“Now, now,” remonstrated Jim Gainsay gently. “I object to the word ‘skulking.’ ”
“You object! You object!” The coroner removed his eyeglasses for freer gesticulation and somehow they detached themselves from the ribbon and flew out of his hand. He paused in slight discomposure and Lance O’Leary stooped, returned the eyeglasses, and as he did so, leaned over and said something in a low voice.
“H’m‑m. R’r’h’m!” remarked the coroner weightily, fixing a profound gaze upon Jim Gainsay, as if his blackest doubts of this young man had been justified.
“That is all, Mr. Gainsay. For the present.” He surveyed Gainsay unpleasantly and added, as if he liked the sound of the words: “For the present.”
The rest of the inquest was not interesting and was mostly a matter of repeating things that I already knew. The coroner seemed rather addled but very determined to catch somebody in an untruth. I knew where his trouble lay; it was not that he lacked clues, it was rather that he had too many of them and they all seemed to point in different directions. I was glad that Lance O’Leary appeared to have kept his own counsel about certain matters of which I had told him, though I should have liked to see the faces of the board members if it had been brought to their attention that the morphine had very likely been stolen from our own south wing.
The bell was ringing for lunch when the coroner concluded his somewhat pointless inquiries, and after a few moments in which the room was in utter silence the decisions were given. I was not surprised to hear that Dr. Louis Letheny had come to his death at the hands of a person or persons unknown. And a little later, in a hush so tense that we could hear the dripping of rain from a gutter pipe outside the windows, the same decision was given as to the death of our patient, old Mr. Jackson.
We stirred our cramped muscles, rose slowly and straggled out of the room by twos and threes. To tell the truth I felt as if nothing but a formality had been accomplished. But as I left the room I turned for a look backward and saw Lance O’Leary’s smooth brown head bending close over the coroner’s bald spot in earnest consultation. That one glimpse convinced me that O’Leary actually, if not openly, controlled the inquest and did so to suit his own inexplicable motives. I longed to tell him of the mysterious visitor the south wing had had the previous night but had no opportunity until later in the day.
What with one thing and another troubling me I did not rest well that afternoon. By the time I had napped spasmodically, had a bath, and got into a fresh uniform and cap it was four o’clock and I wandered through the curiously hushed corridors, down the stairs and into the general office. Miss Jones was writing in the record book of incoming cases and I paused to find out who had been entered. It was something to know that even the disagreeable publicity we had been given had not affected St. Ann’s prestige.
“I’m putting him in Eighteen, in your wing,” she said as I bent over her shoulder.
“In Eighteen!”
“Why, yes. The room is available for use, isn’t it? He wants a downstairs room and that is the only one left.”
“Whose patient?”
“Dr. Balman’s, I think—yes.” She referred to the typed card.
At the moment Dr. Balman entered the room from the inner office.
“Just copy this history, please, Miss Jones, and let me know if—” he glanced at the record she was preparing. “Are you putting him in Eighteen?” he asked sharply.
“Yes. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
His long fingers sought his beard perplexedly.
“This affair is so recent—” he said doubtfully. “But, if there is no other room?”
“He especially asked for a downstairs room.”
“Very well, then,” he agreed after a moment during which his thoughtful, rather kind eyes studied the record. He spoke wearily. “Put him in Eighteen. We will have to use the room sooner or later, in any case. Oh—Miss Keate. Better warn the nurses to say nothing of Eighteen’s—er—history. The patient will be here at least two or three weeks, perhaps longer.”
“Yes, Doctor,” I said as meekly as if I shouldn’t have known that I must do that, anyway. And I must say I did not relish the idea of a patient in Eighteen, knowing, as I did, that if it proved to be a surgical case with no private nurse, much of the care would fall on my shoulders, which meant many errands into Room 18.
“Very good,” he said and turned toward the door.
“Oh, Dr. Balman,” Miss Jones called him back hastily. “Did you not want me to copy that history?”
Dr. Balman wheeled, glanced at the typed paper still in his hand.
“I forgot,” he said abstractedly. “Thank you, Miss Jones.” He handed her the paper. “The patient will be in about six o’clock, I think,” he added, as he disappeared.
He had not any more than got out of the room, when Dr. Hajek entered.
“Was there a telephone call for me—thank you,” as Miss Jones handed him the pad with a number scribbled on it.
He took down the telephone.
“Main 2332, please,” he said into the mouthpiece, adding aside to Miss Jones, “Any new cases this afternoon?”
“Yes, Doctor. A Mr. Gastin is coming in. I have put him in Eighteen.”
“In Eighteen! What? Oh, yes—Main 2332—” he turned again from the telephone. “Did you say you put him in Eighteen? Eighteen in the south wing?” he asked sharply.
“Why, yes,” said Miss Jones. “That was the only downstairs room left.”
“But—” began Dr. Hajek, only to be interrupted by the operator’s voice again. “Yes. Main 2332—Oh, there you are. Yes, this is Dr. Hajek. What’s that? … Did you take his temperature? Oh—yes I see. … Try a hot water bag and a little warm milk. … Yes. … Yes.” He hung up with
