dying brilliance of the outside day—for whereas had a hundred swift young clouds, unmothered things and dear, each small and white as snow, sailed high throughout the earliest sky, completely free, to rise and sail even above the sun itself, or so it seemed, and roam the reaches of a day that never left off brilliance, as though themselves distraitly unaware, had flown too fast, were small and dear, grown so hot at mid-day, and fell with falling afternoon, through lassitude, or knew not what to do but lay all huddled now as if almost asleep beneath the sun—and this had filled the western sky with shadow.
At the station, the patrolmen turned in their report and stood together now with Dr. Eichner, before the precinct head, Captain Howie “Dutch” Meyer. After reading the report, from which, time after time, he left off, simply to look up at the accused Dr. Eichner, the Captain, a small, gray man, well past the retirement age, cocked his head and made his eyes start out, as though to crane over beyond his glasses. “Well, well,” he said—and in this he resembled nothing so much as some veteran film-actor celebrated for his handling of character roles—“ Well, well, well! How long you been in this country, Mister?” And before the Doctor could reply, if, indeed, he would have to such seeming irrelevance, the Captain, resting on his elbows, raised both hands, palms flat together, before his face, which was set with a patronizing, almost brotherly smile, and spoke the Doctor’s name, greatly exaggerating the guttural of it: “EICHNER,” and continued in a bored, flat voice where he tried to nail each word with irritation and amusement. “What are you, Doctor? Dutch or German-Jew?”
An ill-bred man, this Captain delighted in handling the cases of first generation immigrants.
Dr. Eichner stood easily, cleared his throat once, and when it was quite apparent that they were all waiting for him to speak, addressed the Captain. “Identify yourself, please.”
“How’s that?” said Captain Meyer, though he had heard very well.
“I’m asking you to identify yourself, Captain. I think I’m entitled to know who it is I’m speaking with, isn’t that so?” He addressed the last to the patrolman, Eddy, without lowering his voice even though they were standing shoulder to shoulder, whereupon Eddy grimaced uneasily, shifted from one foot to the other, and failed to meet the Doctor’s eye, but where his allegiance now lay was never more uncertain. “You’ll find it in your ordinances, I believe,” the Doctor ended sternly, nodding his head.
“Captain Meyer,” said the old man distinctly then, “—or so I’m told, Doctor, though you might be better informed about it. Captain Howard K. Meyer, Middletown, Pennsylvania. Police Officer Number 4276, County of Los Angeles. If you’d like to see my record,” he went on, shaming some famous old actor or other in a joke, with a wink at the two patrolmen, “—though I won’t say it’s exactly ‘light-reading.’ Forty-two years’ worth to be exact, Doctor!”
"That won’t be necessary,” said Dr. Eichner shortly. “Let’s just get on with the accident report.”
“Accident?” returned the Captain. He allowed himself still another reflective look at the report in his hands, shaking it a little. “Could be, Doctor, could be. But from what I know about these things,” he raised his eyes to meet the Doctor’s squarely, and despite all this senile foolishness, a soft, strange drama took hold of his words—“a Grand Jury might want to call it ‘Manslaughter.’ ”
Chapter V
F OLLOWING ANY PERSONAL or professional ordeal while on duty at the Clinic, it was the practice of the young nurses to “take five,” as they expressed it, in Nurses’ Rest Room. This meant lying down on one of the mohair sofas, or taking a Coca-Cola from the giant dispenser and sitting easily with it before the dressing-table mirror, where each might sip the coke and
At the station, the patrolmen turned in their report and stood together now with Dr. Eichner, before the precinct head, Captain Howie “Dutch” Meyer. After reading the report, from which, time after time, he left off, simply to look up at the accused Dr. Eichner, the Captain, a small, gray man, well past the retirement age, cocked his head and made his eyes start out, as though to crane over beyond his glasses. “Well, well,” he said—and in this he resembled nothing so much as some veteran film-actor celebrated for his handling of character roles—“ Well, well, well! How long you been in this country, Mister?” And before the Doctor could reply, if, indeed, he would have to such seeming irrelevance, the Captain, resting on his elbows, raised both hands, palms flat together, before his face, which was set with a patronizing, almost brotherly smile, and spoke the Doctor’s name, greatly exaggerating the guttural of it: “EICHNER,” and continued in a bored, flat voice where he tried to nail each word with irritation and amusement. “What are you, Doctor? Dutch or German-Jew?”
An ill-bred man, this Captain delighted in handling the cases of first generation immigrants.
Dr. Eichner stood easily, cleared his throat once, and when it was quite apparent that they were all waiting for him to speak, addressed the Captain. “Identify yourself, please.”
“How’s that?” said Captain Meyer, though he had heard very well.
“I’m asking you to identify yourself, Captain. I think I’m entitled to know who it is I’m speaking with, isn’t that so?” He addressed the last to the patrolman, Eddy, without lowering his voice even though they were standing shoulder to shoulder, whereupon Eddy grimaced uneasily, shifted from one foot to the other, and failed to meet the Doctor’s eye, but where his allegiance now lay was never more uncertain. “You’ll find it in your ordinances, I believe,” the Doctor ended sternly, nodding his head.
“Captain Meyer,” said the old man distinctly then, “—or so I’m told, Doctor, though you might be better informed about it. Captain Howard K. Meyer, Middletown, Pennsylvania. Police Officer Number 4276, County of Los Angeles. If you’d like to see my record,” he went on, shaming some famous old actor or other in a joke, with a wink at the two patrolmen, “—though I won’t say it’s exactly ‘light-reading.’ Forty-two years’ worth to be exact, Doctor!”
"That won’t be necessary,” said Dr. Eichner shortly. “Let’s just get on with the accident report.”
“Accident?” returned the Captain. He allowed himself still another reflective look at the report in his hands, shaking it a little. “Could be, Doctor, could be. But from what I know about these things,” he raised his eyes to meet the Doctor’s squarely, and despite all this senile foolishness, a soft, strange drama took hold of his words—“a Grand Jury might want to call it ‘Manslaughter.’ ”
Chapter V
F OLLOWING ANY PERSONAL or professional ordeal while on duty at the Clinic, it was the practice of the young nurses to “take five,” as they expressed it, in Nurses’ Rest Room. This meant lying down on one of the mohair sofas, or taking a Coca-Cola from the giant dispenser and sitting easily with it before the dressing-table mirror, where each might sip the coke and
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