“Then who—”
“Or—what—” said Maida.
A remnant of common sense saved me, I think, from stark terror. I took a firmer hold on my imagination.
“Nonsense,” I spoke decidedly but still, for some reason, in a whisper. “There are no such things as—as—I mean to say, the shadow you saw was either an optical illusion or a living, breathing person.”
“Certainly,” agreed Maida, adding inconsistently: “I don’t see how a living person could have got past us, through this long corridor without one of us seeing him—it.”
My eyes fell on the south door near at hand; the tiny panes of glass winked blackly at me as I crossed to it, grasped the brass latch and pulled. The door swung slowly open, letting in a current of cold, mist-laden air.
“There, you see?” I said to Maida. “Only a real, material thing needs a door to go through.”
Maida was looking at me strangely.
“I don’t see that that helps matters any,” she said. “I locked that door myself, tonight. It just proves that someone was actually here. That the murderer is still about the hospital.”
“Not necessarily,” I said, though my heart was pounding in my throat. “You are sure you locked it?”
“Positive.”
“And you hung the key there on the nail above the chart desk?”
“Yes.”
We both swung hastily around. At the other end of the shadowy corridor gleamed the green-shaded light over the desk. With one accord we started toward it.
The key was not on the nail above the desk!
But even as our frightened gaze took in that amazing fact my eyes fell on the glass top of the desk. There on its shining surface lay the key. We stared at it for some time before our eyes met. Then I picked up the key, my fingers seeming to shrink from the cold, clammy metal, returned to the south door, locked it securely and put the key in my pocket.
And as I did so, a thought struck me. The person who had got into the wing by means of the south door must also have got out again. He couldn’t have gone through the corridor and south door for Maida was, by that time, in the hall.
The light was still glowing in Room 18, and I crossed the room, not without a queer feeling in the region of my knees, as if they would give way with me, without notice. Sure enough, the window was unlocked; it was even open a fraction of an inch at the bottom, though the screen, which has a spring snap, was closed.
I pushed the window the rest of the way down, locked it, not without an unpleasant impression that something was out in that gleaming darkness back of the window pane watching my every move, turned off the light, and closed the door again. Maida was standing in the corridor and we walked slowly toward the more cheerful region of the chart desk and diet kitchen.
“I suppose,” she mused at length, “that someone could have taken the key from the nail and returned it when we were in Room 18.”
“But who? It would have to be someone in St. Ann’s. And that is unthinkable.”
“There are likely ways in and out of St. Ann’s,” she said finally, and with that a signal clicked somewhere. I recalled Three who would be in a tantrum by this time, and we separated.
We were very busy for the rest of the night, and dawn was never so welcome a sight. But during those slow hours I came to the conclusion that there were only two things we knew without doubt. The key to the south door had been removed from the nail and left on top of the chart desk, and the sinister door of Room 18 had been opened and left open.
Who had done this and why was a matter of conjecture, and I resolved to say nothing of it save to Lance O’Leary. I should leave it to O’Leary.
Leave it to O’Leary! I had so far recovered from my fright that I smiled faintly at the phrase, but I could have embraced the day nurses when they came on duty, and the rattle of the dishes in the small, rubber-tired dumbwaiter, as it came up with the breakfast trays, sounded like music to my ears.
On the way to the basement for breakfast, I had time for a word or two with Maida.
“We’ll say nothing about it, save to O’Leary,” I murmured in a low voice and she nodded, just as Miss Dotty joined us with one of her insufferably bright good mornings.
Miss Dotty keeps a book at her bedside, entitled Every Day a Sunny Day, and memorizes verses from it. Her verse that morning was:
If you’re lonely, sad and blue,
Keep smiling.
Luck will bring you someone true
Who understands and loves just you.
Keep smiling,
which seemed not only inane but downright offensive, as coming from one old maid to another.
The inquest was set for nine thirty. We had an early operation and at eight o’clock prompt I was tying Dr. Balman into his white apron and hood and counting sponges in the operating room. The patient’s appendix proving to be elusive, turning up, in fact, on entirely the wrong side, the operation was more interesting than we had expected. Dr. Balman looked haggard from fatigue and worry, his thin hair and beard were dishevelled and his eyes were hollow, but his hands were steady, if rather slow, and every last detail was thoroughly attended to.
The inquest was held in the nurses’ library in the basement. It is not a cheerful room, particularly on wet, rainy mornings. It was chilly in the place; the whitewashed walls looked cold and bare, even the medical books along the walls had none too happy titles. The linoleum rug caught dismal highlights, the chairs borrowed from the dining room were slippery and uncomfortable, and moisture dripped steadily down the small windows. Someone had turned on the lights but they did not improve
