She handed it to me without speaking. My fingers were shaking as I fumbled at the catch. At last it sprang open.
Blankly I stared at Iris' tiny handkerchief, her compact, a few little things they had allowed her to keep. There was something pathetic about them. They were so everyday, so normal.
It was the contrast which made that other thing so horrible. Lying among them, strangely out of place in that delicate, silk-lined hand bag, was a thin surgical knife.
Swiftly I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket. Iris and I looked at each other.
"But it's absolutely impossible," she whispered.
I knew it was impossible, too. But I wasn't thinking about that. I was just thinking how someone had done this beastly thing to her.
Then, as we sat there together, I saw that glazed, half-hypnotized expression come back into her eyes.
"They want me to kill Laribee," she said slowly, "They're trying to make me do it against my will."
Her hands dropped to her sides and she added with sudden pleading: "But you won't let anything happen, will you?"
"Of course I won't. I've got the knife. It's safe. You can trust me."
Around us in the lounge the sociabilities continued. Vaguely I heard Miss Brush laughing, and then the boom of Laribee's voice. At a table not far off, Miss Powell was shuffling her cards for the solitaire which always came out.
Iris had started trembling again. Regardless of everyone and everything, I put my hand on her shoulder and said quietly:
"You mustn't let them frighten you, Iris. Remember I'm always here."
"But—"
"There aren't any buts," I said, and my mouth was very close to her ear. "I'm going to stand by you whatever happens, because—you see—I love you."
Her eyes met mine and she smiled. I found myself not giving a damn about the knife, the voice, or anything.
As my lips brushed her hair, I wondered whether this wasn't the craziest of all the crazy things that had happened in Dr. Lenz' sanitarium.
19
IRIS SMILED AGAIN, and that cleared my head, made me suddenly feel very male and purposeful. The knife would completely justify my conviction that something was vitally, dangerously wrong with the sanitarium. I would have to see Lenz again right away.
I told Iris so, and immediately a look of alarm spread across her face.
"No, you mustn't tell him—you mustn't. He'll think I'm worse, keep me shut up in my room. He'll—"
"But he won't think you're worse, Iris. Don't you see? We have the knife. It's proof."
She would not be comforted. Her lips were trembling as though she were near to tears. She couldn't stand it, she said, being shut up there in her room.
"He'll have to see the knife, Iris," I urged. "But if you like I won't tell him I got it from you."
That seemed to dispel her fears. She inclined her head slightly and whispered:
"Of course you must do what you think best. But it's all so dreadful. It makes me feel I shall never get well, never get out of this place."
I knew exactly how she felt. I was almost that way myself. But I did my best to sound optimistic.
"Nonsense," I said, "we'll both be out in a couple of weeks. And what I said yesterday still goes. I'm going to take you with me and put you through the hardest job of training you've ever had in your life. I'm going to make you a big actress or I bust."
As I said it, I knew that I meant it. In some crazy way my life was bound up with hers now. Whatever else did or did not happen, I was going to get Iris out of the sanitarium; going to get her well again.
"You stay here and don't be frightened," I said with an encouraging smile. "I'm going to see Lenz."
As I moved away from her, I happened to glance at Miss Powell. Until that moment I had been too confused and angry to be able to think coherently as to how the knife could possibly have been put into Iris' bag. But when I saw the Boston spinster sitting there with a card poised thoughtfully over her solitaire game, those strange words of the night before came back into my mind:
"There are lovely knives in the surgery."
One thing was patently obvious. Whoever had started this cruel campaign against Iris, was now working either with or through Miss Powell.
I was still musing upon this when the Boston spinster turned to me and nodded an elaborate greeting.
"Good evening, Mr. Duluth. Such typically March weather we're having, aren't we? In like a lion, you know!"
She gave a short, nervous laugh and turned back to her card-cheating.
Moreno was the only person who could give us official permission to see the director at unseasonable hours. Neither he nor Stevens was in the lounge, and my first instinct was to hurry out of the room to find them. Then I remembered my promise to Iris to keep her out of it. Everyone had seen me talking to her. If I were to leave at once, I might arouse suspicions which would inevitably involve her.
Curbing my impatience, I spent the remaining minutes of the social hour in being as sociable as it was in me to be, hoping to draw attention from Iris. I took a short but convincing interest in Miss Powell's solitaire and her very positive views on social reform. I looked over Miss Brush's shoulder and confirmed my previous opinion that she was even worse as a bridge player than myself. I kidded Billy Trent. And then in turn talked to Laribee, Fenwick and Stroubel.
I noticed that Miss Brush was observing this sudden accession of brightness on my part. Doubtless she considered it an indication of advancing convalescence.
It was not until we were in the corridor on our way to bed that I had an opportunity for a word alone with Geddes. I was eager to know what, if anything, he had learned from Laribee, but I only had time to whisper: "I'm going to see Lenz. Something else has happened. Tell you later."
Then Miss Brush caught up with us.
"Attractive girl—Miss Pattison," she murmured.
"Yes," I said guardedly.
"You get on very well with her, don't you, Mr. Duluth?"
"Does that have to be recorded on my chart, too?" I asked rather irritably.
She smiled and I thought I could detect a trace of malice in her eyes. "Oh, come, Mr. Duluth, don't take it that way. I was just complimenting you on your taste in brunettes."
Miss Brush may have been a hard-boiled, efficient nurse, but apparently she was human enough to resent it when one of her little group of worshippers started noticing other women.
Not daring to postpone it any longer, I told her I had to see Lenz. Instantly the smile left her lips and she replied rather sulkily that I would have to ask Moreno. Warren appeared at that moment and she told him to take me down to the young psychiatrist's office.
The night attendant looked rested and less gloomy than usual as we went down the corridor together. He was quite friendly, too. I suspected that he had already heard of the police's belief that his brother-in-law's death had been accidental. With the menace of official cross-examination no longer over him, he had apparently decided to forgive me.
Dr. Moreno was closing the door of a small closet when I entered. I had just time to see a familiar bottle and a tumbler, half full. It was Johnny Walker Black Label and I envied him. But it was a relief to realize that I did not envy him unduly. A few weeks before I would have jumped on him and wrenched the bottle from him like a hungry mountain lion.
I suppose he saw from my expression that I had caught him out, for he smiled and said almost humanly:
"I wish I could ask you to join me, Mr. Duluth." He indicated a chair near his, but I did not sit down.
"I'd like to, doctor," I said, "but I'm afraid I can't stay. I've got to see Dr. Lenz at once."
Moreno stiffened and the good humor left his face. Like most of us, I suppose, he hated it when people wanted to go over his head to the man higher up.
"Dr. Lenz is speaking at a medical meeting in New York," he said coldly. "He will not be back until tomorrow."
"But I've got to see him," I insisted.
&nbs
p; "In Dr. Lenz's absence I am in charge of the sanitarium. If there is anything important, you can take it up with me, Mr. Duluth."
The change of expression on my face must have been unflatteringly obvious, for he continued hotly:
"I think it is time I told you, Mr. Duluth, that your attitude toward me and the staff in general has been most uncooperative. I feel you have been holding things back which might have been important. You've been creating a melodrama ..."
"Melodrama!" I cut in. "I only wish it was melodrama. But it's all real—horribly real. It's you and this sanitarium that do your best to dehumanize everything. You were on the stage, weren't you? I suppose you played the tight-lipped, science-must-march-on physician. Well, you've been playing it ever since. And you're such a long way away from reality now that you can't understand it when people start behaving like people instead of neurotic puppets whose function in life is to react correctly to treatment and show the correct development on their progress charts."
Moreno went rather red. "You are exciting yourself, Mr. Duluth," he said quietly. "And, from what I can gather, you have been exciting the other patients, too. If you are not careful, you are going to prove more of a hindrance than a help, not only to us, but also to your own recovery."
As I glared at him, standing there, stiff, almost priggishly neat in his white physician's coat, he seemed to become a symbol of all the red tape, the humoring, and the hypocrisy of that expensive sanitarium. I told him that it was a good job that someone was being a hindrance to the things that were going on. I called him a stuffed shirt and a number of other incoherent but opprobrious names.
He took it very calmly, considering his own annoyance at me. As I raved on I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was going to enter all the epithets on my progress chart as soon as I had left
His calmness only aggravated me further. I did not care if he thought I was crazy. I did not care if it meant my being shut up for an extra six months. I was getting out of my system all my frustrated loathing of officialdom. It was an exceedingly pleasant sensation.
At length I paused for breath and he said quietly:
"If you have finished, Mr. Duluth, I suggest we now talk to each other as man to man. I have been considering you as a patient and you, I gather, have been treating me as a doctor. Shall we drop it for an instant?"
"I don't believe Lenz is away," I said doggedly. "And I'm not going to talk to anyone but him."
"You are at liberty to try and find him, but it will only be a waste of time. Look." He tossed me a medical magazine which announced Lenz as speaker at some meeting that evening.
"Did you have anything definite to tell him?" He asked the question with a trace of sarcasm in his tone. "Or were you just going to talk about a few more mysterious voices which you and the—"
"Definite!" I cut in. "Would you call it definite if I told you that knives have been stolen from the surgery?"
"I would say it was definitely impossible, Mr. Duluth, though I am willing to check up on it."
"So you don't believe me?"
"I said I thought it quite impossible. Dr. Stevens has charge of the surgery and—"
"All right, perhaps I can convince you."
I had worked myself to such a pitch that I could hardly control my voice. All my jitteriness had come back. I could only just get my shaking hand into my pocket.
"Look!"
"I am waiting to be convinced, Mr. Duluth."
My hand had come out of my coat pocket and was running through my other pockets—breast, trousers, vest.
"I am still waiting, Mr. Duluth."
His voice was so calm and so assured that I was certain he knew what to expect.
I had searched every one of my pockets. There could be no mistake about it now.
The knife was gone!
And then something must have snapped, for the next thing I knew was that I was in bed, and Mrs. Fogarty was pouring something sweet and soporific down my throat.
20
NEXT MORNING I was kept in bed and coddled. Moreno came to see me early and acted the composed young psychiatrist as though nothing had happened. Miss Brush hurried brightly in and out to make sure I had everything I wanted. I suppose they were trying to soothe my troubled nerves.
But they didn't succeed. I tossed and turned, thinking about that knife and what a precious fool I had made of myself. I was still calm enough to be certain that the whole incident in the lounge hadn't been imaginary. Someone had deliberately stolen that knife from me. There was no doubt of that.
Time and time again I reviewed in my mind my sporadic movements after leaving Iris. There was only one depressing conclusion to draw. In my eagerness not to involve her, I had talked to almost everyone in the sanitarium, giving them all equal opportunity to take the knife from my pocket.
To my surprise, the middle of the morning brought Dr. Stevens. The sight of his plump solemn face led me to suppose that the drama of the night before had brought on some unexpected physical set-back. But I was soon to realize that his visit was only nominally official. As he poked and prodded, I could see him nerving himself to say something. It came out abruptly.
"I heard from Moreno that David, my—er—half-brother was here in your room the other night," he said as I rebuttoned my pajamas. "You know how anxious I am about him. I thought perhaps you could tell me why ..."
He broke off and looked rather sheepish. I myself was in too absorbed a mood to feel overmuch sympathy for his family problems.
"Oh, there's nothing to worry about," I said vaguely. "A couple of the others were in here and Fenwick heard us. I guess he thought we were spirits or something."
"I see." Dr. Stevens drew up a chair and sat down. His fingers found their invariable resting place on his stethoscope. "As I've started to explain my position to you, Mr. Duluth, I feel it's only fair to tell you what I intend to do. These last few days, David has been getting distinctly worse. I've decided that, whatever may be the effect on the other patients, I am going to take him away. He is to leave tomorrow. Of course, it will all be done quietly. There will be no fuss made. I intend to speak to Dr. Lenz about it when he returns from New York."
"You suppose the police will let anyone go?" I asked casually. "There's been some pretty funny business around here, you know."
"I don't understand what you mean." The cherubic Stevens contrived to look cold and forbidding. "Surely you aren't suggesting ..."
"I'm not suggesting anything," I broke in, feeling weary and unable to cope with an argument. "And I guess you're right, Stevens. This isn't exactly the place for anyone who's trying to get well."
Instead of putting an end to the conversation, I seemed only to have given it fresh life. Stevens started to press me eagerly for an explanation. Had I heard or seen anything that made me believe something was wrong? Had I told Dr. Lenz what I knew? Was it anything about David? I shamelessly denied everything. It seemed the only thing to do.
In his endeavor to force me into an admission, Stevens once more overrode the bounds of professional delicacy. To give me the lead, he remarked:
"You don't think that David is worried because of Miss Brush? I can't imagine why he gave out that warning against her, unless ..."
"That's because you're not a psychiatrist, Dr. Stevens." We both looked guiltily at the door where the day nurse was standing, stern and radiant as the angel with the flaming sword. Her deep blue eyes reflected anger and disapproval. Portentously she moved toward the bed.
"I don't know what started this interesting discussion," she said, "but I'm sure Dr. Lenz does not approve of gossip between staff and patients. You have only been with us a short time, Dr. Stevens, and you will learn eventually that this is a mental sanitarium and that the elementary rules for working here include a certain amount of tact."
I'd never seen her so alarming before. I couldn't make out whether her anger was motivated by loyalty to the institution or personal pique at Stevens' unfortunate remark about hersel
f. In any case, the result was an overwhelming victory for the day nurse. Stevens rose, went very red, muttered something inaudible and hurried from the room.
After he had gone, Miss Brush offered me a dazzling smile of forgiveness, but her eyes were shrewd.
"I'm afraid it was wrong of me to lose my temper in front of a patient, Mr. Duluth. But we're all having quite a lot of trouble with Dr. Stevens. He's a bit of an old woman, you know."
"He was just asking me about his half-brother," I explained lamely.
"Even so there's no reason for him to discuss anything like that with you." The day nurse started vigorously to make me comfortable, plumping out the pillows, tugging at the sheets. At length, she glanced up and her expression was alarming in its determination. "You've got to stop worrying, Mr. Duluth. If you have a feeling something's not right, you're all wrong. It's just your imagination."
And that, from Miss Brush, was an order. She pulled down her starched cuffs, rustled her skirts and departed with dignified serenity.
The storm which yesterday was threatening had broken during the night. All the morning, a thick icy sleet poured down outside my window.
After a few hours of solitude, I was granted Miss Brush again. She made her seventh or eighth entrance to announce the fact that there was to be a film showing afternoon. Movies were a regular part of sanitarium and one had been scheduled for that evening. But because of the storm and the impossibility of giving the patients their outdoor exercise, the entertainment had been shifted to immediately after lunch. We inmates were to be given no spare time to mope on our own misfortunes.
"Of course you must come, Mr. Duluth," the day nurse commanded. "It will do you a world of good."
"What's the film?" I asked testily.
She smiled. "Some sort of animal picture. Animals are very soothing, you know."
"Not to me," I muttered glumly. "I belong to Broadway. I get no kick out of the sex-life of the white-tailed baboon."
"Don't say that until you've seen the white-tailed baboons."
Miss Brush laughed. I wondered how on earth she managed to keep so depressingly cheerful.
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