He had dropped in at the hospital after lunch, and for the first time got hold of the senior doctor on the case-MacFarlane, who had done the operation. MacFarlane, unlike some doctors, didn't mind explaining to laymen. He was a tall cadaverous old man with shrewd blue eyes.
'You understand,' he had said, 'that there's no certainty about such a case. He is holding his own, but I'm making no predictions as to whether he'll ever regain consciousness. If and when he does, it then remains to be seen whether there's any permanent brain damage.'
'What effect might that take, Doctor?'
'Quite impossible to say. It would depend on what area of the brain was most severely damaged. We might find that his memory was entirely gone, for instance, or his speech. We're beginning to find out more about the brain, you know, and we do know that-in layman's terms-each section controls different functions. I have known of cases where the learned skills, such as reading and writing, were lost. I'll not minimize the situation, sir. At worst, if there's permanent damage, he could be a hopeless mental invalid, if he lives. At best, he could come out of this coma safe and sound with his mind intact. I was hoping to see his wife-'
'l don't think she should be told that,' said Mendoza.
'I've always found that a policy of frankness is best. If the worst should occur, it would not be as great a shock.'
'Well, I don't agree with you,' said Mendoza bluntly. He remembered how his grandmother used to say, 'Don't run to meet trouble. If she's got to be told sometime, I'll do it. I'll ask you not to tell her, Doctor. For one thing, she's expecting a child.'
'Oh, I hadn't realized that. Well, perhaps in that case… And of course we'll hope that she need never know. It's quite possible that he'll recover entirely, though it was a massive fracture.' MacFarlane shook his head.
'When will we know?'
'When and if he regains consciousness. Frankly, I'd be feeling much more hopeful if he wasn't keeping in such deep coma. It's been, what, around sixty hours now, and he's showing no signs of restlessness, which would be encouraging as a symptom of returning consciousness. When and if he should seem to be regaining consciousness we'll inform you at once, as I want someone who knows him, preferably not his wife, to be there when he does. That would be the immediate test, you see. Whether or not he would instantly recognize an old friend, understand what was said to him by such a friend.'
'I see. Could you give me any idea how long it might be?'
'Sir,' said MacFarlane sadly, 'there are cases in a number of hospitals where a person has lived in a coma for months. He might regain consciousness tomorrow and recover quite normally, or he might lie like this for weeks-or he might die tonight. I don't know.'
'That's frank anyway,' said Mendoza evenly. 'Thanks very much…
'
He looked at Larry Webster with dislike. The ordinary part-time, small-time pro, and looking it. A grown-up lout, with a graying crew cut, powerful shoulders; he had a rather stupid, weak face, with a loose mouth and small eyes. He was dressed neatly in working clothes, tan cord slacks and a shirt to match. You wouldn't have turned to look at him on the street, but Mendoza knew the type.
'Sit down, Webster,' he said flatly.
Webster sat. 'This is my day off, see, I din't know you fellows wanted to see me about anything, naturally, how could I? I been going straight ever since I got out last time, I got a good job at a garage, sir, the boss'll tell you. If I'd known you'd wanted to see me- I'm clean, you ask me anything you want-'
That type. Mendoza looked at him reflectively and then without speaking to him went out and told Sergeant Lake to put in a rush on a search warrant for Webster's living quarters.
'Where does he live, by the way?'
'Cheap apartment hotel out on Olive. They picked him up at a bowling alley.'
Mendoza went back to his office. 'You know Margaret Corliss, Webster.'
'Sure, sure, I know Madge. Madge is a nice girl; we been, you know, going around some together.'
'How long have you known her?'
'Oh, gee, quite a while, I guess.'
'Make a guess.'
'Well-four, five years maybe.'
'So you knew her when she was working at the Sally-Ann Beauty Shoppe?'
'I guess that was the name of a place she worked once, yeah.'
'Where the proprietors were running a little mill.'
'The cops said so,' said Webster. 'I don't know anything about that, nor Madge didn't either. Madge never suspected such a thing, she told the cops all she knew and they saw she didn't know anything about-'
'Insufficient evidence,' said Mendoza, and laughed. 'Sure. Did you know about the mill Dr. Nestor was operating? The doctor she was working for until he got himself murdered last Tuesday night?'
'Well, I knew she was working for this doctor, but he wasn't up to anything like that, Madge wouldn't-'
'She was working as a beauty operator at that shop? She's a qualified operator?'
'Sure, I guess so. That's right'
'Then how come she took a job as an office nurse? Quite a switch.'
'Oh well, she said she thought she'd like a change, kind of. I guess it was like that. And this doctor, he didn't need a regular trained nurse, it was just somebody to-you know, answer the phone and put down about appointments and-'
'She certainly did that,' said Mendoza without a smile. 'Where were you last Friday night?'
'Friday night-well, I'd have to think--'
'Then think,' said Mendoza… Because, he thought, while the Corliss woman wouldn't have had any reason to murder Nestor, still there was something in that part of the puzzle. Art Hackett was no fool. He had started to suspect what was behind the Nestor setup, and maybe by Friday night he'd seen through it. And seen that possibly, if Nestor had kept any records of his illicit patients, that list would bear looking into. It could be that some frightened, ashamed young innocent had confessed to her parents, who had threatened Nestor with exposure- something like that. Hell, they didn't even know that the gun hadn't been Nestor's. Or there could have been an argument about money with a new patient's boy friend. Anyway, that list would be interesting: and if Hackett had seen through the Corliss woman's actions that Wednesday morning, he could have guessed that she'd have it. If, of course, there was one. And gone to see her…
'Think hard,' he said. 'Miss Corliss says you were at her apartment?
'Sure, that's right,' said Webster. 'I remember now. We had dinner together-'
'Where?'
'Uh-some grill out on Olympic. And we went back to her place and-and played cards-'
'?Damelo! ' said Mendoza. 'All very innocent. And how late did you stay, playing cards?'
'I don't know. Maybe midnight?
'Did anyone come calling on Miss Corliss that night while you were there?'
What looked like genuine surprise showed in Webster's eyes. 'Why, no, sir.'
'A sergeant of detectives? Sergeant Hackett?'
'No, sir. I never heard that name. Excuse me, why you asking all this, sir? Madge wouldn't be up to anything wrong, honest, sir. She was awful sorry about Dr. Nestor getting shot like that, it was some burglar broke in, wasn't it, and-'
'I'll bet she was sorry. Suddenly losing a profitable job. Do you know what cut he gave her?'
Webster shifted uneasily. 'I dunno what you mean. Listen, we're both straight, Madge never-'
'That's fine,' said Mendoza. 'Then you won't object to my having your apartment searched, as we searched Miss Corliss'.'
