“An interestin’ case turned up. Very unusual. A doctor we supply lost a patient by broncho-spasm. Nurse mistakenly injected the shot into a vein. In ten seconds he was strangling. Edema of the glottis developed. Injected ammophyllme and epmephnne—no dice. Tried to get a bronchoscope down his windpipe to give him air, but couldn’t manage. Finally did a tracheotomy, but by that time it was too late.”
“You always have to be damned careful,” Howard remarked.
“Right,” Renshaw agreed cheerfully. He set the kit on the desk and stepped back. “Well, if we don’t identify the substance responsible for your wife’s allergy this time, it won’t be for lack of imagination. I added some notions of my own to your suggestions.”
“Good.”
“You know, she’s well on her way to becoming the toughest case I ever made kits for. We’ve tested all the ordinary substances, and most of the extraordinary.”
Howard nodded, his gaze following the dark woodwork toward the hall door. “Look,” he said, “do many doctors tell you about allergy patients showing fits of acute depression during attacks, a tendency to rake up unpleasant memories—especially old fears?”
“Depression seems to be a pretty common symptom,” said Renshaw cautiously. “Let’s see, how long is it she’s been bothered?”
“About two years—ever since six months after our marriage.” Howard smiled. “That arouses certain obvious suspicions, but you know how exhaustively we’ve tested myself, my clothes, my professional equipment.”
“I should say so,” Renshaw assured him. For a moment the men were silent. Then, “She suffers from depression and fear?”
Howard nodded.
“Fear of anything in particular?”
But Howard did not answer that question.
About ten minutes later, as the outside door closed on the man from the Allergy Lab, Alice came slowly down the stairs.
The puffiness around her eyes was more marked, emphasizing her paleness. Her eyes were still fixed on the door.
“You know Renshaw, of course,” her husband said.
“Of course, dear,” she answered huskily, with a little laugh. “It was just the knocking. It made me remember him.”
“That so?” Howard inquired cheerily. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me that detail. I’d always assumed—”
“No,” she said, “the bell to Auntie’s house was out of order that afternoon. So it was his knocking that drew me through the dark hallway and made me open the door, so that I saw his white avid face and long strong hands—with the big dusty couch just behind me, where… and my hand on the curtain sash, with which he—’
“Don’t think about it.” Howard reached up and caught hold of her cold hand. “That chap’s been dead for two years now. He’ll strangle no more women.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Of course. Look, dear, Renshaw’s brought a new kit. We’ll make the scratch tests right away.”
She followed him obediently into the examination room across the hall from the office. He rejected the forearm she offered him—it still showed faint evidences of the last test. As he swabbed off the other, he studied her face.
“Another little siege, eh? Well, we’ll ease that with a mild ephedrine spray.”
“Oh it’s nothing,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind it at all if it weren’t for those stupid moods that go with it.”
“I know,” he said, blocking out the test areas.
“I always have that idiotic feeling,” she continued hesitantly, “that he’s trying to get at me.”
Ignoring her remark, he picked up the needle. They were both silent as he worked with practiced speed and care. Finally he sat back, remarking with considerably more confidence than he felt, “There! I bet you this time we’ve nailed the elusive little demon who likes to choke you!”—and looked up at the face of the slim, desirable, but sometimes maddeningly irrational person he had made his wife.
“I wonder if you’ve considered it from my point of view,” he said, smiling. “I know it was a horrible experience, just about the worst a woman can undergo. But if it hadn’t happened, I’d never have been called in to take care of you—and we’d never have got married.”
“That’s true,” she said, putting her hand on his.
“It was completely understandable that you should have spells of fear afterwards,” he continued. “Anyone would. Though I do think your background made a difference. After all, your Aunt kept you so shut away from people—men especially. Told you they were all sadistic, evil-minded brutes. You know, sometimes when I think of that woman deliberately trying to infect you with all her rotten fears, I find myself on the verge of forgetting that she was no more responsible for her actions than any other miseducated neurotic.”
She smiled at him gratefully.
“At any rate,” he went on, “it was perfectly natural that you should be frightened, especially when you learned that he was a murderer with a record, who had killed other women and had even, in two cases where he’d been interrupted, made daring efforts to come back and complete the job. Knowing that about him, it was plain realism on your part to be scared—at least intelligently apprehensive—as long as he was on the loose. Even after we were married.”
“But then, when you got incontrovertible proof—” He fished in his pocket, “Of course, he didn’t formally pay the law’s penalty, but he’s just as dead as if he had.” He smoothed out a worn old newspaper clipping. “You can’t have forgotten this,” he said gently, and began to read:
Lansing, Dec. 22. (Universal Press)—A mysterious boarder who died two days ago at a Kinsey Street rooming house has been conclusively identified as the uncaught rapist and strangler who in recent years terrified three Midwestern cities. Police Lieutenant Jim Galeto, interviewed by reporters in the death room at 1555 Kinsey Street…
She covered the clipping with her hand. “Please.”
“Sorry,” he said, “but an idea had occurred to me—one that would explain your continuing fear. I don’t think you’ve ever hinted at it, but are you really completely satisfied that this was the man? Or is there a part of your mind that still doubts, that believes the police mistaken, that pictures the killer still at large? I know you identified the photographs, but sometimes, Alice, I think it was a mistake that you didn’t go to Lansing like they wanted you to and see with your own eyes—”
“I wouldn’t want to go near that city, ever.” Her lips had thinned.
“But when your peace of mind was at stake….”
“No, Howard,” she said. “And besides, you’re absolutely wrong. From the first moment I never had the slightest doubt that he was the man who died—”
“But in that case—”
“And furthermore, it was only then, when my allergy started, that I really began to be afraid of him.”
“But surely, Alice—” Calm substituted for anger in his manner. “Oh, I know you can’t believe any of that occult rot your aunt was always falling for.”
“No, I don’t,” she said. “It’s something very different.”
“What?”
But that question was not answered. Alice was looking down at the inside of her arm. He followed her gaze to where a white welt was rapidly filling one of the squares.
“What’s it mean?” she asked nervously.
“Mean?” he almost yelled. “Why, you little dope, it means we’ve licked the thing at last! It means we’ve found the substance that causes your allergy. I’ll call Renshaw right away and have him make up the shots.”