"Murder! It's—it's terrible."
At first, when I realized she was crying, I felt helpless and miserable. But suddenly, I was glad. She was frightened, worried, but, at least, she was showing some emotion.
I suppose my nerves must have been rather shaken up, too. Before I knew what I was doing, I had taken her hand and was whispering urgently:
"It's all right, Iris. Don't cry. Everything's going to be all right"
8
BUT EVERYTHING was not all right as far as those charge of us were concerned. We men were taken back to Wing Two, and some of us were pretty jumpy. Fenwick was nowhere to be seen. Miss Brush made no appearance. Laribee, pale and distraught, was put to bed by Mr Fogarty.
The rest of us were herded into the smoking room, spent the few minutes before bedtime with Billy Trent who seemed to have forgotten the soda fountain in anxiety over Miss Brush.
"It doesn't mean anything, does it, Pete? We don'1 really have to beware of Miss Brush."
"No, Billy," I said. "It's just a lot of hooey."
"And all that about murder?"
"Bunk."
I seemed to be successful in reassuring the kid. But myself was not so easily reassured. I set very little store spiritualistic warnings, but it did seem more than a strange coincidence, that within twenty-four hours, three different persons should have heard that ominous prophecy, There will be murder."
After I had gone to bed, those four words repeated themselves in my mind: first in my own voice, as I had heard them last night; then in Geddes’ voice, just before his attack that morning. And finally I seemed to them again, intoned mechanically by the dazed Fenwick the crowded lounge.
And if there were murder, I asked myself, who would be the victim? Each of the day's incidents, whether trivial, amusing, or sinister, seemed to point to only one person, to the man lying in the room next to mine—to Daniel Laribee.
I wondered whether Lenz was still attributing all these curious incidents to an unfavorable influence. Or whether he was beginning to believe that it all went deeper, all had some basic, alarming significance. After all, Laribee seemed to have plenty of enemies, even here in the institution. If any sane person wanted to murder him, they could hardly choose a safer setting for the crime than a mental hospital.
My reflections were taking a distinctly morbid turn. I decided to go to sleep, and did.
Next morning I woke up with the sunlight, having no idea what the time was. We didn't have clocks in the rooms.
I felt a bit hang-overish but that was nothing new. For an unconscionable time I lay in bed, waiting for Fogarty to take me down to the physio-therapy room. He didn't come. At last I gave way to impatience and, slipping on my bathrobe, strolled down the corridor to look for him.
The passage clock said twenty minutes of eight. Fogarty was ten minutes overdue. I expected to encounter his wife somewhere, but her little alcove was empty and she wasn't around the corridors. In fact, no one was in sight The place had a strange, deserted atmosphere.
I knew the physio-therapy room was always locked and Fogarty had the key. There was no chance of getting in without him. But I kept on my way. The ex-champ might already be down there, I thought.
When I reached it, the door was shut. I was about to take my mild irritation back to bed with me when I saw the key in the lock. It surprised me, for I wasn't used to inefficiency on the part of Doctor Lenz' staff. Feeling curious, I turned the handle and went in.
The physio-therapy room was a kind of miniature Turkish bath without the Turkish baths. There were all types of. electrical gadgets along one wall; showers on another; and small alcoves on the third, where we took rubdowns and other uncomfortably beneficial treatments.
A casual glance showed that Fogarty wasn't with the electrical equipment. I called his name and strolled to the showers. He wasn't there. And then, outside one of the alcoves I saw, lying on the floor, the suit
At first, when I realized she was crying, I felt helpless and miserable. But suddenly, I was glad. She was frightened, worried, but, at least, she was showing some emotion.
I suppose my nerves must have been rather shaken up, too. Before I knew what I was doing, I had taken her hand and was whispering urgently:
"It's all right, Iris. Don't cry. Everything's going to be all right"
8
BUT EVERYTHING was not all right as far as those charge of us were concerned. We men were taken back to Wing Two, and some of us were pretty jumpy. Fenwick was nowhere to be seen. Miss Brush made no appearance. Laribee, pale and distraught, was put to bed by Mr Fogarty.
The rest of us were herded into the smoking room, spent the few minutes before bedtime with Billy Trent who seemed to have forgotten the soda fountain in anxiety over Miss Brush.
"It doesn't mean anything, does it, Pete? We don'1 really have to beware of Miss Brush."
"No, Billy," I said. "It's just a lot of hooey."
"And all that about murder?"
"Bunk."
I seemed to be successful in reassuring the kid. But myself was not so easily reassured. I set very little store spiritualistic warnings, but it did seem more than a strange coincidence, that within twenty-four hours, three different persons should have heard that ominous prophecy, There will be murder."
After I had gone to bed, those four words repeated themselves in my mind: first in my own voice, as I had heard them last night; then in Geddes’ voice, just before his attack that morning. And finally I seemed to them again, intoned mechanically by the dazed Fenwick the crowded lounge.
And if there were murder, I asked myself, who would be the victim? Each of the day's incidents, whether trivial, amusing, or sinister, seemed to point to only one person, to the man lying in the room next to mine—to Daniel Laribee.
I wondered whether Lenz was still attributing all these curious incidents to an unfavorable influence. Or whether he was beginning to believe that it all went deeper, all had some basic, alarming significance. After all, Laribee seemed to have plenty of enemies, even here in the institution. If any sane person wanted to murder him, they could hardly choose a safer setting for the crime than a mental hospital.
My reflections were taking a distinctly morbid turn. I decided to go to sleep, and did.
Next morning I woke up with the sunlight, having no idea what the time was. We didn't have clocks in the rooms.
I felt a bit hang-overish but that was nothing new. For an unconscionable time I lay in bed, waiting for Fogarty to take me down to the physio-therapy room. He didn't come. At last I gave way to impatience and, slipping on my bathrobe, strolled down the corridor to look for him.
The passage clock said twenty minutes of eight. Fogarty was ten minutes overdue. I expected to encounter his wife somewhere, but her little alcove was empty and she wasn't around the corridors. In fact, no one was in sight The place had a strange, deserted atmosphere.
I knew the physio-therapy room was always locked and Fogarty had the key. There was no chance of getting in without him. But I kept on my way. The ex-champ might already be down there, I thought.
When I reached it, the door was shut. I was about to take my mild irritation back to bed with me when I saw the key in the lock. It surprised me, for I wasn't used to inefficiency on the part of Doctor Lenz' staff. Feeling curious, I turned the handle and went in.
The physio-therapy room was a kind of miniature Turkish bath without the Turkish baths. There were all types of. electrical gadgets along one wall; showers on another; and small alcoves on the third, where we took rubdowns and other uncomfortably beneficial treatments.
A casual glance showed that Fogarty wasn't with the electrical equipment. I called his name and strolled to the showers. He wasn't there. And then, outside one of the alcoves I saw, lying on the floor, the suit
Similar Books
