The tears were still there in eyes that were large and dark. "I don't see all those things at all," she said simply.
I took her hands away and held them. "You're all mixed up. So I did you a favor. I'll do one more. Keep it that way. Just say thanks and let it go."
She smiled, wiped back the tears that stained her cheeks, and said, "You're mixed up. If you think I'm going to let go of you just when I found you, then you're really mixed up."
Her hand came up and lightly stroked the side of my face. "There isn't any more past for either one of us. There is only now and later. Alone neither of us will be anything. Together we can be much. I want you, Phil."
This time I didn't try to keep her off.
Softly, she said, "Phil . . . I love you."
There wasn't any need to answer her. She knew. . . .
The Mayberry Sanatorium was a private institution 30 miles outside the city. It was a two-story, brick building set in the center of 15 acres and had been the private retreat of the wealthy for the past half century.
I had been up there a few times interviewing patients for the paper, and as far as I knew it had an excellent reputation. The head nurse was a Miss Mulligan, a good 60 years a spinster lady, but quick as a roach on her feet and with eyes that could snap the tail off a cat across a stone stoop.
For a moment I thought she remembered me, but the curiosity in her face passed and she acknowledged our introduction with a nod. I said, "A Mr. Litvak called here earlier for some information on a former patient."
"That's right. A police matter about Massley. That was some time ago."
"You gave him the information."
"I did."
"I see. Perhaps you can add a few points. Mr. Litvak said that the case had been handled very quietly."
"Secretly would be more like it."
"Did you see the patient?"
"Several times."
"He was . . . sick?"
This time her eyebrows shot up, then she saw what I meant. "We do get patients doing nothing more than recovering from prolonged drunkenness, or merely escaping from an unattractive home life or unpleasant business, but Mr. Massley certainly wasn't like that."
"Why not?"
"If you're going to feign sickness, there are easier and less expensive ways than faking polio."
"Uh-huh. Could be. Did you see him out of the lung?"
"Yes. I passed by when he was being handled. He was able to stay out a maximum of 30 minutes. However, neither I nor any staff nurse handled him. He had his own nurse."
"Who was she, do you remember?"
She rose, went to a wall cabinet, and opened the top drawer. From it she drew a folder, checked it, then handed it to me. "Everything is here."
The name at the top was Elena Harris. The hospital form she had filled out listed her age as 32, her address in the East 70s, and stated that she had graduated from a southern university and served at six different hospitals since. A letter of recommendation was included, written on Dr. Hoyt's stationery. At the bottom was a 2x2 photo of Nurse Harris that was typical of identification photographs in all respects except one. No camera and no uniform could make her anything else than beautiful. "Pretty," I said.
"That was her trouble." There was no malice in her statement, merely indifference.
I tapped the photo. "She seems familiar."
"Possibly. She was a type."
"Like how?"
"One to turn men's heads. She was a distracting influence while she was here."
"That was her trouble you mentioned?"
Miss Mulligan's nod was curt, again without any seeming malice. "She caused . . . well, rivalries, especially among the younger doctors."
"Deliberately?"
"No, I wouldn't say it was deliberate."
"Was she efficient?"
"I found no cause for complaint. Certainly Mr. Massley was satisfied. She scarcely ever left him. In fact, she was more than nurse to him."
"Oh?" I looked at her and waited.
"She took care of all his correspondence and seemed to be the intermediary between him and his business contacts. There were times when she acted rather the secretary than the nurse."
"You checked on her, of course."
"Naturally. In fact, she had an excellent scholastic record. As you notice, however, Mr. Massley was her first case in four years, although that isn't anything unusual. Quite often one returns to practice for private patients."
"I see. Can I keep this picture?"
"Yes. We have a duplicate upstairs."
"Thanks. Now, if it's within the realm of professional ethics, you might add something."
"We'll see."
"What is your personal opinion of Miss Harris?" At first I thought she would ignore the question entirely, then she said, "Could you give me a practical reason for your inquiry?"
Her eyes had seen a little too much of the world to be fooled by a lie or taken in by half-truths.
I said, "Massley was a hood. When he died he left behind information dangerous to certain persons. They think Massley's daughter has his documents and she's in line to be killed unless I can find them first. It's possible that anyone who was close to Massley could come up with something." I paused for a deep breath. "Now, what about her?"
Miss Mulligan's mouth tightened into a thin line, her nostrils pinched tight above it. "I see. Then perhaps my opinion won't be unethical. I mentioned that Harris was first, a nurse. Secondly, she was a confidante of a sort. Third, in her personal relationship with Mr. Massley I had the impression that he had been, or was, her lover."
"How did you determine that?"
For the first time Miss Mulligan showed the dull flush of emotion kept well under control. Her blush was faint, but definite. Her eyes left mine and sought her desktop.
"Our rooms do not have locks on the doors," she said a little breathlessly.
"I see. Were they aware that you happened on their . . . intimacies?"
A gentle whisper of a shudder touched Mulligan's shoulders and with a faraway gesture her tongue touched her lips, almost wistfully. "No," she said hesitantly. "They were . . . engrossed."
"But the lung . . . ?"
"What they . . . the lung didn't . . ." Then the deep red flooded up from her starched collar and she turned away quickly.
I let it stay there. Whatever could bring a flush to her face needed little further explanation.
I thanked her, but I don't think she heard me. I slipped the picture of Elena Harris in my jacket pocket, picked up my hat, and left. There was still a half hour before train time back into Manhattan, so I wasted it over coffee at the station diner.
From Grand Central I called Terry and had her meet me for supper at Lum Fong's. The junior executive crowd was there at the bar as usual, the deliberately casual eyes that scanned us via the big mirror showing almost professional consternation because they couldn't figure how a guy like me had a dame like her.
"You're lovely, doll," I told her. "Everybody here has eyes for you."
"You like it that way?"
She smiled, but now it was to hide the concern that came back again. "Is the trouble still big?"
"It's big." I told her most of the details of my visit with Miss Mulligan, then. "It could get bigger. Look, how much money can you get hold of fast?"
"I have $1,500 in traveler's checks at the hotel. Why?"
"I want to go to Phoenix. Phoenix is where your father . . . supposedly died. There may be some answers there. Now, do I get financed?"