Unexpected Night (23 page)

“That was in the nature of a hint, wasn't it?”

“I didn't like the drawly way he talked. Had his head up, and looked down the sides of his nose.”

Gamadge laughed at this graphic description of Fred Barclay's technique when surprised or annoyed, and walked back to the Ocean House. He passed slowly along the row of cars, paused before an old green Dodge sedan, and leaning in through a window, gently pressed the horn. It emitted a thin, angry wail, very like a mosquito's. He went on into the hotel.

The lobby was a scene of moderate festivity. The log fire blazed merrily; four or five bridge tables were going; and several incoming guests were signing up at the desk. Gamadge stopped beside a table where Doctor Baines, Mrs. Baines, Mr. Macpherson and an elderly lady in a white shawl were finishing a rubber. He watched for a moment and then passed on to the stairs. Peabody and Waldo were hurrying about with bottles of ginger ale and clean ash trays, and Wilks, behind the counter, was doing a lively trade in chocolate bars and cigarettes. They all noticed him, and he nodded to each.

He climbed the stairs, and went down the corridor toward Number 22. Luggage was now piled in front of doors; a truck stood just within the fire escape, and Hoskins, from his rocking chair within the room, contemplated it gravely.

“All serene?” inquired Gamadge.

“Is now. We've had some baggage haulin'.”

“So I see. How is the Cowden party?”

“Not a peep out of 'em. The Barclays came about 8.15.”

“Still here?”

“Yes. The Colonel's in there with Mrs. Cowden; Waldo got him some ginger ale, 'bout an hour ago. Mrs. Barclay and the young feller have been playin' Russian bank in Room 17. It's been open, since they printed it.”

“I saw a light going in there.”

“Mr. Sanderson went to bed. He must be asleep by now—his light's off.”

“And nobody's been in or out by the fire escape, I suppose?”

“Nobody but the porters.”

“I see. Well, Hoskins, I'm sorry to have to tell you that you've been hoist by your own petard.”

Hoskins looked bewildered.

“They have fooled you to the top of your bent. I suppose that new porter was wearing the uniform they took away from this room while you were asleep. And I bet he was carrying something big on his shoulder, both times you saw him. I mean, when he left here soon after I did, and came back a little while ago.”

“What you talking about?”

“You didn't see his face, now did you?”

“I wouldn't say I did. I wasn't noticin'.”

“You might find out whether there
is
another porter.”

Gamadge left him wildly calling the office, and started back down the corridor. He paused in front of Room 19, the door of which was rattling; too bad, he thought; it might wake her. He felt in his pocket for a bit of paper or a card to use as a wedge, and suddenly realised that the door was not latched.

The almost imperceptible crack widened, closed, and widened again. Casting a glance up at the dark transom, he gently pushed the door open, and listened. The room was black, and at first he heard nothing; then, after a long interval, came a long, rasping breath. He fumbled for the switch, could not find it, and crossed the room in the direction of the bed table. He found the lamp, and jerked the light on.

The girl's face was dusky against the pillow, and it seemed ages before the harsh breath came again. He glanced swiftly at a small bottle and a medicine glass on the nightstand, and then tore Alma Cowden out of the bed, blankets and all. As he dashed out of the doorway, he had a dim impression of Hoskins standing in front of Number 22, with his mouth open; but he was not at the moment concerned with Hoskins. He ran down the corridor to the last room on the right, and assaulted the lower panel with his toe.

Doctor and Mrs. Baines came up behind him. Gamadge gasped: “Emergency,” waited while the doctor silently opened the door and put on the light, and then deposited Miss Cowden and her blankets on one of the twin beds. “I don't know what she's taken,” he said. “I'm going back for the bottle.”

Hoskins materialised in the doorway, peering over Mrs. Baines' broad shoulder. “I'll get it,” he said, and disappeared.

The doctor's bulk concealed the patient, as he bent over her. Presently he straightened and addressed his wife, who stood transfixed, her flowered silk skirts billowing about her in the draught from the hall:

“Come in and close the door, Mollie. Have we mustard? You didn't leave it at home just this once? Good. I want some mustard and warm water, and then you can start making coffee.”

Mrs. Baines shut the door behind her, and went into the bathroom. Baines turned to Gamadge. “Send down for the boy Waldo,” he ordered, and again bent over the figure on the bed.

Gamadge picked up the telephone and got the office. When he looked around, Hoskins was back in the room, offering the bottle and the glass to Baines.

“What's the matter with her?” Events had been too much for Hoskins; he looked terrified, as if feeling that he had been subjected to the machinations of some djinn.

“Juice of the poppy, in some form. What's this stuff?” He read from a hand-written label: “‘Orange-flower Water.' Where'd you find this?”

“On the table by her bed. And the glass, too.”

Baines squinted at the label again, removed the cork, and sniffed at the contents with an expression of extreme abhorrence.

“It appears to be a sickly syrup, unknown to the pharmacopœia. If it is some of Lulu Barclay's witches' brew, I'll make an example of her.”

“Mis' Barclay's been tryin' to give her medicine, all day,” chattered Hoskins.

“She would. How did you come to find the girl like this, Gamadge?”

“I knew she was keeping her door locked, saw that it was open, and investigated.”

“Lucky for her you did. Stuff ready, Mollie? Into the hall with you two, then. I'll be with you.”

Waldo rushed up, as they waited. Presently Baines came out, closing the door after him, and Gamadge asked: “Could you use a nurse, sir?”

“I could use three.”

“Miss Macpherson ought to be here by this time.”

“Excellent idea. You—what's your name?—Hoskins. Go and find Miss Macpherson. Quiet, now; no publicity.”

Hoskins again vanished. Baines had produced a fountain pen and tablets from some inner vastness of his coat, and wrote furiously. He then looked at Waldo, and asked: “Is your father at home, this evening?”

“Yes, sir. I think he is.”

“Has he a partner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get one or the other of them on the telephone; I want these things as soon as possible, and they'll have to be brought by somebody that won't talk about it. Can you read this writing?”

Waldo gazed at the sheet of paper which had been thrust under his nose, and said he could.

“Got a nickel? I want you to telephone from the booth.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Ask your father to call up the hospital he's connected with—Bailtown, is it?”

“Yes.”

“They're to send an ambulance. And if he can think of anything else to send besides the tube, the hypodermic, the atropine, and the permanganate of potash, I'll be obliged for it. He'll know the urgency of the case without your having to tell him. Off with you.”

Waldo sped away. Mrs. Baines, putting her head through the door, said: “Where's Eleanor Cowden? Have you told her?”

“I had no time, Mrs. Baines,” explained Gamadge.

“You must go and tell her now.”

Miss Macpherson, shepherded by Hoskins, came down the hall. She was a brawny, red-haired young woman, whose rocklike professional calm had not been affected by the facts that her hair was coming down, both her shoe-laces were untied, and her jumper sticking halfway down her broad torso. She tugged at it as she advanced.

“This is good of you, Miss Macpherson,” said Baines. “Emergency case. You stay around, Gamadge. When and if we get her on her feet, she'll have to be walked; and I can't do it. I'm too old, and I'm too fat.”

“Get Mrs. Cowden,” repeated Mrs. Baines, and Gamadge was left with Hoskins outside the door.

Hoskins looked utterly chopfallen. “Was it my fault?” he asked, anxiously.

“No, of course not. I should never have seen that the door was open myself, if I hadn't started to wedge it. I suppose whoever closed it last didn't spend that extra half second required to make sure that it was properly latched. These old locks are all loose.”

“And you could unlock 'em with a penknife or a nail file. I guess I must have turned my back, Mr. Gamadge. I'm awfully sorry. She looked pretty bad. Can they save her?”

“Don't ask me, I don't know. Baines said ‘if,' and that's bad. Funny we didn't bring the place around our ears.”

“Well, you have rubber soles, and my sneakers don't make any noise at all.”

“You stick around, will you? I have to break it to Mrs. Cowden, and we may need another doctor. Even she can't be expected to go on for ever without crashing.”

He knocked on the door of Room 21. The low-voiced conversation that he could hear through the transom ceased, and Mrs. Cowden's voice asked him to come in. She and the Colonel sat at her table, busy with lists and telegraph forms.

“Back already?” She looked up at him in surprise.

“Yes. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Cowden, but Doctor Baines wants me to tell you that Miss Cowden has taken some medicine, and it hasn't agreed with her.”

“Taken what?” She sat back, her face stiffening.

“Some medicine or other. She's in their room. He and Mrs. Baines are working on her, and they got hold of a nurse.”

She got up slowly, gripping the edge of the table. The Colonel rose also, his eyes protruding. “Now, Eleanor. Now, Eleanor,” he began, as she swayed a little.

“I'm all right. In the Baineses' room, you say?”

“Just sit down a minute, Mrs. Cowden.” Gamadge eased her into her chair. “They're doing everything, and they've sent for another doctor, and an ambulance.”

“Medicine? What medicine? I don't understand. She only had what Bertie Baines gave her.”

“We don't know where it came from. The bottle says ‘Orange-flower Water.'”

She turned her chalky face and looked at the Colonel. “Now, Eleanor,” he stammered.

“But the symptoms seem to point to morphia, in some form,” Gamadge went on.

Mrs. Cowden repeated: “Morphia?” She got to her feet, and walked stiffly out of the room, like a woman in a trance. Gamadge watched her until she was safely through the Baineses' doorway, and then betook himself to Room 22. Here, after an interval, the Barclay family sought him; Mrs. Barclay pale and apparently very angry, the Colonel shaken, their son impassive, except for the clenching and unclenching of his hands.

“What's all this, Gamadge?” he asked, keeping his voice well under control.

“Miss Cowden seems to have had another accident.” Gamadge offered Mrs. Barclay a chair, but she ignored it.

“Morphia!” she exclaimed, scornfully. “Morphia in Aunt Julia's Orange-flower Water! The most harmless tonic! We all take it.”

“You'd much better tell us exactly what's in the stuff, Lulu.” The Colonel's voice trembled. “It may be a matter of life and death.”

“I have a recipe somewhere; we've been taking it for years, Mr. Gamadge.”

“You're right, we have,” said Lieutenant Barclay, “and it didn't do worse than turn our stomachs. Sure you didn't put something else in it, this time? Accidents will happen, even to you druggists.”

“To-night I added a few of those little pills you had when you broke your arm, Fred. They gave you many a good night's rest.”

Fred Barclay and his father exchanged a long, blank look. “Codeine?” gasped the Colonel. “Lulu, are out of your senses?”

“If they hurt Alma, she has an idiosyncrasy. Codeine is perfectly harmless.”

“How much did you put in?” asked her son, with elaborate patience.

“Just what was left in the phial. It couldn't have amounted to more than a grain or so.”

“A grain or so. Very reassuring. When did you give her the dose?”

“When we first came; she'd just had her dinner. I slipped in from Eleanor's room, to say good night.”

“Waited while she drank it, did you?”

“The child was so sweet about it; she took it all.”

“Poor old Alma. How much codeine does it take to kill people, Gamadge? Have you any idea?”

“A good deal, I imagine. It wasn't by any chance plain morphia, was it, Mrs. Barclay?”