"I always read books this way up," he said; his voice was unexpectedly high pitched. "It's more fun, and it's just as easy once you get the knack of it, but it does take a lot of practice." He laid the book down. "Well, how do you feel, Mr. Seabright? I'm afraid you have had a pretty rotten time. How's the head?"
It was a funny thing, but now he mentioned it I discovered my head ached and an artery was pounding in my temple.
"It aches," I said. "Is this a hospital?"
"Well, not exactly a hospital. I think they call it a sanitarium."
"You mean a sanatorium, don't you? A sanitarium is a nut foundry."
He smiled and nodded his blond head.
"That's it exactly: a nut foundry."
I closed my eyes. Thinking was difficult, but I made the effort. It took me several minutes to remember the swish of a descending cosh, the man in the scarlet sweat-shirt, and Maureen's wild, terrified scream. A sanitarium. I felt a little prickle of apprehension run up my spine like spider's legs. A sanitarium!
I sat up abruptly. Something held my left wrist, pinning it to the bed. I turned to see what it was. A bright nickle-plated, rubber-lined handcuff gripped my wrist. The other cuff was fastened to the rail of the bed.
The blond man was watching me with mild interest.
"They think it's safer for us to be chained up like that," he said. "Ridiculous, really, but I have no doubt they mean well."
"Yes," I said and lay back. More spider's legs ran up my spine. "Who runs this place?"
"Why, Dr. Salzer, of course. Haven't you met him? He's quite charming. You'll like him. Everyone does."
Then I remembered the man in the scarlet sweat-shirt had said he would hide me away where no one would ever find me. An asylum, of course, was a pretty fool-proof hidingplace. But Salzer didn't run an asylum. His place was a retreat for the over-fed: Nurse Gurney had said so.
"But I thought Salzer ran a kind of Nature Cure racket," I said carefully. "Not a nut foundry."
"So he does, but there's a wing set aside for the mentally sick," the blond man explained. He walked two fingers along the edge of the night table. "It is not usually talked about." He walked his fingers back again. "It's so much more pleasant for relatives to say you are having a health cure than that you're locked up in a padded cell."
"Is that where we are?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. The walls are padded. They don't look like it, but try punching them. It's quite fun." He leaned out of bed and hit the wall. His fist made no sound. "It's rubber, I think. By the way, my name's Duncan Hopper. You may have heard of my father: Dwight Hopper."
As far as I could remember, Dwight Hopper was something big in the paint and distemper trade. I didn't know he had a son.
"I'm Malloy," I said. "Victor Malloy."
He cocked his head on one side and regarded me fixedly.
"Who?"
"Malloy."
"Are you sure?" He smiled slyly now. "They tell me your name is Edmund Seabright."
"No; Malloy," I said, again feeling spider's legs run up my spine.
"I see." He began once more to walk his fingers along the edge of the night table. He seemed to like doing that. "I wonder if you would mind if I called you Seabright? Bland calls you Seabright. Dr. Salzer calls you Seabright. Seabright is the name on your papers. I know, because I persuaded Bland to let me look at them. You are described as a manic depressive. Did you know?"
My mouth suddenly went dry.
"A—what?"
"Manic depressive. I dare say it's nonsense."
"Yes, it's nonsense." I found it increasingly difficult to speak and think calmly.
"I'm so glad. Depressives can be so tiresome. I didn't think you were, and I told Bland so. But Bland is very stupid; a very uneducated person. He never listens to what I say. I'm afraid you won't like him. He says I am a paranoiac, but that's complete nonsense. We had a terrific argument about it this morning, and he lent me this book. It tells you about paranoia. Really quite interesting. But I haven't one single symptom. There's quite an interesting chapter on manic depressives." He walked his fingers along the table edge before saying, "Do you have hallucinations?"
I said I didn't have hallucinations.
"I'm so glad." He seemed genuinely pleased. "But it is odd you think your name is Malloy, isn't it? Or perhaps you don't think so?"
I said very distinctly and slowly, "It isn't odd because Malloy happens to be my name."
"I see." He reached for the book and began to flip over the pages. "Then if you are not Edmund Seabright why are you here?"
"It's a long story," I said, and it seemed to me to be suddenly tremendously important to make this blond man believe me. If he didn't, who else would? "I am a sort of private investigator and I am engaged on a case. I have found out Dr. Salzer is responsible for the murder of Eudora Drew. It's too involved to go into now, but because of what I have found out I have been kidnapped." I don't know how I got those last words out. It sounded terrible, but to save my life I couldn't have put it any better. A little spark of panic began to well up inside me as I saw the look of polite incredulity on Hopper's face.
"Dr. Salzer?" he said, and gave his charming smile. "A murder? That's interesting. And you are some sort of detective? Is that right?"
"Now, look," I said, struggling up in bed. "I know what you are thinking. You think I'm crazy, don't you?"
"Of course not, Mr. Seabright," he said gently. "I don't think anything of the kind. I know you aren't very well, but not crazy: definitely and certainly not."
I licked my dry lips.
"You're sure about that?"
"Of course."
But I saw by the amused sly expression in the deep-set eyes that he was lying.
II
Hopper told me that around nine o'clock Bland would come in to turn out the light.
"In about five minutes," he said, consulting his wrist-watch. "Bland lets me have this watch because I give him a hundred cigarettes a week. My father sends them in to me, and, of course, I am not allowed to smoke. They seem to think I would set fire to the bed." He laughed, showing small, even, white teeth. "Ridiculous, of course, but I suppose they mean well."
Under cover of the sheet I had been trying to work my hand out of the handcuff. If I could once get free, I told myself, nothing, not even a machine-gun, would stop me getting out of this place. But the cuff was shaped to my wrist, and, short of cutting off my hand or having the key, there was no way out of it.
"What day is it?" I asked suddenly.
Hopper opened a drawer in the night table and consulted a diary.
"It's the 29th of July. Don't you keep a diary? I do. Tomorrow is an anniversary. I have been here three years."
But I wasn't listening. I had to think long and carefully before I remembered that it had been the 24th of July when Maureen had taken me to her retreat. Five days! Paula and Kerman would be searching for me. Would they think to look here? Even if they thought I was here, how could they get at me? Salzer had Brandon's protection, and Brandon wouldn't pay attention to anything Kerman said.
If Sherrill—and I was sure the man in the scarlet sweatshirt had been Sherrill—hadn't been absolutely sure that no one could get at me here, wouldn't he have put a slug through my head and chucked me into the sea? Why hadn't he done that, anyway? Perhaps he stopped at murder. Stevens hadn't been murdered. His death had been an accident. But Salzer didn't stop at murder; unless Dwan had exceeded his orders. It might even he better, I thought, to be murdered than left locked up in a padded cell for the rest of my days.
Pull yourself together, Malloy, I said to myself. Snap out of it! All right, you have been bashed on the head and by the woolly feeling behind your eyes and in your mouth you have had a cart-load of drug pushed into you, but that's no excuse to go off at half-cock now. Paula and Kerman will get you out of this. Hang on, and take it easy until they do.
The door opened suddenly and silently, and a short, dark man came in. He had a pair
of shoulders you would expect to find on a gorilla, and his round red face was freckled and creased in a fixed, humourless grin. He was dressed in a white lap-over short coat, white trousers and white, rubber-soled shoes. He carried a tray covered with a towel, and he moved as silently and as lightly as a feather settling on the floor.
"Hello, Hoppie," he said, putting the tray on a table by the door. "Beddy-byes now. How are you? Did you get any dope out of that book?"
Hopper waved his hand towards my bed.
"Mr. Seabright is with us now," he said.
Bland—for this must be Bland—came to the foot of my bed and stared at me. The smile was still there: a little wider if anything. The greenish eyes were as hard and as cold and as sharp as ice-chips.
"Hello, baby," he said. He had a curious whispering voice; hoarse and secretive, as if something was wrong with his larynx. "I'm Bland. I'm going to look after you."
I found myself starting to clutch hold of the sheet, but I stopped that. Take it easy, I told myself. Relax. Don't rush things.
"Hello," I said, and my voice sounded as tight as a piano wire. "You don't have to look after me. Where's Salzer? I want to talk to him."
"Doctor Salzer, baby," Bland said reprovingly. "Don't be disrespectful." He gave Hopper a long, slow wink. "You'll see him to-morrow."
"I want to see him now," I said steadily.
"Tomorrow, baby. The Doc has to have a little time off. If there's anything you want, you tell me. I'm boss of this floor. What I say goes."
"I want Salzer," I said, trying to keep my voice under control.
"Tomorrow, baby. Now, settle down. I gotta little shot for you, and then you'll sleep."
"He thinks he's a detective," Hopper said, suddenly scowling. "He says Dr. Salzer has murdered someone."
"Very disrespectful, but what does it matter?" Bland said, taking a hypodermic syringe from its case.
"But it does matter. That's hallucinations," Hopper said crossly. "It says so in this book. I don't see why I should have him in with me. I don't like it. He may be dangerous."
Bland gave a short barking laugh.
"That's funny, coming from you. Button up, baby; I gotta lot to do." He screwed in the needle and filled the syringe with colourless liquid.
"I shall complain to Dr. Salzer," Hopper said. "My father wouldn't like it."
"Nuts to your father, and double nuts to you," Bland said impatiently. He came over to me. "All right, let's have your arm : the right one."
I sat up abruptly.
"You don't stick that in me," I said.
"Don't be that way, baby. It won't get you anywhere," Bland said, his fixed grin widening. "Lie down, and take it easy."
"Not in me you don't," I said.
He caught hold of my wrist in his right hand. His short thick fingers clamped into my flesh like a vice.
"If you want it the hard way," he said, his red. freckled face close to mine, "it's okay with me."
I exerted my muscles in a quick twist, hoping to break his hold, but instead I nearly broke my arm. I heaved forward, trying to hit him in the chest with my shoulder, but that didn't work either.
He retained his grip, grinning at me, waiting to see what else I would do. I didn't keep him waiting long, and tried to kick my legs free of the sheet, but that wasn't possible. The sheet was as tough as canvas, and had been tucked in so tightly there was no shifting it.
"Finished, baby?" he asked, almost cheerfully. "I'm going to stick the needle in now, and if you struggle it'll break off in you, so watch your step."
I gritted my teeth and heaved away from him, pulling him off-balance, so he stumbled. He recovered immediately, and his grin vanished.
"So you think you're strong, do you?" he whispered. "Okay, baby, let's see how strong you are."
He began to bend my arm. I resisted, but it was like pushing against a steam-roller. He was much, much too strong: unbelievably strong, and my arm slowly twisted behind me, creaking in every muscle. Cold sweat ran down my back, and my breath whistled out of me as I fought him.
I braced myself and regained a couple of inches. Bland was beginning to breathe heavily himself. Maybe if I could have added my weight to the struggle I might have held him. But sitting up in a bed with one arm pinned and my legs hampered I hadn't a chance against his strength and weight.
He bent me forward inch by inch, and I fought him inch by inch. Slowly my arm went up behind me, was wedged into my shoulder-blades. I wasn't aware of any pain. I could have killed him. Then I felt the sharp prick of the needle, and he stepped back, releasing my arm.
There was sweat on his face, too, and his breath was laboured. He hadn't had it all his own way.
"There you are, baby," he gasped. "You asked for it and you got it. If I wasn't such a soft chicken I'd have busted your arm."
I tried to take a swing at him, but my arm didn't respond. I don't know what he had pushed into me, but it worked fast. The red, freckled, hateful face began to recede. The walls of the room fell apart. Beyond the face and the walls was a long, black tunnel.
III
I opened my eyes.
Pale sunshine came through the barred windows, carrying the shadows of the bars to the opposite white wall: six sharp-etched lines to remind me I was a prisoner.
Bland was moving silently about the room, a duster in his broad thick hand, a look of concentration on his freckled face. He dusted everywhere; nothing escaped his attention.
Hopper was sitting up in bed, reading his book. There was a peevish scowl on his face, and he paid no attention to Bland, even when he dusted his night table.
Bland came over to me and dusted my night table. Our eyes met, and the fixed grin on his face widened.
"Hello, baby," he said. "How are you feeling?"
"All right," I said, and shifted higher in the bed. My right arm and shoulder ached, and I still had the imprint of his thick fingers on my wrist.
"That's good. I'll be along with shaving kit in a few minutes. Then you can have a bath."
That would mean taking off the handcuff, I thought.
Bland seemed to guess what was going through my mind.
"And look, baby, don't let's have any trouble," he said. "Don't get the idea you can get away. You can't. There are a couple more guys like me around. The door at the head of the stairs is locked, and there are bars up at the windows. You ask Hoppie. He'll tell you. When Hoppie first came here there was trouble. He tried to get away, but it didn't work."
I stared at him woodenly, and didn't say anything.
"You ask Hoppie what we do to a baby who makes trouble. He'll tell you." He looked at Hopper, grinning. "You'll tell him, won't you, Hoppie?"
Hopper looked up and scowled at him.
"Don't talk to me, you low-born rat. I hate the sight of you."
Bland chuckled.
"That's all right, baby. I don't mind. I'm used to it."
Hopper called him an obscene name.
"Take it easy, baby," Bland said, still smiling. "Don't bear down on it." He went to the door. "Shave, then a bath and then breakfast. I'll see if I can get you an extra egg."
Hopper told him what he could do with the egg.
Bland went away, chuckling.
"Don't try it, Seabright," Hopper said. "It's not worth it. They'll put you in a strait jacket, and keep you in a bath of cold water for days. He's not lying about the door. You can't get out without a key."
I decided to wait and see.
After a while Bland came back with two electric razors. He plugged them in and gave
Hooper one and me the other.
"Make it snappy, babies," he said. "I gotta lot to do to-day."
"You're always grumbling," Hopper said angrily. "I wish you'd go. I'm sick of seeing your ugly face."
"It's mutual, baby," Bland said cheerfully. "Hurry up and make a job of it. Dr. Salzer likes to see his patients looking smart."
So I was going to see Salzer. Not that I could hope for anything fr
om him, but maybe I could scare him. If Sherrill had put me in here, maybe Salzer could be persuaded it was a dangerous game to kidnap anyone. I thought it was unlikely, but it might be worth trying.
When I had finished shaving. Bland came in with a white cotton dressing-gown.
"No funny business, baby," he said in his whispering voice, and came around the bed to unlock the handcuff. "Just take it easy."
I lay still while he took off the handcuff. Hopper was watching me with concentrated interest. Bland moved back a few feet and also watched me.
Lay Her Among The Lilies Page 14