And over everything a film of black grime, old and inescapable, like the dirt on the window sill beside her.
She thought of that vacation, clean air and clear sunshine. Why stay in Chicago? What did the town have to justify its existence? One decent boulevard, one decent suburb to the north, priced for the rich, two universities and a lake. As for the rest, endless miles of depressing, dirty streets. The town was one big stockyard.
The apartments gave way to elevated-train yards; the train turned left and headed east. After a few minutes they got off at Stoney Island station; she was glad to be off it and free of that too-frank back view of everyday life, even though she exchanged it for the noise and seedy commercialism of Sixty-third Street.
Potbury’s office faced on the street, with an excellent view of the elevated and the trains. It was the sort of location in which a G. P. could be sure of a busy practice and equally sure of never being bothered by riches or fame. The stuffy little waiting room was crowded but the turnover was fast; they did not have long to wait.
Potbury looked them over as they came in. "Which one of you is the patient?" he asked. His manner was slightly testy.
They had planned to lead up to the subject of Hoag by using Cynthia’s fainting spell as an excuse for consultation; Potbury’s next remark queered the scheme, from Cynthia’s viewpoint. "Whichever one it is, the other can wait outside. I don’t like holding conventions."
"My wife—" Randall began. She clutched his arm.
"My wife and I," he went on smoothly, "want to ask you a couple of questions, doctor."
"Well? Speak up."
"You have a patient—a Mr. Hoag."
Potbury got up hastily, went to the reception-room door, and assured himself that it was closed tightly. He then stood and faced them, his back to the only exit. "What about—Hoag?" he said forebodingly.
Randall produced his credentials. "You can see for yourself that I am a proper inquiry agent," he said. "My wife is licensed, too."
"What do you have to do with—the man you mentioned?"
"We are conducting an investigation for him. Being a professional man yourself, you can appreciate that I prefer to be frank—"
"You work for him?"
"Yes and no. Specifically, we are trying to find out certain things about him, but he is aware that we are doing so; we aren’t going around behind his back. If you like, you can phone him and find out or yourself." Randall made the suggestion because it seemed necessary to make it; he hoped that Potbury would disregard it.
Potbury did so, but not in any reassuring manner. "Talk with him? Not if I can help it! What did you want to know about him?"
"A few days ago," Randall said carefully, "Hoag brought to you a substance to be analyzed. I want to find out what that substance was."
"Hrrumph! You reminded me a moment ago that we were both professional men; I am surprised that you should make such a request."
"I appreciate your viewpoint, doctor, and I know that a doctor’s knowledge of his patients is privileged. But in this case there is—"
"You wouldn’t want to know!"
Randall considered this. "I’ve seen a good deal of the seamy side of life, doctor, and I don’t think there is anything that can shock me any more. Do you hesitate to tell me in Mrs. Randall’s presence?"
Potbury looked him over quizzically, then surveyed Mrs. Randall. "You look like decent enough people," he conceded. "I suppose you do think you are beyond being shocked. But let me give you some advice. Apparently you are connected in some way with this man. Stay away from him! Don’t have anything to do with him. And don’t ask me what he had under his fingernails."
Cynthia suppressed a start. She had been keeping out of the conversation but following it carefully. As she remembered it, Teddy had made no mention of fingernails.
"Why, doctor?" Randall continued insistently.
Potbury was beginning to be annoyed. "You are a rather stupid young man, sir. Let me tell you this: If you know no more of this person than you appear to know, then you have no conception of the depths of beastliness possible in this world. In that you are lucky. It is much, much better never to know."
Randall hesitated, aware that the debate was going against him. Then he said, "Supposing you are right, doctor—how is it, if he is so vicious, you have not turned Hoag over to the police?"
"How do you know I haven’t? But I will answer that one, sir. No, I have not turned him over to the police, for the simple reason that it would do no good. The authorities have not had the wit nor the imagination to conceive of the possibility of the peculiar evil involved. No law can touch him—not in this day and age."
"What do you mean, ‘not in this day and age’?"
"Nothing. Disregard it. The subject is closed. You said something about your wife when you came in; did she wish to consult me about something?"
"It was nothing," Cynthia said hastily. "Nothing of importance."
"Just a pretext, eh?" He smiled almost jovially. "What was it?"
"Nothing. I fainted earlier today. But I’m all right now."
"Hm-m-m. You’re not expecting, are you? Your eyes don’t look like it. You look sound enough. A little anemic, perhaps. Fresh air and sunshine wouldn’t do any harm." He moved away from them and opened a white cabinet on the far wall; he busied himself with bottles for a moment. Presently he returned with a medicine glass filled with amber-brown liquid. "Here—drink this."
"What is it?"
"A tonic. It contains just enough of What Made the Preacher Dance to make you enjoy it."
Still she hesitated, looking to her husband. Potbury noticed it and remarked, "Don’t like to drink alone, eh? Well, one wouldn’t do us any harm, either." He returned to the cabinet and came back ith two more medicine glasses, one of which he handed to Randall. "Here’s to forgetting all unpleasant matters," he said. "Drink up!" He lifted his own glass to his lips and tossed it off.
Randall drank, Cynthia followed suit. It was not bad stuff, she thought. Something a little bitter in it, but the whiskey—it was whiskey, she concluded—covered up the taste. A bottle of that tonic might not do you any real good but it would make you feel better.
Potbury ushered them out. "If you have another fainting spell, Mrs. Randall, come back and see me and we’ll give you a thorough going over. In the meantime, don’t worry about matters you can’t help."
They took the last car of the train in returning and were able to pick a seat far away enough from other passengers for them to talk freely. "Whatja make of it?" he asked, as soon as they were seated.
She wrinkled her brow. "I don’t know, quite. He certainly doesn’t like Mr. Hoag, but he never said why."
"Um-m-m."
"What do you make of it, Teddy?"
"First, Potbury knows Hoag. Second, Potbury is very anxious that we know nothing about Hoag. Third, Potbury hates Hoag—and is afraid of him!"
"Huh? How do you figure that out?"
He smiled maddeningly. "Use the little gray cells, my sweet. I think I’m on to friend Potbury— and if he thinks he can scare me out of looking into what Hoag does with his spare time he’s got another think coming!"
Wisely, she decided not to argue it with him just then—they had been married quite some time.
At her request they went home instead of back to the office. "I don’t feel up to it. Teddy. If he wants to play with my typewriter, let him!"
"Still feeling rocky from the Brodie you pulled?" he asked anxiously.
"Kinda."