Эллери Куин: Dutch Shoe Mystery

“We’ve discovered it was negligence on the part of Mrs. Doorn’s companion, Sarah Fuller — middle-aged woman who has been with Abby for years, runs the house, keeps her company. You see, Abby’s condition called for an insulin injection three times a day. Janney’s always insisted on doing it himself, although in most cases of this sort even the patient may inject the insulin. Last night Janney was kept by a very important case, and as he usually did when he couldn’t run over to the Doorn house, he ’phoned for Hulda, Abby’s daughter. But Hulda wasn’t home, and he left word with this Fuller woman to tell Hulda when she got in to administer the insulin. Fuller woman forgot or something. Abby is generally careless about it — the result was the dose wasn’t given last night. Hulda slept late this morning, never knowing of Janney’s message, and again this morning Abby didn’t get her injection. And on top of it ate a hearty breakfast. The breakfast finished the job. Sugar content in her blood quickly overbalanced the insulin, and coma inevitably followed. As luck would have it, it struck her at the top of a flight of stairs. And there you are.”

“Sad!” murmured Ellery. “I suppose everybody’s been notified? There’ll be a sweet family party here, I’ll wager.”

“Not in the operating-room, there won’t,” said Minchen grimly. “The whole kit and boodle of ’em will be in the Waiting Room next door. Family’s barred from the theater, don’t you know that? Well! How’d you like to take a little walk around? Love to show you the place. If I do say so, it’s a model of hospitalization.”

“With you, John.”

They left Minchen’s office and walked down the North Corridor the way they had come. Minchen pointed out the door to the Amphitheater Gallery, from which they would later view the operation; and the door to the Waiting Room. “Some of the Doorn crowd are probably in there now,” commented Minchen. “Can’t have ’em wandering around... Two auxiliary operating-rooms off the West Corridor,” he went on as they rounded the corner. “We’re pretty busy at all times — have one of the largest surgical staffs in the East... Across the corridor, on the left here, is the main operating-room — called the Amphitheater — which has two special rooms, an Anteroom and an Anæsthesia Room. As you can see, there’s a door to the Anteroom off this corridor — the West — and another entrance, to the Anæsthesia Room, around the corner in the South Corridor... Amphitheater’s where the big operations take place; it’s also used for demonstration purposes to the internes and nurses. Of course, we have other operating-rooms upstairs.”

The Hospital was strangely quiet. Occasionally a white-garbed figure flitted through the long halls. Noise seemed to have been entirely eliminated; doors swung on heavily oiled hinges and made no sound when they slipped shut. A soft diffused light bathed the interior of the building; and except for the chemical odor the air was singularly pure.

“By the way,” said Ellery suddenly, as they sauntered into the South Corridor, “I believe you said before that Mrs. Doorn wouldn’t be given anæsthetic for the operation. Is that only because she is in a coma? I’ve been under the impression that anæsthesia is administered in all surgical cases.”

“Fair question,” admitted Minchen. “And it’s true that in most cases — virtually all cases — anæsthesia is used. But diabetics are funny people. You know — or rather I suppose you don’t know — that any surgical operation is dangerous to a chronic diabetic. Even minor surgery may be fatal. Had a case just the other day — patient came into the dispensary with a festered toe — some poor devil. The doctor in charge — well, it’s just one of those unforeseeable accidents of dispensary routine. The toe was cleaned, the patient went home. Next morning he was found dead. Post mortem examination showed the man to be full of sugar. Probably never knew it himself...

“What I started out to say was that cutting is holy hell on diabetics. When an operation is absolutely necessary a buildup process is instituted — which accomplishes over a comparatively short period the task of temporarily restoring a normal sugar content in the patient’s blood. And even while the operation is being performed alternate injections of insulin and glucose are given without let-up to keep the sugar content normal. They’ll have to do that with Abby Doorn. She’s being injected now with these insulin-glucose treatments; taking blood-tests right along to check up on the diminution of sugar milligrams. This emergency treatment takes about an hour and a half, perhaps two hours. Generally the treatment is stretched over a month or so; too rapid building up may affect the liver. But we have no choice with Abby Doorn; that gall bladder rupture can’t be neglected, even for half a day.”

“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.