No more trouble from me.”
“Mr. Elliot,” said Dr. Mitchell, “there isn’t a man or a woman here who wouldn’t like to see Ed Luby and his gang in prison.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Harve. “I don’t believe anybody anymore.” He shook his head again. “As far as that goes,” he said, “I can’t prove any of my story anyway. Ed Luby’s got all the witnesses. The one witness I thought I might get—he’s dead downstairs.”
This news was a surprise to those around the table.
“You knew that man?” said Dr. Mitchell.
“Forget it,” said Harve. “I’m not saying any more. I’ve said too much already.”
“There
is
a way you could prove your story—to our satisfaction, anyway,” said Dr. Mitchell. “With your permission, we’d like to give you a shot of sodium pentothal. Do you know what it is?”
“No,” said Harve.
“It’s a so-called truth serum, Mr. Elliot,” said Dr. Mitchell. “It will temporarily paralyze the control you have over your conscious mind. You’ll go to sleep for a few minutes, and then we’ll wake you up, and you won’t be able to lie.”
“Even if I told you the truth, and you believed it, and youwanted to get rid of Ed Luby,” said Harve, “what could a bunch of doctors do?”
“Not much, I admit,” said Dr. Mitchell.
“But only four of us here are doctors,” said Dr. Mitchell. “As I told Ed Luby, yours was a very complicated case—so we’ve called together a pretty complicated meeting to look into it.” He pointed out masked and gowned men around the table. “This gentleman here is head of the County Bar Association. These two gentlemen here are detectives from the State Police. These two gentlemen are F.B.I. agents. That is, of course,” he said, “if your story’s true—if you’re willing to let us prove it’s true.”
Harve looked into the circling eyes again.
He held out his bare arm to receive the shot. “Let’s go,” he said.
Harve told his story and answered questions in the unpleasant, echoing trance induced by sodium pentothal.
The questions came to an end at last. The trance persisted.
“Let’s start with Judge Wampler,” he heard someone say.
He heard someone else telephoning, giving orders that the cabdriver who had driven the murdered woman out to the Key Club was to be identified, picked up, and brought to the operating room of Ilium Hospital for questioning. “You heard me—the operating room,” said the man on the telephone.
Harve didn’t feel any particular elation about that. But then he heard some really good news. Another man took over the telephone, and he told somebody to get Harve’s wife out of jail at once on a writ of habeas corpus. “And somebody else find out who’s taking care of the kids,” saidthe telephoner, “and, for God’s sake, make sure the papers and the radio stations find out this guy isn’t a maniac after all.”
And then Harve heard another man come back to the operating room with the bullet from the dead man downstairs, the dead witness. “Here’s one piece of evidence that isn’t going to disappear,” said the man. “Good specimen.” He held the bullet up to the light. “Shouldn’t have any trouble proving what gun it came from—if we had the gun.”
“Ed Luby’s too smart to do the shooting himself,” said Dr. Mitchell, who was obviously starting to have a very fine time.
“His bodyguard isn’t too smart,” said somebody else. “In fact, he’s just dumb enough. He’s even dumb enough to have the gun still on him.”
“We’re looking for a thirty-eight,” said the man with the bullet. “Are they all still downstairs?”
“Keeping a death watch,” said Dr. Mitchell pleasantly.
And then word came that Judge Wampler was being brought up. Everyone tied on his surgical mask again, in order that the judge, when he entered, mystified and afraid, could see only eyes.
“What—what is this?” said Judge Wampler. “Why do you want me
“Mr. Elliot,” said Dr. Mitchell, “there isn’t a man or a woman here who wouldn’t like to see Ed Luby and his gang in prison.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Harve. “I don’t believe anybody anymore.” He shook his head again. “As far as that goes,” he said, “I can’t prove any of my story anyway. Ed Luby’s got all the witnesses. The one witness I thought I might get—he’s dead downstairs.”
This news was a surprise to those around the table.
“You knew that man?” said Dr. Mitchell.
“Forget it,” said Harve. “I’m not saying any more. I’ve said too much already.”
“There
is
a way you could prove your story—to our satisfaction, anyway,” said Dr. Mitchell. “With your permission, we’d like to give you a shot of sodium pentothal. Do you know what it is?”
“No,” said Harve.
“It’s a so-called truth serum, Mr. Elliot,” said Dr. Mitchell. “It will temporarily paralyze the control you have over your conscious mind. You’ll go to sleep for a few minutes, and then we’ll wake you up, and you won’t be able to lie.”
“Even if I told you the truth, and you believed it, and youwanted to get rid of Ed Luby,” said Harve, “what could a bunch of doctors do?”
“Not much, I admit,” said Dr. Mitchell.
“But only four of us here are doctors,” said Dr. Mitchell. “As I told Ed Luby, yours was a very complicated case—so we’ve called together a pretty complicated meeting to look into it.” He pointed out masked and gowned men around the table. “This gentleman here is head of the County Bar Association. These two gentlemen here are detectives from the State Police. These two gentlemen are F.B.I. agents. That is, of course,” he said, “if your story’s true—if you’re willing to let us prove it’s true.”
Harve looked into the circling eyes again.
He held out his bare arm to receive the shot. “Let’s go,” he said.
Harve told his story and answered questions in the unpleasant, echoing trance induced by sodium pentothal.
The questions came to an end at last. The trance persisted.
“Let’s start with Judge Wampler,” he heard someone say.
He heard someone else telephoning, giving orders that the cabdriver who had driven the murdered woman out to the Key Club was to be identified, picked up, and brought to the operating room of Ilium Hospital for questioning. “You heard me—the operating room,” said the man on the telephone.
Harve didn’t feel any particular elation about that. But then he heard some really good news. Another man took over the telephone, and he told somebody to get Harve’s wife out of jail at once on a writ of habeas corpus. “And somebody else find out who’s taking care of the kids,” saidthe telephoner, “and, for God’s sake, make sure the papers and the radio stations find out this guy isn’t a maniac after all.”
And then Harve heard another man come back to the operating room with the bullet from the dead man downstairs, the dead witness. “Here’s one piece of evidence that isn’t going to disappear,” said the man. “Good specimen.” He held the bullet up to the light. “Shouldn’t have any trouble proving what gun it came from—if we had the gun.”
“Ed Luby’s too smart to do the shooting himself,” said Dr. Mitchell, who was obviously starting to have a very fine time.
“His bodyguard isn’t too smart,” said somebody else. “In fact, he’s just dumb enough. He’s even dumb enough to have the gun still on him.”
“We’re looking for a thirty-eight,” said the man with the bullet. “Are they all still downstairs?”
“Keeping a death watch,” said Dr. Mitchell pleasantly.
And then word came that Judge Wampler was being brought up. Everyone tied on his surgical mask again, in order that the judge, when he entered, mystified and afraid, could see only eyes.
“What—what is this?” said Judge Wampler. “Why do you want me
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