Washington.”
Unexpected calls from Washington are always hard on the nerves. I tried to tell myself that they’d just misplaced all the keys to the second-floor john and wanted mine so they could make duplicates, fully urgent.
“Thank you, Nurse,” I said. I took the envelope Dr. Hartman gave me, and said, “Thank you very much, Doctor.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, but I had a hunch that I wasn’t, very. He didn’t like my thinking that he could have overlooked a murder attempt, even if I were wrong; and I didn’t think he was as certain of that as he pretended.
I went back into the room, where Astrid Watrous held out the phone to me. I took it, and said, “Helm.”
The voice in the phone belonged to Doug Barnett. It said only three words. “Scramble. Repeat, scramble.”
“Scramble received,” I said and hung up. I looked at the woman in the bed. “Get your clothes on. The man says we’ve got to get out of here fast before the roof falls in.”
5
I’d hoped she’d just hauled on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt when it hit her in the middle of the night and she dressed in a panicky hurry and stumbled off to the hospital with her heart going crazy in her chest. Not that I really approve of girls in jeans unless there’s a horse in the picture; but here I didn’t know how long it would be before we could find her a change of clothes. In a good pair of slacks, or a skirt, one day on the run and maybe a slight accident along the way with some Coca Cola or hamburger juice generally qualifies a lady for membership in the slob club; but nobody gives a damn how long she’s worn a pair of jeans, or how carelessly. In some quarters they aren’t even considered respectable until they’re thoroughly seasoned: what every well-dressed fugitive should wear.
However, even on such short acquaintance I should have known her better; she was not a dirty-denim girl. In the closet I found a pair of handsome brown flannel slacks, a brown blazer with brass buttons, a tan—well, call it beige—silk blouse, and a pair of brown sandals with heels high enough to be interesting. There was also a pair of short nylon stockings with elastic tops, and a pair of white nylon panties discreetly embroidered with little flowers. No brassiere. When I turned with the stuff in my hands, she was still sitting in the bed.
“Well, come on!” I snapped. “Let’s see some action, Watrous!”
The idea was to rush her into it. I was taking for granted that, given time to think she’d delay us with a lot of stupid questions and pitiful protests: why was I doing this to her, didn’t I know she was a poor invalid who couldn’t possibly be expected to leave her sickbed, it would kill her quite dead, and how could I even think of suggesting such an outrageous thing! But I’d misjudged her badly. There were no interrogations or objections. There was only a small practical obstacle about which she felt obliged to remind me.
“Somebody must pull it out,” she said calmly. “I am a bit of a sissy, Mr. Helm. I would rather it was you.”
“Oh.”
I laid her clothes on the bed and studied the needle in her arm. Having put in some hospital time myself, in the line of duty, I had a pretty good idea of how the withdrawal operation was performed. The supplies were readily available. I found a Band-Aid and laid it handy. I got some cotton ready. Steadying the needle, I yanked off the tape holding it in place. I held a wad of cotton at the point where the needle disappeared into the skin, slipped it out, wiped off the small amount of blood that appeared, and stuck on the Band-Aid.
“Well, what are you waiting for now?”
She was still sitting there. “Aren’t you going to turn your back like a gentleman?”
“After you sent a gun moll to visit me, what makes you think I trust you enough to turn my back on you?”
She studied me for a moment longer. I saw a faintly malicious smile touch her lips. She got out of the high bed.
Unexpected calls from Washington are always hard on the nerves. I tried to tell myself that they’d just misplaced all the keys to the second-floor john and wanted mine so they could make duplicates, fully urgent.
“Thank you, Nurse,” I said. I took the envelope Dr. Hartman gave me, and said, “Thank you very much, Doctor.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, but I had a hunch that I wasn’t, very. He didn’t like my thinking that he could have overlooked a murder attempt, even if I were wrong; and I didn’t think he was as certain of that as he pretended.
I went back into the room, where Astrid Watrous held out the phone to me. I took it, and said, “Helm.”
The voice in the phone belonged to Doug Barnett. It said only three words. “Scramble. Repeat, scramble.”
“Scramble received,” I said and hung up. I looked at the woman in the bed. “Get your clothes on. The man says we’ve got to get out of here fast before the roof falls in.”
5
I’d hoped she’d just hauled on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt when it hit her in the middle of the night and she dressed in a panicky hurry and stumbled off to the hospital with her heart going crazy in her chest. Not that I really approve of girls in jeans unless there’s a horse in the picture; but here I didn’t know how long it would be before we could find her a change of clothes. In a good pair of slacks, or a skirt, one day on the run and maybe a slight accident along the way with some Coca Cola or hamburger juice generally qualifies a lady for membership in the slob club; but nobody gives a damn how long she’s worn a pair of jeans, or how carelessly. In some quarters they aren’t even considered respectable until they’re thoroughly seasoned: what every well-dressed fugitive should wear.
However, even on such short acquaintance I should have known her better; she was not a dirty-denim girl. In the closet I found a pair of handsome brown flannel slacks, a brown blazer with brass buttons, a tan—well, call it beige—silk blouse, and a pair of brown sandals with heels high enough to be interesting. There was also a pair of short nylon stockings with elastic tops, and a pair of white nylon panties discreetly embroidered with little flowers. No brassiere. When I turned with the stuff in my hands, she was still sitting in the bed.
“Well, come on!” I snapped. “Let’s see some action, Watrous!”
The idea was to rush her into it. I was taking for granted that, given time to think she’d delay us with a lot of stupid questions and pitiful protests: why was I doing this to her, didn’t I know she was a poor invalid who couldn’t possibly be expected to leave her sickbed, it would kill her quite dead, and how could I even think of suggesting such an outrageous thing! But I’d misjudged her badly. There were no interrogations or objections. There was only a small practical obstacle about which she felt obliged to remind me.
“Somebody must pull it out,” she said calmly. “I am a bit of a sissy, Mr. Helm. I would rather it was you.”
“Oh.”
I laid her clothes on the bed and studied the needle in her arm. Having put in some hospital time myself, in the line of duty, I had a pretty good idea of how the withdrawal operation was performed. The supplies were readily available. I found a Band-Aid and laid it handy. I got some cotton ready. Steadying the needle, I yanked off the tape holding it in place. I held a wad of cotton at the point where the needle disappeared into the skin, slipped it out, wiped off the small amount of blood that appeared, and stuck on the Band-Aid.
“Well, what are you waiting for now?”
She was still sitting there. “Aren’t you going to turn your back like a gentleman?”
“After you sent a gun moll to visit me, what makes you think I trust you enough to turn my back on you?”
She studied me for a moment longer. I saw a faintly malicious smile touch her lips. She got out of the high bed.
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