Маргарет Миллар - Do Evil In Return

“Looking for someone?” Easter asked.

“Me?” The man coughed. “Well, no. Not at all.”

His head disappeared like a turtle’s.

“Nice girls don’t raise their voices in public,” Easter said. “Or tangle with blackmailers. Of course, there’s always the possibility that you’re not a nice girl, that my eyes have been bedazzled. They are, you know. Absolutely bedazzled. It’s the damnedest thing. Are you interested?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t have to blush if you’re not interested.”

“If I’m blushing, it’s because I’m embarrassed by your impudence.”

He smiled. “Blushing or unblushing, you look fine... Where was I? Oh yes, at my bedazzlement. Well, that covers everything, actually. There you have it.”

“What am I expected to say?”

“Oh, you don’t have to say anything. Just blush now and then. It encourages me.”

“You’re — you’re insufferable.”

“Only at first glance,” Easter said, patiently. “Second and third glances reveal my sterling, less obvious qualities.”

“I don’t care to see them.”

“You will, though. I’ll be around.”

She looked at her watch, attempting to appear cool and indifferent. “I have to get back to my office.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t bother driving me. I can walk.” She got up. “Thank you for the lunch.”

“I hope there’ll be others.”

“That’s unlikely.”

“Other autopsies, other lunches,” Easter said. “By the way, there’s one thing I forgot to mention.” “What is it?”

“Any time you and Ballard need a chaperon, give me a call.”

At five o’clock Miss Schiller started making preparations to go home. Ever since lunch, when she’d read in the newspaper about Violet’s death, she had been talking continually to a succession of patients, enlarging now and then on the truth: “There she stood in the doorway, looking so alive, you know what I mean? Yet I knew, I knew by her eyes that something was up.”... “It’s a blot on the city, but then of course she wasn’t a native. She came from a little town in Oregon, it says in the paper.”

A rich, a full, a satisfying afternoon, marred only by an occasional black look from Charlotte and the fact that some patients selfishly preferred to discuss their own symptoms.

Miss Schiller combed her hair and replaced the net over it. With the net on, it hardly looked like hair at all but like a fuzzy gray cap under which the real Miss Schiller hid, bald as an egg.

The newspaper that she’d bought at lunchtime lay on her desk folded so that she could glance at Violet’s picture whenever she felt the excitement beginning to deflate inside her. Mrs. Violet O’Gorman, of Ashley, Oregon, whose body was found this morning on West Beach apparently a suicide ...

Miss Schiller was reading the report all over again, with the intense fascination of one reading about herself, when Charlotte came out of her office dressed for the street and carrying her medical bag.

Miss Schiller hurriedly turned the paper over and said in her most alert, efficient voice, “Yes, doctor?”

“How many house calls to make?”

“Only three. Here they are.”

“Lord,” Charlotte said. She leaned against the desk and closed her eyes for a moment. The thought of even three house calls appalled her.

“It’s none of my business, doctor, but I must say you haven’t been looking at all well the past few days.”

“No?”

“Haggard, you look, real haggard.”

“Thanks.”

“I was reading only the other day that doctors die sooner than people in any other profession. Now this new herbal tonic I’m taking, really, it’s so invigorating.”

“The stuffs probably loaded with alcohol. No wonder it peps you up.”

“Alcohol?” Miss Schiller blanched. “Oh no. They wouldn’t dare...”

“Cheer up. It won’t kill you,” Charlotte said.

“But I don’t drink. I don’t believe in alcohol.”

“Well, maybe the tonic will help you change your mind.”

The phone rang, but Miss Schiller was too perturbed to answer it. In her imagination she was already an alcoholic, doomed to a drunkard’s grave, through no fault of her own. The vicious stuff was right this minute churning around in her bloodstream, corroding her will, destroying her character. That’s what they told her when she took the pledge — that one never knew when one’s will was being corroded until it was too late. Oh dear. She felt quite giddy.

“Charley? Bill Blake.”

“Hello Bill,” Charlotte said.

“I have to go out of town the beginning of next week. I thought we’d try a switch again, if you’re willing.”

“Certainly.”

“If you haven’t anything critical on your books, I could take over your practice for the rest of this week, and you take mine next Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.”

“That suits me.”

“Swell,” Blake said. “Dare I hope that Miss Schiller has quit and gone into a nunnery?”

“You dare not.”

“All I can do is keep her under ether, then. I’ll see you, and thanks, Charley.”

“Good-bye.” She hung up and turned to Miss Schiller. “Dr. Blake sends you his love.”

“He does?” Miss Schiller bounced out of her drunkards grave with the single-minded agility of a rabbit “Well, I must say I’m flattered. Dr. Blake is such a sweet man.”

“Yes. He’ll be around now and then for the rest of the week. Any calls that come in, just relay to his office. And in the morning you’d better phone the patients who have appointments and send them to Dr. Blake, or else make new appointments. The charts are all in order?”

“Of course.” Miss Schiller was offended. “Well, I mean, really. I’ve been in this business for...”

“No offense meant.” Charlotte picked up her medical bag from the desk where she’d put it when she answered the telephone. It seemed heavier than usual. She realized that for the first time in years she felt exhausted. She moved slowly, as if part of her brain tissue had been destroyed like a spastic’s, and each physical move she made had to be thought out and the muscles forced to obey.

“What a nice coincidence that Dr. Blake phoned,” Miss Schiller said. “Now you can have a good rest for a few days. Go down to the beach and lie in the sun.”

“Perhaps I will.” She wondered, briefly, about the “nice coincidence,” and then forgot about it as soon as she reached the street and got into her car.

It was nearly seven and the sky was showing its first stars, when she arrived home. Even before she turned into the driveway she could hear her phone ringing, a shrill rising, falling, like the sound of tree toads. The ringing stopped as she was unlocking her front door and began again a few seconds later.

She thought it might be Lewis calling and when she answered the phone she tried not to sound tired. Lewis hated her to sound tired; it always started an argument about her working too hard.

“Hello?”

“You work late,” Easter said.

“I wish you’d stop bothering me.”

“Who’s bothering you? I have a new lead in Violet’s case and I thought you’d like to hear about it.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve just learned that Violet has an older sister who lives in Ashley, a war widow by the name of Myrtle Reyerling. Violet may have confided in her about the man we’re after — let’s call him Mr. B.”

“Why Mr... B?”

“No reason. I’m driving up to Ashley tomorrow, unofficially, to have a talk with Mrs. Reyerling. Do you want to come along?”

“No thanks.”