The Groaning Board

a little rubbery. She took a
deep breath. “Okay, let s go.
    But Smith was already speaking to the
doorman.
    “Wait.” When Smith paused, Wetzon
took her aside out of the doorman’s hearing. “Use your name. A.T. could be
pissed at me because I told Silvestri she was responsible for the rice
pudding.”
    Smith told the doorman, “Ms. Smith to
see Ms. Barron.“
    “And the other lady?” the doorman
asked.
    Smith stared at Wetzon through
slitted eyes.
    “Ms. Marple,” Wetzon said.
    When the doorman stepped into a
cubbyhole to ring up A.T., Smith said, “Very amusing.”
    “I try. I do try.” Wetzon looked
outside. Too soon for Silvestri, but damned if her bodyguard, Huberman, wasn’t
standing across the street puffing on a cigar. The sight was oddly reassuring.
    The doorman returned. “You can go
right up. 8A.” A.T.’s welcoming smile for Smith disappeared instantly when she
saw Wetzon. “You!” She shook a finger at Wetzon. “You told that cop I poisoned
you with the goddam pudding. The police were here for hours. They just left.”
She ran nervous fingers through the disheveled frizz on her head, something
she’d clearly been doing for a while, because with that hair and her sharp pale
features, she had the aspect of a creature of the wild.
    “Where’s Ellen?” Smith asked, getting
right to the point. “Ellen?”
    “Yes, A.T., this is very important,”
Wetzon said.
    “You don’t know how helpless this all
makes me feel.” Smith took A.T. by the shoulders and gave her a small shake.
“Ellen, A.T., for pity sakes, where is she?”
    Stunned by Smith’s manhandling, A.T.
stammered, “She went... to the hospital to see Todd.”
    “Oh, no,” Wetzon groaned. “She’s
going to put him out of his misery.”
    “What’s going on?” A.T. demanded. “No
one tells me anything. It’s like Daddy all over again: ‘Alice, you don’t have
to know.’“
    “A.T.,” Smith screamed. “Your daddy’s
been dead for ten years. Get a goddam life! ”
    “Let’s get out of here.” Wetzon
tugged at Smith.
    “Wait,” A.T. screamed. “Tell me what
this is about. You’ve got to leave Ellen alone. She’s been through so much—”
    But Smith and Wetzon were running
down the hall. Smith pressed the down button again and again. They watched A.T.
come toward them. Where was the elevator?
    “Please—” A.T. said.
    “Who told you I like rice pudding?”
Wetzon asked. “You mentioned it when we first met, then Bill asked me to make
some up for you.”
    “Where is the goddam elevator?” Smith
screamed, punching the button with her fist.
    “Bill called and asked you to make
the pudding?”
    “Well, not directly. He had his
associate, Jonathon, do it. Please tell me where you’re going.”
    The elevator arrived and they got on.
Smith said, “Go back inside, A.T., and take a Valium.”
    Out on the street, Wetzon said as
they looked for a taxi, “Jonathon is Ellen’s new boyfriend.”
    Not a cab in sight, wouldn’t you
know? Only Huberman leaning against a tree smoking his cigar.
    Wetzon waved frantically to him. “Put
out that bloody cigar and come with us.”
    Taken by surprise, he dropped the
cigar and crossed the street.
    “Who’s this?” Smith’s lip curled,
registering his thick chest and cheap suit.
    “My bodyguard,” Wetzon said. “We’re
going to Lenox Hill Hospital, Huberman, to try to stop a killing. Let’s combine
forces. Can you get us over there?”
    He said in a surprising basso voice,
“Let me handle this.” He charged ahead of them to West End Avenue and instantly
flagged down a cab.
    Smith and Wetzon got in the back and
Huberman sat in front with the driver, a man with a turban.
    “Lenox Hill Hospital,” Huberman said.
“Make it fast.” He shifted his attention to the backseat. “What’s all this
about?”
    “I don’t think that’s any of—” Smith
began.
    “Shut up, Smith. A sixteen-year-old
killer named Ellen Moore is going to pull the plug on her boyfriend. We’re
trying to stop it.”

Chapter Sixty-Six

     
     
     
    They raced
into the lobby of the hospital and then were stopped short by the crowds. It was
visiting hours and a steady stream of people came in from the street carrying
flowers, books, suitcases.
    Smith forced her way to the
information desk. “Todd Cameron,” she said to a kind-faced black woman.
    “402,” the woman said, without
consulting her computer screen. How odd, Wetzon thought. She knows the room
without