“Not—that!”
“You see, he was in good condition. And combined with the theft of the radium—Oh! I know it is a fearful thing to suspect. But what explanation is there?”
“Who could have done it? How—”
“I don’t know.” With an effort I pulled myself together, forced myself to think. “We have no time to think of that now. We must keep things going—get a doctor.” I paused, eyeing her dubiously. “Could you stay here with—with it—while I go to the office, rouse Dr. Hajek and the janitor, and get some sort of lights?”
She glanced from the bed, where her horrified eyes had fastened themselves, to the feeble ray of the candle.
“The candle is almost burnt out,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said. “I’ll hurry.”
Her lips tightened to a thin white line.
“Hurry.”
Once groping my way through that dark corridor I was vaguely surprised to find my hands like ice and my face damp. My mind was whirling but one thought was predominant: I must not leave Maida alone for long in that terrifying room with what it held, I must hurry.
As I turned into the corridor running east and west, that connects the south wing with the main portion of the hospital, the storm burst upon the place with renewed savagery. At another time the fury of the thunder and lightning and wind and rain would have appalled me, but then it seemed all in a piece with what I feared had happened.
I have only a chaotic memory of colliding with various other nurses, of ringing for the janitor, of calling the Electric Power Company only to hear a pert-voiced operator tell me that the wires must be down in our direction, of being afraid that the matches the nurses were lighting would set fire to the whole place, and of bruising my knuckles on Dr. Hajek’s door. He finally opened it, and I was so unstrung by that time that at the sound of his slow voice I clutched into the darkness with both hands. My touch encountered his coat, which was damp.
“Go to Room 18,” I stammered, half-sobbing from fear. “Hurry, Doctor. Room 18 in the south wing.”
“It is dark. Can’t you turn on the lights?” he said stupidly.
“The lights have gone out. The storm—Hurry!” I believe I pushed him toward the door. Somebody had found a lamp and the hall was full of weird, wavering shadows.
“What is it? What has happened?” asked some nurse at my elbow.
I have never known what I replied; I remember only her frightened, pale face. But somehow I restored things to a semblance of order, mercifully thought of some lamps and candles that were in the storeroom, unearthed a couple of flashlights and sent someone to wake Olma Flynn to help out in the south wing. Then, taking the flashlights, I hurried back to the wing.
At the door of Room 18 I paused.
Maida was standing beside a table, staring downward, her face paper-white; her sleeves had been rolled up and a wisp of dark hair across her cheek gave her a curiously dishevelled appearance. Dr. Hajek was standing at the foot of the bed; he was gripping the foot-rail with such force that the knuckles on his small hands showed white. Dr. Balman had arrived; he was sitting at the other side of the bed and I did not see him until I stepped into the room. His stethoscope dangled from his hands, his gleaming raincoat dripped moisture steadily on the floor. He, too, was staring downward.
No one moved as I approached the bed. It was as if some evil spell held us all staring at the dead man. And through that brooding silence, broken only by the hurling rain and wind outside, I knew as well as I shall ever know anything that I was right. That the man there on the bed had been murdered!
My throat was very dry. I had to make several efforts and finally achieved a single word:
“How—”
Dr. Balman glanced at me, apparently noting my presence for the first time.
“Overdose of morphine,” he said.
“Morphine!” I was shocked out of the numbness that had enveloped me. “Morphine. But he was not to have morphine. How do you know?”
With a laconic gesture he showed me the tiny hypodermic scar on the patient’s arm.
“That—and look here—the pupils of his eyes,” Dr. Balman drew the lids upward gently. “As well as his general condition. You know—”
I nodded slowly. Morphine!
It was then that a strange thing happened. We were all staring at the small wound, else we should not have seen the little pinprick of red that crept slowly from it. It was not a drop by any means, it was barely enough to be visible, but it brought to our minds the old superstition: a corpse bleeds when its murderer is near. A cold shiver crept up my back as I looked, and Dr. Balman sprang to his feet with a hoarse word or two, and Maida cried out, gasping, and started back, and even phlegmatic Dr. Hajek muttered something under his breath and drew his hand across his eyes.
With an effort I controlled myself. This sort of thing would turn us all into gibbering idiots and there was much to be done.
“Dr. Balman,” I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears, “Dr. Letheny is caught out in the storm somewhere and we have not yet been able to find him. Mr. Jackson was not to have morphine: it was not ordered and moreover at twelve thirty he was all right. He has evidently been—killed—so that someone could steal the radium. There will be—confusion. Someone must take charge from now on—and since Dr. Letheny is gone—”
“Leave things to us, Miss Keate,” said Dr. Balman at once. “See to your wing as usual and Dr. Hajek and I will do what is necessary.”
“Do you intend to call the coroner?” I asked.
“Certainly. I shall telephone at once. It means police—detectives—all that, but this is a terrible thing. Steps must be taken immediately. A delay
