Flash and Filigree (19 page)

He then sat down at his desk and telephoned the Police, to report a theft of approximately six hundred dollars, cash money.

B
ABS
M
INTNER MOVED
through the day as through a dream, until, toward afternoon, she met Nurse Beth Jackson just outside gyno, and they were in each other’s arms at once, Beth exclaiming surprise, but saying a minute later that she had intuitively sensed the child’s awakening,

“Oh, Beth!” cried Babs, clasping hands to her bosom and beaming helplessly. “Isn’t it marvelous!”

“Yes, child,” Beth returned, near tears, “yes, oh gracious, gracious,” and they both fell to weeping and stroking each other for comfort.

Nurse Thorne was off duty for a while and away, but she returned to the Clinic at about five, looking mannish and trim in a close-fitted tweed suit. The way she strode back and forth in Nurses’ Rest Room, she seemed in need of a short stiff crop to gesture with, strike smartly against her thigh, and clear away things confronting her.

“So!” She stopped near the window and turned to glare at Beth Jackson, who was sitting on the sofa, absently swishing a last mouthful of tepid coke through her teeth, something she had gotten in the habit of doing after meals, and now did, any time she had coke, on the simple reflex of a once removed association.

“So! It
has
actually happened! What a fool I was! What a blind fool! Oh!” Nurse Thorne was so angry she could have bitten herself.

“El, she’s in a dream! It’s a thing to behold! She’s like a magic, bewitched thing! Oh, it took me back, you’ve no idea!” Beth tilted the empty glass, chuckling into it.

“And now I suppose she’s
pregnant
!” said Eleanor Thorne as though the word were enough to make anyone ill.

Beth was wide-eyed. “Oh, mind, I don’t say they went as far as all that! Really, El, I do think—”

“Why not?” demanded Nurse Thorne, anxious to face the worst. “
Why not?
Bewitched!
Bewitched!
Oh, the hateful, hateful irony of it!” She pointed a prophetic, accusing finger at Beth Jackson. “Mark my words,” she cried; then, facing the window, she brought one hand to her dreadful face. “Oh, it’s really—really
too much
!”

“Well,” sighed Beth, looking as absently as she could into the empty glass, “I daresay it would be a pretty one.”

“Yes,” said Fred Eichner, staring out the window as he spoke into the phone, “I can still see her. She has just reached the front gate and is turning—I can’t see her now—it’s difficult to be sure from here, because of the trees, but I
believe
she turned left. Left on Wilshire, yes. All right, I’ll wait here for him. Yes, good-bye.”

The Doctor hung up, then got on the inter-office phone:

“Miss Smart. What was the name of the woman who was just here—the last patient. Well, let us say the one you
suppose
to be here now, yes. Mrs. Hugo Gross. Had you ever seen her before? I see. Now, I know we have been lax about this in the past, Miss Smart, but from this day forward you will require, and verify, a reference from each new patient. Is that clear? Yes, your Mrs. Hugo Gross just threatened my life with a Hanlon scalpel and left with six hundred dollars, out the window. That is correct. What? No, that has been done. Naturally I notified the authorities before calling you—that
would
be the normal procedure, would it not? I’m not primarily interested, you see, in the gossipy aspect of the incident. Now, a representative of the Police will be here shortly. There is no need for you to wait, but you might be of help in this way: if you would care to write down a description of what the woman was wearing. Knowing the nature of women, your cursory observations might prove to be more exacting on this count than my own. Yes, any details of her dress you can recall. Black gloves, etc . . . No, you needn’t concern yourself with the face—I remember the face quite well. Yes, write it down and leave it on your desk. I will get it when the officer arrives. Yes, thank you. And you may go home. Yes, good night, Miss Smart.”

A
POLICE CAR ARRIVED
at the Clinic about five minutes later and two officers got out. It was Stockton and Fiske. Dr. Eichner shook hands with them in solemn friendliness.

“Well, sure seems to be your big week, Doc,” Fiske was saying aloud with a wide grin.

Both men seemed a little strange in the new setting, Fiske gawking around, unabashedly testing the carpet with his foot, marveling at its thickness, and Stockton looking rather tight and suspicious. “This where you work?” he asked the Doctor narrowly, I mean, this where your practice is?”

Whenever the Doctor and Stockton spoke together, Fiske followed their remarks like a drugged person watching a fantastic tennis match. He seemed forever on the verge of shaking his head, slapping his thigh, and saying, with a soundless laugh, something softly in wonder.

Dr. Eichner told them the story with business-like simplicity, only lending certain emotional overtones to the dramatic highlights:

“While she was relating the history of her case, you see, she paced the floor, nervously pausing now and again at the instrument case,
pretending
. . . oh, I can tell you it was a grand job of play-acting on
her
part . . .
pretending
to admire the instruments, but absently, you understand, as though they didn’t really distract her from what she was saying. Then, as she finished her story, she was standing—just where you are now, Sergeant—by the instrument case, silent for the moment, her fingers idly, or so it seemed, toying a Hanlon scalpel—a surgical knife with a four-inch blade—which, I noticed finally, she was slowly
encircling with her hand.
And then, shaking her head slightly, and without looking at me, she said: ‘
No.
No, Doctor, there’s only one way you can help me now—’ and suddenly, and with surprising, really forceful agility, she turned, brandishing the scalpel, and walked quickly toward me, speaking between clenched teeth, ‘—by giving me the money you have in that desk!’ Well! I can tell
you,
gentlemen, I was that much taken aback!” And the Doctor illustrated this by falling into a momentary attitude of limp helplessness in his chair. Then he straightened himself abruptly, and narrowing his eyes, as in serious reverie, continued, “—not so much by the mere fact of the incident, but by the way it progressed, or rather, by its effect on
me.
What I mean to say is this: One would not imagine that a woman with a knife would be, well, particularly fearsome—certainly I wouldn’t have—and yet, there was something so
convincingly menacing
about it, so . . .
athletic,
you might say, in the way she handled the knife, that I was, I admit, genuinely afraid for my life. Nevertheless, I did protest at first, hoping to reason with her, even denying that there
was
money in the desk. I started to get up from my chair—and in an
instant
she had the scalpel at my throat! In short, I gave her all the money in the office—about six hundred dollars—and she went out that window, like an animal.”

Fiske gave a low whistle and looked from the Doctor to Stockton and back again. Stockton, who had frowned up from his note-book only once or twice during the whole narrative, immediately strode to the window. “This window, right?” he asked sharply, making a note in his book, though, actually, it was the only window in the room. He impulsively grasped the handle to push the window open a little more. Dr. Eichner gave a slight start and was about to speak but checked himself.

“She went out this window,” announced Stockton, holding on to the handle now to support himself as he leaned out peering around. “What kind of shoes would you say she was wearing at the time, Doctor?”

“I’m not absolutely certain, of course,” said Fred Eichner seriously, picking up a small slip of paper as he spoke, “but I asked my receptionist for
her
description of the woman’s dress, and here is her list—remarkable what women will notice—and she has: ‘brown calf, British laced flats, crepe sole,’ which I take to be the common variety of low-heel walking shoe, and correct, I daresay, since, in retrospect, I don’t recall the . . . the
clickity-clack
sound of high-heels, customary with my women patients—though, in truth, I can’t say that I did notice it in the specific sense . . . that is, I have no clear-cut visual image at this moment of . . .”

“She
was
correct,” pronounced Stockton from the window, “there are no footprints.” He made a notation in his book. It was apparent that Stockton fancied himself quite keen, or more precisely, that he was at a hopeless loss, but wished to convey the opposite impression. Dr. Eichner handed him the paper. “My own recollection of her dress is completely substantiated here and, as I say, greatly expanded. I think this paper might better serve as a ‘description’ than anything I can say on the matter. I’ve studied it closely and can think of no further detail that—”

“Sergeant,” said Stockton, addressing his companion, “call in this description to Headquarters.” He handed the paper smartly over to Fiske, who looked at him first in surprise, then said “Right!” and started out of the office. “Wait a minute,” said Stockton. “I want this place checked for fingerprints. Tell them to send a man over for that.” He stared intently at the handle of the window he had been hanging onto, now musing aloud, “—if she went out that window . . .” It was enough to make Fred Eichner sick to stomach.

“I get you, Stock,” said Fiske brightly. “Right!” and he was out the door in a bound.

“Doctor,” Stockton took it up again, attempting to sound casual, “you say nobody tried to stop this woman. I mean, you didn’t yell or anything for somebody to stop her when she left.”

“The woman was dangerously armed, Sergeant,” said the Doctor coldly. “It was obviously work for no one but the Police Department.”

“Was this money insured?” demanded Stockton, not one to be easily duped.

The Doctor smiled tolerantly. “I have the ordinary ‘loss against theft’ insurance,” he said. “I doubt if it applies in this case, however. I do happen to have the serial numbers on the four hundred dollars though—the money that was in the desk. Those numbers are included, you may have noticed, on the paper you’ve given Sergeant Fiske.”

Stockton had gone back to looking at the window-handle. “Wait a minute,” he said suddenly, and ran out of the office, where his strident voice could still be heard: “Fiske, hold up on that call!”

Dr. Eichner sat back feeling strangely content. The story he had told about the theft was perhaps the only creative thing he had ever done in his life, and it had left him with a sense of wondrous exhaustion, feeling all clean and relaxed inside. It was so powerful in fact that, for a moment he wholly forgot about Felix Treevly in the closet. Then he came around again and took up his previous concern, looking first at his watch, then out the window.

Dusk had moved in like a dry fog and it lay bluish-gray on the stone benches and pebble drive. In half an hour it would be dark.

The Doctor was getting his hat and coat together when the officers returned.

“Well, I guess that will be all, Doctor,” said Stockton ruefully, his eyes avoiding the window. “I’m not going to have anyone over here tonight for prints. I mean, we’ve got a
pretty good
description of this woman as it is.”

“I understand, Sergeant,” said the Doctor, with no change of expression. He started for the door with them, speaking to Stockton: “If you should change your mind, of course, I’ll leave word with the front receptionist to let your man into the office.” He walked as far as the door of their car and gave them his hand in good-bye, with a word of caution. “Take care,” he said, “the woman is dangerous.”

“Oh, we’ll get her for you, Doc,” Fiske assured him cheerfully, “don’t you worry.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, and good night,” said the Doctor, waving them on.

“Good night,” they replied in unison, Stockton sounding disgruntled as ever.

The Doctor stood motionless, his eyes on the departing car, and when it turned out of the gate, he started down the drive himself, walking rapidly.

At the boulevard, he boarded the first bus and rode a few blocks into the residential section neighboring the Clinic. It was a mounting, circular drive, passing well-spaced, long lawned, two-story houses, with big family cars and convertibles parked in clusters all along the street. It was cocktail time.

In a seat near the rear of the bus, Dr. Eichner slowly pulled on a pair of thin leather driving-gloves. A minute later, he got off the bus and began to walk. It was almost dark. He walked in the street, along the left-hand side of the parked cars, looking into them as he passed. And exhilaration that began at the touch of his feet on the pavement rose and grew within him until he had to fight to control the pounding of his heart and temples. He had walked past about fifteen cars, all in the first half of the block, when he stopped at one, and after a quick look toward the lighted windows of the house, he got in, switched on the keyed-ignition, and carefully drove away.

When the Doctor reached the Clinic, it was quite dark, though no more than a quarter-hour had elapsed since his departure. He parked the car shortly to one side of the veranda and went inside.

Prim Miss Steven, the night receptionist, was at her desk in the foyer.

“Miss Steven,” said Dr. Eichner firmly, “would you please go around to West Wing Nurses’ Room and get my Miss Smart? Something rather urgent has come up, and—well, I’ll keep an eye on the desk for you.”

“Of course, Doctor,” said Miss Steven and started out in a hurry.

The Doctor raced to his office, a few doors away. From his liquor cabinet he took a fresh bottle of whiskey, of the brand he had introduced into Mr. Treevly, poured off one pint of this and put it into one of his own office decanters; the half-filled bottle he put in his coat pocket. He then opened the closet, gathered up Mr. Treevly and, keeping a sharp look-out all around, carried him through the empty foyer, onto the veranda, down the steps, and placed him on the back seat floor of the car. He returned to the front desk and penned this note for Miss Steven: