"Why not?" The stage manager's tone was jovial. "I hope it's important. You called me out of the shower. I'm standing here dripping wet."
"It is," she said. "It's about the Chief."
Phillips' tone changed to one of concern. "I'll be waiting for you."
His face showed his worry as he opened the door of his room for her. She went in, noting that he was now in his dressing gown, and that in the time that had passed since she had called, he had thrown on trousers and a shirt. He indicated a chair. "Sit down," he said. "How bad is he?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. He seemed to be in great pain. And he hardly ever complains, although I'm sure he suffers often. I gave him a stiff dose of sleeping tablets."
Lyon paced up and down before her. "How long will they last?"
"Two or three hours."
"Then we'll know?"
"If he wakes up and the pain hasn't left him, we'll have to call a doctor. Perhaps send him to the hospital." Shirley's eyes met those of the tall, lantern-jawed young man. "I thought I'd phone Dr. Trask from down here. Then I'd better hurry back upstairs. He shouldn't be left alone."
"Yes, telephone Trask by all means." Lyon Phillips stopped in front of her. "He should get out here as fast as he can."
She shrugged. "If he can. He's a very busy surgeon. It's not always possible for him to get away at a moment's notice."
"I know! I know!" He began to pace again. "If Oliver is really bad off, we'll have to announce that Sayre will sub for him. There's still time for a notice in the morning papers. It will mean a lot of work for everyone in the show."
"You think you'll be able to go on without him?"
"For this week, in a kind of way." Lyon's voice was bitter. "Without Oliver, we won't really have a show. We may as well accept that. It could be the end of the tour."
Sadness clouded Shirley's face. "And it means so much to him to go through with it."
"I know." Lyon's shoulders were slumped. "I'll wait until he wakes up and if things are still not right, I'll phone Rothstein and tell him."
Shirley nodded, understanding that there would be decisions which only the show's producer could make. She reached for the phone and placed her Boston call. It was midafternoon and she assumed that Dr. Trask would be at his Wellesley address and so made the call to that number.
They waited.
Lyon repeated, "Tell him to get here as fast as he can."
Then Dr. Trask's familiar nasal twang said "Yes?" at the other end of the line.
"It's Miss Grant, Doctor," Shirley said. "Oliver Craft seems worse." In as few words as possible, she gave him a description of her patient's condition, ending with: "We hoped you might be able to come out."
"I can," Dr. Trask said. "I will. There's an early evening plane. I'll be on it. Have someone meet me at the airport."
Shirley put down the phone. "He's coming in on tonight's flight from Boston."
"Good," Lyon said briskly. "I'll meet him."
She got up. "I feel better about things already. If we have any hope at all, it lies with Dr. Trask."
"I feel the same way," the stage manager said.
Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Lyon looked at her with a questioning expression and then went over and opened it. It was Hugh Deering, dressed for the street.
He came in with a smile. "What a charming pair."
Lyon closed the door. "No time for jokes, Hugh. We're in trouble."
The actor's eyebrows raised. "Really?"
The stage manager glanced at Shirley and said, "We may as well tell him. They'll all know soon enough." Then, "It's Oliver. He's in terrible pain."
Hugh Deering looked at Shirley for confirmation. "Is it really bad?"
"I think so," Shirley said, and repeated what she had told Dr. Trask. She watched with a kind of fascination as the ex-doctor took in the medical explanations. He listened in the familiar manner of a doctor, whether he admitted to being one or not.
When she had finished, he sighed. "I've been worried right along. Oliver is like a man on a tightrope. He's been walking a precarious way. This whole project has gone along depending on the slim thread of his health. This could be the end."
"Jeffrey Sayre can never carry the play for the rest of the tour," Lyon said.
Hugh laughed shortly. "Don't tell him that, or we won't even have him for the week. He's only kept on hoping to take over Oliver's shoes. And he's been having phone calls from the coast about a picture part."
Lyon Phillips looked startled. "He has! He didn't mention anything to me about it."
"Probably been saving it up for an unpleasant surprise," Hugh said. "Leave it to Jeffrey to wait for the dramatic moment to show his hand."
Lyon bit his lip. "Well, bad news comes in lots. But no need to worry about Jeffrey until we find out the situation with Craft."
"That's right," Hugh agreed.
"I'll go back upstairs now," Shirley said, moving to the door. "Will you be at the theater, Lyon?"
The stage manager nodded. "Yes. Phone me there if there's anything you think I should know."
Hugh Deering took the elevator upstairs with Shirley and stood for a moment at the door of Oliver Craft's suite. She saw the concern in the ex-doctor's face and felt there was a struggle going on inside him, his natural desire to offer his medical knowledge being opposed by his determination to turn his back on his former profession for all time.
"I was going out for a stroll," he said. "But instead, I'll stay in my room, if you think I can be of any use. If Oliver needs anyone to stay with him or talk with him, don't hesitate to call me."
"Thanks," she said quietly, looking up at him with grateful eyes.
When she went inside, the star was still asleep. She sat in the living room near the open door of the bedroom and tried to read a magazine. But her mind wouldn't settle down to it. She kept going back in her thoughts to the sick old man in the other room and what it would mean to them all if he became too ill to go on. In the few weeks she had been with The Cardinal company she had become part of its small world. It seemed strange that it should suddenly end, that she might be abruptly parted from Hugh Deering and not see him again.
She worried about the young ex-doctor. There was so much to be salvaged in his life. Surely somehow he would come to himself one day. A few minutes ago, she had sensed that he wanted to offer his medical services for her patient, but in the end, his strange attitude had won out. Still, he had offered to come if she needed him, as a friend, not a doctor.
What a talent would be lost to the world when Oliver Craft died. It seemed a tragedy of life that when such people passed away their unique ability was lost to mankind. Yet, in some ways, the star would survive. If only in the memory of those who had been privileged to know his greatness. And there were his movies. Prints of them might show a future generation of actors the measure of his talent. And the outstanding younger actors whom he had trained and encouraged would reflect his style in theirs, and so, in this way, too, the influence of Oliver Craft would be woven into the tapestry of time. Yes, like all other great art, the contribution of the old actor would live on.
Her reverie was broken by the phone ringing. She lifted the receiver, and in a minute, Roger's voice came through to her. "Shirley, darling, I called a little while ago and no one answered."
"I was out for a moment," she explained in a subdued voice. "Your grandfather hasn't been feeling well. I gave him a strong sedative and he wouldn't hear the phone."
Roger caught the seriousness of her tone. "Is he very ill?"
"I'll know more later. I'm—I'm a little frightened, Roger." And with this admission, she felt a panic deep within her.
"When will you know more?"
"Dr. Trask is flying in tonight. Perhaps I'll have some word by midnight. I could call you back when I find out."
"Do that. I'll be waiting. If the news is really black, I'll come right out."
Shirley felt a little guilty, not
wanting to upset the intense young man too much. After all, Oliver Craft might wake up feeling much better. "I may only be having a case of nerves," she admitted. "But I don't want to take any chances."
"Right, darling. I'll be waiting for your call."
It was nearly six when the star finally opened his eyes.
Shirley stood over him with a smile and waited to let him focus clearly. He stared up at her for a few seconds without complete recognition and then, frowning as awareness came more completely to him, he said, "It is still with me, my dear."
"The pain in your side is no better?" Shirley tried to hide her concern.
"It's nagging steadily. Pretty hard to bear." The old man set his lips and twisted his head to one side. "What time is it?"
"Close to six."
He opened his eyes and his expression changed to one of worry. "And you've had nothing to eat yet? Go downstairs and have something."
"I can let them send something up here," she suggested. "What would you like?"
"Nothing." He closed his eyes again and the thin patrician face on the pillow seemed too frail to be equal to the battle which she knew faced the old man.
"I think I'll call Hugh Deering," she said. "He offered to come by and stay with you if I wanted to go downstairs."
"Do that." Oliver Craft spoke without opening his eyes. "Do that."
Hugh came up right away in answer to her call. He went across the room to Oliver Craft's bedside and smiled at the old man. "What kind of a trick is this you're playing on us?"
The star opened his eyes and managed a strained smile. "An ad-lib performance, my boy, and not a very good one. The pain is about all I can think of just now."
Hugh turned to Shirley, and now he was a physician talking to a nurse. "What exactly have you given the patient?"
She told him the dose of sleeping pills that Oliver Craft had had earlier in the afternoon. Hugh nodded and then checked the various medicines she had set out on top of one of the tables.
"Let's try some Demerol," he suggested, and gave her the dosage amount.
Shirley gave the old actor an arm injection of the drug as Hugh stood by. In spite of the tragic situation, she felt some elation in the response the ex-doctor had shown. Dr. Trask had been right. In a crisis, Hugh Deering had at least tried to help.
In a few minutes, the drug began to take effect and Oliver Craft relaxed. Hugh turned to her and said, "Go downstairs and have your dinner. I'll stay with the Chief."
Deciding that it might be helpful to let him take this added responsibility for her patient, she agreed. "Thanks, Hugh. He seems to be resting a lot easier now and I won't be long."
She had just seated herself in the hotel dining room when Jeffrey Sayre came by her table. The big man seemed in a buoyant mood as he stood looking down at her. "I've had dinner and was leaving. But I wanted to hear the latest on Oliver."
"We don't really know anything yet. Dr. Trask will be here later tonight."
"It's just what I expected." Sayre seemed almost to relish the situation. "I told Rothstein in Boston that Oliver would never finish the tour. But he wouldn't listen to me. Now he has a problem."
"It may not be so bad as it seems," Shirley said weakly, wondering how Jeffrey Sayre could so let his vanity take over that he wouldn't feel pity for a dying man. All at once, she was disgusted with the florid second lead.
"I'll check with Lyon later in the evening then," Jeffrey Sayre told her. And with a cold smile, he marched out of the dining room.
Shirley felt depressed and ill. All I need now, she thought, is to have Joy Milland show up and chatter on eternally about nothing. But she was in luck; Joy didn't make an appearance. Actually, she rarely ate in the hotels, cutting down expenses by eating in the cheaper restaurants. Shirley finished dinner and hurried back up to her patient.
When she entered the room, the star was talking in a slow, drowsy tone to Hugh, who sat close to his bed. "You wouldn't remember that play, young man," he said. "It was long before your time. But it had a fine quality. It was called The Servant in the House."
Hugh smiled. "By Charles Rann Kennedy, wasn't it?"
The old man's eyes turned to Shirley. "This is quite a remarkable young man, my dear. He actually knows the name of the author."
"Not too difficult," Hugh said. "That play is a part of theatrical history."
Shirley sat down on the other side of the bed as the old man lay quiet for a moment. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, the thin hands slightly rustling the fold of the bed coverings, he seemed lost in thought. Hugh glanced across at her with a look of reassurance.
"Charles Rann Kennedy," the old man repeated slowly in a low voice. "I knew him very well. Big man with a mane of white hair. Stouter than Jeffrey, and taller. He and his wife taught drama in a private school somewhere in upper New York state after he retired from the stage. I can't think of her name now. Met them both at an Actor's Fund tea in New York. Was it Edith— Edith Wyne Matheson!" Craft finished with an air of satisfaction at having finally remembered.
Silence fell on the room for a moment and then he turned to Shirley. "Have you heard from Roger today?"
She leaned over and said, "Yes. He called earlier in the afternoon."
"I hope you didn't alarm him with bad news about me." Oliver Craft's voice was troubled.
"No. I told him I thought you'd tired yourself out."
"That's what it is," the star went on in his sickroom tone. "I'm a little over-tired." His eyes closed and he fell into a light sleep.
Shirley and Hugh stayed at his bedside until Lyon arrived with Dr. Trask shortly after ten o'clock. The thin, gray-haired New England surgeon had them brief him fully; he listened without expression.
Going into the bedroom, he sat down by Oliver Craft, who was now awake again. He smiled at the actor. "Bound to get me here for a little holiday, weren't you?"
The star nodded. "I'm feeling a good bit better now, Doctor. Sorry to bring you all this way."
Dr. Trask chuckled. "I'm willing to trade two dozen patients for a single one any day. This will be a rest for me. Now what about you?"
Shirley assisted the surgeon as he examined Oliver Trask thoroughly. When the examination was over, he studied the old man. "I think you should go into a hospital tonight. In the morning, we'll do some plates on you and perhaps give you some X-ray therapy."
The old man raised himself on an elbow. "I'll do whatever you say, Doctor. Just so long as I'm able to be at the theater by tomorrow night."
The surgeon stood up. "I can't promise you that."
"Just so long as I have your word that you won't stop me if I feel I'm well enough to play." Oliver Craft was a star again, not a sick old man. He seemed in full command of his faculties and willing to agree to going to the hospital, as long as he had control of the situation.
"I'll do nothing to stop you if I think you're able to go on."
Shirley and Hugh Deering stood in the background watching the drama between the two strong-willed men. Shirley knew that Dr. Trask must have suspected a serious recurrence, or he would not have mentioned X-ray therapy.
Dr. Trask turned to Shirley. "I'll have to make a few calls. Check with a colleague or two. I'll use the phone in the next room."
Lyon Phillips, who had waited in the living room, came to the door and signaled to Shirley to come across to him. Then he stepped outside.
She went out to him. "He seems a lot better. And the X-ray therapy might bring him out of it."
Lyon Phillips' face was grim. "Unless it does, we've really had it."
"Why?" She was startled by his dejection.
"We won't be able to have a show. There'll be no one to go on."
"What about Jeffrey Sayre?"
Lyon shook his head. "He's gone. Took a plane for Hollywood a half hour ago. He's been negotiating the deal for weeks, and it finally came through." He paused. "I think he did it purposely—I mean, leaving tonight. Now there's no one to take the Chiefs part."
&
nbsp; CHAPTER NINE
Dr. Trask completed the arrangements for Oliver Craft's hospitalization with a minimum of time. Within a half hour, Shirley and her patient were in an ambulance on the way to a private room in the city's leading hospital. The doctor had also invited Lyon Phillips to come down to the hospital so that they might have a conference after Craft had been checked into his room.
When they arrived, Dr. Trask conferred with one of the staff physicians as to the star's care and made arrangements for other private nurses to relieve Shirley, one to take over right away. Oliver Craft, who seemed much better, took it all in stride; he even managed a good-night smile for Shirley when she left him.
Dr. Trask's conference took place in a wood-paneled doctors' lounge on the main floor. Shirley, Lyon Phillips, and Hugh Deering represented the company, and the resident physician of the hospital, with whom Dr. Trask had talked on their arrival, also joined them. He was a stout, gray-haired man with a kind face.
Strolling up and down before them as he smoked a cigarette, Dr. Trask began to brief them in his nasal twang: "We have a serious situation here. I think you all know that. On top of everything else, we're dealing with a nationally known public figure. We must handle the matter delicately. I trust I can depend on you for that, Doctor?"
The resident physician nodded. "We'll follow your instructions to the letter."
"Fine." Trask began to pace again. "Now this is our story. Oliver Craft has had an attack of food poisoning. Nothing serious. We expect him to come out of it fast. If the truth got around that he's suffering from incurable cancer, it would finish the tour—and, in a way, finish Oliver as well."
Lyon Phillips looked at the hospital doctor. "Are you sure there'll be no information leaks?"
"Reasonably so," the doctor promised.
"The papers will be after a story," Lyon went on. "You can be sure of that. If they get the truth, it's all over."
Dr. Trask held up his hand. "Let's forget that angle—the doctor has given us his assurance. I think we can count on him. First thing in the morning, I'm going to see if I can get the trouble to show on a plate. I think I know the area in which the new growth will be confined. If we can treat it with X ray, Oliver Craft might possibly go on. But the treatments will be hard on him, and from now on, there is bound to be a gradual ebbing of his strength. Everything possible must be done to make it as easy for him in the play as it can be."
Backstage Nurse Page 9
