cigarette with a shaking hand. He was glad to have an excuse not to watch Jo-Jo’s climb as Jo-Jo began to edge along the ledge, peering into the lighted windows while he searched for Erica Olsen.
Jo-Jo wasn’t to know that the nurse he had murdered had lied to him and there were no women patients on the fifth floor and no room numbered 112.
He was still creeping along the ledge, cursing to himself when a sleek, black Mercedes pulled up by the hospital’s entrance.
* * *
Girland got out and slammed the door shut. Out of the corner of his eye he saw in the shadows a waiting Citroen ambulance. It meant nothing to him. Hospitals and ambulances went together.
He ran up the steps and entered the lobby.
“Monsieur?” the reception clerk asked, regarding Girland unfavourably. Visitors at this hour were never welcomed.
“Dr. Forrester, please,” Girland said briskly.
“Dr. Forrester is not here. He’s gone home.”
“I’ve come to take my wife home,” Girland said. “Room 140. You know about her?”
The reception clerk, a balding little man with liver smudges under his eyes, brightened slightly. Who in the hospital hadn’t heard about the woman with the tattoo marks?
“The woman who has lost her memory?”
“That’s right,” Girland said. “Let’s have some action. I’m taking her home. Who is in charge of her case?”
The clerk opened a file index, regarded it, then said, “I have a note here . . . are you Monsieur Girland?”
“That’s correct.”
“Oh, y e s . . . Nurse Roche.” He picked up a telephone receiver and spoke into it. “She’ll be right down.”
Girland resisted the temptation to light a cigarette. He was suddenly aware that he was hungry. All this had been pretty rushed. After leaving Dorey, he had gone to the car pool and listened to the instructions about the car’s various gadgets, then had driven to his apartment and collected his shaving kit and a few other things he thought he would need, then had driven to the hospital. There had been no time for a meal. Now he was faced with a 900-kilometre drive with a woman who had lost her memory and could be tricky. It was going to be quite a night, he thought, shaking his head.
A young nurse came from the elevator. She was under twenty years of age. Her bright little face and her pert eyes interested Girland.
“You have come for your wife, Mr. Girland?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Dr. Forrester said you were coming. Have you a car?”
“Yes. How is she? Fit to travel?”
“Oh, yes. Dr. Forrester is quite satisfied. Yes, she will be fit to travel.”
“Okay, then let’s go.”
As they walked together to the elevator the nurse whose name was Ginny Roche, said, “We are all terribly curious, Mr. Girland. Was it your idea that your wife should be tattooed?”
Girland regarded her, his face serious.
“Oh, no. It’s an old family custom. You should see her mother.”
The girl’s eyes widened.
“How awful.”
“My wife is pretty proud of her tattoo,” Girland said as they got into the elevator. “I have to watch her. She’s always trying to show it to people . . . gets a little embarrassing.”
Ginny looked at him and then laughed.
“Oh, I see . . . you’re kidding.”
Girland smiled at her.
“That’s it.”
“I expect you are glad you have found her. It must be dreadful to lose one’s memory.”
“It would suit me,” Girland said. “I have so much on my conscience.”
The elevator doors swished open and Ginny led Girland across the corridor to Room 140.
She opened the door and Girland, suddenly aware of unexpected tension, walked into the room. He came to an abrupt standstill when he saw a short, thickset man, wearing a white coat bending over the woman in the bed.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Girland said.
The man turned slowly and stared at Girland. His small black eyes shifted from Girland to Ginny who was looking at him, a dismayed expression on her face.
Smernoff quickly
Jo-Jo wasn’t to know that the nurse he had murdered had lied to him and there were no women patients on the fifth floor and no room numbered 112.
He was still creeping along the ledge, cursing to himself when a sleek, black Mercedes pulled up by the hospital’s entrance.
* * *
Girland got out and slammed the door shut. Out of the corner of his eye he saw in the shadows a waiting Citroen ambulance. It meant nothing to him. Hospitals and ambulances went together.
He ran up the steps and entered the lobby.
“Monsieur?” the reception clerk asked, regarding Girland unfavourably. Visitors at this hour were never welcomed.
“Dr. Forrester, please,” Girland said briskly.
“Dr. Forrester is not here. He’s gone home.”
“I’ve come to take my wife home,” Girland said. “Room 140. You know about her?”
The reception clerk, a balding little man with liver smudges under his eyes, brightened slightly. Who in the hospital hadn’t heard about the woman with the tattoo marks?
“The woman who has lost her memory?”
“That’s right,” Girland said. “Let’s have some action. I’m taking her home. Who is in charge of her case?”
The clerk opened a file index, regarded it, then said, “I have a note here . . . are you Monsieur Girland?”
“That’s correct.”
“Oh, y e s . . . Nurse Roche.” He picked up a telephone receiver and spoke into it. “She’ll be right down.”
Girland resisted the temptation to light a cigarette. He was suddenly aware that he was hungry. All this had been pretty rushed. After leaving Dorey, he had gone to the car pool and listened to the instructions about the car’s various gadgets, then had driven to his apartment and collected his shaving kit and a few other things he thought he would need, then had driven to the hospital. There had been no time for a meal. Now he was faced with a 900-kilometre drive with a woman who had lost her memory and could be tricky. It was going to be quite a night, he thought, shaking his head.
A young nurse came from the elevator. She was under twenty years of age. Her bright little face and her pert eyes interested Girland.
“You have come for your wife, Mr. Girland?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Dr. Forrester said you were coming. Have you a car?”
“Yes. How is she? Fit to travel?”
“Oh, yes. Dr. Forrester is quite satisfied. Yes, she will be fit to travel.”
“Okay, then let’s go.”
As they walked together to the elevator the nurse whose name was Ginny Roche, said, “We are all terribly curious, Mr. Girland. Was it your idea that your wife should be tattooed?”
Girland regarded her, his face serious.
“Oh, no. It’s an old family custom. You should see her mother.”
The girl’s eyes widened.
“How awful.”
“My wife is pretty proud of her tattoo,” Girland said as they got into the elevator. “I have to watch her. She’s always trying to show it to people . . . gets a little embarrassing.”
Ginny looked at him and then laughed.
“Oh, I see . . . you’re kidding.”
Girland smiled at her.
“That’s it.”
“I expect you are glad you have found her. It must be dreadful to lose one’s memory.”
“It would suit me,” Girland said. “I have so much on my conscience.”
The elevator doors swished open and Ginny led Girland across the corridor to Room 140.
She opened the door and Girland, suddenly aware of unexpected tension, walked into the room. He came to an abrupt standstill when he saw a short, thickset man, wearing a white coat bending over the woman in the bed.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Girland said.
The man turned slowly and stared at Girland. His small black eyes shifted from Girland to Ginny who was looking at him, a dismayed expression on her face.
Smernoff quickly
Similar Books
