Miss Scott returned to her desk. It was in the center of the short corridor and from it she had a view of the open door of each room and the locked door .that led to the incline.
She looked at her watch. Two-forty. That left her twenty minutes to introduce Miss Cora to her new roommate, get the ward ready for their walk and persuade Mrs. Morrow to leave her room, peacefully, and see Dr. Goodrich in his office.
She sighed, but it wasn’t from weariness. It was the • contented sigh of someone who has a hundred things to do and knows she can do them well.
The incline door opened and Miss Parsons came in with Miss Cora Green.
Miss Green was a small sprightly woman in her sixties. Her black silk dress was immaculately clean and pressed and her white hair was combed in hundreds of tiny pin-curls with a pink velvet bow perched on top of them. She moved quickly and delicately as a bird.
“Is she here?” Miss Cora said.
“Is who here?” Miss Scott said, quite severely. She had to be severe with Miss Cora in order not to laugh. Miss Cora was so sharp, she knew almost as much about the patients as Dr. Goodrich, and she was continually trying to wheedle more information from the nurses.
“You always send me to the library when I’m getting someone new in my room,” Miss Cora said. “What’s the matter with her? What’s her name?”
“Mrs. Morrow,” Miss Scott said. “Come along and make a good impression.”
“Well, the least you could do is to tell me what’s the matter with her.”
Miss Parsons and Miss Scott exchanged faint smiles.
“I don’t know,” Miss Scott said.
“Well, the least you could do is tell me how bad she is. Is she as bad as Mrs. Hammond?”
“No.”
“Thank heaven! I find Mrs. Hammond a dull woman. If I were the superintendent I’d feed her and feed her and feed her, just to see what happens. I wonder how much she could really eat.”
Miss Scott, who had wondered the same thing herself, looked pleasantly blank. She took Miss Cora’s arm and they went together into the room.
“Here is Miss Green, Mrs. Morrow.”
“Miss Green?” Lucille looked up. The fear that had sprung into her eyes slid away slowly. “Miss Green?” A tiny old woman, no threat, no danger. “How do you do, Miss Green?”
“How do you do, Mrs. Morrow?” Miss Cora said. “What perfectly beautiful hair you have!” She glanced back at Miss Scott with a sly smile that said: that’s the kind of thing you say but you’re not fooling me.
Miss Scott pretended not to notice. “It is lovely, isn’t it? Such a pretty color. I’m sure you and Miss Green will get along splendidly, Mrs. Morrow. I’ll be right out in the corridor if you want me for anything. You remember my name?”
“Miss Scott,” Lucille said.
“That’s fine,” Miss Scott said, sounding very very pleased. She went out.
“She says a lot of silly things,” Miss Cora said. “They’re trained to say silly things.”
“Are they?” Lucille said.
“They underestimate our intelligence, especially mine.” She studied Lucille for a minute and added pensively, “Perhaps yours too. Is there anything special the matter with you?”
“I don’t know.” She had felt cold and detached before, but now she had a sudden wild desire to talk, to explain herself to Miss Green: there is nothing the matter with me. I am afraid, but it is a real fear, I didn’t imagine it. I am afraid I am going to be killed. I am going to be killed by one of them. Andrew, Polly, Martin, Edith, Giles, one of them.
She whispered, “I came here to be safe.”
“Are people after you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, dear, they all say that,” Miss Cora said, disappointed. “You mustn’t tell that to Dr. Goodrich, you’ll simply never get out of here. They have such suspicious minds around this place.”
Miss Scott stuck her head in the door. “Get your coat on, Cora. Time for a walk.”
“I am not going for a walk today,” Miss Cora stated firmly.
“Come on, that’s a good girl.”
“No, my neuritis is bothering me this afternoon.”
“You haven’t been outside for a week,” Miss Scott said. While it was impossible for Miss Cora to prove she had neuritis it was equally impossible for anyone to disprove it. Miss Cora’s neuritis was hard to pin down. It skipped agilely from limb to limb, it settled in the legs if a walk was necessary, in the arms if Miss Cora didn’t feel like doing occupational therapy, and in the head under any provocation.
“There is also,” Miss Cora pointed out, “my weak heart.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Scott said brusquely. “Gentle exercise is good for heart patients.”
“Not for me.”
Miss Scott retreated without further argument.
“The walks are very boring,” Miss Cora explained to Lucille. “They do very naive things like gather leaves. The level of sophistication in this place is very low.” Miss Scott appeared again, a navy-blue cape flung over her uniform. “Good-bye, Cora. You’ll be sorry you didn’t come. We’re going to build a lovely snow man.”
“Isn’t she absurd?” Miss Cora cried, shaking her head. “A lovely snow man. Really!”
Mrs. Hammond strode past the door muffled in an immense fur coat, with a woollen scarf tied around her head. Behind her came two stout middle-aged women who looked and were dressed exactly alike. They walked arm in arm, and in step.
“The Filsinger twins,” Miss Cora said, without bothering to lower her voice. “I can’t tell which is which any more. A while ago you could tell which was Mary because she was crazier. Now Betty’s as bad as she is.” Miss Cora waved her hand at them and the twins disappeared, scowling.
“Mary was in here first,” Miss Cora explained. “Betty used to come to see her, and was all right till a few months ago when she began to copy Mary’s symptoms. Now they’re both here. Mary looks after Betty, she even gives her baths.” Miss Cora sighed. “It’s all very Freudian. I have a sister myself but the mere thought of giving her a bath is abhorrent to me. She’s quite stout, and rather hairy.”
She paused, looking down at her own white delicate hands. Her movements were a little too brisk and her talking a little too fast for a woman of her age. But Lucille felt that here, of all the people she had known, was one who was entirely sane.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Cora said, “and of course you’re quite right. I am far too sensible to cope with a nonsensical world. I’d rather stay here.” She laughed. “I in my small corner and you in yours.” Somewhere in the building a gong began to ring. In a sudden panic Lucille started out of the chair but even before she was on her feet the gong had stopped again.
“That’s Mary Filsinger,” Cora said wryly. “Every time she goes out for a walk she runs to the fence and touches it to see if the escape alarm is still working. She never misses.”
“Why?” Lucille said.
“Why? No one ever asks why at Penwood, it’s too futile. Concentrate, instead, on the beautiful consistency and order of things—Mary Filsinger and the fence, Mrs. Hammond and her solitary sentence. There’s a pattern of divine illogic about it, and the pattern doesn’t change. It’s what I miss in the real world, some kind of pattern that doesn’t change.”
“The fence,” Lucille said. “If someone tried to get in here—the alarm would ring?”
“To get in?” Cora’s voice was sharp with disappointment. She had wanted to go on talking about patterns. She had felt that she had at last acquired a roommate capable of appreciating her, a woman, like herself, who could observe life but was utterly bewildered in the living of it. “Who on earth wants to get into Penwood? The more common desire is to get out.”
“I want to stay here,” Lucille whispered.
“Hush.” Cora jerked her head around toward the open door. “Miss Scott will be coming back in a minute. Don’t let her hear you. Why do you want to stay here?”
&nb
sp; “I don’t know—I’m—afraid . . .” She felt the words pressing on her throat like bubbles ready to break. If I told someone, I could get help, someone might help me . . . Help me, Cora. . . .
Then she saw Cora’s eyes, bright with a wild unreasonable excitement. She shrank back in the chair, pressing her fists against her breasts.
“Don’t say anything,” Cora said. “If you want to stay here don’t tell Dr. Goodrich anything. Don’t answer him at all, not a word. Even one word might give you away.”
“Give me—away?”
“You don’t belong here. But if you want to stay that’s your business. Don’t tell Dr. Goodrich anything.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Morrow.”
(Don’t answer him at all.)
“I hope you’re settled comfortably in your room. Sit down here, please. You may go, Miss Scott.”
(Silence. Eyes. Surely he had more than two eyes?)
“Please sit down, Mrs. Morrow.”
(Should I sit down? Would that be giving myself away?)
“That’s better, that’s fine. Perhaps you’d like a cigarette. I’m sorry we can’t allow smoking in the rooms, you can understand why.”
(Of course. • We’re children, you can’t trust us with fire.)
“Can’t you?”
(What is he holding out to me? A cigarette? No, a pen. Why a pen?)
“I have a few routine questions to ask you. If you’ll take the pen and sign your name right here . . . What is your full name, please? . . . What date is this anyway?”
(December 9th, but I won’t tell you, you can’t catch me.)
“Your full name?”
(Can’t catch me.)
“What year were you born? Do you know where you are? Can you see this? Can you hear this? What color is your dress?”
The questions continued. Lucille said nothing. Dr. Goodrich was entirely unperturbed at her silence. He seemed intent on what he was writing and barely looked at her any more.
She felt secure in her silence, and suddenly triumphant. It was easy, after all, it was the easiest thing in the world to fool him. Almost boldly she glanced across the desk to see what he was writing. She saw with a shock that he wasn’t writing anything; he was drawing pictures, and he’d been waiting for her to find it out, deliberately.
In that instant he looked up and their eyes met. His were kindly but a little cynical. You’re not putting anything over on me, they said.
“All right, Mrs. Morrow,” he said pleasantly. “We don’t want to overdo things the first day. Miss Scott will show you back to your room.”
Through a haze she saw Miss Scott gliding across the room toward her. She put out her hands, blindly, to clutch at something safe.
Miss Scott caught her as she fell.
“She’s fainted,” Miss Scott said in a surprised voice.
“Put her on the couch and get a stretcher. Don’t send her to the dining room tonight for dinner unless she asks to go. And send Miss Green down here, please.”
Fifteen minutes later Cora arrived, flanked by a blushing Miss Parsons.
“Why on earth you have to have her bring me is more than I can say.” Cora said. “I know my way around this place better than she does. And it isn’t as if I’d try to escape.”
Miss Parsons made a hurried exit. Cora bounced across the room toward Dr. Goodrich.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Cora,” Goodrich said with a faint smile.
Cora sat down. She was breathing heavily and her lips had a bluish tinge that Goodrich noted with concern.
“How do you feel, Cora?”
“Fine.”
“You should learn to move more slowly.”
“I’ve never been cautious,” Cora said with a toss of her head. “It’s too late to learn now.”
“Tomorrow’s visitors’ day. Your sister is coming. I thought it would be a good idea for you to be all packed ready to go home with her.”
She stared at him. “Did you tell Janet?”
“She suggested it herself. You haven’t been home for quite a while.”
“I don’t want to go. I’m too old to be shunted back and forth like this all the time.”
“You may come back whenever you feel like it. You’re much better than you were.”
“You know that’s a lie, doctor,” Cora said. “Why do you want me to go home? Because I’m not going to last much longer, is that it?”
“Nonsense. Your sister thought you might like to come. It’s up to you. If you’d rather stay here, well, you know we like to have you.”
It was true. Miss Green was the favorite of the hospital. It was difficult to imagine this bright cheerful little woman getting wildly drunk whenever the opportunity presented itself. On these occasions her moral barriers were all swept away. Twice she had been arrested for stealing, and several times for disorderly conduct. Usually she remembered nothing of what she had done. After the second offense, her sister Janet had sent her to Penwood and from here she made periodic visits home. But they were not successful. Under the vigilant and worried eye of her sister, Cora felt far more irresponsible and restless than she did at Penwood. After a few days of this constant watching Cora felt impelled to escape from it. She had the subtle cunning of the superior drunkard, and Janet, an unimaginative and successful business woman, was no match for her. Cora always managed to get out, to get money, to get drunk. Her heart made these excursions increasingly dangerous.
“You know what would happen/’ Cora said. “You know very well I’m not cured.”
Goodrich, who knew it very well, said nothing.
“How many of us ever are?” she demanded.
“Not many.”
“I used to think that once I knew why I drank I could stop, just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “But nothing is so simple as it seems. I know, and you know, why I drink.”
He let her talk, though he knew her history in every detail. She had been fifteen when both her parents died, leaving her with a five-year-old sister to look after. For twenty-five years she had done her job thoroughly and unselfishly. As Janet began to succeed in business Cora began to go downhill. Her memory often failed her and she became almost scatterbrained in dealing with situations and people. She was throwing off the weight of a responsibility that had been too heavy for her. Now, though the weight was gone, the mind remembered, guiltily, the feel and contours of it.
“The responsibility is still there,” Cora said. “It will be there until I die. . . . Oh, Lord, I’m getting heavy, aren’t I? I don’t like heavy people.”
She rose, pulling herself up by clinging to the arms of the chair.
Goodrich noticed. “Better drop in on Dr. Laverne for a checkup tomorrow, Cora.”
“I don’t need a checkup. I feel fine.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“All this silly fussing,” Cora said. “It would hardly be a tragedy for an old woman of sixty to die.”
“Don’t cheat, Cora. Sixty-six.”
She turned away, laughing. “All the less of a tragedy.” Cora Green died two days later.
During the week the Morrow family visited Lucille, a small boy called Maguire found a parcel washed up on the beach and took it home to his mother. And on the same day an inquest was held on the body of Eddy Greeley.
7
Both in life and in death Mr. Greeley was a public nuisance. Alive, he had cost the province his board and room for several years, and by dying in an alley he was responsible for the cost of an inquest and the loss of the valuable time of the coroner, the jury and the police surgeon.
Edwin Edward Greeley, the police surgeon stated, was a morphine addict of long standing. The body was in an emaciated condition and both thighs had hundreds of hypodermic scars and several infected punctures. Examination of Mr. Greeley’s trousers (not on exhibit) showed that he was in the habit of injecting the morphine through his clothing with a home-made syringe (exhibited to the jury who eyed it with interes
t and disgust).
An autopsy proved the cause of death to be morphine poisoning.
The coroner went over the evidence,” implying strongly that he himself had no doubt that Greeley had miscalculated and given himself an overdose (and no loss to the world, his tone made clear); however, if the jury wanted to make fools of themselves they were perfectly welcome to do so and bring in a verdict of homicide or suicide.
The jury was out twenty minutes. Miss Alicia Schaefer summed up the opinions of the other jurors when she stated that anybody who would use a syringe like that instead of going out and buying a proper one, and using it through his clothes, imagine!, instead of having it properly sterilized, well, anybody like that could make any kind of mistake.
Miss Schaefer’s compelling logic carried the day, and it became part of the court records that Edwin Edward Greeley had died by misadventure.
The bartender at the Allen Hotel read the news in the Evening Telegram. He called Inspector Sands’ office and left a message for him.
Shortly after seven o’clock on Thursday night Sands came in and sat in the back booth and ordered a beer.
“You wanted to see me?” he said to Bill.
“Yeah,” Bill said. “I see by the papers that Greeley got his.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Not so’s you’d notice. He was in here couple nights ago. Must have been the night he conked. Tuesday.”
“Well?”
“He had a tart from down the street with him. He ordered champagne and paid for it with a fifty.”
Sands didn’t look impressed, and Bill added anxiously, “I guess maybe that don’t sound like much, but I had a kind of idea he was onto something big. He shot off at the mouth about how from now on he’s got a steady income. I figured you’d like to know.”
“Thanks.”
“Jesus, he’s got a steady income now, all right. Laying gold bricks.”
“Who was the hooker?”
“Susie. She’s from Phyllis’s house down the street, a big redhead. Nice girl. I figure there’s nothing against her. Maybe she gets a case now and then but she ain’t mean.”
“Does she come in here often?”
The Iron Gates Page 8
