Though he didn’t admire the type, Sands liked Miss Scott at once.
“I’m Miss Scott,” she said in her warm bright voice. “Dr. Goodrich is doing his rounds right now. I understand you wanted to see Mrs. Morrow.”
“I do,” Sands said. “My name is Sands, Inspector Sands.”
Miss Scott gave him a well-what-do-you-inspect? glance.
“I’m a detective. Homicide. I’m afraid I have to see Mrs. Morrow.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think Dr. Goodrich will allow it,” Miss Scott said. “She was quite disturbed last night. She’s still N.Y.D., I mean not yet diagnosed, and Dr. Goodrich...”
“If I could possibly get out of seeing Mrs. Morrow, I’d be glad to do it. I rarely pinch children or attack the sick, but sometimes it’s necessary.”
What a queer man, Miss Scott thought, and was dumbfounded into temporary silence.
“In this case it is,” Sands said. “What I have to say to Mrs. Morrow may, remotely, help her. More probably it will disturb her further. I wanted this to be clear before I see her.”
“Under those conditions, I’m sure Dr. Goodrich will refuse to let you see her.”
“Perhaps not.” He turned his head and seemed to be contemplating the brown-leather furniture of the waiting room. But perhaps he will refuse, Sands thought, and in that case I’ll have to tell him what I know. But what to tell?
The picture wasn’t clear, the only real figure in it was Lucille herself haunted by dreams and driven by the devils locked up in her own heart. The rest of the picture was in shadow, blurred stealthy shapes merging into darkness, a face (Greeley’s?), a finger, a hump in the snow (Mildred?).
“Well, Dr. Goodrich will be here any minute,” Miss Scott said and moved toward the door, glad to return to the world of unreason where everything was, in the long run, much simpler.
She stopped at the parcel desk to pick up the gifts for her suite. Everything, even the flowers, had been opened, inspected, and done up again.
Chocolates for Cora. Flowers and a basket of fruit and a bed-jacket for Mrs. Morrow, the morning newspaper, no longer a newspaper but merely selected items clipped and pasted on a piece of cardboard. Mrs. Hammond’s daily box of food from her family. The Yiddish delicacies looked very tempting and Miss Scott had often wanted to taste some but Mrs. Hammond always grabbed the box and disappeared with it into the bathroom.
It was an unwritten rule that Cora should get the newspaper first and complain of it.
“Why I can’t have a decent ordinary paper is more than I can say,” Cora said.
“Now, Cora,” Miss Scott said, “look at the goodies you got.”
“I loathe chocolates. Will Janet never learn?”
“We’re a little cross this morning, aren’t we?”
“Oh, really!” Cora said, half-laughing in exasperation. “What are the other parcels?”
“For Mrs. Morrow. Here you are, Mrs. Morrow.”
“Thank you,” Lucille said in a frozen polite voice. “Thank you very much.”
She didn’t put out her hand to take the parcels, so Miss Scott herself opened them, making happy noises as she worked.
“Hm! A bed-jacket. Look, Mrs. Morrow. It matches your eyes almost exactly. We’re going to look lovely in it.”
“Certainly,” Cora said. “You in one sleeve and Lucille in the other.”
“Now, Cora,” Miss Scott said in reproof.
“If I were running this place I would insist on some form of intelligent communication.”
Quite unruffled, Miss Scott unwrapped the flowers, and the basket of Malaga grapes. “Shall I read the cards to you? Well, the bed-jacket is from Edith. ‘Lucille dear, I know this is your favorite...”
“Don’t bother,” Lucille said.
“ ‘...color and how it becomes you. Love from Edith.’ The grapes are from Polly, with love. And your husband sent the flowers. ‘Remember we are all behind you. Andrew.’ Aren’t they sweet little mums?”
“Yes,” Lucille said. Sweet little mums, little secret faces with shaggy hair drooping over them, sweet flowers, a rosebud of cancer on a breast, a blue bloated grape, drowned woman, bile-green leaves, cold, doomed, grow no more.
“Yes,” Lucille said. “Thank you very much.”
But Miss Scott was gone, and so was Cora. How had they gotten out without her seeing them go? She was watching and listening, wasn’t she? How long ago was it? How long had she been alone?
Her eyes fell on the flowers. The flowers, yes. She didn’t like them looking at her. She may have missed Cora and Miss Scott leaving the room, but she was perfectly rational about this. The roses had squeezed-up sly little faces. You couldn’t see the eyes but of course they were there. Weren’t they? Look into one. Take it apart and you will find the eyes.
The torn petals fell softly as snowflakes.
“Why, Mrs. Morrow, you’re not going to tear up your lovely flowers,” Miss Scott said. “My goodness, I should say not.”
Had she been gone and come back again? Or had she never left at all? No, she must have left, I’m quite rational; it’s perfectly sensible to look for eyes if you think they’re there.
Miss Scott was moving the flowers, taking away the rosebuds and the shaggy-haired chrysanthemum children. Miss Scott was talking. Was she saying “We mustn’t tear our lovely children”? What silly things she said sometimes/As if anyone would tear a child.
“Come along, Mrs. Morrow. Miss Parsons will take you down to Dr. Goodrich’s office. That’s right, dear, come along.”
Docile, a bruised petal still between her fingers, Lucille moved out into the hall.
Cora looked coldly across the room at Miss Scott.
“Is it possible to talk sense to you?”
“Oh, come off it, Cora,” Miss Scott said. “None of that.”
“I wondered.”
“Talk if you want to.”
“I shall,” Cora said. “In the meager hope that something will get across. Mrs. Morrow is deathly afraid.”
“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” Miss Scott said thoughtfully.
“She’s afraid of her family. She told me last night. One of them is trying to kill her.”
“Oh, come, Cora. I thought you had too much sense to believe...”
“I believe her,” Cora said.
“Don’t worry your pretty head about it. She’s in good hands, she’s safe here, even if it’s true. Come, cheer up. The superintendent will be around in a few minutes and you wouldn’t want him to see you down in the dumps like this.”
“Have you ever been afraid, really afraid?”
“I don’t remember. Besides, why would anyone want to kill Mrs. Morrow?”
“I’ve been afraid,” Cora said. “For Janet’s sake. When the epidemic of flu was on after the last war...”
“Get your hair combed, dear. You look a sight. Dr. Nathan will be disappointed in you.”
Lucille knew that Sands’ face was one of the thousands of little faces that pursued her with silent shrieks through dreams and half-dreams. But she could not remember where he fitted in, and even when he told her his name she merely felt, vaguely, that he was a part of fear and death. Yet it didn’t frighten her. She knew that he was on her side — more than Dr. Goodrich, or the nurses — he looked at her evenly, without embarrassment, and his face seemed to be saying: I know fear and I respect its power, but I am not afraid.
She looked into his eyes and quite suddenly he began to recede, to get smaller and smaller until he was no bigger than a doll. She remembered this happening to her as a child, when she was looking at something she especially loved or feared. The experience had always filled her with terror. (“I am awake, I am truly awake, it can’t be happening, I haven’t moved, nothing has changed.” “It was only a dream, dear.” “I am really awake.” “Only a dream.”)