‘Die Polizei? You are really the policemens? Gott sei dank! You are very quick. This way! This way!’ She tightened her grip on MacGregor’s arm and began dragging him across the entrance hall. ‘We take the lift,’ she explained breathlessly. ‘Ach, gut! It now comes down.’
By the time the lift arrived Dover had also ambled across. ‘What it is to have sex appeal!’ he sneered.
MacGregor wasn’t given time to work out some equally witty comeback. The lift came down and with a click the automatic doors slid back. There was one occupant inside. He was in a wheelchair and not very good at it. With both legs encased in huge plaster casts he edged awkwardly to and fro in an effort to get through doors which would have presented no obstacle to a Sherman tank, being wide enough for a stretcher or a coffin. MacGregor’s girl friend exploded into a Teutonic fury at this display of ineptitude. She let fly a stream of hysterical curses at the thickly bandaged head of the man in the wheelchair.
The man in the wheelchair, not unnaturally, took exception. He stopped even trying to get out of the lift and with bandaged hands clamped firmly on the plaster-cast knees began to send back as good as he’d got.
With a banshee howl of rage MacGregor’s girl friend shot into the lift, grabbed hold of the wheelchair, swung it round until it was pointing in the right direction, and pulled it towards her. ‘Verdammte Kranke!’ she screamed. And shoved.
Dover and MacGregor stepped neatly to one side as the wheelchair went by. They turned with interest to watch its headlong progress but long before it reached the distant wall they were unceremoniously hauled into the lift.
‘You are together, yes?’ The nurse-receptionist was already pressing the top button. ‘I telephone them you are coming,’ she added and leapt gracefully out through the closing doors.
For a moment Dover and MacGregor stood in silence as the lift moved slowly and carefully upwards.
‘Just what’, asked Dover with a mildness and reasonableness that boded ill for somebody, ‘the purple blazes is going on here?’
‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t quite know, sir.’ MacGregor watched the indicator light moving gradually from one number to the next. It was better than meeting Dover’s blood-shot eye.
‘You could have asked, couldn’t you, you damned fool?’
‘Well, she didn’t really give me much chance, sir,’ said MacGregor unhappily. ‘I think she was some kind of foreigner.’
‘I can see how you got in the detective branch!’ muttered Dover.
The top floor came at last. The lift stopped and the doors opened.
‘God help us,’ groaned Dover, ‘here’s another one!’
Over the starched apron and under the starched cap two large eyes rolled ecstatically in a dusky face.
‘You is da policeman?’ White teeth flashed. ‘Dis way, gennelmun! Follow me!’
‘Look, just a minute,’ began MacGregor but the nurse was halfway down the corridor and seemingly deaf to all entreaties. He turned helplessly to Dover.
‘Oh, come on!’ snarled Dover. ‘We might as well follow her. If this is the National Health Service I’m going private next time. You and your bloody black cats!’
The coloured nurse was putting speed on. ‘Hurry, man, hurry!’ she shouted back at them and promptly disappeared through a door.
Dover and MacGregor, in Dover’s own good time, eventually followed her. They found themselves in some sort of small storeroom in which all the space not occupied by neatly stacked bedpans and commodes was filled with a chattering excited mob of people. A man in a white overall fought his way through the crowd.
‘Are you the police? Thank God for that!’ With some difficulty he extricated one hand and mopped his brow. ‘I thought you were never coming.’
Dover shoved MacGregor out of the way. The time for finesse and polite usage had long since gone. A fat sister screamed in anguish as MacGregor’s foot crunched down on hers. Dover elbowed a Chinese probationer out of his way and seized the man in the white coat by the lapels. ‘Are you in charge here?’ he bellowed.
The man thought about it. ‘Well, I suppose I’m the senior officer present but I can’t possibly accept any responsibility.’
‘Well, who the blazes are you?’ screamed Dover, grabbing his bowler hat before it disappeared for ever in the throng.
‘I’m the director of the laboratory,’ explained the man in the white coat hoarsely. ‘God, this is terrible! My name is More ton. Dr More ton.’
‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,’ snarled Dover, struggling to keep his feet as a surge, apparently starting over by the window, threatened to overwhelm him.
A wiry little Indian girl was fighting her way across the room. Dover grunted as somebody’s elbow bored its way into his stomach. The Indian girl reached Dr Moreton, her cap askew and her apron torn.
‘She is still there, sir,’ she reported breathlessly and with unconcealed relish.
Dr Moreton didn’t appear pleased with the news. ‘God damn and rot the blasted woman!’ he moaned. ‘I’ve got a heavy work schedule planned for this afternoon, and then this has to go and happen. Some people have absolutely no consideration. Look here, constable,’ — he turned with a shocking lack of tact to Dover— ‘I think we’d better get out of here. You can’t hear yourself think in this place. Like the tower of Babel ! If you can shove your way through to the door, I’ll follow you.’
Dover shoved. MacGregor shoved. Dr Moreton shoved. Several weaklings disappeared, presumably for ever, into the heaving mob. Outside the door they found another nascent herd assembling, all eager to join in the fun and all talking at the tops of their voices in unintelligible foreign languages.
Dr Moreton staggered down the corridor and propped himself up against the wall. ‘I must be dreaming,’ he said weakly. ‘This is just a nightmare. I shall wake up soon.’
Dover brushed these rambling remarks aside. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.
‘You might well ask,
