Across the hall someone left the doctor’s office. He strode across the hall with the letters in his hand and walked into the waiting room. Some of the waiting patients looked up at him curiously. Behind the closed door of the doctor’s inner sanctum her voice could be heard in a low and indistinct mumble. Horne picked the most comfortable chair not already occupied and sat down to read his mail.
The first letter was a confidential note from a concern which hand-painted neckties to order — confidential because the customer could send a photograph and receive in return a nude painted on the tie, the nude bearing the face of the girl in the photograph. He rolled the letter into a ball and sent it spinning across the floor. A youngster looked at it incuriously and kicked it through the door into the hallway.
The second letter commanded his attention.
It bore a Boone postmark, dated early the same morning, and contained only a single sheet of typing paper. In the center of the sheet was typed a telephone number. His own telephone number, in his office across the hall. There was nothing else.
Dr. Saari came out for him about forty minutes later. She found him sitting there, staring blankly at the letter. Without words she tapped him lightly on the shoulder and led the way into her inner office. He pushed the door shut behind him.
She asked, “How are you this morning, darling?”
“I’m... what did you say?”
She laughed lightly. “Forget it. I wanted to see if you were hearing well. You are.”
“Where do you get this darling business?”
“I advised you to forget it. It was a test.”
“Is that so?” He eyed her curiously, watching her movements.
“That is so. Come over here and sit down.” She indicated the leather examining table he had come to know so well. She laid out clean bandages.
He held the letter limply in one hand while she changed the bandages. A typewriter on the desk across the office caught his eye.
“Your typewriter?”
“I rent it. And I can type. Wait until you get my bill.”
“What size of type?”
“Size...?”
“Yeah, pica or elite?”
“Elite. Mind my asking why the curiosity?”
He held up before her the letter with his telephone number typed in pica.
“Thought maybe you might be pulling a gag.”
She read the number, turned the paper over, and finally examined the postmark on the envelope.
“You have a suspicious mind, Chuck. Why should I do a thing like that?”
“Why should anybody do it? Somebody did it to me.”
“But why...?”
“How do I know? It isn’t a joke. I’ve a hunch about that, now. But what the hell does it mean?”
She shrugged and put a tiny light into his ear.
“Any dizziness this morning? Nausea?”
Her voice warned him. “Umm. Should there be?”
She stepped in front of him and grinned impishly down into his upturned face.
“There sometimes is, and in your case, was. That’s what happens to bad boys who gulp whiskey when the doctor isn’t looking.”
“Bosh! I’ve never had a hang-over in my life.”
“Except for this morning. Don’t forget the injection I gave you last night.”
He swung out for her but she danced out of reach.
“You’re doing fine, Chuck.” Her merry face sobered. “Of course, there is a possibility of a recurrence, but don’t let it frighten you. It won’t last. Frankly, I didn’t expect you to be using those ears at all for another day, perhaps two. They took a terrific beating.”
“For that matter, so did Wilsey Street. Did you notice how fast Wiedenbeck changed the subject last night when I began harping on TNT? I’ll bet you a steak dinner at the Blue Mill it wasn’t TNT. It’s something stronger, so damned strong it has the sergeant worried.”
“Oh,” she said, “...the sergeant; that reminds me. He dropped in here looking for you. He said he was so upset last night he forgot to go through the motions. He told me to tell you not to leave town without his permission. You are the only eyewitness. The only one known, that is.”
“How about those two guys at the drugstore?”
“I was called to the hospital this morning. One man died before he arrived there last night. The other one was released this morning, after I made an examination.”
“How was he?”
“Fair. I can’t go into details, Chuck.”
“I didn’t mean that. I know your ethics.”
“And I didn’t mean that in the way it sounded. My professional ethics have nothing to do with it. The sergeant has forbidden me to discuss the man’s condition.”
The detective glanced at her sharply. “The hell!”
“Yes, the hell. Don’t ask me any more, Chuck.”
He shook his head grimly. “I won’t. You’ve told me quite a lot.”
“I’ve told you nothing.”
“In words, no.”
Someone pounded on the door.
“Just a moment.” Dr. Saari started for the door.
A voice came through it. “Special delivery for Horne. They said he was here.”
“He is.” She opened the panel and let the postman in.
“Hear ya’ got banged up last night, Chuck?” The newcomer peered at the bandages. He held out a fat letter, a pencil and a pad. “It’s in the papers.”
“Yeah? That makes me famous.” He signed for the letter. The doctor was watching him.
“From the insurance company,” he explained after the postman had left. “The poor sap in the automobile last night was a policyholder. I have to take a look-see. The company doesn’t want to pay out double the face value.”
He ripped the letter open and scanned the papers. The line he wanted was near the center of the application blank.
“Guess what—?”
“What?”
“He left his money to a dog and cat hospital!”
“That’s... rather unbelievable.”
“Here it is, right here. Forty-five thousand bucks to the Boone Animal Hotel, 116 Mulberry Street.”
She offered information. “I’ve made professional calls there. An old lady by the name of Bridges owns the hospital, Deebie Bridges, I believe.”
“She runs the hospital?”
“Oh, no. A veterinarian handles that end of it. I understand she owns the establishment.”
“According to this application the policy was taken out... uh, in May, three years ago. Deebie Bridges will be a nice gal for a male gold digger to latch onto. Ninety thousand bucks, maybe.”
“Will she get the money?”
“Probably. The company will pay in the name of the hospital, but if she owns the joint, then she writes the checks.” He slipped the letter into an inner coat pocket. “Thanks, doctor, but I’ve got to get busy. Chicago will start hounding me by telephone this afternoon.”
“What are you going to do, Chuck?”
“See what there is to see about the animal hotel and Deebie Bridges; also the vet. Say...”
“Say what?”
“I just mentioned that Chicago will be hounding me by telephone.” He held up the anonymous letter containing his phone number typed on the sheet of paper. “It suddenly occurred to me: someone phoned me last night while I was sitting in the office, someone who hung up when they found it was the wrong number. Or so they pretended!”
Four
Charles Horne swung down the stairs after leaving Dr. Saari’s office and emerged into the bright summer sunlight flooding Wilsey Street. He blinked.
A rope barrier had been erected around the twisted lampposts and the crater in the street, holding off the gaping, jabbering crowd of curious who thronged the block. Up at the far corner stood the Finn, watching the new panes of glass being installed in his display windows. He saw Horne and waved briefly. The detective returned the greeting and started off towards the carline, examining the windows he passed. Most of them had been replaced although a few were still hung with canvas curtains or wide slabs of plywood.