Dutch Shoe Mystery (3 page)

“Yes, but how about the anæsthetic?” objected Ellery. “Would that make the operation even riskier? Is that why you’re relying on the comatose condition to pull her through the shock?”

“Exactly. Riskier and more complicated. We must take what the gods provide.” Minchen paused with his hand on the knob of a door lettered:
EXAMINING ROOM.
“Of course, an anæsthetist will be standing beside the operating-table prepared to administer without a second’s delay should Abby pop out of the coma. … Come in here, Ellery; I want to show you how a modern hospital does things.”

He pushed the door open and waved Ellery into the room. Ellery noticed that a small panel on the wall illuminated by a tiny electric bulb flashed on as the door opened to announce that the Examining Room was now occupied. He paused appreciatively on the threshold.

“Neat, eh?” grinned Minchen.

“What’s that thingamajig over there?”

“Fluoroscope. There’s one in every Examining Room. Of course, there’s the stock examining-table, small sterilizing-machine, drug cabinet, instrument racks. … You can see for yourself.”

“The instrument,” said Ellery didactically, “is an invention of man to mock his Creator. Heavens, aren’t five fingers sufficient?” They laughed together. “I’d stifle in here. Doesn’t anybody ever throw things around?”

“Not while John Quintus Minchen is boss,” grinned the physician. “Actually, we make a fetish of orderliness. Take minor supplies, for instance. All kept in these drawers—” he flipped his hand at a large white cabinet in one corner, “and quite out of sight or knowledge of meddling patients or visitors. Everybody in the Hospital who
has
to, knows just where to get supplies. Makes things confoundedly simple.”

He pulled open a large metal drawer at the bottom of the cabinet. Ellery bent over and stared down at a bewildering display of assorted bandages. Another drawer contained absorbent cotton and tissue; another medicated cotton; another adhesive tapes.

“System,” murmured Ellery. “Your subordinates get demerit marks for dirty linen and untied shoelaces, don’t they?”

Minchen chuckled. “You’re not so far off at that. Standing rule of the Hospital makes it mandatory to dress in Hospital uniform, which for men is white canvas shoes, white duck trousers and coat; and for women white linen throughout. Even the ‘special’ outside—well, you remember he wore white, too. The elevator men, mopmen, kitchen help, clerical force—everybody wears the standardized uniform from the moment he sets foot on the Hospital premises until he leaves.”

“My head’s absolutely a-buzz,” groaned Ellery. “Let me out of here.”

As they emerged once more into the South Corridor, they caught sight of a tall young man dressed in a brown greatcoat, hat in hand, hurrying toward them. He looked their way, hesitated, then turned suddenly into the East Corridor at his right and disappeared.

Minchen’s frank face fell. “Forgot Abigail the Mighty,” he muttered. “There goes her attorney now—Philip Morehouse. Bright young coot. Devotes all his time to Abby’s interests.”

“He’s heard the news, I gather,” remarked Ellery. “Is he interested so personally in Mrs. Doorn?”

“I should say in Mrs. Doorn’s lovely young daughter,” replied Minchen dryly. “He and Hulda have hit it off quite famously. Looks like a romance to me. And from all accounts Abby, in her grand lady-of-the-manor fashion, smiles on the affair. … Well! I suppose the clans are gathering. … Hullo! There’s the old master himself. Just out of ‘A’ operating-room. … Hi there, Doctor!”

T
HE MAN IN THE
brown greatcoat ran up to the closed door of the Waiting Room in the North Corridor and rapped sharply. There was no sound from beyond the door. He tried the knob, pushed. …

“Phil!”

“Hulda! Darling. …”

A tall young woman, her eyes red with tears, flew into his arms. He cradled her head on his shoulder, murmuring wordless incoherent sympathy.

They were alone in the vast bare room. Long benches squatted stiffly along the walls. Over one was thrown a beaver coat.

Philip Morehouse gently raised the girl’s head, tipped her chin upward, looked into her eyes.

“It’s nothing, Hulda—she’ll be all right,” he said huskily. “Don’t cry, dear, I—please!”

She blinked, made a convulsive effort to smile at him. “I’ll—oh, Phil, I’m so glad you’ve come …sitting here all alone … waiting, waiting. …”

“I know.” He looked around with a slight frown. “Where are the others? What the devil are they thinking of to leave you alone in this room?”

“Oh, I don’t know. …Sarah, Uncle Hendrik—they’re about somewhere. …”

She groped for his hand, snuggled against his breast. After a long moment they walked to a bench and sat down. Hulda Doorn stared wide-eyed at the floor. The young man fumbled desperately for words, but none came.

About them, silent and huge, lay the Hospital, humming with the work of life. But in the room there was no sound, no footfall, no cheerful voice. Only white dull walls. …

“Oh, Phil, I’m afraid, I’m afraid!”

A
SMALL, QUEERLY SHAPED
man had walked into the South Corridor, heading toward Minchen and Ellery. Ellery received an instant impression of personality, even while the man’s features could not be clearly distinguished. Perhaps this feeling arose from the peculiarly stiff manner in which he held his head, and the pronounced limp with which he walked. That there was something wrong with his left leg was apparent from the manner in which he put his weight on the right. “Probably muscular paralysis of some sort,” muttered Ellery to himself as he watched the little doctor approach.

The newcomer was dressed in full surgical regalia—a white gown under which protruded the bottoms of white duck trousers and the tips of white canvas shoes. The gown was stained with chemicals; on one sleeve was a long bloody smudge. On his head perched a white surgical cap, turned up at the corners; he was fumbling with the string of his face-gag as he limped toward the two waiting men.

“Ah there, Minchen! We did it. Perforated appendix. Managed to avoid peritonitis. Dirty job. … How’s Abigail? Seen her? What’s the milligram content at last report? Who’s this?” He spoke with gatling-gun rapidity, his bright little eyes never still, darting from Minchen to Ellery.

“Dr. Janney, meet Mr. Queen. Particularly old friend,” said Minchen hastily. “Ellery Queen, the writer.”

“Hardly,” said Ellery. “This is a pleasure, doctor.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, all mine,” snapped the surgeon. “Any friend of Minchen’s is welcome here. … Well, John—got to rest up now. Worried about Abigail. Thank God for her pumper. Bad rupture. How about those intravenous injections?”

“Coming along splendidly,” replied Minchen. “They pulled her down from 180 to 135 when I last heard, a little before 10:00. Ought to be ready as scheduled. She’s probably in the Anteroom now.”

“Good! She’ll be hopping around again in no time.”

Ellery smiled apologetically. “Pardon my ignorance, gentlemen, but just what is meant by your cabalistic reference to ‘180 to 135’? Blood pressure?”

“Good God, no!” shouted Dr. Janney. “180 milligrams of sugar to 100 c.c. of blood. We’re pulling it down. Can’t operate until we get to normal—110, 120. Oh, you’re not a medical man. Excuse me.”

“I’m overwhelmed,” said Ellery.

Minchen cleared his throat. “I suppose our plans for tonight on the book are shot, with Mrs. Doorn so badly off?”

Dr. Janney rubbed his jaw. His eyes continued to dart between Ellery and the Medical Director. They made Ellery distinctly uncomfortable.

“Of course!” Janney turned unexpectedly toward Ellery, placing his small rubber-sheathed hand on Minchen’s shoulder. “You’re a writer, aren’t you? Well—” he chuckled, showed tobacco-stained teeth in a weird grin, “you’re looking at another writer, here, young man. Johnny Minchen. Smart as a whip. Helping me profoundly with a book we’re doing together. Something quite revolutionary. And I’ve picked the best co-author in the profession. Know what
Congenital Allergy
is, Queen? Didn’t think you would. Make a big stir in the medical world. We’ve proved something the bone-setting business has been messing about for years. …”

“Well, John!” Ellery smiled in amusement “You didn’t tell me—”

“Pardon me,” said Dr. Janney abruptly, swinging on his right heel. “Well, Cobb, what is it?”

The white-garbed doorman had shuffled shyly up to the three men, and now stood uncomfortably in the background trying to attract the attention of the little surgeon. He took his cap off.

“Man outside wants t’ see ye, Dr. Janney,” he said hastily. “Says he’s got an appointm’t. Sorry to bother ye, Doctor—”

“He’s a liar,” barked Dr. Janney. “You know I can’t see anybody, Cobb. How many times must I tell you not to bother me about these things? Where’s Miss Price? You know she takes care of all that truck for me. Go on now—beat it. Can’t see him. Too busy.”

He turned his back on the doorman. The scarlet of Cobb’s face deepened. Nevertheless, he did not move away.

“But I—she—he says …”

“You must have forgotten, Doctor,” interposed Minchen. “Miss Price has been copying the
Congenital Allergy
manuscript all morning, and she’s with Mrs. Doorn now, by your own order. …”

“Shucks! That’s right, too,” muttered Dr. Janney. “But I won’t see that man, Cobb, I—”

Mutely, the doorman lifted his huge hand and thrust a white card toward the surgeon, handling it as if it were a precious document.

Janney snatched at it “Who’s this? Swanson—Swanson. … Oh!” The tone of his voice changed instantly. His bright little eyes clouded as he froze to immobility. Then he lifted his gown and tucked the card into a pocket of his coat. With the same deft motion he whipped a watch from his underclothes. “10:29,” he mumbled. Surprisingly, with that effortless ease which marked all his manual movements, he replaced the watch and smoothed down his gown. “All right Cobb!” he said clearly. “Lead the way. Where is he? … See you later, John. ’Bye, Queen.”

As suddenly as he had appeared, he swung about and limped off in the wake of Cobb, who seemed anxious to depart. Minchen and Ellery stared down the corridor after them for a long moment. Both men turned away just as Janney and the doorman were passing the elevator opposite the main entrance.

“Janney’s office is down there,” said Minchen, shrugging. “Queer sort of cuss, isn’t he, Ellery? But as great as they come. … Let’s go back to my office. There’s still a good quarter of an hour before the operation.”

They turned the corner and walked with leisurely steps up the West Corridor.

“Reminds me of a bird, somehow,” said Ellery thoughtfully. “They way he holds his head, keeps darting those avian eyes of his about. … Interesting little fellow. About fifty, isn’t he?”

“Thereabouts. … Interesting in more ways than one, Ellery.” Minchen spoke boyishly. “There’s one medical man who’s really devoted his life to his profession. He’s spared neither himself nor his personal fortune. I’ve never known him to refuse a case on grounds of a small fee. In fact he’s done scores of jobs for which he never saw a cent, and didn’t expect to. … Don’t get him wrong, Ellery; you’ve just met a genuine personage.”

“If what you said about his relationship with Mrs. Doorn is true,” commented Ellery, smiling, “I don’t suppose Dr. Janney has much to worry about financially.”

Minchen stared. “Why, how did you—? Well, of course,” he chuckled sheepishly, “it’s probably evident. Yes, Janney is due for a whacking big legacy on Abby’s departure from this world. Everybody knows that. He’s been quite like a son to her. … And here we are.”

They had reached Minchen’s office. Minchen telephoned briefly, seemed satisfied with what he heard.

“They have Abby in the Anteroom already,” he stated, putting down the instrument. “They got her blood sugar down to 110 milligrams—it’s a question of minutes now. Well, I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

Ellery shivered slightly. Minchen pretended not to notice. Over cigarettes, they sat in silence; an indefinable gloom hovered between them.

With an effort Ellery shrugged his shoulders and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “About this co-authorship, John,” he said lightly. “I never suspected that you’d succumb to the writing bug. What’s it all about?”

“Oh, that” Minchen laughed. “Most of the work is bound up with actual case histories, proving a theory which both Janney and I hold in common; and it is possible to predict the predisposition to specific ailments of embryos by careful analysis of congenital influences. Complicated?”

“Overwhelmingly scientific, professor,” murmured Ellery. “How about letting me peep at the manuscript? I might be able to give you a few pointers in a literary way.”

Minchen flushed. “Thunder! Can’t do that, old son,” he said awkwardly. “Janney’d have my life. As a matter of fact, both the manuscript and the case records we are using in the book are kept absolutely private; Janney guards ’em as jealousy as his life. Why, the old man recently cashiered an interne who had the unhappy impulse to root around in Janney’s filing-cabinet—merely out of academic curiosity, I suppose. … Sorry, Ellery. The only people who can see those records are Janney, myself and Miss Price, Janney’s assistant—she’s a trained nurse—and she does only the routine clerical work.”

“All right, all right!” grinned Ellery, closing his eyes. “I surrender. I just wanted to
help
you, you blamed old codger. … Of course you remember your
Iliad?
‘Light is the task when many share the toil.’ If you spurn my assistance. …”

They laughed together.

E
LLERY QUEEN, DILETTANTE OF
criminology, had no stomach for blood. Raised on stories of crime, fed with tales of murder, in daily contact with desperadoes and manhunters, he nevertheless endured the sight of maltreated flesh with difficulty. His position as son of a policeman; his association with brutality and warped minds; his own literary dabblings in the mire of criminal psychology—these had not inured him to the reeking evidences of man’s inhumanity to man. On the scene of a slaughter his eyes were keen, his judgment swift, but always his heart was sick. …