Always Leave ’Em Dying (7 page)

Room 114 was nearby, across the hall and halfway to the main entrance. The door wasn't locked and the room was in darkness. I felt along the wall and found the light switch, flipped it on, glanced around. Against the left wall was a bed. A guy lay in it, covers halfway down his chest. He was snoring.

I shoved the door closed behind me and the guy snorted a couple of times, smacked his chops, and raised up on one elbow. He said, still half asleep, "That you, Dixie? Hey?" He blinked and squinted in the bright light, then his eyes focused on me and he said, "Who in thunderation are you?"

He was firm-fleshed, husky, sharp-featured, and absolutely bald. I walked to the side of the bed and said, "Are you Randolph Hunt?"

"That's me." He squinted. "You a doctor, young fellow? Well, don't get no notions. Don't go givin' me no enemas or nothin'. I ain't here for treatment. You look on my card and—"

"Whoa, Mr. Hunt. I'm not a doctor."

"Then who the hell are you, son? You took a year off my life wakin' me up so sudden. Cain't afford no more years off my life, that's for—"

I interrupted. "Hold it, Hunt. Listen to me a minute."

"Don't you tell me what to do, boy." I tried to get a word in edgewise, but he cut me off. "Maybe you don't mean no harm. Just that I got tired of people tellin' me what to do. That's why I like it here; do any fool thing you feel like so long as you don't hurt nobody else."

"Where's Felicity Gifford?"

That stopped him in midsentence with his mouth open. Slowly he closed it, then said, "Felicity? What made you ask me that, son?"

"I'm Shell Scott."

He rubbed his bald head, nodded slowly. "You was in the paper. Detective feller."

"That's right. I talked to your niece, Jo Perrine, earlier. She said you read that article about me and Felicity—and your gal friend Dixon—and took off. So now you can tell me why."

He frowned. "Don't really have no connection, son. I cain't help you no way."

For a couple of minutes he was evasive, but I was going to get his story if I had to sit on him. I said, "How about this Dixon gal? She thin, fortyish, black mole on her cheek?"

"That's Dixie, nurse here. Gladys Dixon. Come out to see her but she wasn't here, don't get on till twelve, so I got me a room. Figured on seein' her later." He squinted at me. "Hey, how'd you know where to find me?"

"Talked to a . . . girlfriend of yours and she thought you might be here. Gal named Olive Fairweather."

"Oh, Lordy," he said. "Plumb forgot that little dear."

"Yeah, she was expecting you. Wants to see you."

"Oh, Lordy," he said. "Should have gone there instead."

"OK, Hunt. Why did you come out here?" He hesitated again and I said, "Maybe I'd better wise you up." I told him what had happened since I first hit Greenhaven. "There's a reason somewhere. And I threw Felicity's name—and yours—around a little when I arrived. Maybe it doesn't mean anything, but Dixon works here; Felicity wrote the name Dixon down after a phone call Friday night. Add it up yourself." I paused and added, "I don't know what this means, either, but half an hour or so ago some guy hauled a body away from here and buried it."

For maybe half a minute he was silent. Then he said, "All right, son. Still don't know it's worth mentionin', but you listen a spell." He told me about meeting Olive Fairweather at a Trammelite meeting; she was a fervent follower. They'd then started going together. "Well," he said, "we got along pretty good, and . . ." He swallowed, then said suddenly, "Hell, I brought Olive here to Greenhaven because she was about to have herself a baby."

"You mean she had—"

"I mean we come here for an abortion. Here's where I met Dixie. She's the one fixed it up." He frowned again. "Olive's name's Miss Fairweather, not Mrs., and not Mrs. Hunt, neither. Not that it mightn't of been, under the circumstances, but the circumstances was what made it impossible, Olive declared. Right fine woman, Olive is—but hell, that's neither here nor there, son."

I'd been quiet while he talked, letting his words sink in. Now I said, "Damn it to hell. Anybody in on the deal with Dixon? Working with her?"

"Don't know. Olive would."

I got a little more from him. Hunt had met Felicity at Trammelite meetings, talked to her several times, and liked her a lot. When he'd read the story in today's Ledger, added to his natural concern was his knowledge of Gladys Dixon's racket, and he'd come here mainly to ask her if there was any connection, if the name in the paper referred to her.

"Don't really suppose it did," he said, "but just in case, I wanted to know. Maybe I could help with money or somethin'. Got more money than I know what to do with. Jillion oil wells."

"How'd you find out about Dixon in the first place?"

He rubbed his head. "Well, you know, it ain't nothin' out of the ordinary happened to Olive and me. Happens hundreds of times every day. But we're still livin' in the dark ages, I guess. Cain't just go to a doctor and say you want an abortion. Be ten thousand people that's got nothin' better to do than trying to run everybody else's lives, and they'd put you in jail, or shoot you or somethin'." He sighed. "Well, I asked around kind of sneaky, feelin' like I'd stole the crown jewels, spent a bit of money and, finally, heard about Dixie and this place. Come out and talked to her and fixed it up. Then brought Olive here. Since then I come out a few times just to jolly Dixie."

He didn't know anybody else here who might have been involved, and couldn't tell me who Dixon worked for or where I could find her. He said, "It ain't much, son, but that's the whole story. Oh, there was that name in the papers, but I come here tonight mainly just to see Dixie, I guess. We get along pretty good. Well, it do you any good to know?"

"Maybe, Mr. Hunt. I'd like to hear what Olive could tell us, and I wish I had more time to talk to you, but I've got some things to do. Anyway, thanks, Mr. Hunt."

"Shucks, don't go formal on me, boy. Call me Randy. That's what the gals call me." He grinned again. "That's because I'm a randy character."

He looked pretty randy at that, bald head and all. Dressed up, he must have been a sight to see. I'd thought my clothes were colorful, but scattered about the room were a gruesome yellow sports shirt covered with brilliant fighting roosters leaping about, green suspenders attached to blue slacks, and a pure white sports jacket with huge saddle-stitched pockets. On the floor were tan and white oxfords and on a table by the bed was a black Homburg.

I went to the door. "OK, Randy."

He cleared his throat. "Say, Olive was . . . expectin' me, you said?" I nodded and he squinted at me. "Remember what she was wearin', son?"

I grinned at him. "Yeah. A serape."

He rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling and clapped a hand to his head. "Oh, Lordy," he said.

I looked out into the empty corridor, then started walking toward the main entrance. I was almost there when at the west end of the building a door leading into that wing opened and a guy came out. I didn't have a chance to duck around the corner out of sight because he was in a hurry, actually trotting down the hall. There wasn't anything to do but keep walking casually ahead and hope whoever it was didn't know me.

When he got close I saw his face, the big bulbous nose and rimless eyeglasses—just as he looked squarely at me and his mouth dropped open. It was Dr. Wolfe—who thought I was an escaped maniac.

 

Chapter Eight

Wolfe went from a trot to a run when he passed me, and veered toward a door standing slightly ajar as I sprinted after him. He leaped into the room and the door started to close. A moment before it clicked shut I slammed my shoulder against the door and threw it open. I stumbled inside, and yelled, "Hold it, Wolfe."

He was jumping toward a phone on his desk, but he froze, looked over his shoulder, and spotted the gun in my hand. He stood motionless, staring at the revolver, his mouth still open and his eyes wide and frightened.

I kicked the door shut and said, "Stand still, Wolfe. You're not going to get hurt. Just don't let out a peep."

He turned and backed slowly away from me until he bumped into the desk. A small wooden triangle, a few papers, the phone, and a carafe of water were on the desktop; the wooden triangle bore the name "Dr. Frank Wolfe." He looked scared silly, his face white.

"Just ease over and sit down," I said. "Stay away from the phone and don't even think about yelling."

He sat gently in the swivel chair behind his desk. I hooked my foot under a straight-backed wooden chair, slid it in front of him, and straddled it. Keeping the gun pointed at his nose, I said, "Let's get one thing straight: I'm not even slightly goofy, I'm as sane as you are, but there's something crazy going on in this fit factory and you're going to tell me all you know about it."

He kept moving his head slightly to the left and then right again, eyes riveted on the gun. He wasn't much good to me, scared as he was, but I kept the gun on his nose anyway. "Just get used to it," I said. "Now, give a listen." I told him exactly what had happened to me when I arrived at Greenhaven, explained how I'd wound up in the strait jacket. "So that's it," I finished. "All of a sudden those bums jumped me; somebody else clobbered me from behind. Your turn."

He jumped slightly. "What?"

As I'd talked he'd calmed down, and color had come back into his face. But the better he looked, the worse I felt. I was in lousy shape, my head throbbed, there was a small fire in my stomach, and I was shaky, nauseous. I said, "Your turn; what do you know about it?"

He shook his head rapidly back and forth. "Nothing, nothing. There was an enormous commotion, Mr. Scott, yelling and all. I ran down to Dr. Nichols's office—several people were there ahead of me—and, well, there seemed to be bodies all over the floor. That's all I know."

He explained that the guards—who were now in Greenhaven's hospital—had said I'd run amuck, and that they'd had to manhandle me. I asked him, "Who was there ahead of you?" He named several doctors and nurses I'd never heard of, and I said, "How about Dr. Nichols?"

"She arrived when I did. Everything was confused . . ."

"You're telling me."

He laughed and appeared relaxed for the first time. "You— Couldn't you put the gun away?"

"No."

His pleasant expression faded slightly and he licked his lips. "I'm quite convinced of your sanity, Mr. Scott—now. Actually, you didn't make the best initial impression on either Dr. Nichols or me. She said that when she first saw you, you were, ah, chasing a ball."

That got a small chuckle out of me. Dr. Wolfe extended one hand slowly toward me. "Please note, Mr. Scott." His hand was trembling. "You gave me quite a shock a minute ago and I'd like a drink of water for an exceedingly dry throat. I wouldn't want you to get excited." His eyes were on the gun. Naturally; his eyes hadn't been any place else so far.

"Go ahead."

He picked up the carafe and a glass from the tray, poured water to the accompaniment of clink, clink, clink from his shaking hand, gulped the drink, and sighed. I was about to ask him to clink another for me when the door behind me opened. I jerked the gun back against my chest, swung my head around, nerves jangling all through my body. A white-uniformed woman stood in the doorway. She was tall and heavy-framed. I'd never seen her before. She didn't seem at all surprised to see me. She just looked tired and sleepy.

"I'm leaving now, Doctor," she said. "Unless you need me."

"Nothing more," he said. "Good night."

She kept staring past me, and I thought there was an expression of surprise on her face for a moment. Then she turned and started to leave. I swung my head back toward Dr. Wolfe as the door closed, thinking he might be pulling a gun out of a desk drawer, or even jumping toward me. He was just pouring himself another glass of water. Maybe I'd imagined that she'd looked surprised. But my heart was pounding again, my throat so dry it ached.

I said, "What about that nurse? If she starts screaming—"

"I don't think there's any worry there. She could hardly have seen you before. And, too, I can vouch for you now while I couldn't have earlier." His brows lowered as he added. "You look quite pale. Mr. Scott. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm OK. Just a little beat."

He pushed the water carafe toward me. "Would you like a drink? You look ill."

I poured a drink into another glass with my left hand; the water eased the dryness in my throat a little, cooled the small fire still in my stomach. Then I took a breath and went on: "In a minute you're going to use that phone and call the people I tell you to. I want to talk with both those stupid guards and find out who popped my skull, for one thing."

He shook his head and held forth a while about how strange this all was, until I cut him off. "Right now, though, I want to know about Nurse Dixon. Where is she, who does she work for?"

"She comes on at midnight, Mr. Scott. She works for Dr. Yancey. You met him."

"Uh-huh. There are a few other things I want to hear you talk about, too. While I was in that strait jacket, somebody tried to stick a knife in me. And not long ago a body was lugged away from here and buried. Besides that, what do you know about Dixon's doing abortions here in Greenhaven?"

He seemed shocked, unbelieving, and started protesting, but his words sounded funny to me. It wasn't so much what he said, but the fact that the words themselves seemed soft, muffled. I shook my head to clear it, wake up a little more, but still I could hardly hear him. "Knock it off," I said. "Get the mush out of your mouth." The words sounded stupid; I couldn't remember what I'd asked him. He stopped speaking.

I said, "Listen. I told you somebody tried to kill me. Somebody here. Start with that."

He was looking at my face. His mouth moved but I heard only parts of his speech. ". . . narrow it down . . . records . . . never any difficulty . . . no violent patients . . . freedom here . . ."

He paused, looking steadily at me, then began speaking again. I couldn't understand what he was saying. The idea seemed silly, but I felt as if I'd been drugged again. Couldn't have drugged me, I thought. I was looking at him all the time. Then I remembered taking my eyes off him when that nurse had come in, tried to think back to that moment. It was an effort to hold my head erect. Wolfe's voice seemed to swell and fade. Light bounced from the lenses of his glasses.