“I don’t want to be alone!” I said. “Take me back! I’m fine as I am. I don’t want a room to
myself!”
The doctor appeared from nowhere.
“There’s nothing to get excited about,” he said. “You’ll like this room. It’s got a wonderful
53
view.”
I thought if I made too much commotion they’d put me in a strait-jacket: that’s the kind of
state I had worked myself into.
It was a nice room, and the view was swell, but I hated it. I had a feeling I had been put in
there for a purpose, and I wanted to know what that purpose was.
In the evening, around six, when I was lying there alone, looking out of the window at the
ocean and the pleasure boats and people surf-riding, the door pushed open and Riskin came
in.
“Hello, boy,” he said, easing the door shut, “how are you coming?”
“Why have they put me in here?” I said, trying to sit up. “What’s the idea?”
He tiptoed across the room to the bed.
“Hey, hey, what’s biting you? Don’t you know a room like this costs dough?”
“Then what’s the idea?”
He reached for a chair and sat down.
“I don’t think that doc likes his other patients to see me coming in here,” he said. “Maybe
it’s that. He’s a nice guy, that doc. Maybe it occurred to him it might be embarrassing for you
to have policemen asking questions with everyone in the ward trying to listen in. That might
be an idea, too.”
I looked at him for a long moment, then I drew in a deep breath, and ran my fingers over
my face, feeling it was damp and hot.
“That angle didn’t strike me. Know what? I was beginning to think I was going nuts, and
that’s why they had taken me out of the ward.”
He produced a packet of cigarettes.
“Like a smoke, boy?” he said. “You don’t want to get those ideas into your head.” He
struck a match and lit the cigarette for me. Then he lit one for himself. “I bet if the nurse
catches us she’ll raise blue murder,” he went on. “Still, that’s what nurses are for, aren’t
they?”
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I grinned at him. I was feeling much, much better.
“I wish you had come before. I was getting worried.”
“I’ve been busy.” He examined the end of his cigarette, then his pale, sharp eyes looked
right into mine. “I’ve got a little shock for you. Think you can take it?”
I drew on the cigarette, aware my heart was beginning to pound.
“I guess so. What is it?”
“That car wasn’t a Bentley; it was a Buick convertible: a black job, with red-leather
upholstery, disc wheels and built-in head and fog lamps. You were found in the driving seat.
She was found wedged down in the back seat. They had to cut the front seats away to get her
out. There was no third person found. There was no other car, either. I’ve been over the
ground myself. I’ve seen all the photographs. I’ve seen the Buick. I’ve talked to the cop who
found you.”
I lay still and stared at him. I wanted to tell him he was lying, but the words wouldn’t come.
I felt the blood leave my face. The cigarette slipped out of my fingers and dropped on to the
floor.
He bent and picked it up.
“Take it easy, boy,” he said. “I warned you it’d be a shock. There’s nothing to worry about.
