The Patient in Room 18 · Chapter 7 (2/2)

Corole Letheny was there in a soft brown frock daringly tailored and very short so that her silk-clad⁠—er⁠—ankles and so forth were much in evidence; she wore a small green hat pulled low over her eyes and carried a large and gorgeously beaded bag which made a spot of vivid colour in that neutral gray room. Huldah, very stiff in her Sunday black silk, sat beside her.

A little way off among a group of nurses sat Maida, her beauty and the distinctive air of breeding in the very lift of her chin making her stand out from the others as if they were only the frame for a picture. Jim Gainsay stood at the back of the room with a group of reporters. He wore an air of ease that was a shade too deliberate; his impenetrable eyes looked at nothing in particular but, I had no doubt, missed not the smallest movement in the room. He was attractive, clean, young, vigorous, but I could have wished him less restrained⁠—less poised⁠—less wary.

There were the staff doctors, of course, talking to Dr. Balman and Dr. Hajek. I was interested to note that a bit of Dr. Hajek’s ruddy colour had deserted him; he said little and his black eyes darted here and there about the room, occasionally lingering upon Corole. Save for those restless eyes he was as unmoved and stolid as was usual with him.

There were several policemen, too, Higgins, the cook and a few curious student nurses sitting with Miss Dotty, who being something of a simpleton took that occasion to shed a few tears, presumably for Dr. Letheny. And there was O’Leary, of course, gray and quiet, sitting near the coroner’s table.

It being the one and only inquest I had ever attended (for which I am truly thankful), I was not able to compare it with others and did not know whether the undercurrent of excitement, the low whispers, the white faces, the nervous little movements and darting glances here and there, are typical of all inquests or peculiar to that one.

All at once the coroner put down the papers he had been studying, took off his nose glasses, and began to talk. I did not notice what he said, for at the same moment O’Leary rose quietly and moved toward the back of the room. As he passed me he dropped a small bit of folded paper in my lap. Under the cover of my wide cuff I read the brief message it contained. I read it again; it didn’t seem to make sense, but of course, I was willing to obey the terse request. Just as I slipped the paper into my pocket I heard my name being called and I rose and walked to a chair indicated by the coroner.

After convincing the coroner and the jury that I was actually Sarah Keate, superintendent of the south wing and on duty the night of Thursday, June seventh, I was allowed to proceed.

It was not so difficult as I had feared it would be; I was allowed to tell my story in a brief and straightforward manner. The only time I became confused was when I got to the incident of the arrow-like projectile that had whizzed over my shoulder while I stood for a moment there on the little south porch. It was then, for the first time since the night it occurred, that I recalled the trifling incident, and I was already launched upon it and could not head off the coroner’s questions. I caught a reproachful look from O’Leary but had to continue; however, the coroner’s questions could prove nothing for there was little I could tell of the matter.

The coroner questioned me rather particularly, too, as to the man with whom I collided, but I had expected this and gave guarded replies. He also tried to make me identify the owner of the cigarette case which lay there on the table before him, but I refused to commit myself beyond telling how and when I found the thing.

As I say, it was not difficult⁠—that is, until I reached the actual events leading to the crime. It was then that my voice faltered.

“It was while I was sitting there at the chart desk, at exactly one thirty⁠—I had just entered the time on a chart⁠—that I heard a sort of⁠—bang. It sounded like a door closing.” I went on speaking with more and more difficulty. “So I got up and walked along the corridor but the south door was still open. Then I went back to the chart desk and was there when the storm broke and I had to run to close the door and the windows. When I went into Room 18 to close the window I found⁠—” I stuck and had to clear my throat.⁠—“I found that the patient, Mr. Jackson, was dead. The lights had gone out but a flash of lightning lit the room and I felt for his pulse and knew that he was dead. I ran to the diet kitchen, found a candle, and ran back to Eighteen. Miss Day had been closing the windows in the wing and had just got to Room 18 when I returned with the candle. It was after we knew we could do nothing for him that we found the radium had been stolen.”

My testimony continued for some time after that, but I simply answered the coroner’s questions as briefly as possible and volunteered nothing, and presently resumed my seat, feeling that, with the one exception, I had conducted myself creditably.

Then Dr. Balman and Dr. Hajek were called in turn, to testify as to the causes of death, first of Mr. Jackson’s, and later of Dr. Letheny’s. They used technical terms, and told the methods of determining the length of time each had been dead before discovery. It was a difficult half hour for both of them, knowing Dr. Letheny as they had, and they both looked quite exhausted when the coroner had finished with them. Dr. Balman was frankly mopping his high forehead and even Dr. Hajek’s stolidity was shaken, for his eyes darted nervously about him and he retreated to the back of the room, where he lit a cigarette with unsteady hands.

Then Miss Maida Day was called and as she took the witness chair my hands gripped each other and I watched her with strained attention.

She testified very coolly, though. No, she had not seen Dr. Letheny when he called to visit his patient at twelve thirty. She had been busy in one of the sick rooms. Yes, she had stepped out on the porch for a breath of air. Yes, she had attended the dinner party given by Miss Letheny. The coroner seemed to be supplied with all the topics of conversation of that dinner and Maida agreed imperviously to every one of them, even to the fact that she had said she wanted money.

“I believe your words were ‘I’d give my very soul for money’?” inquired the coroner nastily.

“I think I did say something like that,” said Maida quietly, though a tiny flush mounted to her cheeks. “Of course, I didn’t mean exactly that. One often exaggerates one’s statements.”

The coroner did not comment on that but looked expressively at the jury.

Then she corroborated, under his questions, every detail I had told of our finding of the body of Mr. Jackson and of our subsequent actions. He made his questions very searching and important indeed, and I felt something between a fool and a liar during the process; I am not accustomed to having my word doubted.

“Miss Letheny answered the telephone, when I called for the doctor,” Maida explained, “and said that she couldn’t rouse him, and when I said we must have him immediately she went away from the telephone and when she came back told me that he was not in the house and she didn’t know where he had gone.”

“Then you telephoned to Dr. Balman?”

“Yes.”

“Did he answer immediately?”

“No. I think he must have been asleep. When he did answer I told him simply of Mr. Jackson’s unexpected death and that we could not locate Dr. Letheny.”

“About how long was it until Dr. Balman arrived?”

“I’m not sure. I was⁠—agitated naturally. But I should say about fifteen minutes.”

“How was he dressed when he arrived?”

“In⁠—a dinner jacket, I think⁠—and slicker. It was raining, you know.”

“Miss Day, have you lately lost a cuff link?” asked the coroner, without warning.

I was watching Maida closely and saw the little flush that had been in her face drain steadily away; her eyes darkened but did not falter in their steadfast gaze.

“Yes,” she replied quietly.

“Is this it?” He placed a small object in her hand that I could not see but had no doubt was the square of lapis.

“It⁠—seems to be,” she said, after a pause during which we others scarcely breathed. “It resembles the one I lost.”

“Do you think you can say that it is your cuff link?” asked the coroner smoothly.

“Why⁠—yes. At least, it is identical with mine.”

“Can you explain its presence in Dr. Letheny’s coat pocket when he was found⁠—dead?”

“No,” said Maida steadily, her steel-blue eyes meeting the coroner’s directly.

“When did you discover its loss?”

If possible, Maida went still whiter, and her nostrils took on a pinched look.

“Shortly after I had returned from the porch,” she said steadily enough, but her eyes went to the back of the room for a brief instant.

“How did this get into Dr. Letheny’s possession?” persisted the coroner.

“I do not know. I suppose I⁠—dropped it. Lost it from my cuff, and Dr. Letheny must have⁠—found it.”

“In the dark?” inquired the coroner suavely.

Maida flushed again but her chin went higher.

“I do not know.”

He continued to question her at some length but with no success, and finally he dismissed her, with a grudging “Thank you.”

Corole Letheny was the next witness and I settled myself more comfortably in my chair to listen. She was extremely self-possessed, and sat down as gracefully as if she had been paying a call. She looked rather nice, or would have, but for the clear beauty of the face that had just preceded her. Maida’s immaculate uniform, her clear white skin, her amazing blue eyes under their straight black eyebrows, that little, aristocratic air which somehow always surrounded her, made Corole seem a little tarnished, a little tawdry, a little theatrical, in spite of her perfect grooming and her expensive clothing.

By that time the repetition of the details of that oft-referred-to dinner party were growing stale and I did not pay the strictest attention to the first questions of the coroner. I was aroused, though, by hearing him say suavely:

“You will pardon me, Miss Letheny, but were you and Dr. Letheny on the best of terms?”

She stared at him, her yellowish eyes widening and reflecting green lights from her hat brim.

“What do you mean?”

“Following the departure of your guests that night, did you not have a heated disagreement?”

Her eyes slowly left the coroner and went to Huldah in an exceedingly unpleasant gaze.

“I suppose my maid told you that. Yes, we did quarrel. Louis⁠—was not an easy man to get along with.”

“What was the subject of your quarrel that night?”

“About as usual. Nothing in particular.”

“Can you recall any of the exact⁠—er⁠—subjects?”

“Why⁠—no,” said Corole slowly. “That is, he told me I was running the house too extravagantly. He always said that.”

The coroner surveyed her for a moment or two.

“Is this your revolver?” he said suddenly, reaching for the shiny revolver and holding it before her.

She started, quite visibly. One brown hand, with a great topaz shining on it, reached out as if to clutch the thing, and then drew slowly back.