He asked a few commonplace questions as to how I felt, and were things going well, and was the policeman of any use. Then, he reached absently into his pocket and drew out the stubby red pencil.
“Miss Day was your assistant in the wing the night of the seventh?”
“Yes. We have second watch together this two weeks.”
“How long has she been here at St. Ann’s?”
“Three years.”
“She is a good nurse, I judge? Cool and restrained?”
“One of the best.”
“She is a friend of yours?”
“I admire her very much,” I said warmly. “She is a girl of high moral character, thoroughly honourable and reliable.”
“M’h’m—” He began to roll the inevitable little pencil.
“I suppose a nurse becomes fairly well acquainted with the other nurses, as well as the doctors, who frequent the hospital?”
“Yes,” I said doubtfully, not seeing just where his questions were tending.
“Miss Day looks to be a girl of strong likes and dislikes.”
Well, that was perfectly true so I contented myself with a nod.
“She was a good friend of Miss Letheny’s and—of the doctor’s?”
“Not—particularly,” I said slowly. “We were all on friendly terms. Corole had us over there often.”
“Did Miss Day work much with Dr. Letheny?”
“About as I did. She is a good surgical nurse.”
“You mean she is efficient in assisting with operations?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose that requires—nerve? Courage? A cool hand?”
“Yes.” I was beginning to feel uneasy.
He paused for a moment, his gray eyes on the heavy clouds beyond the window.
“Tell me again, Miss Keate, just what you did when you first found that Mr. Jackson was dead.”
“I left Room 18 and went to get a candle. When I returned Miss Day was in the doorway of Eighteen. There was a flash of lightning, and I saw her and she spoke to me.”
“What did she say?”
“Just something about the storm. She had been closing windows in the wing.”
“Did she know that Jackson was dead?”
“Why, no! Not until I lit the candle and she saw him.”
“She was surprised, of course?”
“Yes.”
“Then, as I understand it, she went through the dark corridor to the general office to telephone to Dr. Letheny. Was she willing to go? Or was she—reluctant?”
“I—she—”
He caught my hesitation.
“She did not wish to telephone to him?”
“The corridor was so dark you could hardly see your hand before you,” I remarked crisply. “And it was storming.”
“Of course, of course,” said O’Leary pacifically.
“Miss Letheny told Miss Day that the doctor was out,” he went on quietly. “Then she, Miss Day, had the presence of mind to call Dr. Balman. I suppose she knew his telephone number? Or was there some kind of light in the office?”
“She asked Information for the number.”
“Then Dr. Balman came out here at once?”
“Yes. He was here in just a few moments. He lives at the first apartment house off Lake Street and it is only a short drive.”
“In the meantime you waked Dr. Hajek?”
“Yes. He sleeps in that little room that opens into the general office. He usually answers phone calls at night and—keeps an eye on things. Unless he is asleep,” I added waspishly, thinking of how soundly he had slept when we needed him most.
“Why did not Miss Day call Dr. Hajek, when she called Dr. Balman?”
“She did try to but could not wake him. But Dr. Balman was Dr. Letheny’s assistant and should be called in a matter of such importance.”
“Then you called Dr. Hajek yourself. I suppose you told him what had happened.”
“No. I was so excited that I just told him to go at once to Room 18. I even pushed him toward the door.” I smiled a little. “I took him by the coat and—”
“Took him by the coat? Then he was fully dressed!” O’Leary’s gaze pierced mine.
“Yes.” I paused as a certain recollection thrust itself upon me. “He must have been outside! In the rain!”
“Why do you say that?”
“His coat was damp.”
O’Leary studied the pencil for a long time.
“Then what happened?” he asked finally in an inflectionless voice.
“Why—then—then I got hold of some lights and went back to Eighteen. They were all there, Maida and Dr. Hajek and Dr. Balman. They were just staring at the patient and doing nothing. Dr. Balman told me that he had died of an overdose of morphine. Of course, I knew that not a grain of morphine had been ordered. So that meant that it was done purposely. It was while we were standing there that—” I stopped. No need to tell that!
But he glanced at me quickly.
“Go on, Miss Keate.”
“It was nothing.”
“Then you should not object to telling of it.”
“Well,” I began reluctantly, “it was only that, as we were standing there, all at once there was a tiny bit of red that came from the hypodermic wound. You know the little pin prick where the needle has been inserted. It was—” I coughed to hide the tremble in my voice. “It was—very unusual.”
I could see that Lance O’Leary, for all his professional frigidity, was somewhat shaken, for his hands gripped the pencil tightly and he drew a deliberate breath.
“That old superstition means nothing,” he said. “But it must have been—grisly. And there were only you and Miss Day and Dr. Hajek and Dr. Balman in the room?”
My throat being dry I made an assenting gesture.
“And—Dr. Letheny in the closet,” added O’Leary softly.
At that I must have gone quite pale, for Lance O’Leary, eyeing me with that oddly lucid gaze, spoke abruptly, as if to distract my thoughts.
“I believe you are a woman of some discretion.”
“I ought to be! At my age.”
“The fact inclines one to talk with you,” he said drily. “Look here, Miss Keate, this is not going to be an easy job. In the first place it is obvious that the guilty person is very likely someone who is familiar with St. Ann’s.” I made some protestant motion and he went on: “Surely that has occurred to you?”
“Yes,” I replied in a small voice.
“Why?”
“Because
