Strangers When We Meet, page 12
Steve cursed him silently and fluently. He could do nothing with the man at his heels, and if he went wandering round the park, Chief Hennessy—when he received his watchdog’s report—would have fresh grounds for suspicion, since obviously no one in his senses took a long walk on a cold, dark evening which already threatened rain. And without a coat, idiot that he was . . . he sighed impatiently. He was probably on a wild goose chase anyway, and for a moment, he hesitated, wondering whether to go back to his room. He had no real reason to suppose that Sarah Hamilton might be in trouble, nothing to go on, save instinct and his own all too vivid imagination, and neither was to be relied upon in the circumstances. On the other hand, he hadn’t eaten, and only breakfast was provided at his lodgings . . . as he hesitated, he glimpsed a cruising taxi and, on impulse, sprinted after it.
The driver pulled up, hearing his pounding footsteps, and Steve flung himself into the rear seat before the man in the trench coat had a chance to catch up with him or, indeed, had realised what he was doing. Even so, it was a near-run thing and Steve was breathing hard as the taxi, in obedience to his instructions, turned off into a side street and drove round for several minutes before, at his request, changing direction again to head for his destination.
“Make up your mind, bud,” the driver said sourly. “What sort of crazy game are you playing at, for Pete’s sake? First it’s this way, then it’s that, and now it’s Innes Avenue. Where do you want to go to, huh?”
“You can drop me off at the corner of Innes Avenue,” Steve told him, and fumbled in his pockets for change. The man dropped him, accepted his fare with a bad grace and drove off, grumbling loudly, the words carried back through the open window of the cab. Feeling rather foolish, Steve waited until he was out of sight and then turned into Innes Avenue, realising, when he had traversed about a quarter of its length and peered into several parked cars, that he had come in the wrong direction. The cul-de-sac at the back of the park, which the housekeeper had mentioned, must be at the other end. The rain started as he retraced his steps, and Steve pulled up his jacket collar, feeling chilled as well as foolish now. However, he thought obstinately, since he had come this far, he might as well get thoroughly wet and make a complete fool of himself, if only for the satisfaction of proving that his fears for Sarah Hamilton’s safety had been groundless. Undoubtedly they were, but . . . he crossed the road on which the cab had set him down and entered the other end of Innes Avenue.
By contrast with the more affluentlooking houses he had passed earlier, those in the cul-de-sac were smaller and less modern, one or two even downright shabby, and the street itself was not so well lit. There were fewer cars parked here, too, but checking the numbers of the houses, he saw a smart, two-tone hard top standing, without lights, in the driveway of what he judged to be Number 351. It was the sort of car he imagined Sarah Hamilton might drive and he quickened his pace, straining his eyes in the dimness in an attempt to spot the doctor’s sticker on the windshield. Most doctors carried them, to avoid traffic hold-ups and facilitate parking, and since he didn’t know the make or number of Sarah’s car, it was his only means of picking it out.
He approached the vehicle, noticing, out of the corner of his eye, that lights were on in the house. And it was the one he was looking for—three metal numbers, tacked to a gatepost that was sorely in need of a coat of paint, denoted that this was Number 351 Innes Avenue. Steve paused for a moment, in indecision, and then stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. His summons was answered by a thin, untidy woman in an apron, wearing a gaudy scarf over her head, from which a few wisps of mouse-brown hair had escaped.
“Yeah, what is it?” She held an electric iron in her left hand, its flex trailing out behind her, and her cheeks were flushed, evidently from the effort of bending over her ironing board. “Kind of late to be calling, ain’t it?” she went on, regarding her visitor with disfavour. “If you’re selling anything, I don’t care what it is, I don’t want it, understand? I’m busy, I’ve got work to do—”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Steve said, interrupting her. “But is this where Mr. French lives?”
“Mr. French?” The lacklustre eyes kindled with a sudden light, which might have been either interest or surprise, he couldn’t be sure. “Well, if that don’t beat everything! There ain’t any Mr. French living here, mister, and never has been to my knowledge. But you’re the second person to come here this evening, asking for him—who is he, anyway?”
Steve ignored her last question, countering it with one of his own. “Was your first visitor a young lady—fair, very nice-looking, small?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” the woman confirmed without hesitation. “Lady doctor, she told me she was . . . had her black bag with her, too.” She giggled. “Bit of luck, her coming here like that, out of the blue, because I had her look at my young Bobby. Come out in a rash, he had, whimpering and carrying on all evening . . . but she’s a real good doctor, she had him fixed up in no time. Nettle rash, she told me it was, not measles or scarlet fever, like I was afraid it might be. Just dabbed some stuff on him and give him a bluecoloured pill and now he’s sleeping like an angel, not another snivel out of him, ever since she popped him back in bed. And she never charged me nothing—said she was out this way in any case, and seeing I hadn’t called her, it didn’t matter. That’s the kind of doctor I like, and as pretty as a picture, too. Why . . .”
Steve had to break firmly into her flat-voiced monologue, in order to find the answers he sought. The woman could tell him very little, however, beyond the fact that Sarah Hamilton had called at the house less than half an hour before, excusing the lateness of her visit, which had been due to a serious case, with whom she had had to spend more time than she had anticipated.
“You’re sure of the time?” he asked.
“Near enough, mister. Not that I took much trouble checking, not with Bobby the way he was and the other kids up to some devilment the minute I turned my back on ’em.” The woman brushed away a strand of limp hair from her brow and sighed feelingly. “Evenings are my busy time. My old man works nights, see, and there’s his meal to get and the kids to settle and then the washing and pressing and all. What with his overalls covered with stinking grease and motor oil and the mess them kids get themselves into, I’m never through washing out something. Only peace I get is when he’s asleep and they’re at school . . . but nights, oh my! Whoever said marriage was a bed of roses wants his head looking at, I’m telling you . . .”
Once again, with difficulty, Steve managed to halt the flow. “Thanks,” he said, “thanks a lot for your help, Mrs. French. That is—”
“My name ain’t French, mister,” she objected. “Like I been telling you, there’s no one called French lives here. I’m Mrs. Schriber.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Schriber. You’ve been very kind.”
It was raining hard now, Steve realised, as he stepped out of the lighted porch. and the thin jacket was no protection against it. Unless he wanted to get pneumonia, he had better admit defeat and get back to his lodgings as fast as he could since obviously, by this time, Sarah Hamilton would have returned to Dr. Mason’s residence and the ministrations of his housekeeper. He was half-way down the wet concrete of the driveway when Mrs. Schriber called out to him. “Hey, mister! Forgotten something, ain’t you?”
He turned impatiently, in no humour for jokes, and saw that she was pointing to the hard-top, still parked without its lights close to the house.
“That’s not my car!” he shouted back.
“Well, it certainly ain’t mine.” She peered out at it, frowning in perplexity, the rain beating into her face. “Whose is it, then?”
Steve’s throat was suddenly tight. His instincts hadn’t been at fault, after all, he told himself, but felt no pleasure in the realisation. He saw the medical sticker on the windshield now, in the beam of light from the house, but when he jerked the nearside door open, the car was empty, save for a black doctor’s bag which lay on the passenger seat. The keys were still in the ignition, just as she had left them, but of Sarah Hamilton there was no sign.
6
SARAH took an instinctive and quite unprofessional dislike to her new patient from the moment when, in response to her invitation, he rose from his waiting room chair and came limping across the consulting room towards her.
There was nothing especially remarkable about his appearance—certainly nothing to account for the strong feeling of repugnance he aroused in her—save perhaps his smile which, like his manner, was ingratiating and unnecessarily effusive. He was a man of medium height, with a pale, rather unhealthy complexion and lank brown hair that was starting to recede a little at the temples, and he was aged, as nearly as she could judge, about thirty-seven or eight. He greeted her pleasantly enough, the smile very much in evidence, and although she did not particularly enjoy the way he looked at her, she still could not have said, just then, precisely why she disliked him. She simply knew that she did and took herself sternly to task for it.
After all, he was a patient—one of Dr. Mason’s, presumably, since he knew the office hours—and he had sought her professional help which, whatever her personal feelings or instinctive prejudices, Sarah reminded herself, she was bound to give him. A doctor was not entitled to prejudices, when a patient was in pain . . . as this one appeared to be. His left ankle had received a severe wrench, he told her, and was so swollen that he could hardly walk.
“Did it yesterday, Doctor, when I took the kids out on a picnic, and it’s giving me hell . . .” His expression was martyred. “I haven’t had a wink of sleep all day.”
“All day?” Sarah echoed, puzzled.
He nodded. “Why, sure—I work nights, see, and hit the sack in the daytime. But oh Jeez, not today! It’s swelled up so, I got to thinking maybe I busted it. D’you reckon I could have, Doc?”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve looked at it.” Sarah motioned him to climb on to the examination couch. “Roll up your trouser leg, please, and then lie down at full length. Your name is French, isn’t it?”
“Yeah—Robert C. French. Folks call me Bob.” He lay back on the couch, head propped on his hands, watching her, an odd light in his eyes which she found disconcerting. She went to the case file on Dr. Mason’s desk, searched under the F’s in the index, but unable to find a French with those initials, took out a blank card and wrote his name on it. It was a pity, in a way, she thought; Dr. Mason’s notes on patients were always helpful and often illuminating, but Robert C. French evidently wasn’t a regular patient.
“What is your address, Mr. French?” she asked, pen poised.
“What do you have to know my address for?” he demanded. “I’m here, ain’t I? I mean I didn’t ask you to come round to my place—reckoned I’d save you the bother, you being new here. But it wasn’t easy driving a car with this ankle, I can tell you. Most folks would have called you out.”
“I’m grateful for your consideration, Mr. French.”
“Well, you don’t sound it!”
“I’m sorry.” Sarah spoke mildly. “But I still have to keep a record of all the patients I see in Doctor John’s absence, so, if you don’t mind, I should like to have your address on file. I shall need it, if I have to send you for an X-ray, in any case.”
French shrugged. “Well, if it makes you any happier, I live at three-fifty-one Innes Avenue. Know where that is, huh?”
“I have a street map. I can find it, if necessary.”
“Then I guess you can send the account there,” he told her sullenly. “Only remember I can’t afford to have a doctor dancing around my doorstep. If my ankle is busted, you can fix it up while I’m here, can’t you?”
“No, it will have to be done at the hospital, Mr. French. But let’s hope it’s not broken.” Sarah finished filling in the card and looked up to meet his now hostile gaze. He had a sharp-featured face, she noticed, the sallow skin not improved by the fact that he had neglected to shave and did not appear to have washed very thoroughly either.
“Supposing it is,” he said, “I don’t want to go to no hospital, understand?”
Sarah didn’t answer him. She washed her hands and then, returning to the couch, subjected the ankle to a careful examination. It was swollen, as he had said, and tender to the touch, with a deep scratch across the instep and some smaller ones on the lower part of the leg, but there was no fracture, and Robert French breathed his relief when she told him so.
“Then you can fix it here, Doc? You can fix it for me right now?”
Sarah inclined her head. “Yes, I can strap the ankle up for you. It’s just a sprain and after a few days’ rest and a cold compress to take down the swelling, you’ll be as good as new, Mr. French. I think I’d better disinfect that cut on your instep, though, before I put on a bandage. This will sting a little”—she dabbed gently— “there!”
“Ouch!” He swore and then apologised. “I was forgetting where I was. Take it easy, Doc, will you? That stuff hurts.”
“It’s effective, though,” she assured him. “Any more scratches?”
“A few,” he admitted reluctantly. “Nothing to worry about. I guess I must have hit a patch of poison-ivy, I’m allergic to the darned stuff. But you don’t have to bother about that, Doc, I—”
“It’s no bother.” Sarah rolled up the leg of his woollen underpants to reveal the calf of his leg, which was criss-crossed with angry-looking red weals. “Goodness, how did you get these?”
Resentful colour flamed in his sallow cheeks. “Oh, fooling around with the kids, the same way I wrenched my ankle. Like I told you, they talked me into taking them out in the country for a picnic. But it’s the last time”—his tone was bitter—“the very last! Hey, Doc, lay off, will you? If you’d just strap up my ankle, I’ll be fine.”
Sarah ignored his protests and went on dabbing. “How about your other leg, Mr. French?”
Robert French sat up. He made an ineffectual grab at the bottle of disinfectant she was holding, and as he did so, she saw that the back of his hand and his wrist were also torn and scratched. “I think,” she said coldly, “that you would be wise to allow me to clean up all these cuts and scratches for you. They could become infected if they’re left, and there’s no extra charge. They’re on your arms, too, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” The smile reappeared, faintly unpleasant now. “Want me to show you?”
“It would be advisable, yes.”
“Well, if you say so. But . . .” he looked across at her and again there was a strange gleam in his eyes, “it don’t seem hardly the right thing, me undressing in front of a young lady like you. Still, if you’ve no objection, then I don’t, only—”
“I am a doctor, Mr. French,” Sarah reminded him, her tone deliberately discouraging. “In any case, there’s no need for you to do more than roll up your sleeves and your other trouser leg, but if that worries you, I can ring for Miss Opitz.”
“I’m not worried. I was thinking of you. I mean I—”
Sarah sighed. “Mr. French, I have other patients to attend to and office appointments in town. I’ll give you a note to the hospital, if you’d prefer to go there.”
For a moment Robert French seemed disposed to argue. Then with a resigned shrug, he lowered his gaze and started to roll up his right sleeve, followed by his right trouser leg. There were the same deep scratches and weals on both legs, Sarah saw, and his exposed forearm was pitted with them. She took a fresh piece of sterile gauze and set to work methodically and in silence. He watched her, scowling, and when, her task completed, she questioned him, he replied with sulky evasiveness.
“Hell, I don’t know how I got myself in such a mess. Like I told you, there must have been poison-ivy growing there and I’m allergic to it, always have been. It was a fool place to choose for a picnic and the kids started running around like crazy, leaving me to chase after them, you know how it is. After I got back a rash came up and irritated like fury . . . maybe I scratched myself in my sleep.”
Had he, knowing of his allergy, crawled over a patch of poison-ivy on hands and knees? Sarah wondered. She crossed to the supply cupboard to fetch bandages and lint, turning to look back at Robert French and frowning, as a terrible suspicion began to take root in her mind. No patch of poison-ivy, encountered at a picnic ground, could have caused those jagged scratches, and besides, the scratches were on his arms, too, on his right wrist and on the back of the right hand. Even if an allergy rash had developed, with resultant irritation—even if he had torn at this with his finger-nails in his sleep—he couldn’t possibly have done himself so much damage. But . . . she drew a quick, uneven breath and hurriedly opened the cupboard, pretending to busy herself inside it, hiding her face from him. Thorny bramble bushes, brushed aside in a frantic search through tangled under-growth; a foot, caught on a tree root or in a hole, unseen in the darkness . . . yes, these things could have caused exactly the symptoms she had just seen, and he would have been just as reluctant to let her see them. He had had to come to her about his ankle, since his fear that he might have fractured it had obviously been quite genuine . . . but he hadn’t wanted her to look at the scratches and cuts he had also sustained. He had done his utmost to prevent her examining them and, in fact, had only agreed to let her do so when she had mentioned the possibility of referring him to the hospital.
