Charles Todd: The red door

But it was too late. By the time the constable had collected himself and pelted after the suspect, he had turned at the bridge abutment and was lost in the darkness on the far side of the river.

The constable came back, breathing hard, to meet Rutledge halfway. "I'm sorry, sir-"

"So am I. His next victim might not be as lucky." He gave the constable a description of the boy, including the false name, and added, "He's frightened enough to be dangerous."

"I didn't get a close look at him," the constable admitted. "But I'll see word is passed on." He gestured to Rutledge's arm. "You'd best have that seen to, sir."

The wound was beginning to hurt now. Rutledge warned, "He may not always choose this bridge."

"Yes, sir, I understand that." He shook his head as he bent to retrieve the knife. "A pity. Nothing here to tell us where it came from. Common enough, by the look of it." He ran his finger along the edge. "And sharp enough to bone a chicken."

"I'll come to the station tomorrow to make a statement," Rutledge told him. "Where are you? And what's your name?"

"Lambeth Station. Constable Bishop, sir." He grinned tentatively, adding as if it were a longstanding joke, "Though there are none in the family that I know of."

Rutledge didn't return the smile. He nodded and walked back to where he'd left his motorcar. The blood trickling down his arm to his hand left a trail behind him, and he thought cynically that it was too bad that the boy hadn't cut his own arm instead.

Dr. Lonsdale, answering the summons at his door, was in his dressing gown and still knotting the belt. "It can't wait until morning?" And then he noted the dark patch of blood on Rutledge's sleeve. "Come in, then," he said and led Rutledge directly to his surgery.

"It's not deep," the doctor informed him, turning to wash his hands after examining and then bandaging the wound, "but it will be sore enough for a few days. Be careful how you use it." Accustomed to patching up men from the Yard, he added, "Providing infection doesn't set in from the knife that did this."

It was good advice. The next morning the arm was still sore and felt heavy, but he reported to the Yard, where news of events had preceded him.

Bowles said as they crossed paths in the corridor, "Constable Walker has reported that a week ago on the Lambeth Road a boy tried to rob a doctor returning from a lying-in. Someone came along, and the boy ran. But the description is similar. He claimed he had a knife, but neither the doctor nor his rescuer actually saw it."

"So I wasn't the first victim." He had hoped that he was.

"In fact, there have been a number of robberies at knifepoint south of the river, but most victims hand over their money without any fuss. You and the doctor argued. What were you doing on the bridge at that hour, anyway?"

"A good question," Rutledge answered him shortly. And then seeing that Bowles was intent on having an answer, he went on. "Making plans of a sort."

"A mad place to go woolgathering," Bowles commented. "How's the arm?"

"It will do."

Bowles grunted. "Dr. Lonsdale tells me otherwise. You'll be on light duty for several days." He handed Rutledge the stack of folders he was carrying. "Inspector Mickelson is behind in his paperwork. You can deal with these."

He walked away without looking back.

Rutledge stood there for all of ten seconds, then strode in the direction of his office, his expression grim.

Lonsdale had said nothing about light duties. This was Rutledge's punishment for not taking his assailant into custody. And having him do Mickelson's paperwork was intended to drive the point home.

Jenny Teller woke from a deep sleep, disoriented. Sitting up in bed, she stared at the room. This wasn't the clinic-what was she doing here? And what was that strident sound in the distance?

A telephone.

This was Edwin's house, she realized, brushing back a tendril of hair that had come loose as she slept. And this was the bedchamber she and Walter always used when they were in London.

The telephone was still ringing. Should she answer it?

Rubbing her face with her hands, she tried to collect her wits. She'd had no idea how tired she was. Everyone had been kind at the clinic, but she hadn't been able to shut her eyes, her worry driving her, and only an occasional nap snatched when Walter was with the doctors or asleep himself had kept her going. Why was there no change in his condition? Why was he refusing to talk, to look at her, to eat? Why couldn't the doctors do something?

She remembered now: Amy and Edwin had begged her to come away for a few hours of rest. Walter was sleeping, it would do her good. And they would bring her back in time to have dinner with him.

Oh God, had they let her oversleep? But no, sunlight was still pouring through the curtains, making bright squares on the mauve carpet. It couldn't be more than five o'clock-perhaps half past.

The telephone had stopped ringing.

She lay back against the pillows, one part of her begging to sleep a little longer, the other lashing her with guilt for leaving the clinic even for such a short time.

There was a tap at her door, and she called, "Come in, Amy. I'm awake."

But it was Rose, the housekeeper. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Teller, but there's someone on the telephone asking for you."

"Who is it?" She swung her feet out of the bed and stuffed them into her shoes. "My sister?"

"It's the clinic, Mrs. Teller. I told them you were resting, but they said it was urgent."

She rushed past Rose, nearly tripping over her untied laces as she raced down the stairs. At the door to the telephone closet, she paused, trying to catch her breath, then she snatched up the receiver and leaned toward the mouthpiece. "Mrs. Teller here."

She listened, her mouth so dry she couldn't speak.

"I'll be there. I'm on my way."

Putting up the receiver, she called, "Edwin? Where are you?"

He opened the study door, and she hurried down the passage to meet him. And then to her surprise she saw over his shoulder that the family was gathered there. Amy, of course; Peter and his wife; Leticia, Walter's sister. Their faces, turned toward her, were strained, as if they already knew.

But of course they couldn't. She'd only just been informed herself.

"It's Walter," she told them baldly, and then, unable to say the words, afraid that to do so would make them real, she added, "Oh, please hurry, we must go-!"

There was a deafening silence, and then everyone was moving at once, and someone, Amy, she thought distractedly, was kneeling to tie her shoelaces for her.

She stood there, waiting for the motorcars to be brought around, counting the minutes, refusing to answer their questions. Her mind was filled with only one thought: what she must say to Harry, how she was going to explain.

Rutledge was walking out of his office at the end of the day when he encountered Bowles bearing down on him.

The Chief Superintendent waved Rutledge back into his office and sourly regarded the stack of folders beside his blotter.

"Something has come up," he said, taking the chair and forcing Rutledge to sit again behind his desk.

"Walter Teller has gone missing," he went on, as if the name should mean something to Rutledge. "Teller? Author of that book in 1914 on the reality of the missionary's life in the field?"

But Rutledge had been on the point of joining his regiment in France when the book had come out to critical acclaim. There had been no time to read it. In fact, if asked, he would have been hard-pressed to supply the name of the author.

"Gone missing? In West Africa, was it?" he asked, dredging up a memory.

"No, thank the Lord God. Here in London. He was being treated in the Belvedere Clinic. Some sort of nervous condition, as far as I can judge from what Sergeant Biggin was saying. They've searched the place from top to bottom, and there's no sign of him. They even searched among the cadavers. Ghoulish thing to have to do, but thorough."