"No,” said Marlowe. His eyes were wild, but his hand had steadied on the gun. "No-I can't face that-the disgrace, my wife, Susan-this can't be happening-there was no way for you to find out-"
"Give me that," said Mendoza softly, advancing on him. "Let me-"
"No!" shouted Marlowe in sudden savage desperation. He sprang up and plunged for the door, slammed it behind him before Mendoza could reach it. And before Mendoza could turn the knob there was the sharp crack of a shot in the hallway outside…
They looked at the sprawled body in silence for a moment. He had put the muzzle of the gun in his mouth, and there was a little mess. "God damn him to hell!" said Mendoza viciously. "So he does get away after all! I was looking forward to seeing him pulled down in the mud-"
"Vindictive," said Palliser wryly. "Not so good for the family
… How much of that was bluff, by the way?"
"Not much of it," said Mendoza, "really. Once I knew by the button it was Marlowe, there was only one logical motive. Only one way it could have happened. Damn him. Of course, if he hadn't caught Art off guard, he'd never have stood a chance of-but-"
The colorless manservant came quietly up the hall and looked down at the body. He said to Mendoza gravely, "I thought that was a shot. The rest of the family is all out, sir. I trust you'll be attending to the-er-formalities?"
"Quite right," said Mendoza. "Are you accustomed to your employers committing suicide?"
"Dear me, no, sir," said the man. "What a tragedy. I presume, sir, you'll be wanting that suit back from my brother-in-law?"
"You presume quite right," said Mendoza, and went back to the library to call the office and an ambulance… The bastard, slipping away from him at the last minute…
He left Palliser, Scarne, and Landers to go through the house, pick up any more desultory relevant facts. So, on this one, there'd be no publicity after all, just the relevant evidence quietly attested to and the file put away marked closed. A nice discreet verdict of the usual suicide while temporarily insane, and that was that.
God damn him. To protect his precious name and position…
Still filled with cold wrath, he came into the office. "Understand you've broken the Nestor thing. Who and how?" asked Sergeant Lake.
"Marlowe-damn him." He was in no mood for long explanations. He went into his office. Dwyer was still there, fiddling nervously with the cards. It was five minutes past one. Of this new long, long day.
"I keep expecting it to ring," said Dwyer. "Damn it, they said-"
And at that moment the outside phone rang. And Sergeant Lake called in to them, "Hospital, Lieutenant." Mendoza picked up the phone. His hand tightened on it, and his mouth drew to a grim line. "Yes, Doctor… Yes. I'll be there in ten minutes-"
"Let me go," said Dwyer.
"No.” Mendoza almost ran out, toward the elevators, and went all the way down to the garage; he commandeered a patrol car and had the siren going before he was off the ramp onto Temple Street. By God, he'd have one installed in the Ferrari tomorrow.
He made it in just over ten minutes. The doctor was waiting for him; they started for the elevators. "You understand, Lieutenant, if he doesn't recognize you, or seems mentally hazy in any way, it doesn't tell us definitely that he won't make a complete recovery. After all, he has been in a deep coma for something like five and a half days. And we know something about mental therapy, too, to help. But this will be a useful-ah-test."
"Yes," said Mendoza. The elevator landed; they walked down the corridor. The hospital atmosphere was thick all about them. No noise, only a faint hint of ether, of medicines, in the air; but the aura of professional busyness, of impersonal efficiency.
There were two nurses in the room, at the far side of the bed. The rails were up on each side. One of the nurses said, "I'm sorry, Doctor, we had to discontinue the I.V. He was so restless-"
"Quite all right," said McFarland absently.
Hackett's big bulk was moving uneasily on the bed; he had thrown off the sheet. His color was bad, an ashen gray, and all the bandages looked alarming. He was muttering incoherently. "His pulse is up to nearly ninety," said the other nurse.
"Yes," said MacFarlane. "I think it should be very soon now. I'm sorry, Lieutenant, we just have to wait-”
"Yes," said Mendoza.
"Mmh… mmh…" Hackett was mumbling; he sounded to be making a desperate effort.
"How is his wife standing up?"
"All right," said Mendoza, watching Hackett.
They watched in silence as Hackett tossed and muttered. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The nurse said, "His pulse is very fast, sir, I don't like-"
MacFarlane bent over the bed and used a stethoscope. "Constitution of an ox," he murmured. "His heart's sound enough. Don't worry."
Hackett quieted down and lay still for a little while, and then quite suddenly he opened his eyes. He stared vaguely up at the ceiling for a moment, and the doctor touched Mendoza's arm and mouthed, "Wait a minute."
"His pulse is down to normal, sir," said the nurse. Hackett turned his head weakly in her direction. Mendoza stepped closer to the bed. He had his mouth open to speak Hackett's name when Hackett said, "Nurse. You're a-"
"That's right," said the nurse, smiling at him.
"Marlowe," said Hackett with great effort. "Tell-”
"Art," said Mendoza. "Art?"
Very slowly Hackett turned his head on the pillow. His blue eyes looked slightly unfocused still, and his voice came weakly in little gasps. "Luis," he said. "They-hauled you back-off vacation. Sorry. Have-a nice-time?"
Mendoza managed a grin. "I never want another one like it, boy," he said. And then the doctor was leading him out, and he sat down rather suddenly on the bench along the corridor.
"Very satisfactory indeed, of course," the doctor was saying. "He'll probably make a quite normal recovery now. Say three months. Very gratifying indeed-such a deep coma, and that massive fracture-but that looks very conclusive, of course."
Mendoza thought, Ought to find the nearest phone: let the girls know, call the office. Everything O.K. He heard himself laugh, and belatedly realized why: Art could forget his diet for a while, anyway.
"-as I said, Lieutenant."
"Yes," said Mendoza. Lieutenant. It sounded a lot better than Mister: the hell of a lot better. He started to get up, to go and find that phone, and suddenly all the lack of sleep, the worry and strain, the long, long days had caught up with him, and he had to lean on the bench.
"Doctor," he said, "maybe you'd give me a shot of benzedrine or something? I might just manage to make it home… "
"I am not going to wake him up," said Alison's voice. "I should think you'd realize-"
Mendoza opened his eyes. He knew where he was at once. On the long sectional in the living room of the house on Rayo Grande Avenue. He'd just made it that far before it all caught up to him and he went dead out as if he'd been knocked on the head.
It was almost dark. A little past eight o'clock, he thought vaguely. Around there. Somebody had taken off his jacket and tie and shoes, and unbuttoned his collar. And there was a cat coiled up on his chest, and he thought another one near his feet.