The Naked Face Read Free Page A

lamps were scattered about the room. At the far end of the office a private door led out to the corridor. On the floor was an exquisitely patterned Edward Fields area rug, and in a corner was a comfortable damask-covered contour couch. McGreavy noted that there were no diplomas on the walls. But he had checked before coming here. If Dr. Stevens had wanted to, he could have covered his walls with diplomas and certificates.
    “This is the first psychiatrist’s office I’ve ever been in,” Angeli said, openly impressed. “I wish my house looked like this.”
    “It relaxes my patients,” Judd said easily. “And by the way, I’m a psychoanalyst.”
    “Sorry,” Angeli said. “What’s the difference?”
    “About fifty dollars an hour,” McGreavy said. “My partner doesn’t get around much.”
    Partner. And Judd suddenly remembered. McGreavy’s partner had been shot and killed and McGreavy had been wounded during the holdup of a liquor store four—or was it five?—years ago. A petty hoodlum named Amos Ziffren had been arrested for the crime. Ziffren’s attorney had pleaded his client not guilty by reason of insanity. Judd had been called in as an expert for the defense and asked to examine Ziffren. He had found that he was hopelessly insane with advanced paresis. On Judd’s testimony, Ziffren had escaped the death penalty and had been sent to a mental institution.
    “I remember you now,” Judd said. “The Ziffren case. You had three bullets in you; your partner was killed.”
    “And I remember you,” McGreavy said. “You got the killer off.”
    “What can I do for you?”
    “We need some information, Doctor,” McGreavy said. He nodded to Angeli. Angeli began fumbling at the string on the package he carried.
    “We’d like you to identify something for us,” McGreavy said. His voice was careful, giving nothing away.
    Angeli had the package open. He held up a yellow oilskin rain slicker. “Have you ever seen this before?”
    “It looks like mine,” Judd said in surprise.
    “It is yours. At least your name is stenciled inside.”
    “Where did you find it?”
    “Where do you think we found it?” The two men were no longer casual. A subtle change had taken place in their faces.
    Judd studied McGreavy a moment, then picked up a pipe from a rack on a long, low table and began to fill it with tobacco from a jar. “I think you’d better tell me what this is all about,” he said quietly.
    “It’s about this raincoat, Dr. Stevens,” said McGreavy. “If it’s yours, we want to know how it got out of your possession.”
    “There’s no mystery about it. It was drizzling when I came in this morning. My raincoat was at the cleaners, so I wore the yellow slicker. I keep it for fishing trips. One of my patients hadn’t brought a raincoat. It was beginning to snow pretty heavily, so I let him borrow the slicker.” He stopped, suddenly worried. “What’s happened to him?”
    “Happened to who?” McGreavy asked.
    “My patient—John Hanson.”
    “Check,” Angeli said gently. “You hit the bull’s-eye. The reason Mr. Hanson couldn’t return the coat himself is that he’s dead.”
    Judd felt a small shock go through him. “Dead?”
    “Someone stuck a knife in his back,” McGreavy said.
    Judd stared at him incredulously. McGreavy took the coat from Angeli and turned it around so that Judd could see the large, ugly slash in the material. The back of the coat was covered with dull, henna-colored stains. A feeling of nausea swept over Judd.
    “Who would want to kill him?”
    “We were hoping that you could tell us, Dr. Stevens,” said Angeli. “Who’d know better than his psychoanalyst?”
    Judd shook his head helplessly. “When did it happen?”
    McGreavy answered. “Eleven o’clock this morning. On Lexington Avenue, about a block from your office. A few dozen people must have seen him fall, but they were busy going home to get ready to celebrate the birth of Christ, so they let him lie