Erle Gardner - Case of the Beautiful Beggar

“An outside private physician had been prescribing for Mr. Shelby,” Dr. Baxter said. “We, of course, honor prescriptions given by the patient’s own doctor.”

“Who is this doctor?”

“I can’t remember his name right now.”

Mason looked around the room, taking mental inventory of an iron frame hospital bed, wash-stand, chest of drawers with a mirror, worn linoleum on the floor, drab lace curtains on the window.

“Where does this door go?” Mason asked.

“The bathroom,” Dr. Baxter said.

Mason jerked the door open, looked at the old-fashioned bathtub, the toilet, the worn linoleum, the crowded cubicle, the wavy mirror over the shallow medicine cabinet.

“This other door?” the lawyer asked.

“The closet. That’s where the patient keeps his clothes.”

“I looked in there,” Dr. Alma said. “The clothes are gone.”

Mason looked in the closet at the row of clothes hooks along the wall.

“He took everything?” Mason asked.

“As nearly as we can tell, everything,” Dr. Baxter said. “Of course, the man had virtually no personal possessions. An attendant shaved him. The man had a toothbrush and toothpaste and those are left in the medicine chest in the bathroom. Aside from that, he had virtually nothing except the clothes he wore when he was received.”

“In other words,” Mason said, “the man had no idea he was being taken to a sanitarium when he was railroaded in here.”

“I didn’t say that,” Dr. Baxter said, “and I couldn’t say it because frankly I don’t know.”

“A man going to a sanitarium carries at least a suitcase of clothes,” Mason said. “Pajamas, underwear, shirts, socks, handkerchiefs.”

“A normal man does,” Dr. Baxter said.

“And Horace Shelby wasn’t normal?”

“By no means. He was irritable, nervous, excited, aggressive and refused to co-operate.”

“Who brought him here?”

“His relatives.”

“How many?”

“Two of them.”

“Borden Finchley and Ralph Exeter?”

“Finchley was one I don’t know the name of the other person. There was a nurse with them, too.”

“Mrs. Finchley?”

“I believe so.”

“And the three of them strong-armed Shelby into this room?”

“They registered him in the sanitarium. He was disturbed at the time, but the nurse gave him some sedation.”

“You know what the sedation was?”

“It was a hypodermic.”

“Did she tell you what it was?”

“She said it had been prescribed by his regular physician.”

“Did you see a copy of the prescription? Did you know who the physician was?”

“I took her word for it. She was a registered nurse.”

“In this state?”

“I believe in Nevada, I don’t know.”

“How do you know she was a registered nurse?”

She told me so — and, of course, from the way she handled the situation I could see that she had had training.”

Mason suddenly backed into the room, picked up one of the straight-backed chairs, carried it into the closet, climbed up on it and reached back into the dark recesses of the closet shelf.

“What are these?” he asked, bringing out a set of straps.

Dr. Baxter hesitated, coughed, said, “Those are straps.”

“Of course, they’re straps,” Mason said. “They’re web straps. What’s their purpose?”

“We use them to restrain patients who are inclined to become physically unmanageable — they use them in all hospitals which treat mental cases.”

“In other words, you strap a man in bed?”

“When his condition requires.”

“And Horace Shelby was strapped in bed?”

“I am not sure. He may have been at one time.”

“And how long was he strapped in bed?”

“I would assume a very brief interval. We only use those straps when the patient becomes entirely unmanageable, and at times when we are somewhat shorthanded. You can see yourself that the straps have been removed, Mr. Mason.”

“They’ve been removed, all right,” Mason said, holding out two pieces of the strap. “They’ve been cut with a sharp knife.”

“Dear me, so they have!” Dr. Baxter exclaimed.

“Then,” Mason said, “if Horace Shelby escaped, as you claim, he must have had outside aid. Somebody must have cut those straps. A man who has been strapped in bed and has no knife can’t very well cut the straps which are holding him.”

Baxter said nothing.

Mason glanced at Dr. Alma.

Dr. Alma said, “I’m going to give this place a good airing. I’m going to find what it’s all about. Did you start this place, Baxter?”

“ Dr . Baxter,” Baxter said.

“Did you start it?” Alma said, raising his voice.

“No. I am buying it from the man who had started it.”

“He’s a licensed M.D.?”

“I didn’t inquire particularly into his qualifications. I saw the license to operate the place and I had that license assigned to me.”

“By whom?”

“By the person who sold it to me.”

“You’d better be in court at two o’clock this afternoon,” Dr. Alma said. “I think Judge Ballinger is going to want to talk with you.”

“I can’t be in court. It’s a physical impossibility. I have many patients and I am shorthanded. We have been doing everything in our power to attract competent help but we simply can’t get them.”

“Nurses?”

“We have practical nurses,” Baxter said. “And we have one trained nurse, but much of our trouble is in getting competent household help. We are all of us doing double duty at the present time.”

There were steps on the porch.

Paul Drake’s voice said, “Hello, Perry.”

“Come in,” Mason said.

Drake entered the room. Mason said, “Dr. Grantland Alma, Mr. Drake and Dr . Baxter.”

“You’re the detective?” Dr. Alma asked.

“Right,” Mason said.

“I think Mr. Mason has uncovered the key clue,” Dr. Alma said.

“Key clue?” Drake asked.

“To the disappearance of Horace Shelby.”

“The escape of Horace Shelby,” Dr. Baxter corrected.

“As far as I am concerned,” Dr. Alma said, “the man is gone and I don’t know how he went, where he went, or who took him.”

“He took himself,” Dr. Baxter said.

“You believe that?” Dr. Alma asked.

“Yes.”

“All right,” Dr. Alma said, “I’m going to quote you on that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been holding him here as an aged incompetent,” Dr. Alma snapped, “a man who was disoriented, who couldn’t take care of himself, who was incapable of managing his affairs.

“When he resented that treatment, you strapped him down to the bed. You wouldn’t allow visitors to see him You wouldn’t allow an attorney to consult with him.

“Now then, you adopt the position that this man was shrewd enough to find some way of cutting the straps that held him, getting up out of bed, dressing, getting out of the gate, out to the street — an aged, infirm man without enough money to get on a bus and, yet, he’s vanished.

“Now then, you just come into court and say that you thought he was aged, infirm, senile, and unable to take care of himself, and let’s see what the Court has to say.”

“Well, now, wait a minute, wait a minute,” Dr. Baxter said hastily. “Of course, he could have had help. What I meant to say was that he didn’t have any help from this institution. In other words, we weren’t trying to spirit him away so that the process of the court couldn’t be used in his case.”

“It isn’t what you meant to say it’s what you did say,” Dr. Alma said. “As far as I am concerned, I’m finished. I’m going back and make my report to the Court... How about you, Mason?”