The Book of the Dead

Elizabeth Daly

F
ELONY
& M
AYHEM
P
RESS
• N
EW
Y
ORK

T
HE SICK MAN SAT UP IN BED
motionless, watching the doorway and listening. He could hear nothing but the low murmur of his all-but-silent electric fan, an occasional sound of traffic in the street far below. Traffic was dead; it was midsummer in 1943, the fourth day of the heat wave, and pleasure driving was banned.

He was carefully tended. The agreeable, melancholy face against the glassy-smooth pillows was closely shaven, the light hair brushed until it gleamed. His long, fine hands lay flat on a linen sheet of the finest quality, which had been drawn up and folded back across his knees. His thin blue pajamas might have been fresh from the laundry. The table beside his double bed held books and magazines, a jug of ice-water, a writing block and a fountain pen. There were awnings in the four windows; the large, high corner room seemed cool and pleasant.

He raised his left wrist to look at his watch; the leather band slipped along his arm. Noon. The doctor not due for an hour, Pike busy in the kitchen with the early lunch tray: he glanced across the room at the telephone, which stood on its stand just within the doorway.

After a moment of indecision he threw back the sheet and swung his legs off the bed. He stood upright, steadying himself against the table, and then walked slowly towards the telephone. When he reached it he stopped again, listening. A big living room separated him from the lobby and the kitchen beyond, but sounds now came to him—the clink of glass and china. He sat down in front of the telephone and took the directory from its shelf below.

Balancing it on his knees, he searched his memory; then he opened the book and turned pages, at last running his finger down a column. He paused at a name, memorized the number, and replaced the book on the shelf. As he put out his hand to the telephone the doorbell rang clearly.

He withdrew his hand, got up, and was half way to a window when a tall, redfaced, thin man in a white jacket looked in at the door.

The man said: “Having a little exercise?”

“Yes. Cooling off.”

“That must be the doctor; he's early.” The man spoke in a casual kind of drawl. “Better go back to bed.”

The sick man was looking a little frightened. He smiled, however, as he answered: “Will he think it matters?”

“So long as he doesn't think I'm neglecting you.” The other now had him by the arm, and assisted him competently back into bed.

“He won't think that, Pike.” There was a sardonic note in the patient's voice.

“I won't tell on you, anyhow.” Pike pulled the sheet up, smoothed it, arranged a pillow, and then went at a leisurely pace out through the living room.

He came back with a big and rather fat elderly man, dark and untidy, whose lowered head and vast forehead made him look rather like a buffalo. He carried a black bag.

“Well, Mr. Crenshaw.” The doctor came around the bed, put the bag down on the floor beside him, and laid his fingers for a moment on the sick man's wrist; but it was only a ritualistic gesture, and he took the fingers away.

“Well, Dr. Billig.”

The doctor sat down and looked around him. Pike, leaning with his hands on the footboard, stood nonchalant; his long face was not the face of a servant, the white serving-coat did not match its weatherbeaten look; his easy slouch of a walk was not a servant's toddle. He was as immaculately clean as his patient, but his brown hair was ragged; his light eyes had a humorous look, and as he watched the doctor he smiled.

Dr. Billig, glancing at him, did not return the smile. He said: “Nice and cool you are in here, anyhow; it's a terrible day, Mr. Crenshaw. My patients didn't show up, so I cut office hours to drop in on you.”

“You look pretty hot yourself, Doctor.”

“You don't, Mr. Crenshaw.”

Crenshaw smiled. “I know how lucky I am.”

Billig looked at him and looked away. Beside the white bed and the groomed sick man he was not only shabby and unkempt; he was grubby. And he was not at his ease. His big pale face lowered, his yellow-brown eyes in their yellowish whites roved and shifted. He said: “But you'll be better off in hospital now, Mr. Crenshaw.”

“Bad as that?” Crenshaw's pleasant expression did not change. An attractive face, the doctor thought; but if there ever had been strength in it, illness had washed all that away.

“Just so you'll be more comfortable. Trained service. You certainly get good care from your man here—” Billig's eyes went to Pike's face and left it. He took out a crumpled silk handkerchief and patted his damp forehead. “But I'd rather you had nursing from now on. You'll be in clover at St. Damian's. I've got you a corner room, what do you think of that? And you'll look out on big trees. I must say I like those oldfashioned places myself.”

“It certainly wouldn't be considerate of me to die here,” said Crenshaw. “When do I go?”

“This afternoon, if you like.”

“If I like? When you've made all the arrangements, and the hospitals are all jammed? Of course I'll go. But don't send me in an ambulance. I'm like Disraeli,” said Crenshaw. “I don't like the emblems of mortality.”

“Certainly you can go in a cab. I'll come along myself and see you settled there.” Billig put his handkerchief away. He looked relieved. “Glad to see you there.”

“You've been good about it, Doctor; letting me alone, I mean. I suppose they'll bother the life out of me at this hospital?”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“It beats me why they won't leave a man in peace. I know the prognosis—”

“Because you insisted on knowing it.”

“—they know the prognosis. Why all the fuss with blood transfusions and X-rays when a man's dying?”

“We agreed that you weren't going to let your mind dwell on it, Mr. Crenshaw.”

“No; but I must arrange my affairs, such as they are. Pike, I'll have to get to the telephone; I'll want the bank to send a man up with my balance. I'm paying my way in cash.” He glanced at Billig. “You know what happens when a man dies; no checks cashed, nothing paid until the estate gets ready to pay the bills. None of that for me. I shall pay your bill in cash, Doctor, and I shall deposit a couple of thousand at the hospital for my expenses there and for my burial expenses. I suppose the hospital will take care of that for me?”

Billig frowned. “Of course, if you like.”

“There's nobody to do it for me, you know. But will that couple of thousand be enough? That's what you must tell me, Doctor. Shall I be at St. Damian's more than a week or so?”

Billig said shortly: “Absolutely no telling, Mr. Crenshaw.”

“If you would only realize that I don't mind talking about it. Do I, Pike?”

Pike said: “Mr. Crenshaw don't mind at all.”

“I simply want to leave enough cash. I'm to be sent up to the old family plot in Stonehill, Vermont, you know; where I've been settling up my uncle's estate.” He laughed. “One old frame house, and money in the bank to bury
him
. The smart old boy had an annuity. I haven't one, but there's a copy of my will at the bank here; the original is in my bank in California.” He turned his head on the pillow. “If there's a residue at the hospital, let them apply it to their charities.”

Billig looked at Pike, and continued to look at him until that personage took his hands from the bed rail and walked out of the room. The doctor waited until he had presumably got out of earshot; then he said in a low voice: “Mr. Crenshaw.”

“Yes?” Crenshaw did not turn his head.

“I wish there was somebody we could notify.”

“I told you there wasn't.”

“Nobody?”

“Nobody.”

“Not out there in California?”

“Business acquaintances.”

“Not in Vermont?”

Crenshaw paused a moment. Then he said: “I was only in Vermont about my uncle's estate; I was greatly surprised when I heard that he'd left me the old house. I told you, Doctor; our branch of the family settled in California, they're all dead. I haven't a soul belonging to me but some cousins in or near Omaha, if they're still on earth—I don't know. I haven't seen any of them since I was a boy there in the summers. They're not in my will,” he added, laughing, “and I don't think they'd bother to come east for my funeral! I assure you that I wouldn't go to Omaha for theirs.”

Billig sat silent, his big hands on his knees. After a minute he said: “It's rather a responsibility.”

“Why?” Crenshaw turned his head to look at him.

“If you've forgotten somebody, and the person asked why nobody was notified—”

“I haven't forgotten anybody. I like to be alone, Doctor.” Crenshaw looked past the other, into a vastness of space and time. “I don't mind dying alone. I think people have a right to die as they choose—if they can. You've left me in peace, Doctor, and I'm very grateful. I won't alter my will; it was made many years ago, and changing it would be too much of a bother for me now. But I'm paying you two thousand dollars in cash; a thousand today, before we go to the hospital, and Pike will hand you another thousand in cash after I'm dead.”

Billig, his face pale and blank, sat back in his chair. His short-fingered hands were clasped and his thumbs rotated slowly. After a long silence he said: “I have no right to two thousand dollars, Mr. Crenshaw.”

“Right? No. It's not a question of right; it's a question of my regard. You diagnosed the case and told me the truth about it when I asked for it; you've taken every care of me for two weeks, you've made arrangements at the hospital, you'll see that my wishes are carried out. What I pay you is my business, and nobody else's.”

Billig cleared his throat. “Except this Pike's.”

Crenshaw laughed. “Don't worry about Pike; I have every confidence in Pike. Perhaps you don't know the type?”

“You picked him up in Vermont.”

“Well, not off the street! I'll tell you exactly what happened. I came east by request of my uncle's bank in Unionboro, Vermont. I was sole executor. I'd never laid eyes on the old gentleman, but I suppose he had some sentiment about the last scion of the elder branch of the family. I stopped in New York on May twenty-eighth and took this apartment for the summer; thought I'd stop here on my way back to San Francisco—I hadn't been east in years. It was a sublet, nicely furnished; I saw the advertisement in the paper. I was looking forward to seeing the sights—if there were any to see.

“I travelled around a little, and reached Unionboro on—let's see—the fifteenth of June. I found that Stonehill is five miles out, up the mountain. This man Pike was at the station with his old car, and as there was a shortage of taxis—of course—I let him haul me and my bag. We talked, and he amused me. He's a character, typical Yankee failure and drifter, perfectly satisfied with himself; had been peddling some gadget or other until the factories didn't deliver and he was out of a job.

“My uncle's house is a couple of miles north of Stonehill; and I found that thanks to him I could stay there instead of at the so-called hotel in Stonehill. He's a regular jack-of-all-trades, cooked for me like a chef. Pretty soon I began to feel pretty weak and sick, and he did everything; got provisions, supplied me with newspapers, everything. He made me comfortable. I'm glad I had that interlude, Doctor; it was a pleasant, quiet time, and it's beautiful up there in the mountains. And I got a pretty good idea of Pike's character. He's as honest as the day.”

Billig, looking at the sick man from under heavy lids, said nothing.

“Then I crashed—on July the third, as you know. Pike sent word here that we were coming, got me down by the afternoon of the sixth, and then ran out and found you; first sign down the street. He's done everything for me. Now his job's over—here. Tonight he'll go up to Stonehill to close the old house and pay all outstanding bills and settle things. When the funeral's arranged for he'll get your second thousand to you.”