The Wheel Spins (21 page)

“Perhaps we had better come at once to see my patient. I’m sorry that your dinner should be spoiled, professor. But the young lady is in a very highly-strung condition. It may be—safer—to try and reassure her.”

Wearing the expression of a martyr to his sense of justice, the professor unfolded himself from his seat. Once again the little procession staggered in single file down the corridors of the reeling train. As they neared the end, Hare turned and spoke to Iris in a fierce whisper.

“Don’t be a blasted fool and start anything.”

Her heart sank as she realised that his advice was too late.

The nursing-sister was already displaying her hand for the benefit of the doctor and the professor. Iris noticed vaguely that she had wound a handkerchief around her wrist as though she wished to conceal it from too close a scrutiny.

Then the doctor turned to her and spoke in soothing-syrupy accents.

“My dear young lady, wasn’t it rather—impetuous—to burn my poor nurse? And all because she offered you a harmless tablet to relieve the pain of your head. See, professor, how her face twitches.”

Iris shrank as he touched her forehead with a cold forefinger to illustrate his meaning.

Suddenly she remembered that when one is losing a defensive game, the only hope is to attack. Plucking up her courage, she managed to steady her voice.

“I cannot be sorry enough about the burn. It’s no excuse to say I was hysterical. But there was some excuse for my being so. There is so much that I cannot understand.”

The doctor accepted her challenge.

“Such as—?” he asked.

“Well, the professor tells me you offered to take me to a nursing home at Trieste.”

“The offer is still open.”

“Yet you are supposed to be rushing a patient to hospital for a dangerous operation. How could you possible bother yourself with a complete stranger? It makes one wonder exactly how serious her injuries are. Or if she has any at all.”

The doctor stroked his beard.

“My offer was made merely to relieve the professor of an unwelcome responsibility, which is in my line and not in his. But I am afraid that you exaggerate your own importance. My intention was to give you a seat in the ambulance which took us to the hospital. After we had gone inside with our patient, the driver would follow his instructions and drive you to some recommended nursing home. It was not for professional service—but merely to give you a good night’s rest, so that you could continue your journey on the following day.”

The proposal sounded so reasonable that Iris could only fall back on her second question.

“Where is the other nurse?”

The doctor paused perceptibly before his reply.

“There is only one nurse.”

As she looked at his impassive face, further screened by his black spade-beard, Iris knew instinctively that it was useless to protest. The result would be the same—denials on every side. No one but herself would have seen that second nurse. Just as no one would accept Miss Froy’s signature as genuine—supposing that it had not been already destroyed by condensation.

The doctor spoke to the professor.

“I am sorry to detain you further,” he said, “but here is a young lady who believes very terrible things. We must try to convince her of her
delusions
.”

He crossed to the shrouded form of his patient and pulled up a corner of one of the rugs, displaying a neat pair of legs.

“Can you identify these stockings or these boots?” he asked.

Iris shook her head as she looked at the thick silk stockings and regulation brown calf single-strap shoes.

“You know I can’t,” she said. “But you might have better luck if you would raise just one bandage and let me see her face.”

The doctor grimaced with horror.

“Ah,” he said, “I see you do not understand. I must tell you something that is not pretty. Listen.” He touched the swathed forehead with a butterfly flick of his fingertips. “There is no face here at all.
No face
. Only lumps of raw flesh. Perhaps we shall make quite another face, if we are lucky. We shall see.”

His fingers moved on and hovered for a second over the bandage which covered the eyes of the figure.

“We await the oculist’s verdict on these,” he said. “Till then, we dare not expose them to a flicker of light. It may be total blindness, for one eye is but pulp. But science can work marvels.”

He smiled at Iris and continued.

“But most terrible of all is the injury to the brain. I will not describe it, for already you look sick. First of all we must attend to that. Afterwards—the rest, if the patient still lives.”

“I don’t believe you,” Iris told him. “It’s all lies.”

“In that case,” said the doctor smoothly, “you can convince yourself. You have only to tear one little strip of plaster from the face, to see. But if you do, I warn you that bleeding will start again and the patient will die instantly from shock. You will be charged with murder and you will be hanged. But since you are so sure of the face which is under these bandages, you will not hesitate.
Will
you tear off this strip?”

Iris felt Hare’s fingers closing over her arm, as she hesitated. Her instinct told her that the doctor was putting up a bluff, and that she ought to grasp at even the hundredth chance to save Miss Froy’s life.

Yet the doctor had done his work too well. The thought of that mutilated face spouting fountains of blood made her shrink back. Afterwards? The rope—or Broadmoor for life. It was too horrible a prospect to contemplate.

“I—I can’t,” she whispered.

“Ah,” sneered the doctor, “you talk, but you are not so brave.”

For the first time it struck Iris that he had never intended to risk his patient. Had he done so, he would have committed professional suicide. Both he and the nurse were on guard, to anticipate her movements.

All the same, he had some ulterior object in view, for he seemed disappointed.

At the time Iris was too sick at heart over her own cowardice to question further. She realised that she had two enemies in the carriage.

The doctor—and herself.

Iris started from her daze to realise that the professor was talking of dinner.

“If you would hurry back to the dining-car, Hare,” he said hopefully, “you might explain to the waiter that we’ve missed the fish course.”

“He’d only say it was ‘off,’” Hare told him. “They’ve got to rush the second dinner through before we make Trieste.”

“Tut, tut.” The professor clicked. “In that case, we had better return at once. Perhaps you would go on ahead and order extra portions of meat, since we’ve gone without our fish.”

“Not their fault. We walked out on the fish. But I’ll see what can be done about it.”

Hare checked himself and turned to Iris rather doubtfully.

“Do you mind?” he asked.

She gave an hysterical laugh, for it had just struck her that although the professor was confident of his ability to conduct her investigation, he could not risk his linguistic talent where vital interests were concerned.

“Go back, for pity’s sake,” she said. “Nothing matters but dinner, does it?”

The professor, whose lean face had brightened at the prospect of food, resented her reproach. Although famished, he felt he must defend his own reputation for meticulous justice.

“Are you being quite fair?” he asked. “We’ve paid a stiff price for a meal, so we are entitled to claim—at least—a portion of it. And you must admit we have not spared time or convenience in trying to convince you of your mistake.”

She shook her head, but she was oppressed by a weight of hopelessness. There seemed nothing more to be done to help Miss Froy. Any attempt at interference would only expose her to the risk of reprisal.

It was not cowardice alone that made her fear the power of the doctor, but common sense. Since she was the sole person on the train who believed in Miss Froy’s existence, it stood to reason that she could be of use to her only if she were a free agent.

Her one chance lay in convincing the professor that there was a real need of further investigation. Although she disliked him, he possessed those qualities which counted in such a crisis. He was pig-headed, coolly humane, and rigidly just. If he were morally certain that he was right, nothing could shake him, and he would plug away at his objective in face of all opposition.

It was bad luck that—at the moment—he was concentrating on his dinner.

Her curdled brain cleared just as he was about to leave the carriage.

“Professor,” she said, “if I’m right, when you get back to England you’ll read about a missing Englishwoman—Miss Froy. When you do, it will be too late to save her. Won’t it haunt you for the rest of your life, that you wouldn’t listen to me
now
?”

“I might regret it,” admitted the professor, “only the occasion is not likely to arise.”

“But if you’ll only do something—a very little thing—later you won’t have to be sorry at all. And you won’t have to cut short your dinner.”

“What is it that you want me to do?”

“Go with the doctor to the Trieste hospital and watch while a bandage or strip of plaster is removed. Just enough to show you that there is genuine injury.”

Although the professor was staggered by the suggestion, he considered it slowly with habitual conscientiousness. It encouraged Iris to follow up her advantage with a fresh argument.

“You must admit,
I
can do nothing. I’m not a lunatic and it might mean manslaughter. Besides, the doctor wouldn’t let me. So it boils down to this. His precious test means nothing at all.”

At her words, the first distrust of the doctor entered the professor’s mind. It was visible in his puckered face and drumming fingers. He always counted the cost before he entertained any project, although it was typical of his high sense of duty that it could not deter him.

In this case the drawbacks were numerous, the chief of which was finance. Although he was no spendthrift, his standard of living at Cambridge was only covered by his salary, and he had to encroach on his capital for holidays. To get a complete mental change he went away at least three times a year, so he had to practise economy.

As the most expensive part of this special trip was the long railway journey, he had booked through one of the cheaper tourist agencies which specialised in cut-prices. Therefore, his ticket would not admit his breaking the journey anywhere.

To make matters more difficult he was short of cash, since his dislike of communal travel had made him yield to the temptation of sharing a coupé with Hare on the return journey.

There was another and more urgent reason why he should not stop at Trieste for the night. Delay involved the sacrifice of a cherished engagement. He had been invited to spend the following week-end with an elderly peer—an intellectual recluse—who lived in a remote corner of Wales. If he reached England on Saturday, instead of Friday, it would be too late.

The doctor watched him closely as he frowned and tapped his cheek-bones.

“Is it not convenient for you to stop at Trieste?” he asked.

“Definitely inconvenient.”

“I am sorry. Because, in my own interest, I must beg of you to do what this young lady asks.”

“Why?” asked the professor, incensed by this double assault on his week-end.

“Because I am growing convinced that there must be some reason for this poor young lady’s distress. It is always ‘Miss Froy.’ Is that a common name in England, like ‘Smith’?”

“It is not familiar to me.”

“But she had heard it before—and in connection with some terrible experience. I do not know what has happened. But I
think
that there really is a lady called ‘Miss Froy,’ and that some harm has happened to her. I think, too, that this poor young lady knew, but the shock has driven away all memory.”

“Absurd,” interrupted Iris. I won’t—”

“Shut up,” whispered Hare fiercely.

He had listened with close attention, for he was beginning to wonder whether the doctor had not found the true explanation of Iris’ delusion. She had been unconscious until just before she managed to catch the train. Although the explanation was sunstroke, it might have been supplied through the agency of some interested person, who wanted to confuse her recollection.

“You will understand,” went on the doctor, “that I do not wish to be under any suspicion, if—later—a lady might be declared missing.”

“It’s a preposterous idea,” said the professor. “Besides, the hospital authorities would back you up.”

“But how am I to prove that it is
this
patient I bring to them, and not some substitute? But if you, professor, would accompany me to the hospital and wait for the surgeon’s initial examination, there can be no further question. It is your high reputation that I crave for my protection.”

The professor smiled bleakly, for he was very hungry. Although he was an excellent bridge player, he had no knowledge of poker. Consequently the doctor’s offer seemed to him proof positive that there was not even the flimsiest foundation for Iris’ fantastic theory.

“I think you are carrying professional caution too far,” he said. “Miss Carr”—unlike Hare, he was used to memorising names—“has declared that she went to the dining-car with one lady whom she called ‘Miss Froy’—and that lady has since been identified as a Miss Kummer. She is not well, which accounts for her mistake. In the circumstances, there is no shred of evidence that the real Miss Froy—if there is such a person—is on the train at all.”

“Then, in case of future trouble, may I apply to you to support any statement I might make?” asked the doctor.

“Certainly. I will give you my card.”

The professor wheeled round and turned dinnerwards.

Hare divined that Iris was on the verge of an explosion. Hitherto he had managed to restrain her by the warning pressure of his hand on her arm, but she was at the end of her patience.

“Don’t throw a scene,” he implored. “It’s no good. Come back to the coop.”

Instead of obeying she raised her voice.

“
Miss Froy
. Can you hear me? Hold up your hand if you can.”