smiling apologetically. 'Sorry, Miles,' he said, glancing at Becky to include her in the apology. 'Hate to spoil your movie.'
'That's okay What's the trouble, Jack?'
He didn't answer, but walked forward to hold the outer doors open for us, and I knew he didn't want to talk in the lobby, so we walked on out to the sidewalk, and he followed. But outside as we stopped just past the overhead lights from the marquee, he still wouldn't get to the point. 'No one's sick, Miles; it isn't that. Don't know if you could even call it an emergency, exactly. But – I'd certainly like you to come out tonight.'
I like Jack. He's a writer, and a good one, I think; I've read one of his books. But I was a little annoyed; this kind of thing happened so often. All day people will wait around, thinking about calling the doctor, but deciding not to, deciding to wait, hoping it won't be necessary. But then it gets dark, and there's something about night that makes them decide that maybe they'd better have the doctor after all. 'Well, Jack,' I said, 'if it's not an emergency, if it's anything that can wait till morning, then why not do that?' I nodded toward Becky. 'It's not just my evening, but – You two know each other, by the way?'
Becky smiled, and said, 'Yes,' and Jack said, 'Sure, I know Becky; her dad, too.' He frowned, and stood there on the walk thinking for a moment. Then he glanced from me to Becky, including us both in what he was saying. 'Look; bring Becky along, if she'd like to come. Might be a good idea; might help my wife.' He smiled wryly. 'I don't say she'll like what she'll see, but it'll be a lot more interesting than any movie, I'll promise you that.'
I glanced at Becky, she nodded, and since Jack is no fool, I didn't ask any more questions. 'All right,' I said, 'let's go in my car. I'll drive you back to pick up yours when we're through.'
We sat three in the front seat, and on the way out – Jack lives in the country just outside town – he didn't offer any more information, and I assumed he had a reason. Jack's a thin-faced intense sort of man, with prematurely white hair. He's about forty years old, I'd say, an intelligent man of good sense and judgment. I knew that, because a year ago his wife was sick and he'd called me in. She had a sudden high fever, extreme lassitude, and I diagnosed it, finally, as Rocky Mountain spotted fever. I wasn't happy about that. You could practice medicine in California for a long time and never run across Rocky Mountain spotted fever, and it was hard to see how she could have caught it. But I didn't see what else it could be, and that's what I advised treatment for, starting at once. I had to tell Jack, though, that I'd never seen a case before, and that if he wanted other opinions he must feel free to get them. But I added that I was as sure of my diagnosis as I thought anyone else around could be of his, and that a conflicting opinion just then – uncertainness on anyone's part – wouldn't be so good. Jack listened, asked some questions, thought about it, then told me to go ahead and treat his wife, which I did. A month later she was well, and baking cookies; Jack brought me a batch at the office. So I respected him; he knew how to make a decision; and I waited, now, till he was ready to talk.
We passed the black-and-white city limits sign, and Jack pointed ahead. 'Turn left on the dirt road, if you remember, Miles. It's the green house on the hill.'
I nodded, and swung onto the road, shifting into second for the climb.
He said, 'Stop a minute, will you, Miles? I want to ask you something.'
I pulled to the edge of the road, set the hand brake, and turned to him, leaving the motor running.
He took a deep breath, and said, 'Miles, there are certain things a doctor has to report when he runs into them, aren't there?'
It was as much a statement as a question, and I just nodded.
'A contagious disease, for example,' he went on, as though thinking out loud, 'or a gunshot wound, or a dead body. Well, Miles' – he turned to stare out the window on his side – 'do you always have to report them? Is there ever a case, I mean, when a doctor might feel justified in overlooking the rules?'
I shrugged. 'Depends,' I said; I didn't know how to answer him.
'On what?'
'On the doctor, I suppose. And the particular case. What's up, Jack?'
'I can't tell you yet; I've got to know the answer to this first.' Staring out his window, he thought for a moment, then he turned to look at me. 'Maybe you can answer this. Can you imagine a case, any kind of case, a gunshot wound, for example, where the rules or the law or whatever it was, required you to report it? And where you'd get into real trouble if you didn't report it and were found out – maybe even lose your licence? Can you imagine any set of circumstances where you might gamble your reputation, ethics, and licence, and not turn in a report, just the same?'
I shrugged again. 'I don't know, Jack; I guess so. I guess I could dream up some sort of situation where I'd forget the rules, if it were important enough and I felt I ought to.' I was suddenly irritated at all the mystery. 'I don't know, Jack; what are you getting at? This is all too vague, and I don't want you to get the idea that I'm promising a thing. If you've got something up at your house that I ought to report, I'll probably report it; that's all I can tell you.'
Jack smiled. 'All right; that's good enough. I think maybe you'll decide not to report this one.' He nodded toward his house – 'Let's go on up.'
I pulled out into the road again, and the headlights caught a figure, maybe a hundred yards ahead, walking toward us. It was a woman, in housedress and apron, arms huddled across her chest, hands cupping her elbows; it gets cool here, in the evenings. Then I saw it was Theodora, Jack's wife.
I pulled toward her in low gear, then stopped beside her. She said, 'Hello, Miles,' then spoke to Jack, looking into the car through my open window. 'I couldn't stay up there alone, Jack. I just couldn't; I'm sorry.'
He nodded. 'I should have brought you along; it was stupid of me not to.'
Opening the car door, I leaned forward to let Theodora into the back seat, then Jack introduced her to Becky, and we drove on up to the house.
Chapter four
Jack's house is a green frame house sitting by itself on the side of a hill, and the garage is a part of the basement. The garage was empty, the door open, and Jack motioned me to drive right in. We got out of the car then, Jack snapped on a light, closed the garage door, then opened a door leading into the basement proper, motioning us to walk on in ahead of him.
We stepped into an ordinary basement: laundry tubs, a washing machine, a wooden sawhorse, stacked newspapers, and against one wall, on the floor, some cardboard cartons and several used paint cans. Jack walked past us across the room to another door, then stopped, turning toward us, his hand on the doorknob. He had a pretty good second-hand billiard table in there, I knew; he'd told me he used it a lot, just knocking the balls around by himself, doing a lot of his writing in his head. Now he looked at Becky, glancing at his wife, too. 'Get hold of yourself,' he said, then walked in, pulled the chain on the overhead light, and we followed after him.
The light over a billiard table is designed to light up the table surface brilliantly. It hangs low so it won't shine in your eyes as you play, and it leaves the ceiling in darkness. This one had a rectangular shade to confine the light to the table top only, and the rest of the room was left in semi-gloom. I couldn't see Becky's face very clearly, but I heard her gasp. Lying on the bright green table top under the sharp light of the 150-watt bulb, and covered with the rubberized sheet Jack kept on the billiard table, lay what was unmistakably a body. I turned to look at Jack, and he said, 'Go ahead; pull it off.'
I was irritated; this worried and scared me, and there was too damn much mystery to suit me; it occurred to me that the writer in Jack was laying on the dramatics a little heavily. I grabbed the rubber sheet, yanked it off, and tossed it to a corner of the table. Lying on the green felt, on its back, was the naked body of a man. It was maybe five feet ten inches tall – it isn't too easy to judge height, looking down on a body that way. He was white, the skin very pale in the brilliant shadowless light, and at one and the same time, it looked unreal and theatrical, and yet it was intensely, over real. The body was slim, maybe 140 pounds, but well-nourished and well-muscled. I couldn't judge the age, except that he wasn't old. The eyes were open, staring directly up into the overhead light, in a way that made your own eyes smart. They were blue, and very clear. There was no wound visible, and no other obvious cause of death. I walked over beside Becky, slipped my arm under hers, and turned to Jack. 'Well?'
He shook his head, refusing to comment. 'Keep looking. Examine it. Notice anything strange?'
