There were bruises on his round face and he was extensively taped and bandaged, but he was able to press the control that lowered and raised his bed, to manipulate the channel selector for the television on the opposite wall, and, with slightly more difficulty, to answer the telephone on his bed table.
Eyes are the windows of the soul, someone once said, but Sigrid had never recognized the truth of that remark until she saw the friendly intelligence shining in Tillie's gaze and remembered the blank stare she'd seen there Saturday.
"Marian told me you'd been hurt, too," he said when greetings were over and Alan Knight had been introduced.
"It's healing properly," Sigrid said. She'd stopped by the doctor's on their way over and he'd put on fresh dressings. "What about you?"
"You know what they say-it only hurts when I laugh. As long as I'm still, it's okay. Everything feels tight. And I keep falling asleep. That's the concussion, I guess."
"Do you remember much about Friday night?"
"Everything. The doctor says some people don't with a concussion, but I do."
Methodically, Tillie reconstructed the whole evening, beginning with the lamb chops he'd had for dinner after Sigrid dropped him off at the Maintenon Friday night and ending with groping under the table to find the peg Commander Dixon had dropped.
"How is she?" he asked. "The paper said she was in critical condition, too."
"We'll probably go over when we leave here," Alan Knight said. "She wasn't quite as lucky as you, Detective Tildon. They had to amputate her right arm."
"Oh, Jesus!" Tillie said, shocked. "She was so nice. Beautiful, too. That red dress. When I read her name on the seating chart, I thought she'd be a man, of course. Commander T. J. Dixon. And she laughed and asked did I expect someone with tattoos up and down his arms."
His voice wavered and his eyes became watery. "Her arms were so white and smooth."
Sigrid knew how close to the surface lay the emotions of someone seriously ill or wounded. "Tillie-" she said helplessly.
"We've brought you all the notes of our interviews," Knight interposed smoothly. "Lieutenant Harald said you'll spot whatever we might be missing."
Tillie was diverted. "Did she?"
He listened quietly while they went through the notes, explained to him the diagrams and photographs, and discussed who had alibis and who didn't. He agreed with Sigrid that a Red Snow connection seemed more likely than a KGB plot or a girlish attempt to speed up an inheritance, and discounted the possibility that the bomb had been meant for him or Commander Dixon, "After going to that much trouble, they wouldn't put the rigged board at the wrong place."
A nurse came in as he spoke and asked if they would mind waiting outside in the hall.
"We've finished," Sigrid said, thinking that Tillie looked too tired to continue anyhow. She got to her feet. "Don't try to do too much, Tillie. Just get better."
"Don't worry, Lieutenant," he said, leaning back into the pillows. "I'll be out of here soon."
They went down a modern hallway painted turquoise and white, but the smells were old-fashioned regulation hospital, a blend of disinfectants, antiseptics, and floor wax.
"I hate these places," said Knight.
"Morgues are worse," Sigrid told him.
Commander Dixon's hospital lay across town and while Petty Officer Schmitt made child's play out of mid-day traffic,
Alan Knight fretted about arriving empty-handed.
"We ought to take her something," he said for the third time. "What about magazines?"
"Hospital volunteers provide them. What about flowers?"
"Flowers are a cliché."
"Clichés don't become clichés unless a lot of people like them," Sigrid observed calmly.
"You were just in the hospital. What did you miss most?"
"I wasn't in long enough to miss anything, but I was laid up at school once with a broken leg and someone brought me a back scratcher. You know, one of those little hands carved out of a long piece of rattan or bamboo? It was the most practical thing they gave me. I could even slide it down inside the cast."
Knight leaned forward. "There's a Japanese place off Fifth Avenue," he told Schmitt. "Two more blocks and hang a left."
"Yes, sir."
While Alan Knight rattled around at the rear of the store for a back scratcher, Sigrid discovered a shelf of snow domes, those crystal balls usually filled with flecks of white that children love to shake, then watch as the flecks settle over a wintry scene like falling snow. These were like none she'd ever seen. Instead of a fir tree or a snowman, the glass ball held a miniature cherry tree in full bloom; and when she shook it, tiny flecks of pink swirled like drifting blossoms.
Charmed, Sigrid bought one, thinking it might amuse Commander Dixon. As she paid. Knight emerged triumphantly from the rear of the store with a small plastic hand fastened to quite a long bamboo stick and a kaleidoscope.
"I always liked these," he confessed, looking more like five than twenty-five and making Sigrid smile.
As it was now nearly two o'clock, Schmitt was encouraged to double-park at the
corner of Eighth and West Fiftieth and hop out for a round of frankfurters from a pushcart.
"Sauerkraut or onions, ma'am?" he asked.
"Sauerkraut, please."
"Onions for me, Schmitty," said Knight, "and get yourself a couple, too."
Sabrett frankfurters are the smell of New York and their redolence filled the car as Alan Knight waxed nostalgic about Southern hot dogs, the buns stuffed with chili, cole slaw, and finely chopped raw onions. "Took me a long time to get used to pickled cabbage on my franks."
"I've eaten what the South calls a frankfurter," Sigrid said. "Fire-engine red, limp and mushy, no snap to the casing. Give me these any day."
An amiable argument about the merits of regional foods lasted almost to the hospital. It served as well as anything else to distract them from the interview that lay ahead, but both had fallen silent by the time Petty Officer Schmitt pulled up to the entrance of a grim, soot-stained building erected in the twenties.
Alan Knight lagged behind as Sigrida pproached the main desk to ask directions.
"I'll be back in a minute," he said.
It was more than a minute and Sigrid was becoming impatient when he returned from the gift shop with a small, prettily wrapped box.
"Perfume," he said as they rode up in the elevator. "Just in case she needs to be reminded that she's still a beautiful woman."
And she was. Even with the cuts and bruises and the deep black circles under her eyes, the slender woman who lay sleeping on the steel-framed hospital bed possessed a more than average beauty. There was strength in the small pointed chin, intelligence in the sweep of her brow. She was said to have had short white hair that curled all over her head-'A nest of stork feathers,' was the way Vassily Ivanovich had put it-but smooth bandages now encased her head, reminding Sigrid of the white line band that nuns used to wear under their black veils to hide their hair.
She wore a bleached and faded hospital gown and the sight of it made a slow anger against Molly Baldwin begin to burn. Somehow Sigrid sensed how much Commander Dixon would hate that gown. Lacy lingerie and pretty negligees were Sigrid's secret self-indulgence, so surely a woman as feminine as Ivanovich and Tillie had described would have dozens of frilly gowns and bed jackets. Someone should have brought her her own things instead of sentencing her to this ugly cotton shift.
Damn that girl!
The gown had wide short sleeves and the bandaged stub could be clearly seen. Commander Dixon's arm ended halfway between her elbow and shoulder.
No elbow joint, Sigrid thought numbly. She had hoped the surgeons had saved it. Without the elbow, any prosthetic device would probably be clumsier and bulkier.