“Hello?” His voice sounded cracked, strained.
“Mr. Chase?”
“Yes,” he said, immediately recognizing the voice. It was not Judge.
“This is Miss Pringle, calling for Dr. Fauvel, to remind you of your appointment tomorrow at three. You have a fifty-minute session scheduled, as usual.”
“Thank you.” This double check was a strict routine with Miss Pringle, although Chase had forgotten about it.
“Tomorrow at three,” she repeated, then hung up.
* * *
At ten minutes before five, Tuppinger complained of hunger and of a deep reluctance to consume a fifth Winesap apple.
Chase didn’t object to an early dinner, accepted Tuppinger’s money, and went out to buy the chicken, French fries, and slaw. He purchased a large Coca-Cola for Tuppinger but nothing for himself. He would drink his usual.
They ate at a quarter past five, without dinner conversation, watching an old movie on television.
Less than two hours later Wallace arrived, looking thoroughly weary although he had only come on duty at six. He said, “Mr. Chase, do you think I might have a word alone with Jim?”
“Sure,” Chase said.
He stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the water in the sink, which made a sound like dead men whispering. The noise put him on edge.
He lowered the lid of the commode and sat facing the empty tub, realizing that it needed to be scrubbed. He wondered if Tuppinger had noticed.
Less than five minutes passed before Wallace knocked on the door. “Sorry to push you out of your own place like that. Police business.”
“We haven’t been lucky, as Mr. Tuppinger probably told you.”
Wallace nodded. He looked peculiarly sheepish, and for the first time he could not meet Chase’s gaze. “I’ve heard.”
“It’s the longest he’s gone without calling.”
Wallace nodded. “It’s possible, you know, that he won’t be calling at all, any more.”
“You mean, since he passed judgment on me?”
Chase saw that Tuppinger was disconnecting wires and packing his equipment into the suitcase.
Wallace said, “I’m afraid you’re right, Mr. Chase. The killer has passed his judgment – or lost interest in you, one or the other – and he isn’t going to try to contact you again. We don’t want to keep a man tied up here.”
“You’re leaving?” Chase asked.
“Well, yeah, it seems best.”
“But another few hours might-”
“Might produce nothing,” Wallace said. “What we’re going to do, Mr. Chase, is we’re going to rely on you to tell us what Judge says if, as seems unlikely now, he should call again.” He smiled at Chase.
In that smile was all the explanation that Chase required. He said, “When Tuppinger sent me out for dinner, he called you, didn’t he?” Not waiting for a response, he went on: “And he told you about the call from Dr. Fauvel’s secretary – the word ‘session’ probably alarmed him. And now you’ve talked to the good doctor.”
Tuppinger finished packing the equipment. He hefted the case and looked quickly around the room to be sure that he had not left anything behind.
“Judge is real,” Chase told Wallace.
“I’m sure that he is,” Wallace said. “That’s why I want you to report any calls he might make to you.” But his tone was that of an adult humoring a child.
“You stupid bastard, he is real!”
Wallace flushed with anger. When he spoke, there was tension in his voice, and his controlled tone was achieved with obvious effort. “Mr. Chase, you saved the girl. You deserve to be praised for that. But the fact remains, no one has called here in nearly twenty-four hours. And if you believed such a man as Judge existed, you surely would’ve contacted us before this, when he first called. It would’ve been natural for you to rush to us – especially a duty – conscious young man like yourself. All these things, examined in the light of your psychiatric record and Dr. Fauvel’s explanations, make it clear that the expenditure of one of our best men isn’t required. Tuppinger has other duties.”
Chase saw how overwhelmingly the evidence seemed to point to Fauvel’s thesis, just as he saw how his own behavior hadn’t helped him. His fondness for whiskey in front of Tuppinger. His inability to carry on a simple conversation. Worst of all, his anxiety about publicity might have appeared to be the insincere protestations of a man who, in fact, wanted attention. Still, with his fists balled at his sides, he said, “Get out.”