“The National Studios of Hollywood, eh?”
“You got it.”
The officer put this down in his notebook. “But your name is Walter Harsh?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Now what is the address in Hollywood of this National Studios?”
“You’re mixed up, officer. There ain’t any address in Hollywood. The address of National Studios of Hollywood is in Quincy, Illinois, the same as my address.”
“Oh.”
“I hope you got it right now, officer.”
The policeman pulled a chair to the bedside and put one foot on it to make a desk for his notebook. “Harsh, are you a movie guy?”
“Motion pictures? Me? Oh brother, did you miss it again.”
“Well, what are you?”
“I’m nothing but a photo drummer.”
“What is that?”
“I take pictures of people house-to-house. Which reminds me, officer, in my car. My box. I mean my camera, did you notice was it still in my car?”
“The hospital people had your camera and suitcase brought in and put with your other stuff in a locker here at the hospital.”
“Say, that’s all right. I was afraid somebody would make off with it. That camera set me back.”
The policeman’s eyes were not leaving Harsh. The creases in his uniform were very neat, as if this was the first time he had worn the uniform. There was the faint smell of gun oil about him, and his brass and leather were shiny.
“Now, Harsh, let’s get one more thing. Who do we notify at National Studios of Hollywood. I mean who do we notify that you are laid up with an accident?”
“Well, I guess it won’t be necessary. I am the company.”
“How is that now?”
“I am National Studios of Hollywood. I am all of it.”
The officer removed his foot from the chair, put his notebook away, buttoned the pocket flap, then straightened his coat by giving little tugs at the skirts. He took a deep breath, causing his leather harness to squeak audibly. “Well, now.” The officer inflated his chest again, as if he liked the sound of the leather when it squeaked. “If this checks out, I guess you’re all in the clear.”
If this checks out. You’re not out of the woods yet, Harsh thought. The cop was going to do some prying around.
The policeman had his hand on the doorknob when the door opened and the doctor came in. The doctor grinned. “How did it go, John? Get the information you needed?”
The officer patted a spot on his coat over the notebook. “I guess he told me enough to start on.”
The doctor pointed to a chair. “Stick around a minute, John.” The doctor took Harsh’s pulse and patted him on the chest. “Nothing to keep you down, my boy.” He turned to the policeman. “I have a pleasant little surprise for you, John.”
“How’s that, Doc?”
The doctor produced a postcard from his pocket and handed it to the officer. “Read that, John. Better read it out loud, because Mr. Harsh might like to know about it.”
The officer read from the card. “The O-Negative Blood Group Foundation. The Foundation is endowed for the purpose of aiding individuals who possess this rare blood type. Accordingly, a reward of $25.00 will be paid to any person making a direct donation of O-negative blood to another individual. An additional $25.00 will be paid to any individual instrumental in finding a donor for such a person in need of O-negative blood. The Foundation is doing this to facilitate a supply of O-negative blood. The above rewards will be paid only if immediate notice is telegraphed to the O-Negative Blood Group Foundation, 1133 Nash Street, New York, N.Y.”
The cop turned the card over. He looked puzzled. “What does this add up to?”
“It means you get twenty-five dollars, John, if you notify that outfit right away.” The doctor looked pleased. “I just happened to remember that card, which came in a while back, and I dug it out of the file. John, you get twenty-five, the mechanic who donated the blood gets twenty-five. How does that strike you?”
The cop grinned. “I’ll be goddamned.”
The doctor waved a hand. “They got Foundations for everything these days. Some rich guy with O-negative blood probably kicked the bucket and left all his money to this Foundation, and this is the way they figure out to spend it.”
Harsh had listened. It was all right with him if some bughead Foundation wanted to throw its money away, but it was a shame, he thought, to see any of it going to a cop.
THREE
The hospital was as noisy a place as Harsh had ever been in. There was continual tramping up and down the hall, talking, bottles and bedpans clanking. When finally he couldn’t stand it, he yelled, “Shut the goddamn door!” Someone hurriedly closed the door, after which it was quieter, but not much. The sun was shining; if he had just felt better, it would be a good day to walk out of the hospital. The way he was now, stuck in the hospital bed, he was helpless, and anyone who wanted to do a job on him would have a free hand to do so. He was thinking of the policeman. If Harsh could get out of the hospital, he could find a private room and sack up there with no cop in his hair, stay there until he was in physical shape to cope with the situation. He could even get hold of Vera Sue if he got the notion. He fancied the idea of Vera Sue for a nurse. If a man was red-blooded, that was the stuff that would cure him.
Harsh tinkered with his left arm, feeling the cast with his fingers. It felt like a sack of concrete that had set. The arm throbbed. Could he make it out of here, he wondered, if he gave it another try? He’d better, Harsh thought. The cop was a beaver, a guy like that might hear about D. C. Roebuck being found dead in a field not all that far away and put two and two together. He picked up his left arm with his right hand and inched it toward the edge of the hospital bed. The cast weighed a ton. His hand sticking out was swollen and bluish. He clenched his teeth, worked his legs around, got them hanging off the bed. It was a high hospital bed, a long way down before his feet found the cold bare floor. He rested, panting, studying the plaster cast on his arm, noticing it was shaped so it could be carried in a sling. He pulled one of the sheets loose from the bed and tried to tear it, but his strength was not up to that, so he folded the whole sheet and knotted it in a sling that was big as a tent. His belly hurt from lying bent over backward on the bed. Okay, he thought, here it goes. He stood and took two steps and went down on the floor with a crash that shook the building and put out his lights.
Awakening, Harsh found he was back in the hospital bed. He was getting nowhere fast. He had a hazy impression he had tried to get out of the bed numerous times and each time had crashed on the floor, but that was probably all imagination. He wondered how long he had been lying there, whether it was hours or days. Then he heard a conversation outside his door. It was a nurse and the policeman, John. The cop was arguing. “Nurse, the Doc said he should be over the shock from the fall by now. He said it was okay for me to go talk to him if I wanted to.”
The nurse put her head in and looked at Harsh. Unfortunately she caught him with his eyes open. “He seems to be awake. But we’ve had him under medication two days, so I don’t know what shape he’ll be in to talk.”
The officer pushed past her. “I’ll give it a whirl.”
The cop closed the door in the nurse’s face and came over to look down at Harsh. “You ever been in jail, Harsh?”
“Officer, I’m awfully sick. I can’t talk to you now.”
The officer ignored this. “Where were you in jail, Harsh? Come on with the answers.”
“You sure are a guy who gets it wrong, Officer. I never been in anybody’s pokey.”
“Yeah? Then why has a detective showed up around here making inquiries about you, Harsh?”