Rima was sitting up in bed when I walked into her room. She had on a pair of black pyjamas. With her silver hair and her cobalt blue eyes, she really looked something.
‘I’m hungry.’
‘I’ll have those words engraved on your head stone. Never mind how hungry you are. Who gave you the money for a shot last night?’
Her eyes shifted away from mine.
‘I didn’t have a shot. I’m starving. Will you lend me…?’
‘Oh, shut up! If I can fix it, will you take a cure?’
Her expression became sullen.
‘I’ve got beyond a cure. I know. It’s no good talking about a cure.’
‘There’s a guy who really can fix it. If I can persuade him to take you, will you go?’
‘Who is he?’
‘Dr. Klinzi. He fixes all the big-shot film stars. I might be able to talk him into fixing you.’
‘Some chance! It’d be cheaper to give me some money. I don’t want much…’
I grabbed hold of her and shook her. Her breath against my face made me feel sick.
‘Will you go to him if I can fix it?’ I yelled at her.
She jerked away from me.
‘Anything you say.’
I felt I was going out of my head myself, but I kept control of myself.
‘Okay, I’ll talk to him. Stay right where you are. I’ll tell Carrie to bring you a cup of coffee and something to eat.’
I left her.
At the head of the stairs, I called down to Carrie to get a hamburger and a coffee and take it to Rima.
Then I went into my room and put on my best suit. It wasn’t much. It was shiny in places, but by the time I had slicked down my hair, brushed my shoes, I didn’t look too much of a bum.
I went back into Rima’s room.
She was sitting up in bed, sipping the coffee. She wrinkled her nose at me.
‘Gee! You look sharp.’
‘Never mind how I look. Sing. Go on: sing anything, but sing.’
She stared at me.
‘Anything?’
‘Yes — sing!’
She began to sing
The melody came out of her mouth effortlessly, like a silver stream. It crawled up my spine and into the roots of my hair. It filled the room with a clear, bell-like sound. It was better than I thought it could be.
I stood there listening, and when she had gone through the chorus, I stopped her.
‘Okay, okay,’ I said, my heart thumping. ‘You stay right here. I’ll be back.’
I went down the stairs three at a time.
II
Dr. Klinzi’s residence stood in an acre and a half of ornamental gardens, surrounded by high walls, the tops of which were studded with sharp iron spikes.
I walked up the long drive. It took me three or four minutes of fast walking before I caught sight of a house that looked like a movie set for Cosimo Medici’s palace in Florence.
There was a big terrace with fifty or so steps leading up to it. The top rooms had bars to the windows.
Everything about the house and the grounds was sombre and very, very quiet. Even the roses and the begonias seemed depressed.
Well away from the drive, under the shade of the elm trees, I could see several people sitting in wheel chairs. Three or four nurses, in gleaming white overalls, fluttered around them.
I climbed the steps and rang the front door bell.
After a moment or so, the door was opened by a grey man with grey hair, grey eyes, grey clothes and a grey manner.
I gave him my name.
Wordlessly, he led me over a gleaming parquet floor to a side-room where a slim, blonde nurse sat at a desk, busy with pencil and paper.
‘Mr. Gordon,’ the grey man said.
He pushed a chair against the back of my knees so I sat down abruptly and then went away, shutting the door after him as gently as if it were made of spun glass.
The nurse laid down her pen and said in a gentle voice and with a sad smile in her eyes, ‘Yes, Mr. Gordon? Is there something we can do for you?’
‘I hope so.’ I said. ‘I want to talk to Dr. Klinzi about a possible patient.’
‘It could be arranged.’ I was aware that her eyes were going over my suit. ‘Who is the patient, Mr. Gordon?’
‘I’ll explain al that to Dr. Klinzi.’
‘I’m afraid the doctor is engaged at the moment. You can have complete confidence in me. I arrange who comes here and who doesn’t.’
‘That must be pret y nice for you,’ I said, ‘but this happens to be a special case. I want to talk to Dr. Klinzi.’
‘Why is it a special case, Mr. Gordon?’
I could see I wasn’t making any impression on her. Her eyes had lost their sad smile: they now looked merely bored.
‘I’m an agent and my client who is a singer is a very valuable property. Unless I deal directly with Dr. Klinzi, I must go elsewhere.’
That seemed to arouse her interest. She hesitated briefly, then she got to her feet.
‘If you will wait a moment, Mr. Gordon, I’l see…’
She crossed the room, opened the door and disappeared from sight. There was a longish pause, then she reappeared, holding open the door.
‘Wil you come in?’
I entered an enormous room full of modern furniture, a surgical table and desk by a window behind which sat a man in a white coat.
‘Mr. Gordon?’
Somehow he made it sound as if he were very pleased to see me.
He got to his feet. He was short, not more than thirty years of age, with a lot of blond wavy hair, slate grey eyes and a bedside manner.
‘That’s right. Dr. Klinzi?’ I said.
‘Certainly.’ He waved a hand to a chair. ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Gordon?’
I sat down, waiting until the nurse had gone away.
‘I have a singer with a three year morphine habit,’ I said. ‘I want her cured. What wil it cost?’
The slate grey eyes ran over me none too hopefully.
‘Our charge for a guaranteed cure would be five thousand dol ars, Mr. Gordon. We are in the happy position here to guarantee results.’
I drew in a long, slow breath.
‘For that kind of money I would expect results.’
He smiled sadly. They seemed to specialise in sad smiles in this place.
‘It may seem expensive to you, Mr. Gordon, but we deal only with the very best people.’
‘How long would it take?’
