The Case with Nine Solutions
J. J. Connington
Chapter One. THE DYING MAN
Dr. Ringwood pushed his chair back from the dinner-table. A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece told him that on this evening he had been even later than usual in getting home for dinner. The expression in his eyes showed that he had gone short of sleep for some time past; and when he rose to his feet, every movement betrayed his over-tired condition.
"Bring my coffee to the study, please, Shenstone," he ordered. "And you might take the telephone in there as well."
He crossed the hall wearily, switched on the study lights, and stood for a moment on the threshold as if undecided what to do. A bright fire burned on the hearth; the heavy pile of the carpet was soft to his feet; and the big saddlebag armchairs spoke to him of pure physical comfort and relaxation after the strain of the day. He moved over to a table, hesitated again, and then picked up a copy of the B.M.J. in its postal wrapper. Taking a cigar from a box on the table, he clipped it mechanically and sat down in one of the chairs by the fire.
Shenstone drew a small table to Dr. Ringwood’s elbow and placed the coffee on it; then, retiring for a moment, he returned with the telephone, which he plugged to a connection in the room.
"Bring it over here, Shenstone. I want to be sure that the bell will wake me if I happen to doze."
Shenstone did as he was ordered and was about to leave the room when Dr. Ringwood spoke again.
"Fog clearing off, by any chance?"
Shenstone shook his head.
"No, sir. Worse now than when you came in. Very thick indeed, sir. One can’t see even the nearest street lamp."
Dr. Ringwood nodded gloomily.
"It’s to be hoped no one wants me to go out this evening. Difficult enough to find one’s way about a strange town in the daytime with a fog like this over everything. But in the daytime there are always people about who can give you some help. Nobody bar policemen will be out to-night, I should think."
Shenstone’s face showed his sympathy.
"Very difficult for you, sir. If there’s a night call, perhaps you’d knock me up, sir, and I could go out with you and help you to find your way. I’d be quite glad to do it, sir, if I could be of any service. When Dr. Carew went into the nursing home he specially impressed on me that I was to give you every assistance I could."
A tired smile crossed Dr. Ringwood’s face.
"Doubtful if you can see any further through pea-soup than I can myself, Shenstone. Half the time, as I was coming back for dinner, I couldn’t see even the pavement; so I’m afraid your local knowledge wouldn’t give you much of a pull. Thanks all the same. I’ve got a map of the town and I’ll try to find my way by it."
He paused, and then, as Shenstone turned to go, he added:
"Put a decanter—Scotch—and some soda on the table over yonder. Then I shan’t need to worry you again to-night."
"Very good, sir."
As Shenstone left the room, Dr. Ringwood tore open the wrapper of the B.M.J., threw the paper into the fire, and unfolded the journal. He scanned the contents while sipping his coffee; but in a few minutes the bulky magazine slipped down on to his knees and he resigned himself completely to the comfort of his surroundings.
"Thank the Lord I didn’t need to become a G.P." he reflected. "Specialism’s a tough enough row to hoe, but general practice is a dog’s life, if this is a sample of it."
He picked up the B.M.J. again; but as he did so his sharp ear caught the sound of the front door bell. An expression of annoyance crossed his features and deepened as he heard Shenstone admit some visitor. In a few seconds the door of the study opened and Shenstone announced.
"Dr. Trevor Markfield, sir."
Dr. Ringwood’s face cleared as a clean-shaven man of about thirty entered the room; and he rose from his chair to greet the newcomer.
"Come in, Trevor. Try that pew beside the fire. I’ve been meaning to ring you up ever since I came last week, but I haven’t had a moment. This ’flu epidemic has kept me on the run."
Trevor Markfield nodded sympathetically as he moved towards the fire and extended his hands to the blaze.
"I’d have looked you up before, but it was only this morning I heard from someone that you were doing locum for old Carew. It’s a bit out of your line, isn’t it?"
"Carew’s an old friend of ours; and when he went down with appendicitis he asked me in a hurry to look after his practice and I could hardly refuse. It’s been an experience, of sorts. I haven’t had two hours continuous sleep in the last five days, and I feel as if the next patient runs the risk of a free operation. I’m fit to bite him in the gizzard without anæsthetics."
Markfield’s stern features relaxed slightly.
"As bad as all that?" he asked.
"Oh, I don’t mind real cases. But last night I was called out at two in the morning, when I’d just got back from a relapsed ’flu case. A small boy. ‘Dreadfully ill, doctor. Please come at once.’ When I got there, it was simply an acute case of over-stuffing. ‘It was his birthday, doctor, and of course we had to let him do as he liked on that day.’ By the time I’d got there, he’d dree’d his weird—quite empty and nothing whatever the matter with him. No apologies for dragging me out of bed, of course. A doctor isn’t supposed to have a bed at all. I expect the next thing will be a fatal case of ingrowing toe-nails. It’s a damned nuisance to have one’s time frittered away on that sort of thing when one’s at one’s wits end to do what one can for people at the last gasp with something really dangerous."
"Still got the notion that human life’s valuable? The war knocked that on the head," Markfield commented, rubbing his hands together to warm them: "Human life’s the cheapest thing there is. It’s a blessing I went over to the scientific side, instead of going in for physicking. I’d never have acquired a good sympathetic bedside manner."
Dr. Ringwood made a gesture towards the decanter on the table.
"Have a spot?" he invited. "It’s a miserable night."
Markfield accepted the offer at once, poured out half a tumblerful of whisky, splashed in a very little soda, and drank off his glass with evident satisfaction. Putting down the tumbler, he moved across and sat down by the fire.
"It’s an infernal night," he confirmed. "If I didn’t know this end of the town like the palm of my hand, I’d have lost my way coming here. It’s the thickest fog I’ve seen for long enough."
"I’m in a worse box, for I don’t know the town," Dr. Ringwood pointed out. "And we’re not near the peak of this ’flu epidemic yet, by a long way. You’re lucky to be on the scientific side. Croft-Thornton Research Institute, isn’t it?"
"Yes, I came here three years ago, in 1925. Silverdale beat me for the head post in the chemical department; they gave me the second place."
"Silverdale?" Dr. Ringwood mused. "The fellow who works on alkaloids? Turned out a new condensate lately as side-line? I seem to know the name."
"That’s him. He doesn’t worry me much. I dine at his house now and again; but beyond that we don’t see much of each other outside the Institute."
"I’ve a notion I ran across him once at a smoker in the old days. He played the banjo rather well. Clean-shaven, rather neatly turned out? He’ll be about thirty-five or so. By the way, he’s married, now, isn’t he?"
A faint expression of contempt crossed Markfield’s face.
"Oh, yes, he’s married. A French girl. I came across her in some amateur theatricals after they arrived here. Rather amusing at first, but a bit too exacting if one took her on as a permanency, I should think. I used to dance with her a lot at first, but the pace got a bit too hot for my taste. A man must have some evenings to himself, you know; and what she wanted was a permanent dancing-partner. She’s taken on a cub at the Institute—young Hassendean—for the business."