“Now, there is no necessity for either,” Martha said in firm voice. “You phoned me for advice, I assume. Are you prepared to take it?”
“What is it?” the woman whispered.
“You seem to be quite aware that you are mentally ill, and all the psychologists say this is the first big step toward cure. It’s the mentally disturbed person who is convinced there is really nothing wrong with him who is in real psychiatric trouble.”
“Don’t suggest that I see my family doctor,” the woman said wearily. “He happens to be my brother-in-law, and I couldn’t possibly tell him what I have told you.”
“It isn’t necessary for either your family doctor or your husband to know you have sought treatment, Janet. You will find numerous psychiatrists listed in the yellow pages of the phone book. Or, if you prefer, I’ll recommend one.”
There was a considerable period of silence before the husky voice said hesitantly, “He wouldn’t tell my husband?”
“You must know that doctors have a code of ethics which makes everything a patient tells them a matter of confidence, Janet. I’m not saying that whatever psychiatrist you pick may not try to talk you into confiding in your husband, but I will guarantee that he won’t tattle on you.”
The woman’s tone became hopeful. “You think this one you offered to recommend might help me?”
“I’m sure he could.”
“Who is he?”
“Dr. Albert Manners, in the Medical Exchange Building. I have never had a doctor-patient relationship with him but I know him quite well because he was on the board of directors of a social agency I once worked for, and I know he has a fine reputation. Do you have a pencil and paper there?”
“I can remember that all right. Dr. Albert Manners in the Medical Exchange Building.”
“Will you call him first thing in the morning?” Martha asked.
“I will. I promise I will. Oh, thank you, Martha.”
“When do you expect your husband home?” Martha asked, but she was speaking into a dead phone. The woman had hung up.
Martha had to get up and heat herself some milk before she could go back to sleep, because she wasn’t at all satisfied with her performance. She should have wormed the woman’s last name out of her. Now, if she killed her husband or herself, Martha would have it on her conscience that she might have averted the tragedy if she had been efficient enough to find out who the caller was and warn her husband.
The third and last call came at a few minutes to nine p.m. the following Monday. When Martha answered the phone, she at first failed to recognize the thick voice which said, nearly incomprehensibly, “’Stoo late. Couldn’t wait tomorrow. ’Stoo late.”
Then she recognized the husky undertone in the thick voice. She said sharply, “Janet?”
“Yeah,” the voice said. “‘Lo, Martha.”
“Have you taken something?” Martha demanded.
“’Stoo late. Couldn’t wait tomorrow.”
“Wait for what, Janet?”
“‘Pointment. ’Pointment Dr. Manners. Would’ve killed him tonight when came home from bowling. Better this way.”
“Janet!” Martha said loudly. “What have you taken?”
“You tell Fred did it for him?” the voice said with increased thickness. “Tell ’im love ’im?”
“Where can I reach him, Janet?” Martha asked desperately. “Where is he bowling?”
“Elks Men’s League. Tell ’im... tell ’im—” The voice trailed off into a somewhat portentous silence.
In the background there sounded, “Cuckoo, cuckoo!” then nine sharp chimes and again, “Cuckoo, cuckoo!”
“Janet!” Martha called, but there was no answer.
She tried several more times to rouse the woman, without success. The line remained open, however, because Martha could hear no dial tone. Even if she hung up, the connection wouldn’t be broken, Martha knew, because the caller had to hang up in order to sever a connection. Martha had no idea of the electronic reason for this phenomenon, but she had occasionally in the past received calls where the caller for some reason had failed to hang up, and it had been necessary to go out to another phone to call the phone company before she could make any outgoing calls.
It therefore should be perfectly safe to click the bar up and down in the hope of rousing an operator, she reasoned. She attempted it, and the second time she depressed the bar and released it again, she was horrified to hear a dial tone. So much for her vaunted knowledge of how phones worked, she thought with dismay. Now she had destroyed all possibility of having the call traced.
She had a few clues to work on, however. The most valuable was that Janet’s husband was bowling with the Elks Men’s League.
Looking up the phone number of the local Elks Club, she dialed it. After several rings a male voice answered.
“Is there anyone there who would know all the members of the Elks Bowling League?” Martha asked.
“Huh?” the man said. “Not me, lady. I’m just the bartender, and the steward has gone home.”
“This is an extreme emergency,” Martha told him. “Isn’t there anyone there who knows your bowlers?”
“The Exalted Ruler is at the bar. I’ll let you talk to him.”
When the Exalted Ruler, who identified himself as Edwin Shay, got on the phone, Martha gave him her name and explained that she was a volunteer worker for Suicide Prevention.
“It is absolutely essential that I get in touch with one of your Men’s League bowlers at once,” she concluded. “The difficulty is that I have only his first name. It’s Fred.”
Edwin Shay said wryly, “The Men’s League has fourteen teams, Miss Pruett, with five men on each team. Offhand I can think of three Freds.”
“His wife is named Janet, Mr. Shay, and he has a brother who is a doctor. Does that mean anything to you? Do you know who he is?”
“Oh, sure,” the Exalted Ruler said with recognition. “You’re talking about Doc Waters. He’s a dentist.”
That was it, Martha thought with jubilation, suddenly understanding the puzzling remark her caller had made the previous Wednesday. The woman had probably started to say National Dental Association Convention, or something similar, before she cut the phrase short and it came out simply, “National Den.”
“Where does the league bowl?” she asked.
“The Delmar Bowl. What’s this all about, anyway?”
“I haven’t time to explain it now,” Martha said. “Thank you very much for your help.”
She hung up, found the number of the Delmar Bowl in the phone book and dialed it. It took a few minutes to get Dr. Fred Waters to the phone, but finally a warm male voice said in her ear, “Yeah, Janet. What’s up?”
“It isn’t your wife, doctor,” Martha said. “I’m a volunteer worker for Suicide Prevention. About fifteen or twenty minutes ago I got a phone call from your wife. You had better get home immediately, because she has taken some kind of pills. She passed out while I was talking to her.”
“What!” Dr. Waters said with a mixture of fright and astonishment. “My wife took pills?”
“You really should hurry, doctor,” Martha said. “And if it’s a very long drive to your home, I suggest that before you start, you phone for an ambulance to meet you there.”
“All right,” he said hurriedly. “Who did you say this is calling?”
“Miss Martha Pruett. I would appreciate it if you would take down my phone number and call me back later as to how things came out”
“Of course, Miss Pruett. What is it?”
Martha read off her number.
“Got it,” the dentist said. “Thanks for calling.”
An interminable period of waiting followed. The suspense was too great for Martha to generate any interest in either television or a book. She busied herself by brushing Ho Chi Minh, brushing her own hair, giving herself a manicure and, in final desperation, even giving herself a pedicure.