"I came because I had to prove to you that I would not willingly harm Mrs. Randall," he said simply. "If I have done so unknowingly, I want to do what I can to make restitution."
"It’s too late for restitution!"
"But, Mr. Randall—why do you think that I have done anything to your wife? I don’t see how I could have—not yesterday morning." He stopped and looked hopelessly at Randall’s stony face. "You wouldn’t shoot a dog without a fair trial—would you?"
Randall chewed his lip in an agony of indecision. Listening to him, the man seemed so damned decent— He threw the door open wide. "Come in," he said gruffly.
"Thank you, Mr. Randall." Hoag came in diffidently. Randall started to close the door.
"Your name Randall?" Another man, a stranger, stood in the door, loaded with bundles.
"Yes," Randall admitted, fishing in his pocket for change. "How did you get in?"
"Came in with him," the man said, pointing at Hoag, "but I got off at the wrong floor. The beer is cold, chief," he added ingratiatingly. "Right off the ice."
"Thanks." Randall added a dime to the half dollar and closed the door on him. He picked the bundles up from the floor and started for the kitchen. He would have some of that beer now, he decided; there was never a time when he needed it more. After putting the packages down in the kitchen he took out one of the cans, fumbled in the drawer for an opener, and prepared to open it.
A movement caught his eye—Hoag, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other. Randall had not invited him to sit down; he was still standing. "Sit down!"
"Thank you." Hoag sat down.
Randall turned back to his beer. But the incident had reminded him of the other’s presence; he found himself caught in the habit of good manners; it was almost impossible for him to pour himself a beer and offer none to a guest, no matter how unwelcome.
He hesitated just a moment, then thought, Shucks, it can’t hurt either Cynthia or me to let him have a can of beer. "Do you drink beer?"
"Yes, thank you." As a matter of fact Hoag rarely drank beer, preferring to reserve his palate for the subtleties of wines, but at the moment he would probably have said yes to synthetic gin, or ditch water, if Randall had offered it.
Randall brought in the glasses, put them down, then went into the bedroom, opening the door for the purpose just enough to let him slip in. Cynthia was just as he had come to expect her to be. He shifted her position a trifle, in the belief that any position grows tiring even to a person unconscious, then smoothed the coverlet. He looked at her and thought about Hoag and Potbury’s warnings against Hoag. Was Hoag as dangerous as the doctor seemed to think? Was he, Randall, even now laying into his hands?
No, Hoag could not hurt him now. When the worst has happened any change is an improvement. The death of both of them—or even Cyn’s death alone, for then he would simply follow her. That he had decided earlier in the day—and he didn’t give a damn who called it cowardly!
No—if Hoag were responsible for this, at least he had shot his bolt. He went back into the living room.
Hoag’s beer was still untouched. "Drink up," Randall invited, sitting down and reaching for his own glass. Hoag complied, having the good sense not to offer a toast nor even to raise his glass in the gesture of one. Randall looked him over with tired curiosity. "I don’t understand you, Hoag."
"I don’t understand myself, Mr. Randall."
"Why did you come here?"
Hoag spread his hands helplessly. "To inquire about Mrs. Randall. To find out what it is that I have done to her. To make up for it, if I can."
"You admit you did it?"
"No, Mr. Randall. No. I don’t see how I could possibly have done anything to Mrs. Randall yesterday morning—"
"You forget that I saw you."
"But— What did I do?"
"You cornered Mrs. Randall in a corridor of the Midway-Copton Building and tried to choke her."
"Oh, dear! But—you saw me do this?"
"No, not exactly. I was—" Randall stopped, realizing how it was going to sound to tell Hoag that he had not seen him in one part of the building because he was busy watching Hoag in another part of the building.
"Go on, Mr. Randall, please."
Randall got nervously to his feet. "It’s no use," he snapped. "I don’t know what you did. I don’t know that you did anything! All I know is this: Since the first day you walked in that door, odd things have been happening to my wife and me—evil things—and now she’s lying in there as if she were dead. She’s—" He stopped and covered his face with his hands.
He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. "Mr. Randall ... please, Mr. Randall. I’m sorry and I would like to help."
"I don’t know how anyone can help—unless you know some way of waking up my wife. Do you, Mr. Hoag?"
Hoag shook his head slowly. "I’m afraid I don’t. Tell me—what is the matter with her? I don’t know yet."
"There isn’t much to tell. She didn’t wake up this morning. She acts as if she never would wake up."
"You’re sure she’s not ... dead?"
"No, she’s not dead."
"You had a doctor, of course. What did he say?"
"He told me not to move her and to watch her closely."
"Yes, but what did he say was the matter with her?"
"He called it lethargica gravis."
"Lethargica gravis! Was that all he called it?"
"Yes—why?"
"But didn’t he attempt to diagnose it?"
"That was his diagnosis—lethargica gravis."
Hoag still seemed puzzled. "But, Mr. Randall, that isn’t a diagnosis; it is just a pompous way of saying ‘heavy sleep.’ It really doesn’t mean anything. It’s like telling a man with skin trouble that he has dermatitis, or a man with stomach trouble that he has gastritis. What tests did he make?"
"Uh ... I don’t know. I—"
"Did he take a sample with a stomach pump?"
"No."
"X ray?"
"No, there wasn’t any way to."
"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Randall, that a doctor just walked in, took a look at her, and walked out again, without doing anything for her, or applying any tests, or bringing in a consulting opinion? Was he your family doctor?"
"No," Randall said miserably. "I’m afraid I don’t know much about doctors. We never need one. But you ought to know whether he’s any good or not—it was Potbury."
"Potbury? You mean the Dr. Potbury I consulted? How did you happen to pick him?"
"Well, we didn’t know any doctors—and we had been to see him, checking up on your story. What have you got against Potbury?"
"Nothing, really. He was rude to me—or so I thought."
"Well, then, what’s he got against you?"
"I don’t see how he could have anything against me," Hoag answered in puzzled tones. "I only saw him once. Except, of course, the matter of the analysis. Though why he should—" He shrugged helplessly.
"You mean about the stuff under your nails? I thought that was just a song and dance."
"No."
"Anyhow it couldn’t be just that. After all the things he said about you."
"What did he say about me?"
"He said—" Randall stopped, realizing that Potbury had not said anything specific against Hoag; it had been entirely what he did not say. "It wasn’t so much what he said; it was how he felt about you. He hates you, Hoag—and he is afraid of you."
"Afraid of me?" Hoag smiled feebly, as if he were sure Randall must be joking.
"He didn’t say so, but it was plain as daylight."
Hoag shook his head. "I don’t understand it. I’m more used to being afraid of people than of having them afraid of me. Wait—did he tell you the results of the analysis he made for me?"
"No. Say, that reminds me of the queerest thing of all about you, Hoag." He broke off, thinking of the impossible adventure of the thirteenth floor. "Are you a hypnotist?"
"Gracious, no! Why do you ask?"
Randall told him the story of their first attempt to shadow him. Hoag kept quiet through the recital, his face intent and bewildered. "And that’s the size of it," Randall concluded emphatically. "No thirteenth floor, no Detheridge & Co., no nothing! And yet I remember every detail of it as plainly as I see your face."