I was off the bed and across the room in one movement. Then I stopped short, took two steps back, and gulped down a sudden rush of saliva into my mouth.
Hopper peered at me over Quells body. He showed his teeth, and I could see his mouth was coated with blood. There was blood everywhere. On the wall behind him, over the sheet, over him and Quell.
Quell lay across the bed: a dummy in blood-stained clothes. His half-open eyes looked at me in glazed horror. Hopper had bitten into his jugular vein. He was deader than a dead mackerel.
"Give me the key," Hopper said in a forced whisper. "Others shall die to-night."
I moved away. I thought I was a tough guy, but not now: Malloy the squeamish with cold sweat on his face and a lump of lead in his belly. I have seen some pretty horrible sights in my life, but this little tableau took the Oscar.
"Give me the key or I will kill you, too," Hopper said, and threw Quells body off the bed on to the floor. He began to creep down the bed towards me, his face working, the blood on his mouth glistening in the soft lamp-light.
A Grand Guignol nightmare this. A dream to tell your friends about; a dream they wouldn't believe.
I began a slow, backward, circling movement towards the door.
"Don't go away, Seabright," Hopper said, crouching on the bed and glaring at me. "Give me the key!"
I reached the door, and, as my hand closed over the handle he let out an unearthly scream of frustrated rage and threw himself off the bed at me. The bed rocked, but held, and his clawing fingers scrabbled at the carpet six feet or so away from me.
I was shaking. I got the door open and almost fell into the passage. As I grabbed the handle to shut it, the horrible animal sound burst out of his throat again.
For some moments I just stood in the long, silent corridor, my heart jumping and my knees knocking, then slowly I took hold of myself. With one hand against the wall to support me, I set off slowly towards the massive door at the end of the corridor. I passed four other doors before I came to the end one. I ran my hands over the surface, feeling the soft rubber cool against my hot skin. I turned the handle, but nothing happened. The door was locked as fast as Pharaoh's tomb.
Well, I expected that. But if I could I was going to get out of here. The thought of going back to that charnel-house of a room gave me the shakes. I took hold of the door handle and bent my strength to it. Nothing happened. It was like trying to push over the Great Wall of China.
That wasn't the way out.
I retraced my steps to the far end of the corridor and examined the mess-grill window. Nothing short of a crowbar would have shifted it, and even with a crowbar it would have taken hall a day to break out.
The next move was to find a weapon. If I could find something I could use as a cosh I had only to hide myself near the main door and wait for someone to show up. Q.E.D. Even a Malloy will get an idea sometimes.
I began to move along the corridor. The first door I tried was unlocked. I peered cautiously into darkness, listened, heard my own breathing and nothing else, groped for the light switch and turned on the light. Probably Quell's room. It was neat and tidy and clean, and there was no weapon in sight or nothing I could use for a weapon. A white uniform hanging on a stretcher gave me an idea. I slid into the room and tried on the coat. It didn't fit me any better than a mole-skin would fit a Polar bear, so I dropped the idea.
The next room was also empty of life. Above the dirty-looking bed was a large coloured print of a girl in a G-string and a rope of pearls. She smiled at me invitingly, but I didn't smile back. That made it Bland's room.
I slid in and shut the door. A rapid search through the chest of drawers produced among other things a leather-bound cosh with a wrist thong: a nicely-balanced, murderous little weapon, and just what I warned.
I went across the room to a cupboard, found a spare uniform and tried on the jacket. It was a fair fit, a little big, but good enough. I changed, leaving my pyjamas on the floor. I felt a lot better once I was in trousers and shoes again. Pyjamas and bare feet are not the kit for fighting. I shoved the cosh into my hip pocket, and wished I had a gun.
At the bottom of the cupboard I found a pint bottle of Irish whisky. I broke the seal, unscrewed the cap and took a slug. The liquor went down like silk and exploded in my stomach like a touched-off Mills bomb.
Good liquor, I thought, and, to make sure, had another pull at the bottle. Still very good. Then I packed the pint in a side pocket and moved to the door again. I was coming on.
As I opened the door, I heard footsteps. I stood quieter than a mouse that sees a cat, and waited. The hatchet-faced nurse came along the corridor, humming to herself. She passed quite close to me, and would have seen me if she had looked my way, but she didn't. She kept on, opened a door on the other side of the corridor and went into a dimly-lit room. The door closed.
I waited, breathing gently, feeling a lot better for the whisky. Minutes ticked by. A small piece of fluff, driven by the draught from under the door, scuttled along the corridor apologetically. A sudden squall of rain lashed against the grill-covered window. The wind sighed around the house. I kept on waiting. I didn't want to cosh the nurse if I could help it. I'm sentimental about hitting women: they hit me instead.
The nurse appeared again, walked the length of the corridor, produced a key, unlocked the main door before I realized what she was doing. I saw the door open. I saw a flight of stairs leading to a lighted something beyond. I jumped forward, but she had passed through the doorway and closed the door behind her.
Anyway, I consoled myself I wasn't ready to leave yet. The door could wait. I decided I would investigate the room the nurse had just left. Maybe that was where Anona was.
I eased out the cosh, resisted the temptation to take another drink and walked along the corridor. I paused outside the door, pressed my ear to the panel and listened. I heard nothing but the wind and the rain against the mess-grilled window. I looked back over my shoulder. No one was peering at me from around the other doors. The corridor looked as lonely and as empty as a church on a Monday afternoon. I squeezed the door handle and turned slowly. The door opened, and I looked into a room built and furnished along the lines of the room in which I had been kept a prisoner.
There were two beds; one of them empty. In the other, opposite me, was a woman. A blue night lamp made an eerie light over the white sheet and her white face. The halo of fair hair rested on the pillow, the eyes were studying the ceiling with the perplexed look of a lost child.
I pushed the door open a little wider and walked softly into the room, closed the door and leaned against it. I wondered if she would scream. The rubber-lined door reassured me that if she did no one would hear her; but she didn't. Her eyes continued to stare at the ceiling, but a nerve in her cheek began to jump. I waited. There was no immediate hurry, and I didn't want to scare her.
Slowly the eyes moved along the ceiling to the wall, down the wall until they rested on me. We looked at each other. I was aware I was breathing gently and the cosh I held in my hand was as unnecessary as a Tommy gun at a choir practice. I slid it back into my pocket.
She studied me, the nerve jumping and her eyes widening.
"Hello, there," I said, cheerfully and quietly. I even managed a smile.
Malloy and his bedside manner: a talent to be discussed with bated breath by his grandchildren; if he ever had any grandchildren, which was doubtful.
"Who are you?" She didn't scream nor try to run up the wall, but the nerve kept on jumping.
"I am a sort of detective," I said, hoping to reassure her. "I'm here to take you home."
Now I was closer to her I could see the pupils of her blue eyes were like pin-points.
"I haven't any clothes," she said. "They've taken them away."
"I'll find you some more. How do you feel?"
"All right." The fair head rolled to the right and then to the left. "But I can't remember who I am. The man with the white hair told me I've lost my memory. He's nice, isn't he?"
"So I am told," I said carefully. "But you want to go home, don't you? "
"I haven't a home." She drew one long naked arm from under the sheet and ran slender fingers through the mop of fair hair. Her hand slid down until it rested on the jumping nerve. She pressed a finger against the nerve as if to hide it. "It got lost, but the nurse said they were looking for it. Have you found it?"
"Yes; that's why I am here."
She thought about that for some moments, frowning.
"Then you know who I am?" she said at last.
"Your name is Anona Freedlander," I said. "And you live in San Francisco."
"Do I? I don't remember that. Are you sure?"
I was eyeing her arm. It was riddled with tiny scars. They had kept her drugged for a long time. She was more or less drugged now.
"Yes, I'm sure. Can you get out of bed?"
"I don't think I want to," she said. "I think I would rather go to sleep."
"That's all right," I told her. "You go to sleep. We're not ready to leave just yet. In a little while: after you've had your sleep, we'll go."
"I haven't any clothes, or did I tell you that? I haven't anything on now. I threw my nightdress into the bath. The nurse was very angry."
"You don't have to bother about anything. I'll do the bothering. I'll find you something to wear when we're ready to go."
The heavy lids dropped suddenly, opened again with an effort. The finger slid off the nerve. It wasn't jumping any more.
"I like you," she said drowsily. "Who did you say you were?"
"Malloy. Vic Malloy: a sort of detective."
She nodded.
"Malloy. I'll try to remember. I have a very bad memory. I never seem to remember anything." Again the lids began to fall. I stood over her, watching. "I don't seem to be able to keep awake." Then after a long pause and when I thought she was asleep, she said in a faraway voice: "She shot him, you know. I was there. She picked up the shot-gun and shot him. It was horrible."
I rubbed the tip of my nose with my forefinger. Silence settled over the room. She was sleeping now. Whatever the nurse had pushed into her had swept her away into oblivion. Maybe she wouldn't come to the surface again until the morning. It meant carrying her out if I could get out myself. But there was time to worry about that.
If I had to carry her I could wrap her in the sheet, but if she insisted on walking, then I'd have to find her something to wear.
I looked around the room. The chest of drawers stood opposite the foot of the bed. I opened one drawer after the other. Most of them were empty; the others contained towels and spare bedding. No clothes.
I crossed the room to the cupboard, opened it and peered inside. There was a dressinggown, slippers and two expanding suit-cases stacked neatly on the top shelf. I hauled one of them down. On the lid were the embossed initials A.F. I unstrapped the case, opened it. The contents solved my clothes problem. It was packed with clothes. I pawed through them. At the bottom of the case was a Nurse's uniform.
I dipped my fingers into the side pockets of the case. In one of them I found a small, bluecovered diary dated 1948.
I thumbed through it quickly. The entries were few and far between. There were several references to 'Jack', and I guessed he was Jack Brett, the naval deserter, Mifflin had told me about.
24.1 Movie w
ith Jack. 7.45.
28.1 Di
nner L'Etoile. Meet Jack 6.30.
29.1 Home for w
eek-end.
5.2 Ja
ck rejoining his ship.
Nothing more until March 10th.
10.3 St
ill no letter from Jack
.
12.3 Dr
. Salzer asked me if I would like outside work. I said yes.
16.3 Start work at Crestway
s.
18.3 Mr
. Crosby died
.
The rest of the diary was a blank as her life had been a blank since that date. She had gone to Crestways presumably to nurse someone. She had seen Crosby die. So she had been locked up in this room for two years and had drug shot into her in the hope that sooner or later her mind would deteriorate and she wouldn't remember what had happened. That much was obvious, but she still remembered. The horror of the scene still lingered in her mind. Maybe she had come suddenly into the room where the two girls had been fighting for the possession of the gun. She may have drawn back when Crosby had taken a hand in the struggle, not wishing to embarrass him, and she had seen the gun swing on Crosby and the shot fired.
I looked at the still, white face. Sometime, but not now, there had been character and determination in that face. She wasn't the type to hush anything up, nor would she be influenced by money. She was much more likely to insist on the police being called. So they had locked her away.
I scratched the side of my jaw thoughtfully and flapped the little diary against the palm of my hand. The next move was to get out, and get out quickly.
And as if in answer to this thought, there was a sudden and appalling crash that shook the building: it sounded as if part of the house had collapsed.
I nearly jumped out of my skin, reached the door in two strides and jerked it open. The corridor was full of mortar and brick dust, and out of the dust came two figures: guns in fists, running swiftly towards Hopper's room—Jack Kerman and Mike Finnegan. At the sight of them I gave a croaking cheer. They pulled up sharply, their guns covering me.
Kerman's tense face broke into a wide, expansive grin.
"Universal Services at your service," he said, grabbing my arm. "Want a drink, pal?"
"I want transport for a nude blonde," I said, hugging him, and took a slap on the back from Mike that staggered me. "What did you do—pull the house down?"
