The Doctor hung up, then got on the inter-office phone:
“Miss Smart. What was the name of the woman who was just here—the last patient. Well, let us say the one you suppose to be here now, yes. Mrs. Hugo Gross. Had you ever seen her before? I see. Now, I know we have been lax about this in the past, Miss Smart, but from this day forward you will require, and verify, a reference from each new patient. Is that clear? Yes, your Mrs. Hugo Gross just threatened my life with a Hanlon scalpel and left with six hundred dollars, out the window. That is correct. What? No, that has been done. Naturally I notified the authorities before calling you—that would be the normal procedure, would it not? I’m not primarily interested, you see, in the gossipy aspect of the incident. Now, a representative of the Police will be here shortly. There is no need for you to wait, but you might be of help in this way: if you would care to write down a description of what the woman was wearing. Knowing the nature of women, your cursory observations might prove to be more exacting on this count than my own. Yes, any details of her dress you can recall. Black gloves, etc . . . No, you needn’t concern yourself with the face—I remember the face quite well. Yes, write it down and leave it on your desk. I will get it when the officer arrives. Yes, thank you. And you may go home. Yes, good night, Miss Smart.”
Chapter XXVII
A POLICE CAR ARRIVED at the Clinic about five minutes later and two officers got out. It was Stockton and Fiske. Dr. Eichner shook hands with them in solemn friendliness.
“Well, sure seems to be your big week, Doc,” Fiske was saying aloud with a wide grin.
Both men seemed a little strange in the new setting, Fiske gawking around, unabashedly testing the carpet with his foot, marveling at its thickness, and Stockton looking rather tight and suspicious. “This where you work?” he asked the Doctor narrowly, I mean, this where your practice is?”
Whenever the Doctor and Stockton spoke together, Fiske followed their remarks like a drugged person watching a fantastic tennis match. He seemed forever on the verge of shaking his head, slapping his thigh, and saying, with a soundless laugh, something softly in wonder.
Dr. Eichner told them the story with business-like simplicity, only lending certain emotional overtones to the dramatic highlights:
“While she was relating the history of her case, you see, she paced the floor, nervously pausing now and again at the instrument case, pretending . . . oh, I can tell you it was a grand job of play-acting on her part . . . pretending to admire the instruments, but absently, you understand, as though they didn’t really distract her from what she was saying. Then, as she finished her story, she was standing—just where you are now, Sergeant—by the instrument case, silent for the moment, her fingers idly, or so it seemed, toying a Hanlon scalpel—a surgical knife with a four-inch blade—which, I noticed finally, she was slowly encircling with her hand. And then, shaking her head slightly, and without looking at me, she said: ‘No. No, Doctor, there’s only one way you can help me now—’ and suddenly, and with surprising, really forceful agility, she turned, brandishing the scalpel, and walked quickly toward me, speaking between clenched teeth, ‘—by giving me the money you have in that desk!’ Well! I can tell you, gentlemen, I was that much taken aback!” And the Doctor illustrated this by falling into a momentary attitude of limp helplessness in his chair. Then he straightened himself abruptly, and narrowing his eyes, as in serious reverie, continued, “—not so much by the mere fact of the incident, but by the way it progressed, or rather, by its effect on me. What I mean to say is this: One would not imagine that a woman with a knife would be, well, particularly fearsome—certainly I wouldn’t have—and yet, there was something so convincingly menacing about it, so . . . athletic, you might say, in the way she handled the knife, that I was, I admit, genuinely afraid for my life. Nevertheless, I did protest at first, hoping to reason with her, even denying that there was money in the desk. I started to get up from my chair—and in an instant she had the scalpel at my throat! In short, I gave her all the money in the office—about six hundred dollars—and she went out that window, like an animal.”
Fiske gave a low whistle and looked from the Doctor to Stockton and back again. Stockton, who had frowned up from his note-book only once or twice during the whole narrative, immediately strode to the window. “This window, right?” he asked sharply, making a note in his book, though, actually, it was the only window in the room. He impulsively grasped the handle to push the window open a little more. Dr. Eichner gave a slight start and was about to speak but checked himself.
“She went out this window,” announced Stockton, holding on to the handle now to support himself as he leaned out peering around. “What kind of shoes would you say she was wearing at the time, Doctor?”
“I’m not absolutely certain, of course,” said Fred Eichner seriously, picking up a small slip of paper as he spoke, “but I asked my receptionist for her description of the woman’s dress, and here is her list—remarkable what women will notice—and she has: ‘brown calf, British laced flats, crepe sole,’ which I take to be the common variety of low-heel walking shoe, and correct, I daresay, since, in retrospect, I don’t recall the . . . the clickity-clack sound of high-heels, customary with my women patients—though, in truth, I can’t say that I did notice it in the specific sense . . . that is, I have no clear-cut visual image at this moment of . . .”
“She was correct,” pronounced Stockton from the window, “there are no footprints.” He made a notation in his book. It was apparent that Stockton fancied himself quite keen, or more precisely, that he was at a hopeless loss, but wished to convey the opposite impression. Dr. Eichner handed him the paper. “My own recollection of her dress is completely substantiated here and, as I say, greatly expanded. I think this paper might better serve as a ‘description’ than anything I can say on the matter. I’ve studied it closely and can think of no further detail that—”
“Sergeant,” said Stockton, addressing his companion, “call in this description to Headquarters.” He handed the paper smartly over to Fiske, who looked at him first in surprise, then said “Right!” and started out of the office. “Wait a minute,” said Stockton. “I want this place checked for fingerprints. Tell them to send a man over for that.” He stared intently at the handle of the window he had been hanging onto, now musing aloud, “—if she went out that window . . .” It was enough to make Fred Eichner sick to stomach.
“I get you, Stock,” said Fiske brightly. “Right!” and he was out the door in a bound.
“Doctor,” Stockton took it up again, attempting to sound casual, “you say nobody tried to stop this woman. I mean, you didn’t yell or anything for somebody to stop her when she left.”
“The woman was dangerously armed, Sergeant,” said the Doctor coldly. “It was obviously work for no one but the Police Department.”
“Was this money insured?” demanded Stockton, not one to be easily duped.
The Doctor smiled tolerantly. “I have the ordinary ‘loss against theft’ insurance,” he said. “I doubt if it applies in this case, however. I do happen to have the serial numbers on the four hundred dollars though—the money that was in the desk. Those numbers are included, you may have noticed, on the paper you’ve given Sergeant Fiske.”
Stockton had gone back to looking at the window-handle. “Wait a minute,” he said suddenly, and ran out of the office, where his strident voice could still be heard: “Fiske, hold up on that call!”
Dr. Eichner sat back feeling strangely content. The story he had told about the theft was perhaps the only creative thing he had ever done in his life, and it had left him with a sense of wondrous exhaustion, feeling all clean and relaxed inside. It was so powerful in fact that, for a moment he wholly forgot about Felix Treevly in the closet. Then he came around again and took up his previous concern, looking first at his watch, then out the window.
Dusk had moved in like a dry fog and it lay bluish-gray on the stone benches and pebble drive. In half an hour
it would be dark.
The Doctor was getting his hat and coat together when the officers returned.
“Well, I guess that will be all, Doctor,” said Stockton ruefully, his eyes avoiding the window. “I’m not going to have anyone over here tonight for prints. I mean, we’ve got a pretty good description of this woman as it is.”
“I understand, Sergeant,” said the Doctor, with no change of expression. He started for the door with them, speaking to Stockton: “If you should change your mind, of course, I’ll leave word with the front receptionist to let your man into the office.” He walked as far as the door of their car and gave them his hand in good-bye, with a word of caution. “Take care,” he said, “the woman is dangerous.”
“Oh, we’ll get her for you, Doc,” Fiske assured him cheerfully, “don’t you worry.”
“Thank you, gentlemen, and good night,” said the Doctor, waving them on.
“Good night,” they replied in unison, Stockton sounding disgruntled as ever.
The Doctor stood motionless, his eyes on the departing car, and when it turned out of the gate, he started down the drive himself, walking rapidly.
At the boulevard, he boarded the first bus and rode a few blocks into the residential section neighboring the Clinic. It was a mounting, circular drive, passing well-spaced, long lawned, two-story houses, with big family cars and convertibles parked in clusters all along the street. It was cocktail time.
In a seat near the rear of the bus, Dr. Eichner slowly pulled on a pair of thin leather driving-gloves. A minute later, he got off the bus and began to walk. It was almost dark. He walked in the street, along the left-hand side of the parked cars, looking into them as he passed. And exhilaration that began at the touch of his feet on the pavement rose and grew within him until he had to fight to control the pounding of his heart and temples. He had walked past about fifteen cars, all in the first half of the block, when he stopped at one, and after a quick look toward the lighted windows of the house, he got in, switched on the keyed-ignition, and carefully drove away.
When the Doctor reached the Clinic, it was quite dark, though no more than a quarter-hour had elapsed since his departure. He parked the car shortly to one side of the veranda and went inside.
Prim Miss Steven, the night receptionist, was at her desk in the foyer.
“Miss Steven,” said Dr. Eichner firmly, “would you please go around to West Wing Nurses’ Room and get my Miss Smart? Something rather urgent has come up, and—well, I’ll keep an eye on the desk for you.”
“Of course, Doctor,” said Miss Steven and started out in a hurry.
The Doctor raced to his office, a few doors away. From his liquor cabinet he took a fresh bottle of whiskey, of the brand he had introduced into Mr. Treevly, poured off one pint of this and put it into one of his own office decanters; the half-filled bottle he put in his coat pocket. He then opened the closet, gathered up Mr. Treevly and, keeping a sharp look-out all around, carried him through the empty foyer, onto the veranda, down the steps, and placed him on the back seat floor of the car. He returned to the front desk and penned this note for Miss Steven:
Miss Steven. Sorry to have troubled you. I was certain I had seen our Miss Smart going to Nurses’ Rest Room to change, but I was mistaken—most of our girls look so much alike in their whites (allow me to say, please, present reader excepted!) that they tend to lose their identities and one is prone to confuse them. I have Miss Smart’s home-number, however, and will contact her there. Thanks again for your trouble, Miss Steven. I have to run. Good night.
F. L. EICHNER
He went directly to the car, got in and drove out through the night. As the car swerved into Wilshire and headed for the mountains, the Doctor flicked open the glove-compartment, deposited the partially filled bottle of whiskey, and snapped it to.
Fred Eichner drove through the thickening dark without anxiety or apprehension. The automobile was a Kaiser-Darrin, waspish by comparison to the cars he was accustomed to, but it suited his heady mood. He reached the desolate mountain roads and began to climb, leaving the lights of the city far below. He drove steadily for half an hour, the only sound in the night the constant whir of the motor and the slow moan of rubber tires gnawing the shoulders around the ever left-sweeping curves. The Doctor drove as by second nature, giving separate scrutiny to the characteristics of the road, especially inasmuch as they corresponded with warning markers that preceded them. Finally, at a sign reading: “DANGER—Sharp Curve 200 feet ahead,” he slowed the car. Shortly beyond the marker, the headlights picked up the ominous white criss-cross of guardrail and red reflector lights. He stopped the car and got out to reconnoiter the site. It was a hairpin curve with a thousand foot drop about four feet beyond the rail.
The Doctor surveyed the area carefully, climbing the rail to examine the ground in front of the drop. It was a sheer haze of depth that, in the light of the rising moon, seemed milky soft, as though all the vast space and rock were under clear, warm water. In that moonlight, too, the Doctor’s face seemed to have changed, indefinably, and when he returned to the car, he was visibly quivering with excitement. He got in, and without turning on the ignition, allowed the car to roll back about a hundred feet. He started up the engine, raced it terrifically several times, peering at the white rails dead ahead, then began the ascent, climbing fast, and faster, straight for the rails until at exactly the right instant he flattened the brake and put the car into a screaming twist as it smashed through the rail and came to a stop, veering sideways, two feet from the brink of the drop.
The Doctor sat still behind the wheel for a moment before getting out to look over his work. It was a first-rate job. He had crashed, almost sideways through the rail, leaving on the pavement behind a seventeen-foot black-burnt smear of anguish. All that was necessary now was to release the brake and over the vehicle would go. He cut the motor and put the car in gear, with the emergency brake on. After he had gotten out and hoisted Treevly into the front seat behind the wheel, he closed the doors and leaned inside; he turned on the switch, put the gear in third, and released the emergency.
The car started slowly forward and over it went, in a sort of lazy loop. At first it seemed buoyant, floating like a mothball dropped from a tall building, then it skipped off the first ledge, careening lightly out into space, where it seemed to sail again, inviolate in the soft sea of moonlight, until it hit the ground. When it hit, it more or less exploded, but like a smokeless bomb, and without much sound at that distance.
Finally, after puttering about the ground near the ledge, arranging its disturbance to his purpose, he gave a brief inspection to the burnt tracks on the highway behind, and then started walking down the road. It took him almost three hours to get to a bus line, from whence he went directly home, had dinner, read for an hour, and slept then like a tired lover.
Chapter XXVIII
AS FOR BABS MINTNER, however, Ralph did not call her all during the day, and that night she cried herself to sleep.
Next day, by a remarkable effort of will, she stifled her impulse to be at the Dispensary at two o’clock sharp when he arrived. Instead, she waited one full hour before casually presenting herself there, as on business, for aspirin and pheno-barb.
And the boy seemed somewhat embarrassed when she did appear, but it was evident, too, that he was slightly disturbed at her not having come earlier.
“Hello, stranger,” he said, blasé, frowning a bit.
“Hello,” she said, feigning a friendly calm.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve sure changed!”
“Why, how do you mean?” asked Babs, managing surprise.
“Well, if you don’t know,” he said, looking hurt, but shrugging it off.
Babs fought to maintain a sane countenance, handing the boy her list of things.
“I wanted to phone you yesterday,” he went on, lightly now, almost wistfully, as he took the items off shelves around him.
“Well, we were pretty busy,” said Ba
bs airily, regarding her nails.
“—but I had to go out of town,” Ralph continued. “I called last night and they said you had gone to bed.”
“Oh?” said Babs, actually biting her tongue. “They didn’t tell me.”
“They didn’t?” said Ralph, looking puzzled, as he came closer to the girl. “Well, no, I guess I didn’t tell them to.”
“You could have left a message,” said Babs, surrendering up to him with full wet eyes.
“Well,” said Ralph, not exactly ready to deaden his own pain, “I thought I’d be seeing you sooner than this.”
“Did you?” she demanded, snatched up her things from the counter and marched away.
But alone, in Nurses’ Rest Room, she could only think of him; and it was frightening for her as though with every image the new-born thing inside her grew gradually out like some kind of weird plant toward a huge and undeniable fusion . . . with him . . . until suddenly the girl felt that if she did not act at once, and of her own volition, she could not long be responsible for herself. Even so, she did manage to wait fifteen minutes before entering the main corridor and going back to the Dispensary, where she sauntered past Ralph, her eyes down as in nonchalantly perusing the list in her hand.
“Babs,” he called in tender despair.
“Oh!” She gave a slight start, looking up, even as rather surprised to find him there.
“Please, Babs,” he begged, motioning her to come over. “Why are you being like this?” He was clearly disturbed, but more sure of himself now that she was actually there.
“Oh, we’ve been so busy, you’ve no idea!” said she, touching her hair as she approached, frowning down at her list.
“Oh? What’s up?” the boy asked, attempting to go along with it, arching his brows.
“Oh, it’s Fred again—Dr. Eichner,” lied Babs easily.
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