Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

“He stood perfectly still, never moved a hair,” said the detective after a moment’s thought.

Dr. Timmons then proceeded: “I am not here to vouch for my patient’s character or honesty. I know nothing whatever about that. If I’d heard he was being accused of taking jewelry, silverware, furs, anything of that sort, I would not have come forward. But hearing what the charge was in this case, I felt it was my duty as a physician to bring certain facts to light.

“The patient first came to me in May of this year, complaining of an intermittent rash and itching. It would come and go, but it was causing him great trouble. At nights, for instance, when he was at home in bed, it never seemed to bother him. It was only at certain times during the day that it would suddenly show up, then gradually die down again. Sometimes it came on three or four times during the course of a single day, then again only once or twice.

“He told me that whenever he left a barber shop he had it, and whenever he went to a motion-picture show. But when he went into a bar to have a glass of beer, he didn’t have it. Yet when he went into the same bar and had a couple of ryes, he did have it.

“He never had it on buses, but once getting out of a taxi he had it. If he bought a single package of cigarettes he didn’t have it, but if he bought a whole carton at a time he did have it, before he even began to smoke them. A mysterious and interesting case, you will admit.

“I have here a record of his visits, taken from my office-appointment book. If your Honor would care to examine it.”

“ ‘A. Bunker, Monday, ten a.m. — ’ ” read the judge aloud, rapidly shuffling through a number of loose-leaf pages the doctor had handed him. “ ‘A. Bunker, Friday, three p.m. — ’ He seems to have visited you at the rate of twice a week.”

“He did, your Honor, all through June, July, and the greater part of August. He told me right at the start he couldn’t afford to come to see me that often, but since the case fascinated me, and the poor fellow was badly in need of help, I told him not to worry about it — to pay me whatever he could as we went along.”

The judge cast an admiring glance at the man before him. “There should be more practitioners like you, Dr. Timmons.”

“Not all of us are money grabbers,” said the doctor modestly. “Well, to go on with this man’s case history. A quick test showed that the condition was not dermatological. In lay language that means that it was not a skin infection. I hadn’t thought it was because it came and went, instead of being constant. Therefore there was only one other thing it could be. It had to be an allergy.

But just knowing it was an allergy wasn’t enough. It had to be identified, isolated, its cause discovered, or the patient couldn’t be helped. I tested him on a number of foods first, and got negative results. Then I tested him on fabrics, such as are worn on the body — wool, cotton, dacron. Again negative. I even tested him on lint, such as is commonly found in the linings of most pockets. Nothing there either.”

He broke off to ask, “I’m not being too technical for your Honor, am I?”

The judge was sitting engrossed, his hands supporting the sides of his face. He said, “I don’t know when I’ve heard a more interesting exposition than the one you’ve been giving, Doctor. Go on, by all means. This is almost like a medical detective story!”

“These exhaustive tests,” resumed the magnetic medic, “might have continued indefinitely, might still be going on today and for many months to come, if it hadn’t been for one of those little accidental breaks which pop up when least expected and give an investigator a short cut to the answer. As I’ve said, I was lenient in collecting payment for the treatments. After several visits for which he’d paid me nothing, the patient one day said he’d like to make a small payment on account. I agreed, of course, and he handed me a five-dollar bill. I’d already noticed he was somewhat improved on that particular day. The ailment had not disappeared by any means, but it was in one of its occasional periods of remission.

“I thought it only fair to dash off a receipt for the fee. When I happened to look up a moment later, I was amazed to see what had occurred.”

Like the good showman he was, the doctor paused artfully.

“But rather than describe it in dry words, I’m going to let you see for yourselves just what happened.”

He turned to Al. “Please remove your jacket, Mr. Bunker.”

Al complied, but with a somewhat apprehensive look on his face. He handed the jacket over to the doctor, who in turn handed it to the clerk, who draped it neatly over the edge of his table-top desk.

“Now, roll up the sleeves of your shirt,” was the doctor’s next instruction. “As high as they’ll go — all (he way up to your shoulders.”

Al again obeyed, but with more and more of a troubled expression, like someone who knows he is in for in uncomfortable experience. In this instance the doctor speeded up the process by helping him, in the course of which his own hands, unavoidably, glanced lightly upward along Al’s forearms.

The doctor turned to the others.

“I want you to look at his hands and arms before we go any further. Hold out your arms, Mr. Bunker.”

Al stiffly extended his arms straight out before him at chest level, in grotesque resemblance to a high-diver about to launch off into space. His arms were no different from other arms of the male variety — hairy on one side, smooth and heavily veined on the other, but otherwise unblemished.

“Now I’d like a piece of paper currency from one of you, if I may. An ordinary banknote. I’m asking you to furnish it, instead of using one of my own, so there can be no question of the genuineness of this test.”

Like three men at a table when the waiter brings the check, each reacted according to his personal characteristics. The arresting officer made no move toward his pockets at all. The clerk, who was on small salary, managed to outfumble the judge, even in spite of the latter s encumbering robes. The majesty of the law produced a wallet that seemed to contain nothing less than bills in double digits.

Hill a ten be all right?” asked the judge.

“Quite all right.” assured the doctor. “It isn’t the denomination that’s the chief factor.”

He turned back to Al with the ten dollars.

“Now take this in your hands, Mr. Bunker.”

Al drew back, like a child who is about to be given castor oil.

“Now come on,” said the doctor with a touch of impatience. “I’m trying to help you, not harm you.”

Al pinched one corner of the bill between his thumb and forefinger, as though he were holding onto a fluttering moth by one wing.

“Don’t just hold it between two fingers — put all your fingers on it at once,” insisted the doctor. Then when Al had done so, the doctor urged, “Now pass it over into your other hand.”

A few portentous seconds ticked by, as though the doctor were taking a pulse count.

“That’ll do. You’ve held it long enough.”

Al released it with a long-drawn sigh that could be heard throughout the judge’s chamber.

There was a breathless wait.

For several moments nothing happened. Then Al dug his fingernails into the back of one hand and raked it. Then the other. Then the back of one arm. Then the inside. Angry red blotches, almost the size of strawberries, began to appear.

By now Al was almost like a sufferer from St. Vitus’s Dance. His feet stood still, but up above he writhed as though he’d been bitten by five hundred mosquitoes. He couldn’t get at all the places that needed scratching. He didn’t have enough fingernails.