The Patient in Room 18 · Chapter 3 (2/2)

Then, still preoccupied, I took my way downstairs, through the main portion of St. Ann’s, past the general office, and turned into the corridor leading to the south wing. As I approached the chart desk, one of the student nurses seized upon me tearfully with a tale of Three’s hysterics, and wouldn’t I help for she had not the least idea what to do. There was nothing for it but to go to her assistance, much as I was interested in the proceedings in Room 18. And it was a good thing for me that I did! Otherwise I should have been in the room when they opened the closet door.

Three’s hysterics proved to be of an unusually stubborn kind, really virulent in fact, and though I was aware of a sort of subdued confusion and tremor of excitement outside the door I could not clearly understand what it was about. I heard faintly the sound of hammering, of feet running along the corridor, of a man’s voice calling out something indistinguishable, and a hastily hushed, woman’s scream which Three promptly and wilfully echoed. Then several people hurried through the hall, and as they passed the door I heard the unmistakable little metallic rattle of the wheels of the stretcher-truck, and caught the words⁠—“Call Dr. Balman,” and something about an ambulance.

This was too much for me and I left my patient as soon as possible. No one was to be seen in the corridor, however, so I walked hurriedly down toward Room 18. Just as I reached it a policeman opened it, saw me, slid hastily through the narrow aperture and, closing the door, stood squarely before it.

“You can’t go in there, miss,” he said firmly.

“But⁠—what has happened? What is all the commotion about?”

“You can’t go in there,” he repeated stupidly. To my surprise I saw that the man was actually frightened. His eyes were staring, his weather-beaten face a sort of yellow-green, and his breath coming in gasps. “You can’t go in there. You can’t⁠—”

He seemed capable only of keeping me out of the room, so without wasting time or effort I turned about and retraced my steps. As I passed the linen-closet door I saw a group of nurses inside. One of them was lying back in a chair in a dead faint and the others were clustered around talking excitedly in low voices and nearly drowning the recumbent one with cold water.

“What on earth?” I exclaimed and at my voice they turned; one of them was frankly sobbing and the other two were white as ghosts.

“Oh, Miss K⁠—K⁠—” began one, her teeth chattering so she could not speak, while the others just stood there with their mouths opening and closing like so many fish. Naturally it was very trying and I believe I shook her till her teeth chattered in good earnest.

“Now tell me what has happened,” I said, releasing her shoulders.

“Oh, Miss Keate, the most terrible thing has⁠—”

“Is this Miss Keate?” interrupted a clear voice from the doorway.

I whirled.

A man stood in the doorway; at the moment I was conscious only of a pair of extraordinarily lucid gray eyes; later I noted that he was slender and not very tall, that his gray business suit was well tailored, his gray socks of heavy silk and with a small scarlet thread, his scarf neatly knotted and chosen with care, his face clean-shaven, with clear rather delicately cut features, and that he wore an air of well-groomed prosperity. I knew at once that this was Lance O’Leary.

“I am Miss Keate,” I replied.

“I am Lance O’Leary,” he said (superfluously, but he did not know that). “I should like to talk to you if you have time. Will you come to the office with me, please⁠—I think we shall be undisturbed there.”

Being a woman of some strength of mind, I had intended to take a firm line with this detective whom everyone seemed to think so remarkable, but I found myself walking as meekly as any lamb at his side, and once inside the general office with the door closed, I sat as resignedly in a chair opposite him as if there were not a thousand and one things that I should be doing.

“You are the superintendent of the south wing?” He spoke very quietly and with what I found later to be a wholly deceptive air of detachment.

“Yes.”

“You were on duty last night between twelve and six o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Maida Day was your assistant?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Balman tells me that Miss Day telephoned to him about two o’clock⁠—possibly ten minutes before the hour. I judge that was only a few moments after you found that your patient was dead?”

“Yes. It must have been about that time. It was something after one thirty when the storm broke and I hurried along the corridor and closed the south door. Then I closed the window in Room 17 and went directly into Eighteen.” My voice was not quite steady at the recollection of those moments and he waited briefly, his clear eyes studying a pencil in his hands, before he went on.

“The windows in Room 18 were also open?”

“Yes. All the windows in the wing were open. It had been very hot and close before the storm began.”

He nodded.

“Those windows are not far from the ground. Do you think someone from outside could get into the hospital without attracting your attention?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “It might be done but does not seem very probable. With the doors to the sickrooms open and the night so still I believe I should have heard any unusual sound. But the door to Eighteen was closed. I can’t be sure.”

“You heard no unusual sound, then?”

“Why, no⁠—except that a few moments before the storm began I heard a sort of bang⁠—as if a window had dropped to the sill. It was not very clear.”

He was looking directly into my face, his eyes as clear as water.

“You are sure it was a window? It might have been a door closing.”

“It was not the door for it was still open. I am not sure⁠—I investigated but found nothing. The south door was still open⁠—and as far as I could tell the windows were as they had been.”

“Did you look in Room 18?”

“Yes.”

There was a slight pause. Then:

“The patient was⁠—quiet at the time?”

“The room was dark and still so I did not enter it. I just stood there for a moment holding the door half open; I was afraid if I entered the room I would wake him. He was asleep⁠—that is⁠—” I stopped abruptly as it occurred to me that he had not been asleep; that the incident had occurred not more than fifteen minutes before I found him dead.

O’Leary seemed to read my thoughts.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “He must have been dead⁠—then. Can you be certain of the time?”

“Yes. It was shortly after one thirty. I remember because I had just noted the time on a patient’s chart, when I heard that dull sound and went to see what it was.”

He returned to his pencil, a shabby little red thing it was, which he rolled absently between his well-kept fingers.

“Was this sound sharp and loud?”

“No⁠—” I hesitated, trying to recall just how it had seemed. “No⁠—it was rather dull⁠—muffled⁠—and yet heavy. It was not very distinct.”

“There were no other unusual circumstances? Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Why, yes. There was someone⁠—a man⁠—” I broke off abruptly. That man must have been Jim Gainsay. I had no wish to involve him in the matter, at least until I became convinced that his movements should be investigated.

But Lance O’Leary’s gray eyes looked straight through to my back hair.

“Yes?” he inquired.

“Yes.” I spoke with an accent of finality, and gazed nonchalantly out the window as if the subject were closed.

“Where was he?”

“Running around the hospital,” I replied curtly, wishing I had held my tongue.

“Around and around?” inquired O’Leary blandly.

“No,” I snapped. “Running along the east side of the wing. I⁠—he⁠—we collided.”

O’Leary sat up straighter.

“What!”

“I had gone out on the porch for a breath of fresh air,” I explained rather sullenly. “Just as I stepped off the porch I ran into him.”

I stopped as if the incident were concluded.

“Go on,” suggested the O’Leary man after waiting a moment; he was being very polite and very pleasant and altogether disagreeable.

“That’s all,” I said waspishly. I fastened my gaze on his extremely well-made shoes⁠—an attention that I have found invariably disconcerts men⁠—vain creatures! But this one was impervious.

“And what did you say?” he persisted with the most insulting good-humour.

“I said ‘Well⁠—’ ” I stared steadfastly at the shoes.

“And what did he say?”

I resisted an evil impulse to tell him literally and with feeling.

“I hope you don’t think I’d repeat such language,” I replied, and I’m sure he smiled.

“Then what happened?”

“He⁠—er⁠—set me on my feet again and kept on running.”

“Very chivalrous,” remarked O’Leary. “So he kept on running⁠—around the hospital?”

“No,” I answered peevishly. “He ran along the path toward the bridge.”

“What did you do?”

“I walked in the direction he had come from as far as the wing extends but saw nothing unusual.”

“Did you not call anyone? Were you not alarmed?”

“I thought of calling Higgins, the janitor, but when I found that things seemed to be all right I decided it was not necessary.”

“Then you came back to the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“And all that time you saw or heard nothing uncommon?”

“Well⁠—I smelled something.”

He made a perceptible motion of surprise.

“You smelled something? Did you say smelled?”

I nodded, taking a small degree of satisfaction in his discomposure.

“As I passed that clump of elderberry bushes I smelled ether. It was quite distinct. You know ether has a penetrating odour.”

“But surely that was unusual?”

“Yes. But the night was so hot and ether out there in the apple orchard so impossible that I decided I must be mistaken, that it was just the mingled scents of alfalfa and clover and other growing things.”

“Well⁠—which was it? Ether or imagination?”

“I don’t know,” I said firmly. “I’m just telling you what happened. I know it sounds queer⁠—but last night was a queer night. That dinner at Corole’s and everything,” I finished thoughtlessly.

“Dinner at Corole’s? That is Miss Letheny?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Letheny was there?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yes. Miss Day, Dr. Balman, Dr. Hajek, and a friend of Dr. Letheny’s⁠—a Mr. Gainsay. He is an engineer who stopped for a day’s visit with them.”

“And you and Miss Letheny?”

“Yes.”

“You implied that it was⁠—‘queer,’ I think was the word you used. How was it queer?”

“Oh⁠—I scarcely know. It was very hot and oppressive you know⁠—that sort of electric atmosphere that precedes a thunder storm.”

“Aside from the⁠—er⁠—electricity in the air, was everything quite as usual?”

I paused for a long moment before replying.

“No,” I said candidly. “I think we were all a little nervous and uneasy on account of the heat and suffocating air. That is, I was. And Dr. Letheny⁠—and Miss Day⁠—”

“But not the others?”

“Well⁠—” It was difficult to define that curious tensity I had felt in the air all the night. “No one seemed quite natural to me. It may have been only I who was a little nervous. I really can’t tell you anything definite.”

“Why did you say definitely that Dr. Letheny and Miss Day were unlike themselves?”

“Dr. Letheny is a rather quick-spoken man⁠—when you know him you will understand what I mean. He goes on his nervous energy, is very high-strung and temperamental. He seemed especially explosive last night. And Miss Day was a little abstracted, tired, I think.”

“I suppose you talked⁠—played bridge⁠—had a little music?”

“Yes. All of that.”

“Any special topics of conversation?”

“No⁠—”

He noted the uncertainty in my voice.

“Radium wasn’t mentioned?”

“Well⁠—yes. But only in a general way.”

“Didn’t speak of using it? Having it out of the safe?”

“Yes,” I admitted reluctantly.

“Didn’t say for what patient it was being used? In what room?”

“Yes. But only casually.” I explained Dr. Letheny’s request to leave the south door unlocked.

“Anything else?”

“Nothing in particular. We just talked of general matters.”

“Such as⁠—”

I glanced at him impatiently.

“Such as?” he repeated.

“Oh⁠—how warm it was, and how everybody longs for something that money will buy, and how St. Ann’s is equipped with radios and expensive ambulances and a whole gram of radium and how much such things cost and all that⁠—and then we played a few hands of bridge and then Dr. Letheny played the piano and then Maida⁠—Miss Day⁠—and I came back through the orchard to St. Ann’s and changed into our uniforms and went on duty.”

“You talked of money and how everybody longs for something that money will buy,” mused O’Leary, adding with uncanny intuition, “I suppose several of you admitted a special desire for money?”

“Every single one of us,” I confessed. “That is, except Dr. Hajek. He just listened and seemed amused.”

He smiled. “Don’t be alarmed over such an admission. That doesn’t mean anything, that you all wanted money. Everyone wants money. But suppose you tell me, word for word, as much as you can remember of the conversation. Don’t be afraid of implicating anyone, Miss Keate. I make the request only because I like to get as clear an idea of the general surroundings as possible.” He smiled again. He had an extraordinarily winning smile; it brightened his whole face, for all that it was so brief, and I found myself warming under its influence.

Not seeing how I could possibly harm anyone I repeated as much of our conversation as I could remember, and since I have usually a good memory I think I omitted very little of it.

When I had finished he sat for some time turning and twisting his pencil. I might say that I never but once saw him use that pencil sensibly as a pencil is meant to be used. I even grew to cherish a notion that the pencil aided his mental processes and that if it were taken away from him his ability to think might go along with it. Like Samson’s hair, you know. Then I aroused myself from such childish speculation.

“If that is all⁠—” I hinted. “This is a busy day for us, you know.”

“Not quite all, Miss Keate.” The smile had completely gone from his face; his expression lost its youthfulness and was very grave. “When did you last see Dr. Letheny?”

“Last night, shortly after twelve thirty.”

“He had come to see Mr. Jackson?”

“Yes. He was here only a few moments.”

“You saw him leave?”

“Yes.”

“And he did not return, to your knowledge?”

“No.”

“He said nothing of leaving town?”

“Nothing.”

“He said nothing that would lead you to believe that he was⁠—er⁠—worried about anything? Had had any trouble?”

“Nothing. I really think, Mr. O’Leary, that he will return before the day is over. Some accident has detained him. There will be some explanation.”

“You⁠—admire Dr. Letheny?” Lance O’Leary was scrutinizing a dripping shrub outside the window as he spoke.

“Yes,” I replied dubiously. “That is, he is a splendid surgeon, very cool and very daring. I like to assist him.”

“You have known him for a long time?”

“Several years. That is, I have known him as everyone else knows him. I do not believe that any of us feel particularly well acquainted with him. He is rather distant, very much interested in some research that he is carrying on.”

“You don’t know the kind of research⁠—the special subject of study?”

“No.”

There followed a long silence; the rain beat steadily against the window; outside in the corridor I heard the sound of the four-o’clock nourishment trays being carried along, the glasses of orange-juice and eggnog clinking together. It was chilly there in the office and I shivered a little.

“I do wish that Dr. Letheny would return,” I said. “It is bad for the head doctor of St. Ann’s to be away at such a time.”

Lance O’Leary turned slowly to me.

“Dr. Letheny will not return,” he said, eyeing me keenly.

“Not return? What do you mean?”

He shook his head.

“He will not return,” he said very slowly and distinctly. “Dr. Letheny is dead.”