Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

“Mr. Herschel has insisted so hard on talking to you we thought it best for you to see him,” he said in a low voice, as though Uncle Stefan might hear and be disturbed. “I want you to be very careful, though. He’s lost a lot of blood, been through a very severe trauma. I don’t want you to say anything that might cause a relapse.”

I couldn’t afford to antagonize anyone else today. I just nodded and told him I understood. He opened the door to the intensive-care unit and ushered me through. I felt as though I were being conducted into the presence of royalty. Uncle Stefan had been isolated from the rest of the unit in a private room. When I realized Metzinger was following me into it I stopped. “I have a feeling what Mr. Herschel has to say is confidential, Doctor. If you want to keep an eye on him, can you do it through the door?”

He didn’t like that at all and insisted on coming in with me. Short of breaking his arm, which was a tempting idea, there wasn’t much I could do to stop him.

The sight of Uncle Stefan lying small in a bed, attached to machines, to a couple of drips, to oxygen, made my stomach turn over. He was asleep; he looked closer to death than he had in the apartment last night.

Dr. Metzinger shook him lightly by the shoulder. He opened his guileless brown eyes, recognized me after a few bewildered seconds, and beamed feebly. “Miss Warshawski. My dear young lady. How I have been longing to see you. Lotty has told me how you saved my life. Come here, eh, and let me kiss you-never mind these terrible machines.”

I knelt down next to the bed and hugged him. Metzinger told me sharply not to touch him-the whole point of the gown and gauze was to keep germs out. I got to my feet.

Uncle Stefan looked at the doctor. “So, Doctor. You are my good protector, eh? You keep the germs away and get me healthy quickly. Now, though, I have a few private words for Miss Warshawski only. So could I trouble you to leave?”

I studiously avoided Metzinger’s face as he withdrew with a certain amount of ill grace. “You can have fifteen minutes. Remember, Miss Warshawski-you’re not to touch the patient.”

“No, Dr. Metzinger. I won’t.” When the doctor had closed the door with an offended snap I pulled a chair to the side of the bed.

“Uncle Stefan-I mean, Mr. Herschel-I’m so sorry I let you get involved in this.. Lotty is furious, and I don’t blame her-it was thoughtless. I could beat myself.”

The wicked grin that made him look like Lotty came. “Please-call me Uncle Stefan. I like it. And do not beat your beautiful body, my dear new niece-Victoria, is it not? I told you to begin with that I am not afraid of death. And so I am not. You gave me a beautiful adventure, which I do not at all regret. Do not be sad or angry. But be careful. That is why I had to see you. The man who attacked me is very, very dangerous.”

“What happened? I didn’t see your ad until yesterday afternoon-I’ve had sort of a wild week myself. But you made a stock certificate?”

He chuckled wearily. “Yes, a very fine one, if I say so. For IBM. A good, solid company. One hundred shares common stock. So. Last Wednesday I finished him, no them. Sorry, with this injury my English goes a bit.” He stopped and breathed heavily for a minute. I wished I could hold his hand. Surely a little contact would do him more good than isolation and sterility.

His papery eyelids fluttered open again. “Then I call a man I know. Who it is, maybe best you do not hear, my dear niece. And he calls a man, and so on. And on Wednesday afternoon one week later, I get a call. Someone is interested. A buyer, and he will be there Thursday afternoon, I rush to get an ad in the paper.

“So, in the afternoon a man shows up. I know at once he is not a boss. The manner is that of an underling. Maybe you call him a legman.”

“Legman. Yes. What did he look like?”

“A thug.” Uncle Stefan produced the slang word proudly. “He is maybe forty. Heavy-not fat, you know. He looks Croatian, that thick jowl, thick eyebrows. He is as tall as you, but not as beautiful. Maybe a hundred pounds heavier.”

He stopped again to breathe, and closed his eyes briefly. I glanced surreptitiously at my watch. Only five more minutes. I didn’t try to hurry him; that would only make him lose his train of thought.

“Well, you were not there, and I, I had to play the clever detective. So I tell him I know about the priory forgeries, and I want a piece of that particular business. But I have to know who pays. Who the boss is. So we get into a-a fight. He takes my IBM stock. He takes your Acorn stock. He says, ‘You know too much for your own good, old man!’ and pulls out the knife, which I see. I have acid at my side, acid for my etching, you understand. This I throw at him, so when he stabs me, his hand is not quite true.”

I laughed. “Wonderful. When you’ve recovered maybe you’d like to join my detective agency. I’ve never wanted a partner before, but you’d bring class to the operation.”

The mischievous smile appeared briefly, weakly; he shut his eyes again. “It’s a deal, dear Victoria,” he said. I had to strain to catch the words.

Dr. Metzinger bustled in. “You’ll have to leave now, Miss Warshawski.“

I got up. “When the police talk to you, give them a description of the man. Not anything else. Random burglar after your silver, perhaps. And put in a good word for me with Lotty-she’s ready to flay me.”

The lids fluttered open and his brown eyes twinkled weakly. “Lotty was always a headstrong, unmanageable child. When she was six-”

Dr. Metzinger interrupted him. “You’re going to rest now. You can tell Miss Warshawski later.”

“Oh, very well. Just ask her about her pony and the castle at Kleinsee,” he called as Metzinger hustled me out of the room.

The policeman stopped me in the hallway. “I need a full report on your conversation.”

“For what? Your memoirs?”

The policeman grabbed my arm. “My orders are, if anyone talks to him, I have to find out what he said.”

I jerked my arm down and away. “Very well. He told me he was sitting home on Thursday afternoon when a man came up the stairs. He let him in. Mr. Herschel’s an old man, lonely, wants visitors more than he wants to suspect people. He’s got a lot of valuable stuff in that apartment and it probably isn’t too much of a secret. Anyway, they got into a tussle of sorts- as much as a thug can be said to tussle with an eighty-year-old man. He had some jewelry cleaner in his desk, acid of some kind, threw it at him and got a knife in his side. I think he can give you a description of sorts.”

“Why did he want to see you?” Metzinger demanded.

I wanted to get home more than I wanted to fight. “I’m a friend of his niece, Dr. Herschel. He knows me through her, knows I’m a private detective. An old man like that would rather talk to someone he knows about his troubles than get caught in the impersonal police machinery.”

The policeman insisted on my writing down what I had just told him and signing it before he let me go. “And your phone number. We need a number where we can reach you.” That reminded me-I hadn’t gotten to the phone company. I gave him my office number and left.

Traffic on the Edens was thick by the time I reached it. It would be a parking lot where it joined the Kennedy. I exited on Peterson and headed south on side streets to Montrose. It was six-fifteen when I got to the Bellerophon. Setting my alarm for seven, I pulled the Murphy bed out of the wall and fell across it into a dreamless sleep.

When the alarm rang, it took me a long time to wake up. At first I thought it was morning in my old place on Halsted. I switched off the ringing and started to go back to sleep. It dawned on me, however, that the bedside table was missing. I’d had to reach over the side of the bed to the floor to turn off the clock. This woke me enough to remember where I was and why I had to get up.