At four, Lotty came in quietly. Above her white lab coat her face was set in uncompromising lines. “I am almost too angry to speak to you, Vic. Fortunately, my uncle has survived. And I know he owes his life to you. But he almost owes his death to you, too.”
I was too tired for another fight today. I ran my hands through my hair, trying to stimulate my brain. “Lotty, you don’t have to work to make me feel guilty: I do. I should never have involved him in such a crazy, dangerous business. All I can say is, I’ve taken my share of the knocks. If I’d known what was coming, I would have done my utmost to keep him from being attacked.” I laughed mirthlessly. “A few hours ago I had a blazing fight with Roger Ferrant-he wants to protect me from arsonists and suchlike. Now you’re fighting me because I didn’t protect your uncle.”
Lotty didn’t smile, “He wants to talk to you. I tried to forbid this-he doesn’t need any more excitement or strain. But it seems to be more stress to keep him from you than otherwise. The police want to question him and he’s refusing until he’s seen you.”
“Lotty, he’s an old man, but he’s a sane man. He makes his own choices. Don’t you think some of your anger comes from that? And from helping me involve him? I do my best with my clients, but I know I can’t help all of them, not a hundred percent.”
“Dr. Metzinger is in charge of his case. I’ll call and let him know you’ll be out-when?”
I gave up the argument and looked at my watch. I could just make it and dress for dinner if I went now. “In half an hour.”
She nodded and left.
XIX
BEN GURION HOSPITAL lay close to the Edens. Visible from the expressway, it was easy to get to. It was barely five o’clock when I got out of the car in the hospital parking lot, even after stopping to buy a pea jacket at an Amvets Store. It’s always struck me as the ultimate insult to pay to park at hospitals; they incarcerate your friends and relations in rooms that cost six or seven hundred dollars a day, then put a little sting in by charging a few extra bucks to visit them. I pocketed the lot ticket with ill humor and stomped into the lobby. A woman at the information desk called the evening nurse in Intensive Care, then told me I was expected, to go on up.
Five o’clock is a quiet time in a hospital. Surgery and therapies are over for the day; the evening visitors haven’t started arriving yet. I followed red arrows painted on deserted hallways up two flights of stairs to the intensive-care unit.
A policeman sat outside the door to the unit. He was there to protect Uncle Stefan, the night nurse explained. Would I mind showing identification and letting him pat me down. I thoroughly approved the caution. At the back of my mind was the fear that whoever had stabbed the old man might return to finish the job.
The policeman satisfied, medical hygiene had to be accommodated. I put on a sterile mask and disposable gown. In the changing-room mirror I looked like a stranger: gray eyes heavy with fatigue, hair wind-tangled, the mask disguising my personality. I hoped it wouldn’t terrify a weak old man.
When I came out, Dr. Metzinger was waiting for me. He was a balding man in his late forties. He wore Gucci loafers and had a heavy gold bracelet on his left wrist. Got to spend the money somehow, I guess.
“Mr. Herschel has insisted so hard on talking to you we thought it best for you to see him,” he said in a low voice, as though Uncle Stefan might hear and be disturbed. “I want you to be very careful, though. He’s lost a lot of blood, been through a very severe trauma. I don’t want you to say anything that might cause a relapse.”
I couldn’t afford to antagonize anyone else today. I just nodded and told him I understood. He opened the door to the intensive-care unit and ushered me through. I felt as though I were being conducted into the presence of royalty. Uncle Stefan had been isolated from the rest of the unit in a private room. When I realized Metzinger was following me into it I stopped. “I have a feeling what Mr. Herschel has to say is confidential, Doctor. If you want to keep an eye on him, can you do it through the door?”
He didn’t like that at all and insisted on coming in with me. Short of breaking his arm, which was a tempting idea, there wasn’t much I could do to stop him.
The sight of Uncle Stefan lying small in a bed, attached to machines, to a couple of drips, to oxygen, made my stomach turn over. He was asleep; he looked closer to death than he had in the apartment last night.
Dr. Metzinger shook him lightly by the shoulder. He opened his guileless brown eyes, recognized me after a few bewildered seconds, and beamed feebly. “Miss Warshawski. My dear young lady. How I have been longing to see you. Lotty has told me how you saved my life. Come here, eh, and let me kiss you-never mind these terrible machines.”
I knelt down next to the bed and hugged him. Metzinger told me sharply not to touch him-the whole point of the gown and gauze was to keep germs out. I got to my feet.
Uncle Stefan looked at the doctor. “So, Doctor. You are my good protector, eh? You keep the germs away and get me healthy quickly. Now, though, I have a few private words for Miss Warshawski only. So could I trouble you to leave?”
I studiously avoided Metzinger’s face as he withdrew with a certain amount of ill grace. “You can have fifteen minutes. Remember, Miss Warshawski-you’re not to touch the patient.”
“No, Dr. Metzinger. I won’t.” When the doctor had closed the door with an offended snap I pulled a chair to the side of the bed.
“Uncle Stefan-I mean, Mr. Herschel-I’m so sorry I let you get involved in this.. Lotty is furious, and I don’t blame her-it was thoughtless. I could beat myself.”
The wicked grin that made him look like Lotty came. “Please-call me Uncle Stefan. I like it. And do not beat your beautiful body, my dear new niece-Victoria, is it not? I told you to begin with that I am not afraid of death. And so I am not. You gave me a beautiful adventure, which I do not at all regret. Do not be sad or angry. But be careful. That is why I had to see you. The man who attacked me is very, very dangerous.”
“What happened? I didn’t see your ad until yesterday afternoon-I’ve had sort of a wild week myself. But you made a stock certificate?”
He chuckled wearily. “Yes, a very fine one, if I say so. For IBM. A good, solid company. One hundred shares common stock. So. Last Wednesday I finished him, no them. Sorry, with this injury my English goes a bit.” He stopped and breathed heavily for a minute. I wished I could hold his hand. Surely a little contact would do him more good than isolation and sterility.
His papery eyelids fluttered open again. “Then I call a man I know. Who it is, maybe best you do not hear, my dear niece. And he calls a man, and so on. And on Wednesday afternoon one week later, I get a call. Someone is interested. A buyer, and he will be there Thursday afternoon, I rush to get an ad in the paper.
“So, in the afternoon a man shows up. I know at once he is not a boss. The manner is that of an underling. Maybe you call him a legman.”
“Legman. Yes. What did he look like?”
“A thug.” Uncle Stefan produced the slang word proudly. “He is maybe forty. Heavy-not fat, you know. He looks Croatian, that thick jowl, thick eyebrows. He is as tall as you, but not as beautiful. Maybe a hundred pounds heavier.”
He stopped again to breathe, and closed his eyes briefly. I glanced surreptitiously at my watch. Only five more minutes. I didn’t try to hurry him; that would only make him lose his train of thought.
“Well, you were not there, and I, I had to play the clever detective. So I tell him I know about the priory forgeries, and I want a piece of that particular business. But I have to know who pays. Who the boss is. So we get into a-a fight. He takes my IBM stock. He takes your Acorn stock. He says, ‘You know too much for your own good, old man!’ and pulls out the knife, which I see. I have acid at my side, acid for my etching, you understand. This I throw at him, so when he stabs me, his hand is not quite true.”