Crane remembered how Ann had looked when he saw her last. She had looked trim and efficient, but her green eyes, her sawdust-colored hair, he thought, would certainly have got her into trouble if she had gone to the Crimson Cat. He, himself, had always admired tanned blondes; it wasn t every blonde-what was that? He held his breath. A small gust of wind rustled the curtains. He breathed again. What was he thinking of? Oh yes. Most blondes didn t tan well.
It had been necessary to tell Dr Rutledge and Dr Woodrin that he expected another attack on Simeon March. They had agreed to let him remain in the room, and had allowed him to place guards from the March Company plant at the front and back entrances to the hospital. Neither doctor treated this plan seriously, but the night nurse, Miss Edens, a pretty dark-haired girl, was impressed. She was spending the night in a small anteroom connected by a door to Simeon March s room.
Dr Rutledge had paid Crane visits at eight, ten and midnight. 'Everything s ready,' he whispered on his last appearance. 'There are men at both back and front doors.'
'I wish there was one under the bed,' said Crane plaintively.
Grinning, Dr Rutledge said Dr Woodrin would take over at three. 'If you re still alive.'
A clock somewhere outside uttered a single gonglike note. He wondered if it was one, or half-past twelve. Or, hopefully, half-past one. The shade rustled again and his heart jumped. The elevator motor whined; there was a clashing noise as its metal door was opened and closed; heavy feet passed along the corridor. The wind was blowing stronger and the curtains, ghostly in the dim light, were dancing. There was an odor of chloroform in the air. A blue globe in the corridor threw a curious shadow on the ceiling by the transom. It looked like the shadow of a man wearing a cloak.
Somebody was bending over the bed. He clawed for his revolver under his arm, then saw it was the nurse.
'My God!' he said. 'Don t scare me like that.'
'You were asleep,' she said.
'I couldn t have been.'
Her voice was very small. 'Do you want anything?'
'I d like a drink.'
'Dr Rutledge said he d send you some whisky.'
'He d better bring a lot.'
'Not so loud.' Her voice was soft. 'Do you want anything else?'
'No, just whisky.'
There was a slight tapping at the door to the anteroom in which Miss Edens had a cot. She left him. The curtains beside the open window were almost parallel to the floor; the wind was cold and steady. A door slammed somewhere down the corridor.
Miss Edens came back. 'The floor nurse with a paper,' she said.
'What s it say?'
She tilted the lamp so the light reached the screen.
In the saffron light they read:
SIMEON MARCH IS FOURTH VICTIM OF CARBON MONOXIDE
Simeon March, first citizen of Marchton, was recovering in City Hospital last night from severe carbon- monoxide poisoning. He was overcome early Sunday in the garage back of his home at 1703 Park Street.
He is the fourth member of the March family in less than a year to be the victim of accidental carbon- monoxide poisoning. The other three resulted fatally.
However, Mr March s chances of recovery, according to physicians at City Hospital, are good, owing to speedy injection of methylene blue, latest remedy for the deadly gas. It was said he might regain consciousness before morning.
The millionaire was discovered by Mrs Minnie Kruger, 55, of 904 E. Third Street, a cook in the March household. She said she became alarmed at her master s failure to emerge from the garage and had gone to…
The remainder of the story, running all over the front page of the paper, was mostly of the discovery of the body and an account of the millionaire s career. Crane felt a little better. The newspaper had fallen for his story, and the murderer would probably fall for it, too, and be worried by what Simeon March would say when he regained consciousness.
Only the important thing was: What had happened to Ann?
Miss Edens took the paper, put the lamp in place, touched his shoulder lightly and went into the anteroom. She was a nice girl, he thought.
The clock outside made a noise-bong bong-and it was two o clock.
Still coming through the window, the wind at intervals made a sound like a frightened horse blowing out breath. It was very cold. One of the curtains was stuck to something, but the other performed a macabre dance. It smelled as though snow was on the way.
He thought of the dead men in the case. There had been a lot-too many! It was not a neat case. He liked murder cases where there was one corpse and no prospects of any more. Then the problem became academic, with no haste and plenty of time for drinking at the client s expense. But this one wasn t a murder case; it was a massacre.
The dead: Richard March, John March, Talmadge March, maybe Simeon March and Lefty-what was his name? And three out of the five dead from a silent, odorless, creeping gas that filled their lungs and turned their bodies pink. What was the link between them?
And then there was Ann…
It was a really lousy case. He wondered what Colonel Black, his boss and Ann s uncle, would say to him. Especially since Ann was gone. He wondered where Williams was.
He was glad, though, the window was open. Suppose someone tried to pump carbon monoxide into the room. The idea was farfetched, but it made him shiver. He supposed it was perfectly possible to carry the gas in metal containers under pressure like oxygen. He wouldn t be able to detect its presence, unless he found himself getting drowsy. And he was drowsy!
In quick alarm he looked at the window. It was still open; both curtains were waving now. He decided he d freeze rather than lower that window. Good old window.
There was something horrible about dying of gas. Maybe it was just dying that was horrible, but it didn t seem so bad to die by gun, or by knife, or by hanging. Possibly those deaths seemed natural because people for a long time had been dying in those ways. But this gas, without odor, without color, like voodoo magic, crept upon its victim, left him to meet, gasping and blushing, an unnatural death.
Ann s face, young and frightened, came to mind. He opened his eyes and stared at the curtains.
Simeon March began to moan. With each exhalation he moaned, making a sort of aaaaaanaaahaa with his breath. The moans seemed to come from deep within his body; his chest gave them a resonant quality. It sounded as though he moaned, listened for an answer that didn t come, then moaned again.
Miss Edens came quietly into the room.
'Are you all right?'
'That s not me.'
'I know. I thought I d see if you were all right.'
'I m fine.'
'I m going to lie down for a little while.'
'All right.'
After a minute the light in her room went off. He settled down further in his chair. It was getting very cold.
Simeon March was still moaning. In the corridor two nurses were whispering. Their hushed voices sounded foreign; so many s s and th s came to his ears. In the street someone was trying to start an automobile.
The engine was cold; it would catch, splutter, cough, then die.
It must be three, he thought; he must have missed two-thirty. As he was debating this the clock made a single bong. The minutes were moving like snails.
The next half-hour seemed a night. He moved around, but he couldn t find a really comfortable position. At intervals he reached under his arm to make sure his revolver was still there. He had a feeling someone was
