“She says will you come with her to th’ room,” said Mulloy. “An’ she says he’s a sick man, is Mr. Whitcomb. And” — grinning broadly — “she wants to know if th’ young felly, bein’ you, sarge, is a college boy workin’ on th’ force for experience, an’ I didn’t have th’ heart t’ tell her what a tough felly you are.”
Jimmy Wentworth glanced swiftly at the pretty nurse, and her heightened color told him that she knew Mulloy had repeated what she had said.
The two detectives followed her into the sick room.
On the bed lay a man in middle years. His face was gray, what little the men from Headquarters could see. Most of it, and the entire forehead, was covered with what appeared to be thick towels, but were ice bags.
One hand was visible, and Wentworth’s first impression was that the skin must have been immersed in water, for drops stood out on it.
It was obvious that Whitcomb was indeed a man in peril of death.
A doctor and interne were drawing blood from the exposed arm, with several nurses assisting. The operation was completed, and the bandaging finished, before the house doctor had one of the girls strip off his rubber gloves. He said, “Have fresh ones ready. One of these broke,” and then came to the detectives.
“From what the officer said, I understand this is Ronald Whitcomb,” Dr. Lyle said quietly. “The hospital has already put in a call for his personal physician, but we didn’t dare wait for his arrival. Whitcomb is in bad shape, sir.”
“My name’s Dunand,” said the grim captain. “This is one of my sergeants. First thing; Whitcomb will recover?”
“Probably. Thanks to your officer, captain. By bringing him here promptly, he undoubtedly saved his life.”
Wentworth asked, “What is wrong with him?”
“Heat apoplexy, I believe. You call it sunstroke, sergeant. Whitcomb’s a heavy, full blooded man. They are most susceptible. Especially if they’ve been subjected to any kind of physical or mental strain.”
“Never heard of anyone in San Francisco being sun struck,” Dunand muttered.
“It isn’t entirely a matter of heat, captain. He may have been wandering aimlessly about without a hat, you know—”
“Had he been drinking?”
“I shouldn’t say so.”
“You are positive of your diagnosis?” Wentworth questioned.
The doctor smiled. “Just about as positive as is ever possible,” he countered. “The man is unconscious. Spasmodic, jerky breathing. Hands and face cold to the touch, but, as you can see, covered with excessive perspiration. Flickering pulse. Dr. Jaynes finds faint heart beats, about a hundred and thirty to the minute. Pupils insensitive to the light. All the signs of heat apoplexy. We’ve bled him, and packed his head in ice. In my opinion, he ought to recover.”
Dunand said briefly, “Sounds logical. You ought to know.”
“Has he been conscious at all?” Wentworth asked.
“No, sergeant. Nor will he be for a day or so. He will lie there without movement whatsoever. That’s typical of sunstroke.”
“Do any harm if I looked carefully through his clothes?” Wentworth asked in the same level tone.
“Not the slightest. I’ll have Dr. Jaynes and a nurse see that his arm is not disturbed. Help yourself, sergeant.”
Dunand understood what his subordinate was after; some shred of clew which might indicate that Whitcomb had been abducted, or had not been abducted. Something to tell of the whereabouts of the children. He nodded agreement to Wentworth’s unasked question, feeling that the matter should be cleared up immediately.
Jimmy Wentworth stepped to the side of the high metal bed on which Whitcomb lay, covered only with a rubber sheet, which was drawn down. The broker still wore his shirt, so hastily had the hospital people applied first aid for sunstroke, and before Wentworth began his investigation he looked about for coat and vest.
“In the closet,” a nurse told him.
“Please get it,” Wentworth requested. No sense in disturbing the unconscious man at all if the upper garment would reveal what he sought.
The youthful sergeant of the Chinatown squad had his hand in the inner coat pocket when he heard a strangled cry, terrible in the silent room, followed instantly by an ejaculation of surprise from one of the doctors. Wentworth turned round instantly to look.
Whitcomb’s mouth was open now. His eyes were open also. A horrible rigidity had straightened his arms and legs.
The sick man groaned deeply, and before Dr. Lyle could take the hypodermic which an attentive nurse was handing him, Whitcomb began to shout incoherently, to rave and toss his arms and shoulders about on the bed. Nurses and doctors hastened to hold him down as he struggled, and then Dr. Lyle shot the needle home. For a full minute more Whitcomb struggled furiously, crying out a jumble of meaningless words which ended in a shriek:
“No more!”
And then complete silence, as the powerful drug stopped the raving.
Whitcomb’s face now was as gray as ever, and the man lay as if dead.
“Well,” said Dr. Lyle. “Well. Another diagnosis gone to the devil.” He growled a long string of orders, and the room became very active as the interne and nurses hurried to put them into effect.
Wentworth said quietly, “So it isn’t sunstroke, doctor?”
“It is not,” Dr. Lyle told him soberly. “Not when he acts in such a manner.” He looked at his watch. “I wish Dr. Henderson — Whitcomb’s physician — would hurry and get here. Because—”
“Because you think the man is not going to recover?” broke in Dunand shrewdly.
Dr. Lyle shrugged.
“I’ve done enough guessing,” he said briefly.
“Will you guess what is wrong?” Jimmy Wentworth suggested.
“Don’t need to guess — now,” said the physician. “Not about that. I know. It’s a rare case, gentlemen, and between ourselves there isn’t much we can do about it. To put it plainly, Whitcomb is going to die from insect stings.”
“What?” grunted Dunand. “First you said sunstroke, and now you talk about bugs!”
“Not bugs. Wasps.”
“Or bees?” Jimmy Wentworth said softly.
“Or bees,” agreed the medical man. “Either one. The early symptoms are exactly the same as heat apoplexy. Exactly, when there are no swellings, and that’s often the case. Now you’ll excuse me, please. There are a lot of things we can try, and we’ll try them all, but Ronald Whitcomb is going to die without recovering consciousness just the same.”
Captain Dunand stared at the dying man, and from him to Wentworth. No word was passed, but both were thinking the selfsame thing. That the petals of the little white flowers painted on the headless idol were veined in black like the wings of bees — and the image had been found on the body of a bo’ how doy — a Chinese ’binder, a killer, a hatchetman, who had himself been murdered before he could say a word to anyone.
Chapter IV
The Charge Is — Murder
The first extras were out by the time Dunand and Wentworth returned to the Hall of Justice, after having left word at the hospital to be informed of Whitcomb’s death, or any change in his condition. Dr. Henderson, Whitcomb’s own physician, had agreed with the second diagnosis of the hospital medical men, and agreed also that chance for recovery was almost impossible. All the physicians were positive that Whitcomb would not recover consciousness, but just the same Dunand had not left until two men from the department were in the room, ready to take down any word, and, if possible, to ask the questions Wentworth had told them to ask.