Эллери Куин - Dutch Shoe Mystery

“The customary thing, John. A case,” murmured Ellery. “Don’t like hospitals as a rule. They depress me. But I need some information—”

“Only too glad to be of service.” Dr. Minchen spoke incisively; he had very keen blue eyes and a quick smile. Grasping Ellery’s elbow he steered him through the door. “But we can’t talk here, old man. Come into my office. I can always find time for a chat with you. Must be months since I’ve seen you...”

They passed through the glass door and turned to the left, entering a long gleaming corridor lined on both sides with closed doors. The odor of disinfectant grew stronger.

“Shades of Aesculapius!” gasped Ellery. “Doesn’t this awful smell affect you at all? I should think you’d choke after a day in here.”

Dr. Minchen chuckled. They turned at the end of the corridor and strode along another at right angles to the one they had just traversed. “You get used to it. And it’s better to inhale the stink of lysol, bichloride of mercury and alcohol than the insidious mess of bacteria floating about... How’s the Inspector?”

“Middling.” Ellery’s eyes clouded. “A stubborn little case just now — I’ve got everything but one detail... If it’s what I think...”

Again they turned a corner, proceeding down a third hall parallel to the first through which they had passed. To their right, along the entire length of the corridor, there was blank wall broken only at one spot by a solid-looking door labeled: AMPHITHEATER GALLERY. To their left they passed in succession a door marked: DR. LUCIUS DUNNING, CHIEF INTERNIST; a little farther on another door inscribed: WAITING ROOM; and finally a third door at which Ellery’s companion halted, smiling. The door was lettered: DR. JOHN MINCHEN, MEDICAL DIRECTOR.

It was a large, sparsely furnished room dominated by a desk. Several cabinets with metallic instruments gleaming on glass shelves stood against the walls. There were four chairs, a low wide bookcase filled with heavy volumes, a number of steel filing-cases.

“Sit down, take your coat off and let’s have it,” said Minchen. He flung himself into the swivel-chair behind the desk, leaned backward, placed his square-fingered hard hands behind his head.

“Just one question,” muttered Ellery, throwing his ulster over a chair and striding across the room. He leaned forward over the desk, stared earnestly at Minchen. “Are there any circumstances which will alter the length of time in which rigor mortis usually sets in?”

“Yes. What did the patient die of?”

“Gunshot...”

“Age?”

“I should judge about forty-five.”

“Pathology? I mean — any disease? Diabetes, for example?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Minchen rocked gently in his chair. Ellery retreated, sat down, groped for a cigarette.

“Here — have some of mine,” said Minchen... “Well, I’ll tell you, Ellery. Rigor mortis is tricky, and generally I should like to examine the body before making a decision. I asked about diabetes particularly because a person over forty affected by an excess saccharine condition in the blood will almost inevitably stiffen up after a violent death in about ten minutes—”

“Ten minutes? Good God!” Ellery stared at Minchen, the cigarette drooping from his thin firm lips. “Ten minutes,” he repeated to himself softly. “Diabetes... John, let me use your ‘phone!”

“Help yourself.” Minchen waved, relaxed in his chair. Ellery snapped a number, spoke to two people, made connection with the Medical Examiner’s office. “Prouty? Ellery Queen... Did the autopsy on Jiminez show traces of sugar in the blood?... What? Chronic diabetic condition, eh? I’ll be damned!”

He replaced the receiver slowly, drew a long breath, grinned. The lines of strain had vanished from his face.

“All’s well that ends ill, John. You’ve rendered yeoman service this morning. One call more, and I’m through.”

He telephoned Police Headquarters. “Inspector Queen... Dad? It’s O’Rourke... Positive. The broken leg... Yes. Broken after death, but within ten minutes... Right!... And so am I.”

“Don’t go, Ellery,” said Minchen genially. “I’ve a bit of time on my hands and I haven’t seen you for ages.”

They sat back in their chairs, smoking. Ellery wore a singularly peaceful expression.

“Stay here all day, if you want me to.” He laughed. “You’ve just provided the straw that broke a stubborn camel’s back... After all, I mustn’t be too harsh with myself. Not having studied the mysteries of the Galenic profession, I couldn’t possibly have known about diabetes.”

“Oh, we’re not a total loss,” said Minchen. “As a matter of fact, I had diabetes on my mind. Just about the most important personage in the Hospital — chronic case of diabetes mellitus — had a bad accident this morning on the premises. Nasty fall from the top of a flight of stairs. Rupture of the gall bladder and Janney’s getting ready to operate immediately.”

“Too bad. Who is your first citizen?”

“Abby Doorn.” Minchen looked grave. “She’s over seventy, and although she’s well preserved for her age the diabetic condition makes the operation for rupture fairly serious. The only compensating feature of the whole business is that she is in a coma, and anæsthesia won’t be necessary. We’ve all been expecting the old lady to go under the knife for mildly chronic appendicitis next month, but I know that Janney won’t touch the appendix this morning — just not to complicate her condition. It’s not so serious as I’m probably making it sound. If the patient weren’t Mrs. Doorn, Janney would consider the case interesting but nothing more.” He consulted his wrist watch. “Operation’s at 10:45 — it’s almost 10:00 now — how would you like to witness Janney’s work?”

“Well...”

“He’s a marvel, you know. Best surgeon in the East. And Head Surgeon of the Dutch Memorial, partly because of Mrs. Doorn’s friendship and of course through his genius with the knife. Why not stay? Janney will pull her through — he’s operating in the Amphitheater across the corridor. Janney says she’ll be all right and when he says so, you can bank on it.”

“I suppose I’m in for it,” said Ellery ruefully. “To tell the truth, I’ve never witnessed a surgical operation. Think I’ll have the horrors? I’m afraid I’m a wee bit squeamish, John...” They laughed. “Millionaire, philanthropist, social dowager, financial power — damn the mortality of the flesh!”

“It hits us all,” mused Minchen, stretching his legs comfortably under the desk. “Yes, Abigail Doorn... I suppose you know she founded this Hospital, Ellery? Her idea, her money — really her institution... We were all shocked, I can tell you. Janney more than the rest of us — she’s been fairy godmother to him practically all his life — sent him through Johns Hopkins — Vienna — the Sorbonne — just about made him what he is to-day. Naturally he insisted on operating, and naturally he’ll do the job. No finer nerves in the business.”

“How did it happen?” asked Ellery curiously.

“Fate, I guess... You see, Monday mornings she always comes down here to inspect the Charity Wards — her pet idea — and as she was about to walk down a flight of steps on the third floor she went into a diabetic coma, fell down the stairs and landed on her abdomen... Luckily Janney was here. Examined her at once, and even from a superficial examination saw that the gall bladder had been ruptured by the fall — abdomen swollen, bloated... Well, there was only one thing to do. Janney began to give her the insulin-glucose emergency treatment...”

“What caused the coma?”