Plague

'Is your hip bothering you again?' he asked sympathetically.

Mrs. Fairfax gave a histrionic sigh. 'My dear doctor, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my hip. But there is a great deal wrong with my beach.'

Dr. Petrie frowned. He could see himself frowning in the large smokey mirror opposite his chair. He wondered if, despite his looks, he was beginning to get old.

'Your beach?' he enquired politely. He was used to the eccentricities of wealthy old widows.

'It's absolutely disgusting,' she said coldly. She brushed back her violet hair with a tanned, elegant claw. Today, her fingers were encrusted with sapphires, but Dr. Petrie knew that she had as many rings for every colour of dress she ever wore.

'What's wrong with it?'

'What's wrong with it? I don't know how you can ask! Haven't you read the newspapers?'

Dr. Petrie shook his head. 'I haven't had much time recently for the Miami Herald.'

'Well you should make time,' said Mrs. Fairfax imperiously. 'It's been happening all along the South Beach. And now it's turned up on mine.'

Dr. Petrie tried to smile. 'I hate to appear ignorant,' he said. 'But what has turned up on yours?'

Mrs. Fairfax lifted her sharp, haughty profile in obvious distaste. In a quiet, cold voice, she said, 'Faeces.' Dr. Petrie leaned forward, 'I beg your pardon?' Mrs. Fairfax turned his way with a look of frozen disdain. 'You're a doctor. You know what that means. I went down to my beach yesterday morning for a swim and I found it was soiled with faeces.'

Dr. Petrie rubbed his chin. 'Was it — much?'

'The whole shoreline,' said Mrs. Fairfax. 'And the beaches next to mine, on both sides. I can't tell you — the smell is abominable.'

'Have you complained to the health people?'

'Of course I have. I spent most of yesterday on the telephone. I got through to some very junior official who told me that they were doing everything they could, and that they were going to try and clear the beaches with detergent. But it's really not good enough. It's there now, it smells revolting, and I want you to do something about it.'

Dr. Petrie stood up and went to the window. He felt sticky and tired, and the glittering pool outside looked very inviting.

'Mrs. Fairfax,' he said, 'I don't think there's very much I can do, apart from call City Hall, like you did. It's probably treated sewage brought in by the sea. I know it doesn't look or smell too good, but it's pretty harmless.'

Mrs. Fairfax snorted. 'You're absolutely right it doesn't look too good. I have a beach party planned for tomorrow evening. What am I going to say to my guests — my doctor says it's harmless? I pay very high taxes to live on the ocean, Dr. Petrie, and I don't expect to have to swim in excrement.'

Dr. Petrie turned around and smiled. 'All right, Mrs. Fairfax. I promise that I'll call the health department this morning for you. I'm sure that it's one of those rare accidents, and if they say they're going to clear the beach with detergent, they probably will. They're pretty hot on things like that in Miami.'

Mrs. Fairfax shook her head. 'First it was oil and now it's sewage,' she said tetchily. 'I don't know whether I'm renting a beach or a city dump.'

Dr. Petrie helped her out of her armchair and gave her back her sticks. 'I promise I'll call this morning,' he repeated. 'If you hold on one moment, I'll get Esther to help you out.'

After Mrs. Fairfaix, he saw three more patients. Mrs. Vicincki, with her sprained ankle; old Mr. Dunlop, with his kidney complaint; and the younger of the two elderly Miss Grays, who was suffering from sunburn. As usual, he tried to be calm, comforting, and reassuringly efficient.

Just before one o'clock, he pressed the intercom for Esther. 'Yes, doctor?'

'Esther,' he said. 'What are you doing for lunch?'

'Nothing special. I was thinking of a diet cola and a cream cheese on rye.'

Dr. Petrie coughed. 'That sounds revolting. How about coming down to Mason's Bar with me and sinking a steak-and-lobster grill?'

'But doctor, my figure — '

'Your figure, Esther, is one of the natural wonders of the world. Now, do you want to come, or don't you?'

There was a bleep. Esther said, 'Hold on a moment, doctor. It's the outside phone.'

He waited for a few moments. Then Esther came back to him and said, 'It's Dr. Selmer, from the hospital.'

'Okay. First tell me whether you're coming to lunch, then put him on.'

'Dr. Selmer says it's urgent.'

'Lunch is urgent. Are you coming?' Esther sighed. 'All right. If you insist on twisting my arm like that.'

Dr. Petrie picked up the outside phone and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the edge of his desk. He picked at a stray thread on his cotton slacks. 'Anton?'

'Oh, hi, Leonard,' said Dr. Selmer. 'I was just calling you about that kid you brought in this morning.'

'Did you find out what it was?'

'Well, we're not too sure yet. The blood and sputum tests haven't been completed, although there's obviously some kind of bacillus infection there. I had his parents in for a check-up this morning, and they seem okay, but I've asked their permission for a post-mortem.'

Dr. Petrie snapped the thread from his slacks. 'Have you any ideas what you're looking for?' he asked.

Dr. Selmer sounded uncertain. 'It could be tularemia. Did you notice any pet rabbits around the kid's place?'

'I don't think so. You really think it's that?'

'Dr. Bushart thinks so. He had a couple of cases out in California.'

'Sure, but that's California,' Dr. Petrie said. 'California has every weird bug and bacillus going. This is healthy, swamp-infested Florida.'

'We're checking up anyway.' said Dr. Selmer. 'Meanwhile, I shouldn't worry too much. If it was tularemia, the chances that you've picked it up are pretty remote. Just to be safe, though, I should give yourself a couple of shots of streptomycin.'

'Are you playing golf this weekend?' asked Dr. Petrie. 'I'm still short of a partner.'

'Why don't you teach that assistant of yours — what's her name — Esther. I'd sure like to see her swing!'

'Anton,' said Dr. Petrie, 'you have a very impure mind.'

There was a laugh from the other end of the phone. 'It's only because I never get to do anything impure with my body.'

Esther came into the room, signaling elaborately that she was ready for lunch.

Dr. Petrie said, 'Okay, Anton — I have to leave now. But let me know what you find out about the kid, will you? As soon as you know.'

'Sure thing,' said Dr. Selmer. 'And don't forget the shots. All I want right now is a golf partner down with rabbit disease.'

Dr. Petrie laughed. 'Who do you think I am? Bugs Bunny?'

It was a cool, cloudless evening. A fresh wind was blowing in from the Atlantic Ocean, and ruffling the dark blue surface of Biscayne Bay. As they drove across the North Bay Causeway over Treasure Island, a large red motor-launch furrowed the water, and seagulls twisted and spun in its wake.

Dr. Petrie was wearing a sky-blue sports shirt and white slacks belted with rope. He was feeling relaxed and calm, and he drove the Lincoln with one hand resting lightly on the wheel.

Beside him, Adelaide Murry was trying to put on lipstick in the sun-vizor mirror. She was a tall, elegant girl, dressed in a low broderie-anglaise dress the color of buttermilk, which showed off her deep-tanned shoulders and her soft cleavage. Her brunette hair, streaked with subtle tints, was brushed back from her face in fashionable curls. She had unnusual, asymmetrical features — a slight squint in her hazel eyes and pouting lips that made you think she was cross. At the moment, she was cross.

'Do you have to drive over every pothole and bump?' she said, as her lipstick jolted up over her lip.

Dr. Petrie grinned. 'It's a hobby of mine,' he said cheerfully. 'It's called "Getting Your Girlfriend to Push Her Lipstick Up Her Nose".'