Once a Widow (8 page)

A pretty little blonde in the blue uniform of a probationer passed him and said, half shyly, “Good evening, Dr. Shannon.”

“Hi,” he said, smiling. He did not know her name, because she was new, but he was pleased that she already knew his. At Miss James’ desk he stopped and nodded at the retreating trim little figure. “Who’s the new proby?”

“Susan Archer. Haven’t you met her?”

“Nope. Listen, Martha, I just ordered a quarter grain of morphine for Lew Sprang. He’s having some pain, and I want him to rest tonight. You’d better see that he gets a grain and a half of seconal, too.” He wrote on the chart.

“Right. How’s our mystery woman?”

“Okay, but she can’t remember anything—or pretends that she can’t. Amnesia, temporary. I gave her some phenobarbital to settle her down a little. She can have more if you think she needs it. I’ll see her in the morning.”

“Okay.” Miss James stood up, smoothed her uniform over her plump hips, and gave him a snappy mock salute. “Very good, sir.”

Shannon grinned at her. “At ease, James. Carry on.”

“Martha is the name,” she said tartly. “Don’t give me that corny Men in White routine.”

“Coral Thatcher likes it.”

Miss James wrinkled her small nose. “You can have Coral Thatcher. She thinks she’s the brains of this hospital. I wonder what she’d do if she had to give an enema? Throw up? Or faint?”

“Now, now,” Shannon chided, “let’s not have any professional jealousy.”

“Professional?” she said scornfully. “Even when she was an aide she refused to carry a bed pan. And now she tries to lord it over the nurses, just because she’s the cashier and a stooge for Snoopy Grange, the so-called administrator of this establishment.”

“Morphine for Lew Sprang if needed,” Shannon said gently. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on him, personally.” He moved away.

“I’m flattered.” Miss James grinned wickedly. “Good night, Dr. Shannon, M.D.”

“Good night—James.” Shannon did not look back to see her withering gaze.

Celia and Jack were waiting for him in the soft darkness, sitting in canvas chairs beside the picnic table. Shannon crossed the lawn in the glow of light from the kitchen door and windows and Stood before them. “Well, family, what is your desire?”

“That’s silly,” Celia said. “You know very well.”

Shannon made a dramatic gesture. “The drive-in beckons. Let us be off.”

Celia laughed and the boy jumped out of his chair. “Can I have a double malted? Can I, Daddy?”

“Sure. The sky’s the limit.”

The three of them drove away in the summer night and Shannon was happy. He had all that he wanted—Celia and Jack and a growing practice. What more could he ask?

At eleven o’clock, after the boy was asleep in his room across the hall, Shannon and his wife undressed in their bedroom. A small radio on the low table between the twin beds was turned on low and the mellow voice of the local newscaster was saying:…
The accident occurred on Route Two near the Sandusky Bay Bridge. The drivers escaped serious injury, but both cars were heavily damaged. And there is mystery in Harbor City this evening, a mystery involving an unidentified blond woman who was found unconscious on Snake Island this afternoon by a party of fishermen. She was taken to Memorial Hospital where…

Shannon and his wife listened to the broadcast. When it was over Celia turned off the radio and said, “Your patient is in the news.”

“Yes. The radio station got wind of it and called the hospital. Maybe it will help locate her family. She’s married—at least she wears a wedding ring.” Shannon gazed at his wife admiringly as she slipped a nightgown down over her head.

She smoothed the gown over her hips and gave him a crooked, sly smile. “Stop ogling.”

“I’m just admiring my wife.”

“I’m too skinny.” She moved close to him and thoughtfully fingered the top button of his pajama jacket.

“Not for me,” he said. “You’re just right.” He pulled her to him and they kissed, lightly at first, then warmly, and Dr. and Mrs. Clinton Shannon were very happy.

Coral Thatcher did not see the man until he spoke.

“Good evening,” he said.

She looked up, startled. He was standing before the window smiling at her, a young man, handsome, tanned, powerfully built. Thick black hair curled over his small flat ears. Heavy brows almost joined at the bridge of his short blunt nose. His eyes were deep blue and friendly, and he wore a gray tweed jacket and a dark blue shirt open at the neck. Coral gasped. For a second she thought wildly that it was Arthur Standish, returned from the dead. He greatly resembled Arthur, especially in the way he smiled.

“Yes?” she said coldly. It was after eleven-thirty and she had been about to put her books away and go home. Except for the two of them, the long dim corridor was deserted. Miss James was at her desk in the south wing.

The man said, “I’ve just heard on the radio that you have an unidentified woman here, a woman found on an island out in the lake. I have reason to believe she may be my sister. I wonder if I could see her?”

Coral frowned. The man’s breath smelled of liquor, just as Arthur Standish’s had on that night so long ago, but he seemed sober. She said, “It’s against regulations. Visiting hours are from—”

“I understand,” the man cut in quickly, and smiled at her. “I’ll only be a moment. My sister has been missing and I just wanted to see if this woman is she. We’ve been worried about her—I’m sure you can understand. What’s her room number?”

Coral wavered. The man’s steady, pleasant gaze confused her. She supposed it was important that the woman be identified; the staff had been gossiping about her all evening, speculating as to who she was, where she came from. Maybe she should consult Miss James. But why should she, really? She, Coral Thatcher, was the cashier and she had a little authority around the hospital. And what harm would it do? She made up her mind and smiled at the man graciously, bestowing upon him her official favor. “Very well.” She nodded down the corridor, remembering the room to which the woman had been assigned in the afternoon. “Room 102, on the right.” She stood up and closed the ledger. “I’ll go with you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the man said quickly. “Thank you.” He moved away swiftly.

Coral watched him through the glass office partition. Once he gazed backward at her over his shoulder, and kept going. Coral stood uncertainly. The man reached room 102, stopped by the door and looked back at her once more. When Coral made no move, he stepped quickly into the room and closed the door behind him. Coral glanced nervously up and down the long silent corridor, and her fingers twisted together. Why had he closed the door, which had been ajar? Suddenly she realized her mistake. If the woman proved to be the man’s sister, she, Coral, would be compelled to admit to Miss James that she’d exceeded her authority in permitting the man to go to the room. Mr. Grange would hear of it, and he was very strict about regulations. Why had she done such a thing?

Far down the empty corridor she saw the man come out of room 102 and hurry toward her. Coral waited expectantly, but by the time the man was abreast of her office it became obvious that he did not intend to stop and tell her if the woman was his sister, or to even thank her for letting him see her. He passed the office, his face averted, and turned toward the entrance to the street. Coral was about to call to him when the glass doors closed. He was gone.
Well!
Coral thought indignantly.
The very idea!
Nevertheless, she was relieved. Apparently the woman was not his sister, and no one would know of his visit.

Coral put away her books, locked the desk and left. The night was soft and there were stars in the blue-black sky. She walked slowly between the hedges bordering the walk leading out to the street. She was in no hurry to get home. Her mother would be sitting before the blaring television, no doubt eating a fried egg sandwich, and the house would be smelling of burned grease. Coral strolled in the night, unaware of a dark figure crouched behind the hedge ahead of her.

At twenty minutes past five in the morning the ringing of the phone beside Dr. Shannon’s bed awakened him from deep sleep. He yawned, switched on a light, waited a moment until his brain cleared, and then picked up the instrument: “Dr. Shannon,” he said quietly.

“It’s time, Doc,” a calm voice said.

“All right, Ed. Take her to the hospital. I’ll call and tell them she’s on her way.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Shannon replaced the phone, yawned again and turned to face Celia, who had also wakened and was watching him. “Ed Malone?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He grinned at her. “Kids aren’t born by appointment.”

“I wish they were.”

“Amen.” Shannon went down the hall to the bathroom, where he washed his face in cold water, ran a comb through his short reddish hair, decided not to take time to shave. When he returned to the bedroom he saw that Celia had already gone back to sleep. He dressed quickly, crossed the hall to look at his sleeping son, and then went down to the kitchen. He would have liked some coffee, but he knew from past experience that when Ed Malone said his wife was ready he knew what he was talking about. He poured a glass of cold orange juice from a bottle in the refrigerator, lit a cigarette, picked up the phone on the breakfast bar and called the hospital. Miss James answered and he told her that Mrs. Malone was on her way.

“Right. Labor or delivery?”

“Delivery, I’d guess, but you check her.” He hung up, finished the orange juice, picked up his bag and went out.

The summer dawn was merging into sunshine when he parked his car behind the hospital in the space reserved for doctors. He entered a door beside the emergency ambulance ramp, went up a short flight of steps, entered the south wing and stopped at Miss James’ desk.

She gazed at him sleepily and yawned. “Mrs. Malone is being prepared. It won’t be long.”

“How come you’re still on duty?” he asked curiously.

“Oh, Polly Nichols called in—she’s sick. So we’re doubling up until Snoopy Grange can get one of the part-time replacements in. Thank goodness it was a quiet night.”

“Time and a half for you,” Shannon said, grinning.

“You can have it—I like my sleep better.” Miss James yawned again as Shannon moved away.

He entered the main corridor, passed the cashier’s office, empty at this time of the morning, and stopped in the doorway of a small waiting lounge beyond the main entrance. Ed Malone sat there, a tall, bony, sunburned man dressed in a flannel shirt and blue jeans. He was smoking a cigarette and said quietly, “Hi, Doc. I hope it’s a boy this time. That’ll even things up.”

“Five girls and five boys,” Shannon said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Malone shifted in his chair. “Doc, I know I ain’t paid you for the last one yet, but my corn was burned out this year and—”

“I’m not worrying,” Shannon broke in. “I’ll tell you what; if it’s a boy this time, he’s on me.”

“No, sir!” Malone said emphatically. “I pay my bills.”

“Have it your own way. Who’s with the kids?”

“My oldest girl—she’s almost thirteen, you know.”

“Thirteen?” Shannon was surprised. Malone’s oldest daughter was the first baby he’d delivered after setting up practice in Harbor City. Where had the years gone?

“Yep,” Malone said. “Susie will be thirteen next September the nineteenth. Getting to be big, too, like her mother.”

“Take it easy, Ed,” Shannon said and headed for the doctor’s dressing room.

Five minutes later he stood in the clear white light of the delivery room while a dark-eyed nurse gazed at him over her mask. Alice Malone lay between them, huge beneath a sheet. There was sweat on her fat, pleasant face, but she smiled at Shannon. He touched her hand. “Ready, Alice?”

She nodded, her teeth biting at her lower lip. Shannon went to work.

Within fifteen minutes he stood in the corridor, his mask loosened and hanging over his chest. He lit a cigarette and went to the lounge, nodding at nurses and several other doctors on the way. Ed Malone stood up and gazed at him expectantly. Shannon said, “Congratulations, Ed. A boy.”

“And Alice is all right?”

“She’s fine. You can see her pretty soon, and the boy, too. Over eight pounds.”

Silently Malone gripped the doctor’s hand and Shannon saw the relief in the man’s eyes. He also saw the happiness, and the admiration. He knew that look; it was one of the intangible things in a doctor’s life which partly compensated for the inevitable times when all his skill and training and knowledge were not enough. He turned away, faintly embarrassed.

The morning sun was shining brightly through the windows at the end of the south wing as he stood by Miss James’ desk and gave instructions for the postnatal care of Mrs. Malone.

“Okay, Professor,” Miss James said. “By the way, you look kind of beat up. Haggard is the word, I’d say.”

“What about you, my dear?” Shannon glanced at a clock on the wall behind Miss James’ desk. Five minutes after six. The surgery on Lewis Sprang was scheduled for seven-thirty. No point now, he thought, in returning home to try for another half hour’s sleep. After the surgery, he had other patients in the hospital to see, including the strange woman with the alleged loss of memory. Then house calls, which would take him until noon, followed by office hours, afternoon and evening. He touched his bristly chin, decided that he would go to his office and use the electric shaver he kept there, and then get some breakfast. By then it would be time for Lew Sprang’s operation, and he also wanted to talk with Dr. Carlyle about the x-rays, even though he was certain that surgery was indicated.

“I’m tough,” Miss James said. “I can take it. Do you have any spare no-sleep caffeine tablets?”

“Sorry. Who’s on pre-surgery this morning?”

“Me, pal.” Miss James yawned. “What is your desire?”

“Tell Lew Sprang I’ll see him pretty soon, and not to worry.”

“Routine,” Miss James said carelessly and handed him a clip-board. “There’s your patients, Doctor. All still breathing.” She stood up. “I’ll just go in and check on Mr. Sprang right now, while I’m still awake. He’s a nice old man.” She moved away, tugging her tight uniform down over her hips.

Shannon lingered at the desk, looking over the charts of his patients in the hospital. Two doctors came in from the rear entrance. Both of them spoke to Shannon and one said, “I’ll be on deck at seven-thirty, Clint.” He was Dr. John Kovici, who was to assist Shannon with the surgery on Lewis Sprang.

“Thanks, John.” Shannon placed the clip-board on the desk and started for the rear exit. He was almost to the stairs when he stopped abruptly, frozen by a shrill scream echoing down the corridors. He turned and stared at the empty south wing. At the far end, in the main corridor, a white-uniformed nurse ran past his vision. The scream came again, echoing against the tile walls, hoarse at first and then rising to an obscene shriek, and there was an excited mumble of voices. Shannon sprinted along the south wing. When he swung into the main corridor he saw that patients were standing outside their rooms or peering from open doors, all staring toward the north wing, toward a small knot of people outside a room. Shannon saw that Dr. Kovici was there, along with several nurses. Miss James was nowhere in sight. As he approached he saw that the room number was 102. There were no more screams, and suddenly the hospital was unnaturally quiet. Shannon stopped, panting a little. “What’s wrong?”

Dr. John Kovici nodded at the door of 102. “Sounded like it came from in there, Clint.”

Shannon started for the door, but Dr. Kovici was ahead of him. Shannon followed him into the room. As soon as he saw what was on the bed he closed the door quickly and stood against it.

Miss Martha James, R.N., stood pressed against the far wall staring at the bed, her eyes dull with shock. Shannon watched Kovici bend over the bed, the latter’s gaze intent as his hand moved over Lewis Sprang feeling for a pulse that Shannon knew would not be there. The old lawyer lay on his right side, covered by a sheet, as Shannon had seen him the evening before. But now the upper part of the sheet was splotched with blood, most of it dried now to a dirty brown, and there was blood on the pillow and in the thick, gray-tinged tawny hair. Shannon took a deep trembling breath and moved to the bed.

Dr. Kovici, a small dark man with stiff short black hair, looked up at Shannon and spoke in a bleak, tired voice. “He’s gone, Clint.”

“I know.” Shannon fought to keep his voice steady. “I can see that.”

Somebody knocked on the door.

Shannon looked at Miss James. “You all right?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“You’ve seen blood before,” Shannon snapped. “Go to the door and stay there. Don’t let anyone in.”

The harshness of his voice steadied the nurse. She jerked her gaze from the bed and moved quickly to the door. The knocking came again, impatiently, and Shannon shouted, “Stop that!” The knocking ceased abruptly.

Dr. Kovici sighed and said softly, “You’re the coroner, Clint.”

Shannon bent over the body on the bed. “A blow on the head,” he said. “Something fairly small and heavy.” He leaned closer. “Above and behind the left ear, mastoid region. Maybe two or more blows. Large area of trauma, skull comminuted.”

“Like an egg shell,” Dr. Kovici said grimly.

Shannon straightened, fumbled in his jacket pocket for a cigarette and lit it with his hands that trembled a little. “Some hours ago, during the night. I talked to him last night, a little after nine.” He kept his voice calm and professional, fighting the bewilderment and shock. How could such a thing happen? he asked himself. And why? He lifted the sheet and his fingers closed over the old man’s thin wrist while his gaze went to the still face.
No pulse, you fool. Stop obeying reflexes. Eyes open and glazed, pupils a little off center. Rigor mortis in progress. The poor old man never knew what hit him…

Gently Shannon pulled the sheet over the familiar face, but somehow no longer quite so familiar, and he said one word to Dr. Kovici. “Murder.”

“Yes, Clint. A hell of a thing.”