“Not without help. Better get a rug or blanket. It’s a warm night, but cases like this get pneumonia very easily.”
She said she would get a rug. I thought it was damn nice of her. But I wasn’t thinking very intelligently. I was too bushed from carrying him.
We spread a steamer rug over him and in fifteen minutes Dr. Loring came, complete with starched collar and rimless cheaters and the expression of a man who has been asked to clean up after the dog got sick.
He examined Wade’s head. “A superficial cut and bruise,” he said. “No chance of concussion. I should say his breath would indicate his condition rather obviously.”
He reached for his hat. He picked up his bag.
“Keep him warm,” he said. “You might bathe his head gently and get rid of the blood. He’ll sleep it off.”
“I can’t get him upstairs alone, Doctor,” I said.
“Then leave him where he is,” He looked at me without interest. “Goodnight, Mrs. Wade. As you know I don’t treat alcoholics. Even if I did, your husband would not be one of my patients. I’m sure you understand that.”
“Nobody’s asking you to treat him,” I said. “I’m asking for some help to get him into his bedroom so that I can undress him.”
“And just who are you?” Dr. Loring asked me freezingly. “My name’s Marlowe. I was here a week ago. Your wife introduced me.”
“Interesting,” he said. “In what connection do you know my wife?”
“What the hell does that matter? All I want is—”
“I’m not interested in what you want,” he cut in on me. He turned to Eileen, nodded briefly, and started out. I got between him and the door and put my back to it.
“Just a minute, Doc. Must be a long time since you glanced at that little piece of prose called the Hippocratic Oath. This man called me on the phone and I live some way off. He sounded bad and I broke every traffic law in the state getting over here. I found him lying on the ground and I carried him in here and believe me he isn’t any bunch of feathers. The houseboy is away and there’s nobody here to help me upstairs with Wade. How does it look to you?”
“Get out of my way,” he said between his teeth. “Or I shall call the sheriff’s substation and have them send over a deputy. As a professional man—”
“As a professional man you’re a handful of flea dirt,” I said, and moved out of his way.
He turned red—slowly but distinctly. He choked on his own bile. Then he opened the door and went out. He shut it carefully. As he pulled it shut he looked in at me. It was as nasty a look as I ever got and on as nasty a face as I ever saw.
When I turned away from the door Eileen was smiling.
“What’s funny?” I snarled.
“You. You don’t care what you say to people, do you? Don’t you know who Dr. Loring is?”
“Yeah—and I know what he is.”
She glanced at her wristwatch. “Candy ought to be home by now,” she said. “I’ll go see. He has a room behind the garage.”
She went out through an archway and I sat down and looked at Wade. The great big writer man went on snoring. His face was sweaty but I left the rug over him. In a minute or two Eileen came back and she had Candy with her.
26
The Mex had a black and white checked sport shirt, heavily pleated black slacks without a belt, two-tone black and white buckskin shoes, spotlessly clean. His thick black hair was brushed straight back and shining with some kind of hair oil or cream.
“Senor,” he said, and sketched a brief sarcastic bow.
“Help Mr. Marlowe carry my husband upstairs, Candy. He fell and hurt himself a little. I’m sorry to trouble you.”
“De nada, senora,” Candy said smiling.
“I think I’ll say goodnight,” she said to me. “I’m tired out. Candy will get you anything you want.”
She went slowly up the stairs. Candy and I watched her.
“Some doll,” he said confidentially. “You stay the night?”
“Hardly.”
“Es lastima. She is very lonely, that one.”
“Get that gleam out of your eyes, kid. Let’s put this to bed.”
He looked sadly at Wade snoring on the couch. “Pobrecito,” he murmured as if he meant it. “Borracho como una cuba.”
“He may be drunk as a sow but he sure ain’t little,” I said. “You take the feet.”
We carried him and even for two he was as heavy as a lead coffin. At the top of the stairs we went along an open balcony past a closed door. Candy pointed to it with his chin.
“La senora,” he whispered. “You knock very light maybe she let you in.”
