by Lee Roberts
Coral selected another blotter from a desk drawer and began to slowly tear it into pieces. She wished she drank. She wished she smoked. But she had nothing, not even medicine, unless one counted aspirin. She had taken too much aspirin lately, as many as twenty tablets a day. On television she had seen advertisements for nerve and sleeping pills which could be purchased without a doctor’s prescription. Maybe she should try them, even though she had told Dr. Shannon that she would come to his office that evening. Why had she done that? Would he touch her, undress her, examine her closely? She simply could not stand such a thing, she could not…
Her mind darted back to the scene in Mr. Grange’s office. She shouldn’t have lied to them, no matter what the consequences. It had been very wrong—she had shielded a murderer. It was—evil. Why had she done such a terrible thing? And then Coral’s expression grew sly. She knew why she had lied. She had lied because the man had reminded her so much of Arthur Standish. He and Arthur were the same, sort of, and she had protected him. She felt a secret sense of power, but it was mixed with a numb horror. A thought struck her with blinding force; maybe Arthur—the man—would come to kill her now, because she had seen him. He would know that she was the only person who had seen him enter room 102 and that she could identify him. He could come and kill her any second now, right at her desk, and get away safely, because he was swift and clever.
Coral began to tremble and her fists crushed the bits of torn blotter. Her body grew suddenly hot, feverish, and she felt perspiration on her face. Then she shivered with a sudden chill. Her body went rigid and she pressed knuckles against her mouth to stifle a scream. People moved up and down the corridor in a fog which seemed to swirl and hover like real fog, except that this fog was pink, like diluted blood. And there was a bell-like ringing in Coral’s ears and distant voices seemed to be calling to her. Coral, Coral…
Suddenly it was over. Her body slowly relaxed and she unclenched her fingers, panting a little, released the bits of blotter. She could feel the cold perspiration drying on her body, behind her ears, on her face, between her breasts and along the inner curves of her thighs. She felt very tired, drained, but everything was in focus now and the pink fog was gone once more. She dumped the pieces of torn blotter into the waste-basket, wiped her face with a clean handkerchief which she took from a desk drawer, where she also kept her aspirin bottle.
The aspirin tempted her and she fought it, but in the end she opened the bottle, shook three tablets into a palm, tossed them into her mouth and swallowed them without difficulty. She was accustomed to taking them without water; in fact, she rather enjoyed the chalky acid aftertaste. Immediately she felt much better and in command of everything, even the task which faced her. But there was no hurry, she thought. She would think about it a while, even though she was certain she would not change her mind. If that man, the other Arthur Standish, came to kill her, she didn’t care. Let him. But if he did not come by five o’clock, she would betray him. It was her duty. She had done wrong, and she must confess her sin. But she would give him until five o’clock. Coral gazed expectantly across the corridor at the front entrance, as if she expected the handsome, dark-haired stranger to come striding to her desk. She shivered a little, enjoying the sensation. Then she attacked the mail.
After lunch in the hospital cafeteria Coral returned to her desk and with the help of the aspirin worked efficiently until five o’clock, her quitting time. Many visitors had come in the front entrance during the afternoon; but none had been her visitor of Sunday night. Coral had been disappointed. Well, she thought, I gave you your chance, Arthur—I mean Man—and you didn’t take it. Firmly she closed her books, locked the desk and files, picked up her purse and left the office. But when she was in the corridor, walking toward the telephone booth, her courage failed her. She could not do it, not yet. She turned and almost ran from the hospital.
She spent the evening lying on her bed in her darkened room, ignoring her mother’s shrill calls to come down and watch television, especially Studio One, and fell asleep at last. In the morning she felt much calmer and knew that she could not postpone her confession again. But she would wait until five o’clock before she called Chief Beckwith, She had her usual lonely breakfast and walked to the hospital. With the aid of the aspirin she got through the day quite well and by five o’clock she was almost looking forward to what she must do. At least, it would be over.
She used the pay booth phone because she did not want her call to go through the hospital switchboard. When she was inside the booth with the door closed she felt suddenly dizzy and faint. She attributed this feeling to the heat and closeness, but it really resulted from tension, her general physical and mental condition and an overdose of aspirin. She leaned against the wall for a moment until the dizziness partially left her, and then lifted the receiver, deposited a dime and dialed the number of the police department, which in Harbor City was 2. The fire department was number 1. When a man’s voice answered she spoke quite calmly in a well modulated voice, “May I speak to Chief Beckwith, please?”
“Just a moment, ma’am.”
She waited. Then she heard Beckwith’s deep voice. “Yes?”
“This is Coral Thatcher. You know, at the hospital? I have some information for you.”
“Okay, Coral. Let’s have it.”
“I lied to you yesterday morning.” Coral paused, while a dreamy smile played about her lips. “I was protecting someone, and I’m sorry.”
“What?” Beckwith said sharply. “Protecting someone? Who?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Coral said airily. “He’s dead now. But I want to tell you that I did see someone strange in the hospital Sunday night, when I was working. About eleven-thirty a man came in and asked for that woman’s room number—you remember, the one they found on Snake Island?—and I told him she was in 102. You see, I didn’t know then that she’d been moved and that Mr. Sprang was in 102. Anyhow, this man said he thought the woman might be his sister, and he went to 102, and—”
“Who was he? What did he look like?”
“His name is Arthur—I—I mean he didn’t tell me his name, but he was tall and dark-haired, cute curly black hair (never before in her life had Coral used the word “cute”), deep blue eyes, nice white teeth. He said his sister had been missing and that the woman might be she.” Coral paused, suddenly enjoying herself. She was an important person, revealing important information.
“Go on,” Beckwith said grimly.
“I didn’t see any harm in telling him the room number. Oh, I knew it was against hospital regulations, but I have some authority around here—Miss James needn’t think she’s so high and mighty. Anyhow, the man went to 102—how was I to know the woman wasn’t there any more?—and was inside only a minute or two. Then he came out and left, quite abruptly, I thought.” Coral’s thin lips took on a pouting expression. “He didn’t even stop to thank me.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t,” Beckwith said in the same grim voice. “What was he wearing?”
“A gray tweed coat and a dark blue shirt, no necktie. He looked quite—dashing, really. And he was so polite.”
“Polite?” Beckwith muttered. “My God.”
“What did you say?” Coral asked in a clear, precise voice.
“Listen, Coral, why didn’t you tell us this when we talked to you yesterday morning?”
“I was afraid,” Coral said simply.
“Of what? Losing your job?”
“Maybe, but that wasn’t the only reason. I was also protecting someone. I told you that.” Coral’s voice grew plaintive. “Don’t you remember what I told you?”
“Yes, I remember,” Beckwith said heavily. “You said you were protecting someone, and that he was dead. What did you mean by that?”
Coral became confused. All at once the walls of the booth seemed to be moving inward, crushing her. Why had she said that? What on earth had made her say it? Arthur Standish was dead, buried. She said faintly, “
I—I don’t know. I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t tell because I was afraid Mr. Grange would fire me, for breaking a hospital rule.”
Beckwith said harshly, “Get your stories straight, Coral. Had you ever seen this man before?”
“Yes,” Coral said and then gasped. “I—I mean no, no,” and she thought wildly, Yes, I’ve seen him many, many times, in my dreams of Arthur Standish. They are the same, Arthur and the stranger, and I have betrayed them both.
“All right, Coral,” Beckwith said wearily. “Thanks for calling me. You should have told us before, but I think I understand why you didn’t. Maybe Grange will let you keep your job. Have you told him?”
“What?”
“Have you told Charlie Grange that you lied to us?” Beckwith said impatiently.
“No, no.” Coral felt the dizziness returning. She’d forgotten about Mr. Grange, about her job. “No, not yet.”
“You’d better tell him before he gets it second-handed.”
“I will,” Coral whispered.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes,” Coral said in a stronger voice. “I’ll tell Mr. Grange right away.”
“Would you know this man if you saw him again?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good. If I need you, I’ll let you know. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” Coral replaced the receiver with trembling fingers, leaned against the wall of the booth and passed a hand over her eyes. My job, she thought, I’ll lose my job. Mr. Grange does not tolerate infractions of rules. What will I do? Where can I find another job in Harbor City at my age? What will become of Mother if I can’t work? My five thousand dollar life insurance policy is payable to her—that will keep her for a while. Only I’m not dead, not yet…
She left the booth and walked to Mr. Grange’s office, unaware of the persons passing and of the curious glances of several members of the staff. She reached the proper door, knocked timidly, heard the administrator’s sharp muffled voice. “Come in.” Coral opened the door and stepped inside, her fingers fumbling at her purse.
“Well, Miss Thatcher,” Grange said curtly, looking up impatiently from papers on his desk, “what is it?”
Coral clutched her purse and stood rigidly, her gaze riveted to the view of the front lawn and street through the window behind Mr. Grange’s desk, and spoke in an oddly shrill voice. “I lied to you, Mr. Grange. I want to tell…”
When she had finished she still stood rigidly and continued to stare out the window. It seemed that Mr. Grange’s voice came to her as from a great distance, from far out in a pink slowly swirling fog where shadowy figures moved aimlessly. A few of the figures beckoned to her, but they seemed indifferent now, and Coral became alarmed. Didn’t they want her to join them any more? Because she had betrayed Arthur? She barely heard Mr. Grange’s cold precise voice, dripping with venom.
“… fully aware of the regulations of this institution and you deliberately violated them. It is obvious from what you have told me that because of your infraction a murder has resulted. I can only assume that under the circumstances you had an ulterior motive for lying to me. Did you know this man?”
“Of course I know him,” Coral said. “It’s Arth—” She clapped a hand to her mouth in terror. What was she saying? What was the matter with her?
Mr. Grange was out of his chair, glaring at her. “Who?”
“I—I don’t know,” Coral gasped. “Really, I never saw him before.” She turned and fled to the door.
“Miss Thatcher!” Mr. Grange’s voice was so cruelly sharp that she flinched. She stopped and waited, her back to Mr. Grange, her face turned away.
“Your actions are very peculiar indeed, Miss Thatcher. I have no alternative but to dismiss you as an employee of this hospital. Your final pay check will be mailed to you tomorrow. Goodbye, Miss Thatcher.”
“Goodbye,” Coral said with relief as she opened the door and closed it quietly behind her. She stood in the corridor a moment, thinking vaguely of her possessions in the desk in the cashier’s office, her handkerchiefs, aspirin, fountain pen, hairpins, her African violet, two automatic pencils, a new TV Guide which she’d purchased the day before and had forgotten to take home to her mother, a bottle of Listerine, the useless plain-wrapped box of Kleenex, a paperback edition of Life Begins at Forty. She would not need any of those things any more, she thought. The cashier, whoever she might be, was welcome to them. Coral laughed softly to herself as she moved slowly down the corridor and out into the late afternoon sunlight.
As she entered the front door of the house her mother’s shrill whining voice came to her over the blare of the television. “Did you bring that TV Guide?”
“No, Mom, I forgot. I’m sorry.” Coral placed her purse on the small table in the front hall and moved to the stairway. The house was filled with the acrid smell of burning fat. Her mother always fried the pork chops too fast.
She appeared now in the kitchen doorway, a short, heavy woman in a soiled house dress, and pointed a fork at Coral accusingly. “You forgot yesterday, too, and you know how I count on it. Television is the only pleasure I have. You should have more consideration for your old mother. Really, Coral, you’re getting more forgetful every day. Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?”
“I said I was sorry, Mom,” Coral said, and added, “I don’t want any supper.”
“But it’s all ready, Miss Snippy. I’m ready to eat.”
“Go ahead and eat,” Coral said distinctly. “Gorge yourself on burned pork chops. I’m going to lie down for a while and talk to the people in the pink fog. Maybe I’ll have some tea and toast after a while.”
“What?” Her mother asked suspiciously. “What did you say, Coral? Are you having one of your spells?”
Coral lifted her head and laughed gaily, a trilling sound. “Don’t mind me, Mom. I guess I’m just a little tired tonight.” She started up the stairs.
Her mother turned back into the kitchen, grumbling and waving her short, fat arms hopelessly. Coral went up the stairs lightly, her lips curving in a secret smile. She was glad that she had not gone to see Dr. Shannon the evening before. There was no longer any need. She felt fine.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Chief of Police Chad Beckwith cradled the phone on his desk, left his office and moved down a short hall to a large room with benches along the walls. At the far end was the main desk on a raised platform backed by short-wave radio equipment and a lighted map of the city. A young policeman was behind the desk speaking softly into a microphone. Beckwith went up to the desk, chewing on the cold stub of a cigar. The young policeman stopped murmuring into the mike, clicked a switch and smiled brightly at his superior. “Yes, Chief?”
“This is to all cars,” Beckwith said. “Take it down.”
“Yes, sir.” The policeman poised a pencil over a shorthand pad.
Beckwith took the cigar from between his teeth, coughed, and said, “Be on the look-out for a young man, black hair, curly, wearing a gray tweed coat and a dark blue shirt, no necktie. Got that?”
“Yes sir.”
Beckwith coughed again and added, “He’s also polite and—uh—dashing.”
The young policeman’s expression did not change and his pencil moved swiftly. “I’ve got it. Anything else, sir?”
“He’s wanted in connection with the murder of Lew Sprang.”
“Sprang? I thought that fellow, Yundt—?”
“I know,” Beckwith said gruffly. “This is a new lead. A man answering the description I gave you entered Lew Sprang’s room at the hospital late last night. Yundt is a blond and it may clear him of the murder charge, but we’re still holding him for embezzlement. Get it on the air right away.”
“Yes, Chief.”
Beckwith returned to his office, sat behind his desk, relit his cigar, picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Clinton Shannon’s number. Lucille Sanchez answered, told him that the doctor was not in, that he had gone to Erie Cliffs to see a patient, that he h
ad other house calls to make and that he would probably not return to the office until seven o’clock or later.
“I’ll try his home after a while,” Beckwith said. “Thanks.” He replaced the phone, leaned back in his chair and scowled at the opposite wall. He was tempted to go back to George Yundt’s cell and tell him that Coral Thatcher’s information might clear him of the murder charge, but decided against it. He would wait until he was certain, because Coral had always been kind of a queer character, a woman who had never married and who did not seem to want friends. But that was her business; she hadn’t had an easy life, not with her father’s long illness and not with the care of that mother of hers, who was a complaining shrew if he’d ever seen one. He felt a little sorry for Coral, but she really should have told him about that stranger going to Lew’s room Sunday night. Afraid of losing her job, she said, but apparently she’d mustered some courage and decided to confess. That cold-blooded Grange would probably fire her now, Beckwith thought, and he was sorry about that. Maybe he could get her a job in the municipal building as a clerk or something. He also thought that with a woman like Coral Thatcher, neurotic and maybe a little flighty, you couldn’t tell how much she imagined and how much was the truth. On the phone she had sounded, well, kind of queer. Anyhow, he had a description to go on, and if a man answering it was picked up, Coral was a witness. But Chief Beckwith had little hope. If Lew Sprang’s murderer was smart, he’d be long gone by now.
He decided not to say anything to George Yundt for the present. All he had was Coral’s word, which might or might not be true. An embezzlement rap was a hell of a lot better than murder, but he didn’t want to raise the boy’s hopes. He’d let George stew a while, until he had more to go on.