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He knew, even before he checked her pulse and blood pressure, that it would be normal. The entire examination, in fact, was normal.

He began to have an odd feeling.

When he saw that one of the sheets had been stained blue, he stopped the examination.

“Harry,” he said to the intern. “Call Dr. Jackson.”

“What do you want that bastard for?”

“Call him.”

Harry looked puzzled, and left. He returned some minutes later, with Jackson at his side.

“I thought you would be interested,” Clark said to Jackson. “Does she look asleep?”

“Yes, but she’s not.”

“Why do you say that?”

“These film people. It’s sure to be an overdose of something.”

Clark shrugged. “Pulse is 74 and strong. Respirations are 18 and regular. Blood pressure is good, no localizing signs, no distress.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Jackson said irritably. “You should know that. She may be in the early stages of narcosis, and it may progress in the next few hours.”

Clark showed him the blue spot on the sheets.

“Idiopathic drug reaction,” Jackson said, not blinking. “If I were you, doctor, I’d stop making such a mystery of this and treat the patient. Pump her stomach and get on with it.”

And he walked out.

When he was alone, Clark shook the girl’s head back and forth, and said, “Sharon, Sharon…” in her ear.

She did not respond.

He continued this for several minutes, then, looking around hesitantly, he slapped her hard across her beautiful high cheekbones.

He waited.

Nothing happened.

“Gentlemen, I can report at this time that Miss Wilder is being examined and treated. She is comatose for reasons which are not clear at this time, but her condition at present is stable.”

“What’s the story? Was it an overdose?”

“We have no information on that.”

“Did she hit her head? Did she have a fight?”

“There are no signs of trauma.”

“Of what?”

“Injury. No signs of physical injury.”

“Is it true she was drunk when she came in?”

“We have no reason to believe so.”

“Was it LSD?”

“Almost certainly not.”

“How long will she be in the hospital?”

“It’s impossible to predict.”

“Is she on the critical list?”

“Not at this time.”

A nurse came up and whispered in his ear that there was a woman in the emergency ward who claimed to be Miss Wilder’s secretary.

Clark nodded, said to the reporters, “That’s all for now,” and walked back with the nurse to the EW.

Gertrude Finch looked like a giant toad. She was an enormous woman, squat, heavyset, wearing a green print dress. She appeared to be about fifty years old, and very frightened.

“I understand you’re Miss Wilder’s secretary.”

“That’s right, Doctor. Her special assistant, you might say.”

“I see. You found her?”

“That’s right, Doctor. She was lying on her bed, on her back, you know, all dressed up for her date. But out like a light. Her date was downstairs, so I shook her to wake her up. She didn’t wake. So I called the ambulance.”

“Were there any pills around? Any bottles of medication?”

“No, nothing. A glass of water by the bed, but no bottles.”

“Had she taken any medicines recently?”

“Well, she had this sunburn ointment, that she flew in special from Paris.”

“But no drugs?”

“No, Doctor.”

“Had she been depressed? Unhappy? Moody?”

“No, nothing like that. She was always in good spirits, you might say. She was getting ready to start another picture next month.”

Clark took out his notebook. “Do you know who her doctors are?”

Gertrude Finch nodded. “There’s her regular doctor. He’s Dr. Callaway, in Beverly Hills. But she hasn’t seen him for almost a year. And then her psychiatrist, Dr. Shine. He’s a hypnotist actually, but he has some kind of degree, I don’t know. And then her dermatologist, Dr. Vorhees. He’s the one who prescribed the sunburn cream.”

Clark wrote it down. “Anyone else?”

“Well, no, except for her dates.”

“She’s been dating doctors?”

“Just one. He doesn’t practice; he’s in research.”

Clark needed to know anyone who might have given her drugs. “What’s his name?”

“Let me think.” Miss Finch stared at the floor, frowning. “It’s a real funny name. You have a cigarette?”

Clark didn’t, but the nurse did. Miss Finch lit it and puffed as she stared at the floor. Finally, she snapped her fingers.

“George Washington. That’s it.”

“What’s so funny about that name?”

“His middle initial,” said Miss Finch, “is K. George K. Washington. I’d call that a very peculiar name.”

Clark wrote it down, tore the page out of his notebook, and gave it to Harry, the intern.

“Get hold of these people. Find out if any of them have prescribed medicines for Miss Wilder.”

Harry left.

“I do hope she’s all right,” Miss Finch said. “We’re all quite attached to her. I was talking to Godfrey, the cook, about her and we both said we were very attached to her.” She bit her lip.

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, it’s Godfrey. What he said.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, when they carried her downstairs and out to the ambulance, he saw her and said, ‘Mark my words, she has sleeping sickness. African sleeping sickness.’”

“That’s very unlikely,” Clark said.

“Oh, thank God, I was so worried,” Miss Finch said, and burst into tears.

Clark went back to check on Sharon Wilder, but her condition was unchanged. Gastric lavage and emptying of stomach contents had disclosed no material of any sort, not even particles of food.

Clark reported to the press that the patient’s status was unchanged; the reporters took this lack of news with ill grace. Talking with them, he had the distinct impression they didn’t care whether she got better or worse, just so she changed.

Returning to the EW, he had an idea. He went over to Gertrude Finch.

“Miss Finch, where is Sharon Wilder’s purse?”

“Her purse?”

“Yes.”

“I have it here. Why?”

“With your permission, I’d like to examine it. We might get some clue as to what she took to put her in a coma.”

Miss Finch hesitated. “I don’t know…”

“This could be important.”

“Well, all right.”

Together, they went into a conference room and emptied the contents. There was a suede wallet with a hundred dollars, a driver’s license, two gasoline credit cards, and three pictures of herself. There were two kinds of eye shadow, five kinds of lipstick, two tubes of mascara, powder, and aspirin. There was also an address book which Clark put to one side. As he continued looking, he found a dial pack of birth control pills and a dozen condoms.

Miss Finch sniffed. “I hope, Doctor, that this will remain in your confidence.”

“Of course,” Clark said. Privately, he wondered about a girl who needed both condoms and pills.

Further search unearthed three cancelled checks, a card for a beauty appointment six months ago, an old telephone bill, and an assortment of ticket stubs to theaters and movies.

“She’s always been fond of movies,” Miss Finch said. “She sees them all, even the ones she’s not in.”

Clark nodded, and continued rummaging. He found a final object: a small clear plastic cylinder with a flexible plastic top. It looked for all the world like a container for prescription pills, except for the size: it could not have held more than a single capsule. He turned it over in his hand.