“Who does know anything?” asked the doctor.
He was fitting a stethoscope to his ears and bending over Mellor’s bare pink chest.
“No one who’ll talk, as far as I can judge. If anyone does talk, I’ll confess I hoodwinked you and keep you in the clear.”
“That’s what you think. Don’t forget I’m not the free agent I used to be. I’m a servant of the Government and so a servant of the State, who run the police.”
“That man’s a human being, in a nasty spot of trouble.”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders and turned his full attention on to the patient. He kept frowning as he shifted the stethoscope, finally shook his head, stood up, let the listening piece fall against his chest and opened a drawer in a small table. He took out a hypodermic syringe and selected a tiny glass phial. The care with which he prepared it all fascinated Rollison.
“I’m going to give him an intravenous injection,” the doctor said. “Then we’d better see how much saturation there is. Any idea how long he’s been unconscious?”
“No.”
“Pity. Shift him a bit, will you? and take care not to let the mask slip. Then see if you can get his left arm out of his coat sleeve and roll the shirt sleeve up.” The doctor worked all the time and went on talking in the same unflurried voice. “The trouble with you, Rollison, is that you’re always a man with a mission. Nothing matters but getting results. You’d have made a good pirate—you’ve the buccaneering way with you. Yes, you were born three hundred years too late. As it is, this is a disciplined and orderly world.”
“Really,” said Rollison sardonically.
“And you’re always kicking against the discipline,” said the doctor. He glowered up at Rollison who had Mellor’s arm out of his coat and was rolling up a grubby shirt sleeve. The arm was limp and pink. “You always have. The police have never been quick enough or thorough enough for you—you’ve always had to get a step in front of them and show them the way. Or think you’re showing them the way. I doubt if they agree. Why not let the police know all about this young man and save yourself a lot of bother?”
“It’s the buccaneer in me.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’ll be serious. Ninety-nine times in a hundred the police do a good job—a much more effective job than I could hope to do. But every now and again a peculiar case crops up. This is one. Apply rules and regulations to this and you’ll be in danger of reaching what the world thinks is a right and proper verdict; in fact it would be a travesty. Give rules and regulations the go-by for a bit and you’ll get justice.”
“And you’re all for justice!”
“Who’s been giving you a pep talk?” asked
Rollison.
The doctor was rubbing spirit into the crook of Mellor’s elbow and the faint, sharp smell was refreshing.
“I’m giving you the pep,” said the doctor. “Hold his arm out, will you? Keep it limp.” He picked up the hypodermic syringe. “Can you honestly tell me that if you keep Mellor away from the police it will help him—and help to find Galloway’s murderer?” He smiled again at Rollison’s startled expression and said with gentle reproof: “Keep his arm still—I’ve got to get this into the vein slowly. Well, can you?”
“So you know who he is,” murmured Rollison slowly.
“Even doctors have eyes and he’s been on the wanted list for weeks. I don’t have to talk about it but before I help I want to be fairly sure that this isn’t one of your crazy revolts against an orderly society—that it will be a wise thing to hide him from the police for a little longer. Convince me and I’ll do what I can.”
The doctor began to press the plunger, gently, and kept his eye on a large clock which ticked away the seconds as he made the injection.
CHAPTER SIX
The hypodermic syringe was empty before Rollison spoke. The doctor drew the needle out gently, wiped it on a piece of cotton wool and stood back to survey the patient. Footsteps sounded outside and there was a tap at the door. The doctor turned to open it and Snub came in with two cups of steaming coffee on a tray, some milk, sugar and biscuits. He flashed an inquiring glance at Rollison who showed no expression.
Anything else?” asked Snub.
“Yes,” said Rollison. “Telephone Bill Ebbutt and tell him I want a room for a stranger— probably for a couple of weeks. The stranger will want nursing for the first few days.”
“Nice work. Thanks, Doc.” Snub went out.
The doctor rubbed the side of his face. He had a broad nose, a full mouth, a squarish chin which seemed to be a little on one side. His white collar was a shade too tight but that didn’t seem to trouble him.
“That young man isn’t the only one who jumped to conclusions,” he said.
“You said you’d play if I could convince you,” said Rollison. “I can—you’ll play. Mellor is the illegitimate son of an extremely wealthy old man. The old man has been suffering from heart trouble for some years. Recently, in spite of strict obedience to doctor’s orders, he has become much worse. The doctors say they’re puzzled. I’m not. He’s worse because someone is working on him. I suspected jiggery-pokery shortly after he asked me to look for his son. There is quite a story behind this. He also had a legitimate son, Geoffrey, a year younger than Mellor. The younger son was burned to death, supposedly by accident, nearly a year ago. The fire was in a summer-house where Geoffrey slept in warm weather. He would have inherited the bulk of a substantial fortune. After his death, conscience set to work in the old man who decided that if he could find his first son, he would do right by him. As they say.” Rollison’s expression didn’t change and he looked at the doctor through the haze of steam rising from the coffee. “That’s the story as I know it.”
