Lance O’Leary turned slowly to me.
“Dr. Letheny will not return,” he said, eyeing me keenly.
“Not return? What do you mean?”
He shook his head.
“He will not return,” he said very slowly and distinctly. “Dr. Letheny is dead.”
IV
A Yellow Slicker and Other Problems
The slow words beat their way into my brain like so many dull little hammers. I opened my mouth, tried to say something, but could not seem to make him hear, felt curiously sick and dizzy, had a flashing memory of the first time I served in the operating room and all at once the table before me began to waver, the room whirled, and a great black blanket overwhelmed me.
Then, without any interval at all, I found myself lying on the couch in the inner office. I still felt sick but my face was wet and cold and my uniform damp around my shoulders and someone was saying in a dull voice: “Dr. Letheny is dead—Dr. Letheny is dead.”
“All right now, Miss Keate?” inquired a voice anxiously.
Wearily I opened my eyes, saw a gray arm and met the gaze of a pair of clear gray eyes. Instantly my head cleared. I pushed away the supporting arm and sat up, feeling automatically for my cap, though my hands shook.
“That was beastly to shock you so,” Lance O’Leary was saying with honest contrition. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Miss Keate, I’m really awfully sorry.”
“Did you say—Dr. Letheny is dead?” I asked, bringing out the words with the peculiar difficulty that one experiences in dreams.
“He is dead,” he answered gravely.
“Not—not—Tell me how he died.”
“Are you sure you can stand it? You’ve got to know sometime.”
“Go on,” I said, bracing myself.
“He has been dead for more than twelve hours. He was in the closet in Room 18.” He paused, regarding me doubtfully, but at my horrified gesture continued: “He had received a blow of some kind. It fractured his skull. He must have died immediately.”
“Wait.” Rising I walked to the window, stared with unseeing eyes at the rain-drenched landscape, found my palms were stinging under the pressure of my fingernails, unclinched my hands, clinched them again and turned to face O’Leary. It was true that I had felt no fondness for Dr. Letheny—but I had often worked at his side.
“I say, Miss Keate,” Lance O’Leary was protesting boyishly, “I’m awfully sorry to have been so brutal about it. But you see, I had to know whether this was news to you or not. Someone locked that closet door, you know. And in my business we suspect everything—everybody—the very walls themselves.”
I was too deeply shocked to be indignant at the lack of compliment in his implication; after a moment he continued.
“There is nothing more for you to help me with now,” he said. “We just found Dr. Letheny’s body this afternoon when we pried the closet door off its hinges. I examined everything at once, called the ambulance, and now the room can be cleaned and used again. The only reminder you will have of all this, I hope, is that I shall likely be about more or less for a few days—or longer. That depends upon the luck I have.” He smiled again. Evidently he was trying to be as considerate as possible and I found myself liking him. “Of course, there will have to be a coroner’s inquest, but that is merely a matter of form and need not annoy you. That is all now, thank you, Miss Keate. Can’t you take some rest? Do you have night duty again tonight?”
“Yes,” I answered the last question. “Mr. O’Leary, do you have any idea as to who—who has done this?”
His face sobered instantly.
“No,” he said simply. “Will you help me find out?”
“Yes.” I spoke very thoughtfully. “It is only right and just to do so.”
“Thank you.” He seemed sincere. “You may be interested to know that you have helped me already.”
“Helped you! How? There was nothing I told you—”
“I’ll see you again, Miss Keate. By the way, I am leaving one or two policemen about tonight. It may help to steady some of the nerves in St. Ann’s.” He opened the door and before I knew it I was in the main hall with my question still unanswered.
I still felt ill and weak from shock, and it was fortunate that the exigencies of the situation demanded action. That was the only saving feature of these fearful days; we were all so busy that we had little time for brooding.
The news could not be kept from the nursing staff, of course, though I hoped that we could keep it from the patients, many of whom had been directly under Dr. Letheny’s care. And there was Corole—in common decency I must go to her.
I snatched somebody’s slicker from the rack near the main door and turned into the corridor leading to the south wing, intending to slip out the south door and along the path to Corole’s cottage, it being much closer that way.
In the corridor I met Dr. Balman.
“I have heard,” I said briefly. “I am going to see Corole.”
He nodded.
“At the request of the Board of Directors I shall take Dr. Letheny’s place—temporarily at least. I have just called a meeting of the whole nursing staff, Miss Keate. You were with Mr. O’Leary so I did not disturb you. I told them of the situation, gave orders that this thing must not get to the ears of the patients, suspended training classes for a few days, and doubled the number of girls on duty in the various wings and wards until we get a working routine established. I find that the girls are nervous over being alone.” He spoke very calmly, but his extreme pallor caught my eye.
“You had better get some rest, Dr. Balman. And have that bruise on your cheek attended to—it looks bad.”
He passed his hand over the bruise.
“I bumped it while
