Around four-thirty the door pushed open and a young fellow in a white uniform, similar to the one Bland wore, came in, carrying tea-trays. He was slimly built, overgrown and weedy. His long, thin face had the serious, concentrated expression of a horse running a race. He wasn’t unlike a horse. He had a long upper lip and big teeth that gave him a horsey look. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he had neighed at me. He didn’t. He smiled instead.
“I’m Quell,” he said, setting the tray on the night table. “You are Mr. Seabright, aren’t you?”
“No,” I said. “I am Sherlock Holmes. And if you take my tip I wouldn’t go near Watson. He’s in one of his moods.”
He gave me a long, sad, worried stare. From the look of him I guessed he hadn’t been mixed up with lunatics for very long.
“But that’s Mr. Hopper,” he said patiently, as if talking to a child.
Hopper was sitting up now, clenching and unclenching his fists, and snarling at Quell.
Quell may have only been in the racket a short time, but he was smart enough to see Hopper wasn’t in the mood to play pat-a-cake. He eyed Hopper as you might eye a tiger that’s suddenly walked into your sitting- room.
“I don’t think Mr. Hopper wants to be bothered with tea,” I said. “And if you take my tip you’ll keep away until Bland returns.”
“I can’t do that,” he said dubiously. “Dr. Salzer is out, and Bland isn’t likely to be back until after midnight. He really shouldn’t have gone.”
“It’s too late to worry about that,” I said. “Fade away, brother. Shake the dust off your feet. And if you could bring me a little Scotch for dinner I’d welcome it.”
“I’m afraid patients aren’t allowed alcohol,” he said seriously, without taking his eyes off Hopper.
“Then drink some yourself and come and breathe over me,” I said. “Even that would be better than nothing.”
He said he didn’t touch spirits and went away, a perplexed, scared look on his face.
Hopper stared across the room at me, and under the intense scrutiny of those glaring eves I felt a little spooked. I hoped fervently the handcuff on his ankle was strong enough to hold him if he took it into his head to try and break loose.
“I have been thinking, Hoppie,” I said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “What we must do is to cut that punk Bland’s throat and drink his blood. We should have done it before.”
“Yes,” Hopper said, and the glare in his eyes began to fade. “We will do that.”
I wondered if it would be safe to try for the key now, but decided against it. I wasn’t sure of Brother Quell. If he caught me trying I felt it would sadden his young life even more than it was saddened already.
“I will make a plan,” I said to Hopper. “Bland is very cunning. It won’t be easy to trap him.”
Hopper seemed to calm down and his face stopped twitching.
“I will make a plan too,” he said.
The rest of the evening went by while he made his plan and I thought about what I was going to do if I got free of the cuff. It seemed unlikely that I should be able to escape from the house, but if I could locate Anona Freedlander and have a talk with her and warn her she was soon to be rescued I wouldn’t waste my time. Then when Kerman showed up—and I was certain he would show up sooner or later—we wouldn’t have to waste time hunting for her.
Quell looked in occasionally. He didn’t do more than put his head around the door, and Hopper was too preoccupied with his plans to notice him. I made ssh-ing signs every time Quell appeared, pointing at Hopper and shaking my head. Quell nodded back, looking more like a horse than ever, and went silently away.
Around eight o’clock, he brought me in a supper-tray and then went to the foot of Hopper’s bed and smiled at him.
“Would you like something to eat, Mr. Hopper?” he asked coaxingly.
Hopper’s reaction to this gave even me a start. It nearly gave Quell heart failure. Hopper shot forward to the end of the bed, his arms seemed to stretch out as if they were made of elastic, and his hooked fingers brushed Quell’s white jacket. Quell sprang back, stumbled and nearly fell. His face turned the colour of putty.
“I don’t think Mr. Hopper wants anything to eat,” I said, the piece of chicken I was chewing suddenly tasting like sawdust. “And I don’t think I’m that keen either.”
But Quell wasn’t interested in how I felt. He went out of the room with a rush of air, a streak of white and a bang of the door.
Hopper threw off the bed-clothes and started after him. He landed with a crash on the floor, held by his ankle, and he screamed. He jerked madly at the chain, bruising his ankle. Then, when he found he couldn’t get free, he swung himself up on to the bed and threw himself on the chain of the handcuff. He began to pull at it, while I froze, watching him. From where I was the chain looked horribly fragile. The thought that this madman might break loose while I was still chained sent a chill up my spine. My hand went to the bell and hovered over it.
He had the chain now in both hands, and, bracing his feet against the end bar of the bed he strained back, his face turning purple with the exertion. The bar bent but held, and the chain held, too. Finally, he dropped back, gasping, and I knew the danger was over. I found sweat on my face. Without exactly being aware of it those past minutes had been about the worse I had ever experienced.
The purple colour of Hopper’s face had turned to white. He lay still, his eyes closed, and I waited, watching him. After a while, and to my surprise, he began to snore.
Then Quell came into the room, carrying a strait jacket. His face was pale, but determined.
“Take it easy,” I said, and I was startled how shaky my voice sounded. “He’s asleep. You better have a look at that handcuff. I thought he was going to break loose.”
“He couldn’t do that,” Quell said, dropping the strait jacket. “That chain is specially made.”
He moved closer and looked down at Hopper. “I’d better give him a shot.”
“Don’t be a fool,” I said sharply. “Bland said you weren’t to go near him.”
“Oh, but he must have an injection.” Quell said. “If he has another attack it might be very bad for him. I don’t want to do it, but it’s my duty.”
“To hell with your duty,” I said impatiently. “Handling that guy is like handling a bomb. Leave him alone.”
Cautiously Quell approached the bed and stood looking down at Hopper. The heavy, snoring breathing continued, and, reassured, Quell began to put the sheet back in place. I watched him, holding my breath, not knowing if Hopper was faking or not. I didn’t know if Quell was just dumb or very brave. He’d have to be completely dumb or have nerves like steel to get as close to this lunatic as he was.
Quell tucked in the sheet and stood away. I saw little beads of sweat on his forehead. He wasn’t dumb, I decided. That made him brave. If I had one, I would have given him a medal.
“He seems all right,” he said more cheerfully. “I’ll give him a shot. If he has a good sleep he’ll be all right tomorrow.”
This suited me, but, for all that, I was worried. No amount of medals nor money would have persuaded me to get that close to the sleeping Hopper.
“You’re taking a chance,” I said. “The needle will wake him. If he gets his hands on you, you’re a goner.”
He turned to stare at me in a puzzled way.
“I don’t understand you at all,” he said. “You don’t behave like a patient.”
“I’m not a patient,” I said solemnly. “I’m Sherlock Holmes: remember?”
He looked sad again and went out. Minutes ticked by. Hopper didn’t move. He continued to snore, his face slack and exhausted.
Quell returned after what seemed hours and couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. He carried a tray covered with a towel.
“Now look,” I said, sitting up. “Suppose you take off my handcuff? Then if there’s trouble I can help you. You seem to be a sensible sort of guy. If he wakes up and grabs you I can hit him over the head.”
He looked at me seriously like a horse inspecting a doubtful sack of oats.
“I couldn’t do that,” he said. “It would be against the rules.”
Well, I had done all I could. The ball was in his corner now, and it was up to him.
