Эллери Куин: Dutch Shoe Mystery

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!”

The 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.