The Patient in Room 18 · Chapter 5 (1/2)

V

A Lapis Cuff Link

From that morning on I took an active interest in the case⁠—I mean, in solving the problem. Indeed, Mr. O’Leary has had the kindness to say, since, that I helped⁠—well, I need not repeat his words. However, it is true that I did everything in my power, which was little enough, to solve the mystery that confronted us. While I am not at all inquisitive, nevertheless I do have an inquiring mind, due doubtless to the fact that I have lived in a hospital for a number of years and hospitals are hotbeds of gossip. Not malicious gossip, you understand, for nurses are one class of women in the world who can keep the faith which the ethics of the profession as well as individual integrity demand.

But anything that happens in our small world is of interest; the patient in the charity ward who almost swallowed a thermometer and had to be upended and shaken, the precipitate arrival of a new baby in a roadster out in front of the hospital, or the alcoholic whose language shocked⁠—or diverted as the case might be⁠—a whole wing.

Besides the fact that the murders had occurred in the south wing, for which I feel a responsibility⁠—the wing, I mean, not the murders!⁠—there were other and as serious considerations. Chief among these was the affair of the hypodermic syringe and Maida’s inexplicable behaviour the night of the seventh, and the presence of Jim Gainsay as testified by that gold cigarette case.

A hospital ought to be sanctuary and it seemed to me an offense against all the laws of humanity that this hideous thing should have happened within our walls of mercy. I deliberately tried to put myself in the frame of mind to be suspicious about anything and everything⁠—and I trust it is no reflection on my character to say that I succeeded without much effort.

I found plenty to be suspicious about, and without going out of the way to do so. The only trouble was that, though I pride myself on being a keen and clear-minded woman and have more than the usual amount of determination, I could not arrive at any conclusion.

I worried all day about Maida, however, and when Lance O’Leary turned up about four o’clock, with a polite request for an interview, I did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

We went into the general waiting room to talk. It was a chilly place, with slippery leather-covered furniture and on the wall a none too cheerful picture of the burning of Joan of Arc. The weather had settled into a steady, dripping rain by that time, the clouds were still heavy, and the very concrete steps of the main entrance, just below the windows, oozed moisture. It was an added distress that not once during those strange days did we see the sun. Everything we touched was damp and cold and sweaty.

O’Leary was as meticulously groomed as he had been the day before, but there was about him a sort of quiet but intense concentration that seemed to detach him from ordinary affairs of the world. I have seen the same thing in the face of an artist I used to know⁠—and in the face of a dear and saintly old nun under whom I trained.

There was nothing, however, of the poseur about him. He was ordinarily rather silent, was occasionally oddly boyish and young, was simple and direct⁠—it was his unconscious absorption that marked him. And those extraordinarily clear gray eyes.

He asked a few commonplace questions as to how I felt, and were things going well, and was the policeman of any use. Then, he reached absently into his pocket and drew out the stubby red pencil.

“Miss Day was your assistant in the wing the night of the seventh?”

“Yes. We have second watch together this two weeks.”

“How long has she been here at St. Ann’s?”

“Three years.”

“She is a good nurse, I judge? Cool and restrained?”

“One of the best.”

“She is a friend of yours?”

“I admire her very much,” I said warmly. “She is a girl of high moral character, thoroughly honourable and reliable.”

“M’h’m⁠—” He began to roll the inevitable little pencil.

“I suppose a nurse becomes fairly well acquainted with the other nurses, as well as the doctors, who frequent the hospital?”

“Yes,” I said doubtfully, not seeing just where his questions were tending.

“Miss Day looks to be a girl of strong likes and dislikes.”

Well, that was perfectly true so I contented myself with a nod.

“She was a good friend of Miss Letheny’s and⁠—of the doctor’s?”

“Not⁠—particularly,” I said slowly. “We were all on friendly terms. Corole had us over there often.”

“Did Miss Day work much with Dr. Letheny?”

“About as I did. She is a good surgical nurse.”

“You mean she is efficient in assisting with operations?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose that requires⁠—nerve? Courage? A cool hand?”

“Yes.” I was beginning to feel uneasy.

He paused for a moment, his gray eyes on the heavy clouds beyond the window.

“Tell me again, Miss Keate, just what you did when you first found that Mr. Jackson was dead.”

“I left Room 18 and went to get a candle. When I returned Miss Day was in the doorway of Eighteen. There was a flash of lightning, and I saw her and she spoke to me.”

“What did she say?”

“Just something about the storm. She had been closing windows in the wing.”

“Did she know that Jackson was dead?”

“Why, no! Not until I lit the candle and she saw him.”

“She was surprised, of course?”

“Yes.”

“Then, as I understand it, she went through the dark corridor to the general office to telephone to Dr. Letheny. Was she willing to go? Or was she⁠—reluctant?”

“I⁠—she⁠—”

He caught my hesitation.

“She did not wish to telephone to him?”

“The corridor was so dark you could hardly see your hand before you,” I remarked crisply. “And it was storming.”

“Of course, of course,” said O’Leary pacifically.

“Miss Letheny told Miss Day that the doctor was out,” he went on quietly. “Then she, Miss Day, had the presence of mind to call Dr. Balman. I suppose she knew his telephone number? Or was there some kind of light in the office?”

“She asked Information for the number.”

“Then Dr. Balman came out here at once?”

“Yes. He was here in just a few moments. He lives at the first apartment house off Lake Street and it is only a short drive.”

“In the meantime you waked Dr. Hajek?”

“Yes. He sleeps in that little room that opens into the general office. He usually answers phone calls at night and⁠—keeps an eye on things. Unless he is asleep,” I added waspishly, thinking of how soundly he had slept when we needed him most.

“Why did not Miss Day call Dr. Hajek, when she called Dr. Balman?”

“She did try to but could not wake him. But Dr. Balman was Dr. Letheny’s assistant and should be called in a matter of such importance.”

“Then you called Dr. Hajek yourself. I suppose you told him what had happened.”

“No. I was so excited that I just told him to go at once to Room 18. I even pushed him toward the door.” I smiled a little. “I took him by the coat and⁠—”

“Took him by the coat? Then he was fully dressed!” O’Leary’s gaze pierced mine.

“Yes.” I paused as a certain recollection thrust itself upon me. “He must have been outside! In the rain!”

“Why do you say that?”

“His coat was damp.”

O’Leary studied the pencil for a long time.

“Then what happened?” he asked finally in an inflectionless voice.

“Why⁠—then⁠—then I got hold of some lights and went back to Eighteen. They were all there, Maida and Dr. Hajek and Dr. Balman. They were just staring at the patient and doing nothing. Dr. Balman told me that he had died of an overdose of morphine. Of course, I knew that not a grain of morphine had been ordered. So that meant that it was done purposely. It was while we were standing there that⁠—” I stopped. No need to tell that!

But he glanced at me quickly.

“Go on, Miss Keate.”

“It was nothing.”

“Then you should not object to telling of it.”

“Well,” I began reluctantly, “it was only that, as we were standing there, all at once there was a tiny bit of red that came from the hypodermic wound. You know the little pin prick where the needle has been inserted. It was⁠—” I coughed to hide the tremble in my voice. “It was⁠—very unusual.”

I could see that Lance O’Leary, for all his professional frigidity, was somewhat shaken, for his hands gripped the pencil tightly and he drew a deliberate breath.

“That old superstition means nothing,” he said. “But it must have been⁠—grisly. And there were only you and Miss Day and Dr. Hajek and Dr. Balman in the room?”

My throat being dry I made an assenting gesture.

“And⁠—Dr. Letheny in the closet,” added O’Leary softly.

At that I must have gone quite pale, for Lance O’Leary, eyeing me with that oddly lucid gaze, spoke abruptly, as if to distract my thoughts.

“I believe you are a woman of some discretion.”

“I ought to be! At my age.”

“The fact inclines one to talk with you,” he said drily. “Look here, Miss Keate, this is not going to be an easy job. In the first place it is obvious that the guilty person is very likely someone who is familiar with St. Ann’s.” I made some protestant motion and he went on: “Surely that has occurred to you?”

“Yes,” I replied in a small voice.

“Why?”

“Because it must have been someone who knew that the radium was being used and in what room.”

“And one who was familiar enough with the hospital routine to know the best time to enter the wing unobserved,” said O’Leary.

“That eliminates Jim Gainsay,” I remarked without thinking.

He regarded me keenly.

“We will come to him later,” he said. “As to the radium⁠—yes, I think we can assume that the radium theft was at least one of the motives. Its disappearance indicates that, though it might be merely a blind. But the radium is very valuable, a small fortune to many men. As a matter of routine we have taken steps to insure the immediate reporting of anyone trying to dispose of a quantity of radium. I do not expect to hear from this, however, for the person who has the radium will naturally wait until this affair has blown over before attempting to sell the stuff. Yes, the radium theft may account for the death of Jackson but not for Dr. Letheny. At least not unless⁠—”

“Unless he caught the thief?” I interrupted eagerly.

“If that were true, how account for his stealthy return to St. Ann’s and the fact that he did not call for help?” He paused but I said nothing and he continued: “Then there is the obvious conjecture that the person who administered the morphine must have been either so skilled that he could do so without awaking Jackson, or someone to whom the patient was accustomed. Dr. Letheny had charge of the case⁠—”

“Dr. Hajek helped him some,” I blurted. “And Dr. Balman was in to see him once or twice. And there were the nurses⁠—”

“Then it appears to lie between Dr. Hajek and Dr. Balman and you and Miss Day,” said O’Leary all too coolly. I gasped and he went on: “And the unknown element which is always to be considered. We can’t tell which died first⁠—Dr. Letheny or his patient. We do not even know for certain whether Dr. Letheny met his death inside the walls of the hospital or not, but I have reason to believe that it was in Room 18. Otherwise it would have been difficult and purposeless, so far as I can see, to convey his body into the room and into that closet. Almost impossible for a woman,” he added as if in afterthought, and his eyes on that aggravating pencil. “I am inclined to think that the sound you heard and believed to be a window dropping to the sill was actually the blow that meant death for Dr. Letheny.”

“Oh⁠—!”

“Yes.” His eyes were meeting mine, searching my face so intently that I felt as if my very thoughts were visible to them. “Now, Miss Keate, please tell me something of this Corole Letheny. I understand that she and her cousin were not on the best of terms.”

“That is true,” I acknowledged hesitantly.

“Don’t be afraid of incriminating anyone,” said O’Leary impatiently. “Clues are funny things. When they seem to point one way they are very apt, on close investigation, to point another way entirely. So please don’t hesitate to answer my questions.”

This reassured me somewhat; not that I have ever cared for Corole Letheny, but one does pause to consider one’s speech in such a serious matter.

“Corole and Dr. Letheny never did get along well together. But I don’t think she can be involved in this.” Thinking of the oddly mud-stained slippers, I paused again. That incident could have had nothing to do with the murders, of course, but still it was singular.

“What is it, Miss Keate?”

Before I knew it I had told him of the muddied bronze kid pumps.

“Indicating that Miss Letheny had some errand that took her hurriedly into the storm and that within a few moments following the discovery of Dr. Letheny’s death. Suppose you ask this maid, Huldah, about it. She will be more willing to talk to you. Oh, yes”⁠—he smiled a little⁠—“we must investigate every incident, every straw, no matter how small and insignificant it appears. And moreover,” he drew something from his pocket, “I am interested in Miss Letheny because of this.” He placed the small, square object on the table before us. I stared. It was Corole Letheny’s revolver. She had bragged about the thing often enough so I had no difficulty recognizing it. Someone had made her a gift of it, and it was very unsuitably decorated with some sort of silver trumpery and had her initials engraved upon it.

“We found this on the floor of the closet in which Dr. Letheny was found,” said O’Leary quietly.

For a long moment I sat there in silence, my eyes fascinated by the dully gleaming thing. What could it tell?

“But⁠—neither of the men was shot!” I said at length.

“No,” agreed O’Leary, still quietly. “No. There is only the fact to go on that Corole Letheny’s revolver was found in the room where two men met their death in one night. That is all. It only indicates her probable presence at some time in the room. And a revolver usually means that whoever carried it had reason to believe he was in danger⁠—or expected trouble of some kind.”

“But⁠—Dr. Letheny might have brought it himself. He might have suspected that someone was planning to steal the radium.”

Lance O’Leary smiled slowly.

“You are loyal, Miss Keate. It may interest you to know that on going through Dr. Letheny’s deed box, I found that he was the beneficiary of a reasonably large income and that on his death it goes to Corole. I find, too⁠—you see we detectives make our living by questions and answers,” he interpolated, as I suppose I looked as I felt, very much puzzled at the knowledge he appeared to have secured⁠—“I find, too, that Dr. Letheny kept his household down to the most moderate of expenses and gave Miss Letheny only a barely sufficient allowance.”

“It is true that she has complained a great deal about money,” I admitted thoughtfully. “She is rather beautiful, you know, and loves to dress well.”

He nodded.

“You have seen her then?” I asked.

“Yesterday. I talked to her. Yes, I suppose she does love clothes and finery. It is on account of her⁠—dark blood.”

“Her what?” I sat bolt upright.

“Good Lord, Miss Keate! Didn’t you know that?”

“Know that Corole Letheny is a⁠—?”

“I think it comes to her by way of Haiti,” he interrupted. “And a very beautiful mother.”

“But⁠—her light hair and eyes! You must be mistaken!”

“Her eyes are yellow, Miss Keate. A good deal like a tiger’s. In fact she is a rather tigerish lady, on the whole. I suspected it when I first saw her brown hands, and was convinced when I found a reference to her in Dr. Letheny’s papers; once he mentions her rather bitterly as ‘my mulatto cousin,’ and another time refers to her birthplace and his aunt, Jolbar, who, it seems, traced her lineage directly, if unobtrusively, to a cannibalistic royal line. Don’t be so shocked, Miss Keate. A little mixture of blood doesn’t hurt her. It only increases my difficulty.”

“Increases your difficulty?” I murmured, feeling rather dazed.