When he had sorted things out a bit, he sat down to make his report.
Plainly it was a case that reflected the greatest credit on all concerned. And a lot of it must, and should go to Petrella. And, according to Petrella, Blech had behaved very well. A foreigner, but a good chap. So far so good.
But what the Superintendent couldn’t make out was exactly what credit was to be given to a person named Rossetti. Sounded like some sort of Italian. Some further inquiries needed there. His pen scratched busily...
78
Deathbed
Frank Sisk
The doctor and the nurse emerged from George Painter’s room just after 4 P.M. They conferred for a long minute in the upper hallway, voices low, before moving to the head of the circular staircase. At the foot, fretfully waiting, Coral hadn’t been able to make out a word that was said.
Why, she wondered, are members of the medical profession always whispering to each other? Why must they treat death and adenoids with similar secrecy? Even orderlies conceal the result of a thermometer reading as if it were privileged information. Charlatans, most of them. They certainly weren’t fooling George Painter with their mysterious muttering, always a bit out of earshot. That old crock has known for at least a month that he’s on the last lap. What’s more, the idea of death doesn’t seem to faze him at all. Lately his rare smile has grown sly. As his strength ebbs he looks each day more like a wily old gambler with an ace up his sleeve, a final card with which he plans to trump, for a moment at least, death itself.
Dr. Wolff and Miss Suratt were descending the stairs, he a stocky figure in gray tweed, she a slender figure in white nylon, their downward progress soundless on the thick gold carpet.
Coral slipped a dolorous mask over her tanned face. This morning she had played tennis with Otis and a little before lunch they had made love. She was still feeling keenly alive, almost youthful — not a bit like a prospective widow — but she wore the sad mask well.
“How is he doing, Doctor?” Into her own whisper she wove the correct amount of tension. “Is he still alert?”
“Very much so,” Wolff whispered back. “He’s a remarkable man. Remarkable.”
“Is he able to speak?”
“Yes, indeed. Not with any of his erstwhile vigor, of course, but his mind is quite clear. Quite clear.”
“Excuse me if you will,” Miss Suratt whispered. “I simply must go to the kitchen for my cup of tea.”
“Phone me at once if there’s a critical change,” Wolff said.
“And have Glenda fix you something to eat,” Coral said.
“Yes, thanks,” Miss Suratt said, on her way.
“Please be frank with me, Doctor,” Coral said. “How long does George really have?”
Wolff expelled a tiny hiss of air through crooked teeth. “My dear lady, I try not to prophesy in these terminal cases. A patient with a will of iron may battle a long time after that last faint spark of life should have flickered out. Your husband is that kind of person. A man of very strong will, very strong indeed.”
“I’m only asking for an educated guess, Doctor.”
“I hesitate to give it.”
“You’re an experienced physician. I understand you’ve been treating my husband for at least ten years. You must know what to expect. Roughly.”
“I do. Very roughly.”
“Will he last through the night?”
“I believe that’s safe to say. Yes, through the night.”
“Through the week?”
“Ah now, my dear lady.” Wolff raised a defensive hand.
“Well, may I see him now? Is he well enough for that?”
“Certainly. As a matter of fact, he asked me to send you up. But I do advise you to keep the visit brief. He’s already had a rather busy afternoon. Yes, rather busy.”
You can say that again, Coral thought.
First, at 1:30, the densely bewhiskered priest from the Greek Orthodox Church had appeared for the third time in as many days. His name was Mikos Gavros. He arrived as usual in a dusty old limousine, his black-garbed bulk occupying most of the tonneau. The chaffeur was his seventeen-year-old son Teddy, the eldest of what Coral understood to be a big brood. Father Gavros’ patriarchy wasn’t confined to the spirit alone.
Teddy, a runner-up in the hirsute category to his old man, hurried his own bearded face around the car to open the rear door. Father Gavros squeezed out. They entered the foyer together. Coral was there to receive the priest’s greeting, one of oily unction that parted his peppery whiskers in the middle, exposing lips of liverish hue.
Was he seeking a new convert? Coral wondered.
While he was closeted upstairs with the dying man, whose name had been legally changed long ago from Pantopoulous to Painter, Coral was left with Teddy, who seemed to have a rather salacious eye. She led him to the library, where she’d twice before abandoned him, and abandoned him again.
Norman Yard arrived an hour later, a few minutes after the departure of Gavros and son. The habitual smile of semiamusement lurked beneath his clipped gray moustache, the slender brown attaché case grew from his left arm like a prosthetic device. Coral’s opinion of lawyers, never worshipful at best, had been dropping steadily with each of Yard’s frequent visits this last month. She detested that know-it-all smirk of his. Smirking once more, Yard hastily ascended the stairs to consult with his richest client.
Yes, old George Painter had indeed had a busy afternoon.
She entered the enormous bedchamber for the first time in a week. The windows were closed against the late October chill, the great brocaded drapes were drawn. The air was heavy with an odor which she would always associate with George — Turkish cigarette smoke; and there was an odor of something else now, something repugnantly dry and stale. The room was a place of silent dusk except for a nimbus of light centered around a lamp on a bedside table. George sat propped up like a bloodless puppet, so thin that his body hardly raised the thermal blanket covering him, and he was smoking a cigarette; the gray tendrils curling slowly round the lampshade were the only signs of life.
“Hello, George,” Coral said nervously as she approached the foot of the king-size bed.
The dying man’s face was skeletal but the dark eyes imbedded in that face burned like coals of fire. Coral felt almost literally scorched by his gaze.
“I just left Dr. Wolff. He says you’re doing fine.”
With brown, bony fingers the man removed the cigarette from his dry lips. “You are a natural liar,” he said in a thin, hoarse voice.
“He told me you wanted to see me,” Coral said.
“I said I wanted to see—” A thin hacking cough dimmed his eyes for a moment. “Yes, I said I wanted to see that slut without conscience who calls herself my wife. And here you are.”
“George, this is hardly the time—”
“Hold your tongue, Coral. Listen.” Again that throat-scraping cough. “Pour me a glass of water.”
Concealing the disgust that this man aroused in her, she went to the bedside and reached for the pitcher. How had she ever managed to endure these sickening years? Money. Was the money really worth it? It had better be.
“I nurtured no illusions when we married,” he was saying. “A tennis bum, your first husband. You outgrew him. Understandable. I outgrew a few previous wives when I was young. You wanted a little luxury for a change. I wanted somebody—” the cough was like a rasp across cartilage “—somebody to keep me warm the last years of my life. Not love — the gesture of attention. A fair trade.”