a long, hard look. "Do you know the only reason you’re not under arrest? Because I haven’t found any motive to this Chinese puzzle yet. But I will, Doctor. That’s a promise." He got to his feet.

Judd suddenly remembered. "Wait a minute!" he said. "What about Don Vinton?"

"What about him?"

"Moody said he was the man behind all this."

"Do you know anyone named Don Vinton?"

"No," Judd said. "I – I assumed he’d be known by the police."

"I never heard of him." McGreavy turned to Angeli. Angeli shook his head.

"OK. Send out a make on Don Vinton. FBI. Interpol. Po lice chiefs in all major American cities." He looked at Judd. "Satisfied?"

Judd nodded. Whoever was behind all this must have some kind of criminal record. It should not be difficult to identify him.

He thought again of Moody, with his homely aphorisms and his quick mind. He must have been followed here. It was unlikely that he would have told anyone else about the rendezvous, because he had stressed the need for secrecy. At least they now knew the name of the man they were looking for.

Praemonitus, praemunitas.

Forewarned, forearmed.

The murder of Norman Z. Moody was splashed all over the front pages of the newspapers the next morning. Judd picked up a paper on his way to the office. He was briefly mentioned as being a witness who had come across the body with the police, but McGreavy had managed to keep the full story out of the papers. McGreavy was playing his cards close to his chest. Judd wondered what Anne would think.

This was Saturday, when Judd made his morning rounds at the clinic. He had arranged for someone else to fill in for him there. He went to his office, traveling alone in the elevator and making sure that no one was lurking in the cor ridor. He wondered, even as he did so, how long anyone could live like this, expecting an assassin to strike at any moment.

Half a dozen times during the morning he started to pick up the phone and call Detective Angeli to ask about Don Vinton, but each time he controlled his impatience. Angeli would surely call him as soon as he knew something. Judd puzzled over what Don Vinton’s motivation could be. He could have been a patient whom Judd had treated years ago, perhaps when he was an intern. Someone who felt that Judd had slighted him or injured him in some way. But he could remember no patient named Vinton.

At noon he heard someone try to open the corridor door to the reception room. It was Angeli. Judd could tell nothing from his expression except that he looked even more drawn and haggard. His nose was red, and he was sniffling. He walked into the inner office and wearily flopped into a chair.

"Have you gotten any answers yet on Don Vinton?" Judd asked eagerly.

Angeli nodded. "We got back teletypes from the FBI, the police chiefs of every big city in the United States, and Inter pol." Judd waited, afraid to breathe. "None of them ever heard of Don Vinton."

Judd looked at Angeli incredulously, a sudden sinking sensation in his stomach. "But that’s impossible! I mean – someone must know him. A man who could do all this just didn’t come out of nowhere!"

"That’s what McGreavy said," replied Angeli wearily. "Doctor, my men and I spent the night checking out every Don Vinton in Manhattan and all the other boroughs. We even covered New Jersey and Connecticut." He took a ruled sheet of paper out of his pocket and showed it to Judd. "W e found eleven Don Vintons in the phone book who spell their name ‘ton’ – four who spell it ‘ten’ – and two who spell it ‘tin.’ We even tried it as one name. We narrowed it down to five possibles and checked out every one of them. One is a paralytic. One of them is a priest. One is first vice-president of a bank. One of them is a fireman who was on duty when two of the murders occurred. I just left the last one. He runs a pet shop and he must be damn near eighty years old."