Sands. Ugly little old doll. How wonderfully he was made. Almost human, the way he moved.
“I am not feeling very well,” she said in a strong clear voice.
“Did you hear me, Mrs. Morrow?”
“Oh, yes... Oh, yes.”
“We’ve found the parcel you threw into the lake.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did you throw it away, or did Greeley?”
He came back, life-size.
“Greeley?” Lucille said.
“He may not have used that name. Will you look at this, please, Mrs. Morrow? Is this the man?”
He held out a picture and she looked at it, blinking slowly, trying to control the expression of her face. Her mind seemed to be working with extraordinary clarity. (I could pretend not to recognize the picture. But perhaps they can prove I knew him. I’ll admit I know him, but nothing else, nothing else...)
“This is Greeley,” Sands said. “He was the man who waited for you across the street from the hairdressing shop. He is dead.”
“Dead?”
She had a sudden wild surge of hope. If this man was dead she had a chance. She would get out of here, she would fight.
“He was murdered,” Sands said.
The hope drained out of her body like blood from a wound. Her hands were icy, and her face had a stupid dazed expression.
“I am not trying to harry you, Mrs. Morrow, but to protect you. Someone has taken the trouble to kill Greeley on your account. Greeley was in the way — of something. Greeley was between you — and someone.” His voice pressed, relentless, on her ears. “Who wants you dead?”
To frighten her, Sands thought, enough, but not too much...
“If I knew,” Lucille said. “If I knew...”
“You know why.”
“No.”
“You gave Greeley fifty dollars?”
(“Here, take this, it’s all I’ve got.” The little man grinning as if the bitter wind had swept up the comers of his mouth. “I figured on more, I figure it’s worth it.”
“I’ll get it for you.” The wind piercing her thin coat. “Now wait a minute, I ain’t been standing around here for my health. I know what was in that box. I looked.”
“Who gave it to you? Who told you to bring it to me?”
“Offhand like this I can’t remember.” The grin again, though he looked cold and sick and ready to drop in his tracks. “I’ll get more for you.”)
“No,” she said.
“One of your maids has already identified Greeley as the man who brought the box to your house. If I am to help you, Mrs. Morrow, I must know what was behind this thing. It is too crude and grotesque for a joke. And too dangerous to lie about.”
She shivered. She could still feel the wind. It seemed to be blowing at her back, pushing her along toward the water, into the water. She felt an icy wave roll against her leg, and her forehead was bathed in sweat. Her head lolled and her mouth opened, sucking in the rush of water.
There was a movement in the room, a hand touching her lightly on the shoulder, Dr. Goodrich’s voice saying, “That will be all, I think, for today,” and Miss Parsons wiping off her forehead with a cloth.
At the door Lucille turned around. Sands was still watching her.
“Good-bye,” she said clearly.
She gave him an intelligent, almost apologetic glance, as if she felt even yet the strange alliance between them. You and I — we both have secrets — there isn’t time to tell them.
“Good-bye,” Sands said.
She moved, heavily, out into the corridor. Beside her Miss Parsons chattered, trying to imitate Miss Scott and doing it badly.
Up the incline, past an old man bundled in a wheelchair who peered at her suspiciously over his blankets. A door. A girl sweeping the corridor, moving the broom in perfect unfaltering rhythm over the same spot of floor.
“Come, Doris,” Miss Parsons said. “Let’s do this corner now.”
But Miss Parsons lacked Miss Scott’s assurance. The girl Doris didn’t look up or pause a second in her sweeping.
Miss Parsons hesitated and walked on. I’ll go crazy if I have to stay here, she thought, I’ll go crazy.
She locked the last door behind her and led Lucille into her room. Breathing hard, she came out again and handed the big key over to Miss Scott.
“Everything all right?” Miss Scott said.
“Fine.”
“What’s the matter with you? You look done in.”
“Jitters,” Miss Parsons said. “Creeps. Whatever you want to call them.”
“Cheer up. We all get them.”
“When I think how many nurses actually end up here...”
“Well, for that matter,” Miss Scott said practically, “look at how many of everything end up here, doctors, teachers, lawyers...”
“But more nurses.”
“Oh, nuts,” said Miss Scott.” Count your blessings. This is the nicest ward in the hospital to work in. Should be, at the prices they pay and with me iii charge.”
“Even so.”
“Oh, cheer up, Parsons.” She smiled kindly, and instantly became businesslike again. “I’ll get the word down to O.T. Mrs. Hammond stays up here. Dr. Nathan says she may have to be put in the continuous bath. Next week they’re going to try metrazol on her.”
Miss Parsons bit her lip. “Gosh, I hope — I hope I don’t have to assist. Last year I saw a woman break both her legs in a treatment — the noise...”
“That’s all changed now,” Miss Scott said. “They use a curare injection to relax the muscles. It’s quite marv—” She turned her head suddenly. Her alert ears had picked up a sound from Mrs. Morrow’s room, like a retch or a low grunt.
Pushing Miss Parsons out of her way she ran noiselessly down the corridor. Mrs. Morrow might be sick again, as she was yesterday...
But Lucille was not sick. She was standing just inside the door, saying over and over again in a blank voice, “Cora? Cora? Cora?”
Cora Green was lying on the floor. She had fallen forward on her face with her hands outstretched, and spilled around her were blue grapes like broken beads.
“Why, Cora,” said Miss Scott.
She knelt down.
Why, Cora, you’re dead.
Chapter 9
Quietly and quickly Miss Scott walked back to Lucille, thrust her out into the hall and locked the door.
“Come along, Mrs. Morrow. Let’s find another room, shall we?”
(A door opened in Lucille’s mind, and out popped Cora, giggling, “Really! Isn’t she absurd?”)
“Cora’s not feeling well.” There was a lilt in Miss Scott’s voice, but the pressure of her fingers was businesslike. “She’s had these attacks before. They always pass off.”
(Absurd, absurd, screamed the little Cora, hilariously. Really, oh, really, really.)
“Oh, Miss Parsons, would you mind calling Dr. Laverne? Miss Green is ill.”
In fact, said Miss Scott’s wriggling eyebrow, Miss Green is deader than a doornail but let’s keep it from the children.
“Oh,” said Miss Parsons, paling. “Of course. Right away.”
She fumbled for the telephone.
“Now, let me see, Mrs. Morrow,” Miss Scott said. “It’s just about time for O.T., isn’t it? Are we all ready to go down?”
(The little Cora doubled up with mirth, her hands at her throat, choking with laughter. Choking... “Cora! Cora, you’re poisoned — Cora.” Cora went right on choking.)
“She was poisoned. In the grapes. They killed her,” Lucille said. The words were clear cut in her brain, but they had lost their outlines in traveling to her tongue, and came out as a muffled jumble of syllables.