The Patient in Room 18 · Chapter 6 (2/2)

I joined the other two in the study in time to catch a strained something in the atmosphere that made me pause involuntarily and look from one to the other. Maida was standing very stiff and straight, her eyes flaming like blue fire, her fingers clutched together until the knuckles and fingernails were white, and her whole attitude breathing defiance and anger and⁠—yes, alarm. Corole was lying gracefully back in her chair, her creamy lace teagown falling softly away from her brown neck, the topaz on one hand catching light from the fire, and her strange eyes narrowed lazily in an expression so like Morgue’s that I almost gasped.

But as to that, resemblance to a cat or other animal is nothing to hold against a person, I argued reasonably to myself; there is a cashier in the City National who looks like nothing so much as a mild and woolly sheep and is yet, as far as I know, an upright and respectable man.

Neither Maida nor Corole seemed inclined to break that brittle silence, so I settled wearily into a chair.

“Huldah seems to resent the French pastries,” I said. “Where did you get them, Corole? At Pierre’s?”

“She resents everything,” said Corole indolently. “Yes. At Pierre’s. You must try them. I’ll make some fresh tea. Do sit down, Maida. You make me nervous, standing there so stiff.”

I think Maida was about to say something, but just then Jim Gainsay lounged into the room, straightened up with interest when he saw Maida, and she subsided into a chair while he greeted us with every evidence of pleasure.

It was, however, a very uncomfortable hour, with the conversation painfully limited to commonplaces, Jim trying in vain to catch Maida’s eyes, and Huldah slapping down the tea things with venom and making it distressingly clear that I, alone of the company, was in her good graces. Corole was almost indecently easy and flippant in her manner, and Maida very quiet.

As for me, I was reminded vividly of the last time we had been together in that room, especially after Dr. Balman arrived. His coming made the gathering begin to seem too much like a party, so I prepared to leave. But Dr. Balman had come on business, and after speaking in a low aside to Corole he went to Dr. Letheny’s desk, glanced hastily through a card index, and noted something in his small notebook. I remember thinking as he did so that Dr. Balman was not having an easy time of it; it is difficult enough to step suddenly into the position of head of a hospital, without having the burden of investigations into two murders on one’s hands. And Dr. Balman looked as if he were feeling the strain of his duties, for his mild eyes had circles under them, his scant eyebrows wore a perplexed frown, and his pale cheeks were hollow. He looked as if he had not been eating much lately, and indeed, I didn’t wonder at it. The bruise on his cheek had not received proper attention, for it was dark and ugly-looking and I longed to take it in hand.

“Is that what you wanted, Dr. Balman?” asked Corole.

“Yes⁠—yes. This is all.” He was writing busily.

“You must have some tea,” offered Corole graciously.

“What?⁠—Oh, tea?” Dr. Balman compared the notes he had written with the original and raised his eyes to glance about the room with rather obvious distaste. He was always a man of keen sensibility and I daresay he felt much as I had felt on entering this room that spoke so clearly of Dr. Letheny.

He was about to decline, I think, when Huldah opened the door, said “Mr. O’Leary,” as if she were firing a shotgun, and Lance O’Leary entered, his gray eyes twinkling a little at the manner of his announcement.

It was odd to see how the appearance of this slight, perfectly groomed young man, with his clear, gray eyes and thoughtful, well-shaven face, affected us all. Dr. Balman sat down slowly as if after all he had decided to stay. Jim Gainsay fastened a narrow, enigmatic look upon the newcomer and lit another cigarette, Maida’s eyes widened a little and her hands sought each other in her white lap⁠—and Corole adjusted the lace of her gown, smiled seductively at O’Leary, remembered she was mourning and sobered wistfully.

“No, thanks,” said O’Leary pleasantly. “No tea, Miss Letheny. I hope you’ll forgive my intrusion but I came on business.”

Corole blinked but repeated warmly: “Business?” and motioned toward a chair.

“Yes. Thanks, yes, I’ll sit down.” He drew a chair nearer the glowing fire. “It’s wet out,” he remarked with a half smile.

“Would you like something besides tea?” asked Corole, her graceful brown hand on the tiny silver bell that decorated the tea cart. I could not help noting how pink her palm was, how brown her fingers, and how purple the shadows on the fingernails.

“No. No.” The high-backed chair O’Leary had happened to choose, upholstered in needlepoint tapestry, and with slim carved arms of softly gleaming walnut, added somehow to his natural dignity. “How are you, Doctor? Not feeling this strain too much, I hope.”

Dr. Balman smiled wanly. “No, thanks, Mr. O’Leary. It is quite a task though. However, Dr.⁠—Dr. Letheny left everything in perfect order.” He glanced at Corole apologetically as he spoke, but she was interested only in O’Leary.

The conversation dragged along very uncomfortably for a few moments, during which the only person in the room who was thoroughly at ease was Lance O’Leary. As soon as I decently could I rose to leave, for O’Leary had said he came on business and I naturally supposed that it was business with Corole.

Maida rose, too, and of course, the men.

“Just a second, Miss Keate,” remarked O’Leary in a quiet and commonplace voice. “I only wanted to tell you all that the coroner’s inquest will be tomorrow morning and that you are all to be called as witnesses. I’m sorry to have to tell you at such a time.”

It just happened that I had my eyes on Corole as he spoke and thus saw her soft brown fingers grip the macaroon she held until it fell on the tea cart, a small, powdered mound of sugar. I looked quickly at O’Leary, but his gaze was apparently on the log in the fireplace.

It was an uncomfortable moment, there in that room of which the very books along the wall and the grand piano in the alcove spoke so vividly of Dr. Letheny. We were “all” to be called as witnesses then. And a few nights ago we had sat here in this room and listened to the “Prelude in C Sharp Minor” played by those strong white hands that would never touch a piano again.

I shook myself free from such morbid reflections, said a brusque goodbye to Corole, and left. Maida went with me, and somewhere along the path Jim Gainsay turned up.

As the path narrowed under the trees and I preceded the other two, I am sure I heard Jim Gainsay say rather huskily to Maida:

“I had to see you alone. You must do as I say. It is import⁠—”

“Sh! I know!”

“Try to see it my way.” (This in a still more urgent voice.) “It is dangerous to⁠—”

“Hush!” she interrupted sharply again.

And just then I think that Maida stumbled over a branch that had blown across the path. At any rate I heard a quick motion and a sort of gasp and then Maida said rather breathlessly: “That branch⁠—I nearly fell.” And I turned in time to see Jim Gainsay pick up the stick, bow to it gravely and say: “Thank you, old fellow,” before he tossed it off into the orchard. At which Maida turned quite pink and Jim Gainsay gave her a long look and laughed rather shakily.

Then we were at the south entrance and Gainsay swung on his heel with a brief “Good night.”

And it was not fifteen minutes later that I glanced through the society section of the paper that someone had left on the chart desk, and my eyes fell on a small news item:

Mrs. J. C. Allen left Tuesday of this week for New York City. She sailed on the Tuscania, Saturday night, June ninth.

On the Tuscania, Saturday, June ninth. That was yesterday. And I was positive that Gainsay had said the Tuscania.