“Yeah? What’s the matter with him?” asked Ralph, trying to make the fanatic jealousy in his face pass for amused interest.
“Well,” Babs began, glancing around the corridor, “there’s been some trouble. I—I can’t talk about it now.” And she gave him a quick, dark look to sharpen the mystery of it.
Ralph seemed on the verge of a strong reply, but suddenly the corridor sounded with a patter as the ward-boy, Albert, came up on the run, making small animal noises the while. Babs put out her hand caressingly, just as one might to intercept the flight of a dear little puppy dog, completely ignoring Ralph now in making much of the dwarfed near-mute who, with childish ferocity, began at once to pummel her stomach and tug at the skirt of her habit, sometimes exposing the sweet secret ruffles beneath.
“Don’t let him do that!” begged Ralph furiously, leaning across his counter toward them.
“Shh,” Babs said, “he’s trying to tell me something.”
Albert looked up at Ralph in brief contempt, and then buried his face in the girl’s skirt.
“Oh, the darling, the darling,” she murmured, closed-eyed, stroking his great head.
Ralph watched, in speechless wrath, as Albert tugged and beckoned Babs away, as to a tryst, and she feigning helplessness, allowed him to do so.
“It may be something about Fred,” she explained to Ralph.
“I’ll be by for you at eight-thirty,” said Ralph with a firmness that shook his voice, “I’ve got two tickets for a concert at the school.” And he withdrew them from his shirt pocket as proof of it.
“All right, dear, I’ll see,” Babs called back lightly, as if too deeply engaged now to give it much thought.
“Eight-thirty,” Ralph commanded, glaring a really hateful vengeance at the back of the giant head of the dwarf, resting as it did against the hip of his own beloved.
Chapter XXIX
AT PRECISELY 10:30 A.M. Dr. Eichner had been notified by phone that the stolen money was recovered, or more exactly, that it had been definitely established through the remnants of certain bills of currency found at the scene of an automobile wreck that the stolen money had been destroyed in the amount reported, and that a claim-slip for that sum was being processed and sent forward by the authorities. And, in due order, the Doctor would get full reimbursement from the Treasury Department.
No further comment was offered on the case at the time, the truth being that the authorities were desperately trying to prove a theory that the wholly unidentifiable body found in the wreck was that of the notoriously long-sought “Black Dahlia.”
And now, in the middle of the afternoon, after the Doctor had been further informed that, as a formality, he would be asked to identify the scalpel, a plain clothes detective came around to the Clinic with it.
This detective looked more like a manufacturer’s public-relations man than anyone’s notion of a real detective. With a certain naïveté, he spoke in patient, explicative tones, avoiding those details that he thought the Doctor might find unsavory. He was evidently rather embarrassed at having to say that the woman was not actually a woman, but a man so disguised.
“He was a maniac,” said the detective apologetically. “You’re lucky, I guess, that he wasn’t more violent at the time. But you did exactly the right thing, simply giving him the money. You see, the amount was probably more than he expected and diverted his real intention—to put him in a good frame of mind, so to speak.”
“He had a record of violence, did he?” asked Fred Eichner in interest.
“Well, not exactly. We talked to his psychiatrist—”
“I see. He was under treatment?”
“Well, he had gone to this psychiatrist . . . and he wasn’t surprised; I mean, he said he had known for a long time that the man was unstable, which is certainly an understatement even so. Though naturally, the psychiatrist might tend to minimize it—afraid he would incriminate himself for not having advised the man to be locked up in the first place. But, of course, we had no such things in mind. We were only interested in the facts of the particular case. Actually, the department puts very little stock in what a psychiatrist may say anyhow—especially after the fact, so to speak. We have our own psychiatrists, of course. For the department, however, it is simply a case of theft-and-recovery.”
“You say she—rather he stole a car after he left here?”
“Yes. He came here—on some mad obsession—then was diverted from this obsession when he saw the scalpel. He wished to use it, but could not find the emotional strength or the reason—if I may use the word for a madman—to do so. He hoped you would provoke his anger by refusing him money, and thereby give him an excuse to do so. When you did not, but gave him six hundred dollars instead, his plan changed abruptly. He left, stole a car—a few blocks from here—and was on his way out of the state using a back mountain road. He was drinking, and driving very fast—50 miles an hour—on a hairpin curve, and went over the side, a thousand feet. Completely demolished everything, including him.”
“Drinking, was he?”
“Yes, a piece of a whiskey bottle was found. He might not have been drinking before he came here. Not that you could have told, anyway. Whiskey doesn’t affect a maniac the same as an ordinary person, though, of course, in some cases it may be worse.”
“I see.”
“Well, I guess that’s all there is to it. You should be hearing from the Treasury Department by the end of the week. I’ll leave the scalpel here, it belongs to you. It seems to be all right—about the only thing that survived the wreck, I’d say. Pardon me for saying so, but you ought to keep those things out of sight. I mean, you don’t want to give anyone more ideas.” He stared at the scalpel for a long moment.
“Yes,” said the Doctor, “you’re probably right there. Well, good-bye and thanks again.”
“You’re welcome. Good-bye.”
Dr. Eichner took four o’clock tea and a sandwich. He had just settled, half-reclining on the leather sofa, with a brandied black coffee, for a comfortable half-hour of perusing his medical journals when the inter-office phone rang. It was Miss Smart to say that the published information on the Alfa Romeo trial sheets was in error, and that a supplemental erratum slip was being issued by the company, with apology.
“Very good,” said Fred Eichner, “very good.”
“They say,” Miss Smart continued, “that they would like to send a man around with the new model, anyway. They’re sure you would be pleased with it. They’re on the line now, Doctor.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I know this model quite well, you see. I was merely interested in getting at the truth of the published specifications. Ask their representative for the correct figure, please.”
“Yes, Doctor, one moment.”
While waiting, Dr. Eichner fetched out his automotive papers and quickly located the sheet in question.
“Yes, Doctor, the correct displacement is: one, sixty-five, point, two-four. The other specifications are unchanged.”
“One, sixty-five, point, two-four. I’ll just note that. Yes. Well, even so, that is a considerable gain over their last model, you see. But that hardly, ha!—hardly attains it to the—to the Bugatti class! You may tell him that. No. No, I won’t require a demonstration of this model. You may say, however, that through the published reports, I am appreciatively aware of their progress and will, of course, be in touch with them as soon as—well, as soon as they come-up-with-something, so to speak.”
“Very well, Doctor. I’ll tell them.”
“All right, Miss Smart. Now then, what time is it?”
“Four forty-five, Doctor.”
“My next appointment?”
“Why, there’s nothing else today, Doctor.”
“Good. You needn’t disturb me again, Miss Smart.”
“Doctor, Nurse Thorne is here to see you.”
“All right, have her come in.”
Dr. Eichner met Eleanor Thorne at the door, taking her hand warmly,
but with just the right amount of slightly-pained-smile to indicate noblesse oblige and so discourage any undue forwardness on her part.
“Take coffee, Miss Thorne,” he said, having already poured off two brandies neat. “You have heard of the fantastic events of yesterday, no doubt?” he continued, drawing chairs together for them.
“Yes, what an extraordinary thing!” said she, trying to feel at home. “Was it actually the man who came here before—intoxicated?”
“Evidently,” said the Doctor, “evi-dent-ly.”
“He must have been mad. Really mad. It’s—frightening.”
“My dear,” said the Doctor, smiling, putting a hand on her own, as both repressed a shudder of distaste, “perhaps there’s more of madness in the world than one can ever know, and power is not infrequently her bedfellow.” They raised their cups, each now using two hands for it, and the Doctor continued in a lively voice: “However, I suppose the fortunate thing is that psychotic manifestations generally cause no alarm. Or is it unfortunate?”
“Well,” said Nurse Thorne, turning in her chair, “I simply wanted to express my own—and I’m sure I speak for the rest of the staff—my own feelings of relief and gratitude that you weren’t harmed.”
Dr. Eichner nodded appreciatively, and Nurse Thorne went on: “The money was recovered as well, I understand.”
“Yes. Yes, the money was recovered as well.”
There was a moment of silence while they both sipped of coffee or brandy before Nurse Thorne spoke again. “Doctor,” she began earnestly but rapid enough to suggest that she had rehearsed. “I hope I may speak to you in confidence. As you know, I have always admired your work here at the Clinic, and since being Head Nurse, I have come to have a great respect for you personally. I feel somehow closer to you than to most of the staff, and—well, I thought perhaps you would like to know that you will be asked to stay over for a board meeting this afternoon and—and to replace Dr. Charles, as Chief Surgeon, when he retires next month.”
The Doctor took a delicate sip of brandy. “Well! I must say that from time to time I had envisioned as much—on the basis of rumor, of course—but have managed to restrain my hopes so as not to be disappointed. May I ask where you heard this, Nurse Thorne?”
“It is no longer a rumor, Doctor. Sally Weston in the front office—she does Mr. Roberts’ typing—told me, in confidence of course. The meeting is to be at 5:20, in a very little while now. There was bound to be a leak.”
“Yes. Yes. Perhaps. Pertinent hearsay of the last minute should often be treated as conclusive. That is so. Well, Nurse Thorne, we will be working together, then.” The Doctor raised his glass, assuring her of it. “My compliments,” he said.
Eleanor Thorne beamed, joining the toast.
“There may be some reorganizational matters wanting our attention later,” said the Doctor with great understanding. “You might be giving this your consideration and pass on to me whatever suggestions you see fit when the time arrives.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Nurse Thorne, rising to go. “Thank you, and—congratulations.”
“Thank you, my dear. Forewarned is quite often, as they say, forearmed.”
At five o’clock Dr. Eichner had an emergency call from one of his regular patients, which he shortly concluded with the gentle admonition: “I see what we’re up against, Mrs. Cranell. Your starch estimate did not take into account soya, and—well, I think we’d-bettter-watch-it for a week or so.”
Miss Smart then called to say that the Doctor was requested to stay over for a board meeting at 5:20. Miss Smart rather shyly repeated the hearsay, which, by now, was going the rounds with open, official sanction.
Dr. Eichner settled down again, this time in a great leather chair, with his automotive trial sheets. He had just decided to replace his Delahaye with a new Gordini, and the decision made him tingle. Then, in a moment of reflection, he rose and went to the window. Half in a world of fantasy, his mind’s eye roved the desolate winding heights of Andorra, and the endless moon-lit roads of Spain, where one could drive for a hundred miles without meeting a single car.
“You have bad luck,” said Garcia from below.
The Doctor gave a start. He had not noticed this Mexican gardener, puttering there in the bed below.
Garcia tipped his hat, smiling a little.
“Well, how are you, Garcia?” asked the Doctor.
The gardener nodded his head, smiling. “You have bad luck,” he repeated, “losing the money.”
“Yes, wasn’t it,” said the Doctor with grand good nature. “However, it’s been found. They found it, the Police.” He spoke rather loud, as though the gardener were deaf.
“Yes,” said Garcia, “the Police.” He nodded to show comprehension, making his smile a funny little twisted thing.
“I need money,” he said.
“How’s that?” said Fred Eichner.
“I have twenty-three dollars a week.” He held up his fingers. “Two-three,” he said. “I need twenty-six. My wife have baby.”
Dr. Eichner nodded in sympathy, but didn’t speak.
“Twenty-six,” the gardener repeated, raising his fingers. “Two-six.”
“Yes. Well, you should certainly speak to Mr. Roberts’ office about it. I’m sure they would see—” The Doctor stopped short, looking intently now at Garcia, as the latter stood shaking his head, still smiling, of course, rather artificially it would seem.
“You Doctor,” he said, pointing a finger at Fred Eichner, “you will speak?”
“Well,” said the Doctor, “it’s hardly my place to ask the—”
“You new boss in Clinic, yes?”
“Perhaps,” said the Doctor, letting his annoyance show. “But it would hardly be my place—”
“My wife no have baby,” said Garcia flatly. “Already she have three baby. Expense. I have expense. Here.” He pointed suddenly at the bed beneath the window where the Doctor stood. “I put new seeds—here. Old seeds broken by footprint. Here.” And he pointed to what might have been the precise spot an inch above which Dr. Eichner had poised the low-heeled shoe of Treevly.
“Footprint?” said the Doctor softly. “What footprint?”
“Footprint-of-thief,” said Garcia with slow emphasis. “Footprint-of-woman-steal-money.”
And the eyes of the two men locked in steady fascination.
“There was a footprint there?” said the Doctor, incredulous at what was taking place. “Yesterday?”
“Yes.” The gardener’s smile looked strange and mechanical. “I cover. Old seeds no good, eh? New seeds. Money.” He made a gesture then of holding his open palm out to the Doctor. “You speak to Robert office please?”
“When did you find the footprint?” Dr. Eichner demanded in a hollow voice.
“When thief run, I see. Thief jump into flower and run, yes?”
“You saw?”
“Yes. I see thief run.”
“You saw,” the Doctor repeated dully.
The gardener’s laugh was like that of a wooden device. “I see thief run,” he cried with grotesque gaiety. “I find footprint! Cover! Police, yes? Police! Police look for footprint. I cover. Yes? Footprint is cover!”
The Doctor’s eyes left Garcia’s and for a long moment seemed to scan the dim horizon of the closing day. He cleared his throat. “You say—you say twenty-three to twenty-six?”
“Yes,” said Garcia, “twenty-six. Two-six.”
“I think it can be arranged,” said the Doctor evenly. “Yes, I think it can be arranged.”
The gardener turned to go, touching his cap. “Little, yes? Yes. Two-six.” He gave the Doctor a very cool smile. “Seeds not much cost! Seeds not much cost this year.” And he walked away slowly, into the dying light, rubbing the trowel against his leg.
Chapter XXX
THE CONCERT AT the school was at ten o’clock, and when Ralph telephoned Babs about two hours before he was to pick her up, she had asked, lightly enough, if they were �
��going formal,” whereupon Ralph had laughed, saying “no, au contraire!” Even so, when Ralph went by for her, she appeared at the door wearing a new hat, high heels, and her smartest black, whereas Ralph was dressed simply, in the student manner of sports-jackets and open-collar shirts.
When she was settled in the car, Ralph gave her a kiss, but Babs pulled away, saying: “Careful, don’t muss!” And they were off.
Above the windshield, on the girl’s side of the car, was a sun-shade, the back of which held a mirror, and snapping on the overhead light, Babs turned the mirror down to check her appearance. As the car got under way, she began to talk with increasing vivaciousness. And as she spoke, she glanced quite openly and yet without any deliberate vanity, into the mirror, where she noted her image and expressions, even when these expressions were seemingly ingenuous, or unexpected, such as frowns, expressions of apprehension, distaste, incredulity, shame, and even adoration.
It was something quite beyond vanity. It was, in fact, as though she were very earnestly trying to take the boy and herself seriously, and that by continually referring back to her image in the glass, she could generously give whatever they might say the reality and the dramatic validity it could not otherwise have.
By the time they reached the school, Babs’ animation had progressed to an extraordinary point, so that upon entering the auditorium, she received the immediate attention of everyone near, but most especially of the girls. And about half the audience was constituted of young girls, living on campus, here now in groups of two or more, attired in varying combinations of sweaters, jeans, men’s shirts, sandals, skirts, short white socks, and saddle-shoes. Many had books with them, to indicate they had just come from the library, and some continued to read, while here and there were kerchiefed heads to show that these girls had freshly washed their hair or otherwise prepared it for bed.
There was a small army of single men in the audience who, for the most part, wore T-shirts, read from folded newspapers, and had a pencil behind one ear. Others were there, of course, in boy-girl couples, holding hands and talking gravely.
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