The Fourth Postman

by Craig Rice

  Helene scowled. “I’m not sure if you should gargle, sweetheart. They say that if you’re getting pneumonia—”

  “For the last time,” Jake said, “I’m perfectly all right, and will you fix that fact in your little mind? It’s simply that I need a little rest before dinner, that my throat feels like an old piece of sandpaper, and that someone seems to have left a dead horse in my nose.”

  Helene said, “What you need is a drink. Do you mind if I take your temperature while I’m getting it?”

  “I do mind,” Jake said. “Wave a thermometer at me, and I’ll eat it, that’s what I’ll do. Just get me the drink, and forget that you’re a frustrated nurse.”

  As she started toward the kitchen, he added, “You know at that it might not be a bad idea to take my temperature. Sometimes these very minor ailments—”

  Again Helene said, “I’m going to call the doctor.”

  Again Jake said, “All I need is a little rest before—” He was silenced by the thermometer stuck under his tongue.

  “Meantime,” she said, “I’ll fix you that drink. Rye, Scotch, Bourbon, rum and coca cola, or a hot lemonade?”

  Jake signified the last named. Helene said, “I’m going to call the Mayo Brothers.”

  Jake mumbled around the thermometer that she’d better bring him the hot lemonade first. On second thought, he added that she’d better put plenty of gin in it. Then he lay back on the sofa cushions, his eyes half closed, listening to the pleasant sounds of tinkling glass from the kitchenette and reflecting on what a lucky guy he was, the luckiest, in fact, in the whole world. Yes, in spite of the splitting headache, the scratchy throat, the aching bones, and the dead horse in his nose, he was still the luckiest guy in the world. He, and he only, had Helene.

  He absent-mindedly puffed at the thermometer, reached for a match and started to light it before he remembered what it was. Then he settled back on the cushions again. These women! Let them have their little whims. If Helene wanted to take his temperature, that was all right with him. In spite of the fact that all he needed was a little rest before dinner.

  He half opened his eyes, gazed around the room and wished that he were a tomcat. Tomcats could purr and he wanted to purr. Here he was, just another Iowa-born newspaper man, who’d been a good press agent—hell’s bells—a magnificent and superlative press agent, probably the best press agent in the world, and who now owned the best, the most magnificent, the most superlative night club in the world, and who was married to the most beautiful, the most magnificently superlative woman in the world! He might feel a little on the lousy side right now, but there wasn’t a thing the matter with him that a little rest before dinner wouldn’t fix up fine.

  Helene yanked the thermometer from his mouth just before he dozed off into what would undoubtedly have been pleasant dreams. She stared at it blankly for a moment.

  “I think you’re supposed to read it with your back to the light,” Jake said feebly, through a thick throat.

  Helene backed up to a floor lamp, looked at the thermometer, gasped and said, “Where the hell did we get this thing? The damn thing’s in Greek.”

  Jake sat up, pushing aside the blanket Helene had draped over the davenport. “Give it to me. I had two years of Greek in high school.”

  Helene handed him the thermometer. Jake blinked at it and said, “That isn’t Greek. That’s Russian.”

  Helene looked over his shoulder and said, “You’re holding it upside down.”

  “You were holding it upside down,” Jake said. “Let me get a good light on this thing.” He held the thermometer up to the light bulb for a moment, stared at it, handed it back to Helene and said weakly, “I do seem to have a little fever.”

  “According to the thermometer,” Helene said, “You have a temperature of 122! And Jake, nobody ever lived who had a temperature of more than 108.”

  “Give me that thermometer,” Jake demanded. He fairly snatched it from her hand. It was one solid line of mercury.

  “Now, Jake,” Helene said soothingly, “there’s probably something wrong with the thermometer. All you need is a little rest before dinner and a hot lemonade.”

  Jake pushed her aside and said, “That shows how much you care about me!” He grabbed the phone and said, “Get me the long distance operator.”

  “Jake!” Helene said. “There’s a perfectly good doctor here in the apartment building.”

  “Don’t bother me,” Jake said, “I know what I’m doing. No, operator, I wasn’t talking to you. I want you to connect me with the Mayo Clinic. If you can’t reach that, see if you can get the Johns Hopkins Hospital. And rush it! This is an emergency call.”

  He hung up the phone, staggered back to the couch and sat down, shivering in every limb. Helene eased him back on the cushions, tucked the blanket around him and handed him the hot lemonade, reminding him, in her gentlest voice, that he was perfectly all right.

  Jake sneezed again, sniffled, gazed at her unhappily and said, “Oh, my darling, I wish I’d been kinder to you.”

  “Sometimes I wish the same thing,” Helene said, “and drink your lemonade.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “The Mayo Clinic got here fast,” Helene commented, crossing the room.

  Malone was at the door, the mutt at his side. He looked into the room and said, “What the hell’s going on?”

  Jake rolled anguished eyes toward the little lawyer and said, “Thank Heaven, you’re here. I just realized I’ve never made my will.”

  Helene said, “Jake has a slight temperature.” She patted the mutt and said, “I suppose he’s hungry.”

  “Not hungry,” Malone said, “but thirsty. I hope you have some beer.”

  Helene led the mutt toward the kitchenette and Malone walked over to inspect the patient. Jake motioned to the little lawyer to bend down close.

  “I don’t want Helene to know,” Jake whispered, “but I’m a very sick man. I’ve got a temperature of 122.”

  Malone grabbed the thermometer, gazed at it for an instant, and said, “How do you know? This damn thing’s printed in Yiddish.”

  “Upside down,” Jake murmured, “upside down.”

  Malone rushed to the kitchen for a dishpan. He explained in frantic tones to Helene, who went on placidly feeding beer to the mutt, that it looked to him like acute appendicitis, and that she wasn’t to worry, he would take charge of everything, including getting a doctor. Then he rushed back into the living room with the dishpan.

  Jake looked at the dishpan, shook his head limply, and said, “No.”

  “Good God!” Malone said. “Perhaps you’ve been poisoned.” He abandoned the dishpan, rushed to the telephone and said, “Send up the house physician right away. A man here has been poisoned and besides he has acute appendicitis and a temperature of 122.” He stood holding the receiver for a few minutes, and then said, “Oh, he’s out of town, is he? How about his assistant? I see. He doesn’t have an assistant. Can’t you understand this is an emergency? You’ve got to find a doctor. Any doctor. Look, the man is dying—”

  Helene appeared at the door of the kitchenette and said, “All he needs is a little rest before dinner.”

  Malone said, “Thank you very much,” to the telephone, and “Shut up!” to Helene. He rushed across the room, took her hand and said, “I told you, don’t worry.”

  Helene looked at Jake and said, “If I worried any less, I’d be dancing in the streets. Make him drink that hot lemonade while I fix him a gargle.” She walked over to the couch, laid her hand on Jake’s forehead and murmured something about a poor ittsy bittsy boy having a sore throat. Jake grabbed her hand and whispered, “Don’t leave me.”

  Malone pulled a chair close to the couch and again remarked that no one needed to worry about a thing.

  The mutt, having finished a soup plate of beer, wandered out from the kitchenette, leaped up on the davenport, scratched a few stray fleas, and went placidly to sleep on Jake’s feet.

&nbs
p; It might have been five minutes, or it might have been an hour, before there was a loud pounding on the door. Helene and Malone reached it almost simultaneously, the mutt retired under the davenport, and Jake merely groaned. The man at the door was short, stocky, red-faced and familiar to Malone. He said, “I’m Dr. McSmith. I have with me a stomach pump. Where is the patient?”

  Helene and Malone pointed, speechlessly, to Jake.

  “You’d best help me move the patient into the bedroom,” Dr. McSmith ordered, “and leave me alone with him for a bit.”

  While Malone and the doctor assisted the staggering Jake towards the bedroom door, Helene confided to the doctor that she was not sure if a stomach pump would be necessary. The doctor informed her that he would use his own judgment as to that. The bedroom door closed with an air of grim finality. Helene and Malone sat down on the davenport, looking at nothing. Helene said, in a very small voice, “Would you like a drink?”

  Malone said, “No, thank you.”

  A few moments later, Malone said, “Would you like a drink?”

  Helene said, “No, thank you.”

  The mutt came and sat consolingly between them. That reminded Malone of something.

  “He throws rocks at dogs,” Malone said.

  Helene gasped. Her face was very pale. “Do you mean there’s something mentally wrong, too?”

  “There must be something mentally wrong with a man who throws rocks at dogs,” Malone said dourly.

  Helene gasped. “I can’t imagine him doing such a thing.”

  “You could,” Malone said, “if you’d seen him this morning. It was brutal. The poor dog didn’t have a chance.”

  “Don’t!” Helene whispered. “I’d rather not know the details, Malone. Why, it might have been a helpless little dog like this one.”

  “Like this one!” Malone said. “It was this one, only he was smart enough to duck.” The mutt looked up and howled faintly.

  “In spite of his illness,” Helene said, “I can’t believe it of Jake.”

  Malone had started to say, “But Jake wasn’t there—” when the bedroom door opened and Dr. McSmith came out. He signaled to Helene and said, “There are a few instructions I must leave with you, Mrs. Justus. Also, I regret that I must inform the Health Department.”

  Helene stood up and gasped, “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes,” Dr. McSmith said. “It is necessary in these cases.” He reached down, snapped shut the clasp on his bag, and said, “I don’t think it’s too late to get cocoa butter.” He cleared his throat and said, “Your husband, Mrs. Justus, has chicken pox. It is uncomfortable, but not fatal.”

  All Helene could say was, “Thank you very much, Doctor—”

  “McSmith,” the doctor said stiffly. “And I’ll leave my bill at the desk.”

  Malone rose, strolled across the room, button-holed Dr. McSmith and said, “How do you feel about postmen, doctor?”

  “I regard them as necessary evils,” the doctor said, “but I don’t go so far as to batter them over the head with lead pipes. I trust that answers your question, sir?” He turned to Helene and said, “You can have these prescriptions filled at the corner. And don’t forget the cocoa butter. It’s very helpful in chicken pox cases. I trust your husband will be feeling much better in the morning.”

  At that moment, the mutt, who had been lurking behind the door, dashed out and growled at the red-faced doctor, who said a hurried, “Goodnight,” and pulled the door shut. The mutt struck a pose, looked at the door and made a remark about people who threw rocks at dogs.

  9

  “Don’t you dare come near that door!” Jake said hoarsely. “Either of you! Helene, go away! Go away!”

  “My poor baby,” Helene said, ignoring him. “Does he have the nasty old chicken pox?”

  “Get away,” Jake said. “Helene! Don’t you dare come near this bed.” He gave an anguished moan and hid his head under the covers.

  Helene said consolingly, “Darling, I don’t care how you look. I love you anyway.”

  “It’s contagious,” Jake said, in a muffled voice. “Terribly contagious.”

  “Of course it is,” Helene said cheerfully. “I gave it to the entire freshman class at Miss Winch’s School for Girls the week before the annual school dance.”

  Jake peered around the covers with one eye, and said, “You mean you’ve had the chicken pox?”

  “Naturally,” Helene told him. “Everybody’s had chicken pox. Except, apparently, you.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Jake said skeptically, still with only one eye peering from under the covers. “Chicken pox leaves people with scars.”

  “I’ve got one scar,” Helene said, “and I’ll show it to you for proof. Turn your back a minute, Malone.”

  A moment later, Jake sat up in bed and said indignantly, “Well then, if you’ve had chicken pox and you can’t catch it from me, why aren’t you busy nursing me instead of just standing there, and where is my cocoa butter?”

  “I’m going after the cocoa butter right now,” Malone said. “And to get the prescriptions filled. Is there anything else you’d like?”

  “Yes,” Jake said, “an evening paper, some dinner, and a quart of gin.”

  Malone made a vain attempt to leave the mutt behind. After the resulting melancholy wail, he relented and said, “Oh, all right, come along, but you’ve got to behave yourself.” The mutt preceded him down the corridor, yelping with glee.

  The little lawyer paused for a moment at the desk, where the stony-faced clerk informed him that dogs were not permitted in the building.

  “I’m just keeping him until I can find a good home for him,” Malone said, “and where is the best drugstore in the city.”

  The mutt whimpered unhappily.

  The clerk leaned anxiously over the desk and said, “I hope the poor little doggie isn’t sick? Say, that’s a mighty fine animal, Mr. Malone. How much do you want for him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Malone said airily. “How much would you offer?” The mutt put his nose on the toe of Malone’s shoe and wept miserably. The little lawyer added hastily, “I haven’t time to talk about it now. Just tell me the best drugstore in the city.”

  The clerk named an address on Wabash Avenue, and Malone hurried out to a cab. The cab driver, a loquacious soul, and evidently a world traveler of renown, remarked that he had been everywhere and seen everything, but only once before in his life had he seen a dog even remotely resembling that one, and that had been in Australia. It was none of his business, chum, but would Malone mind telling him if that was an Australian dog.

  “It is,” Malone said stiffly, “and a very famous breed. This is an Australian beer hound.”

  The cab driver looked over his shoulder, missing the rear end of a truck by inches, and said, “Can you imagine that! I don’t suppose you know where I could find one like him?”

  “As far as I know,” Malone said, “this is the only one of its kind in the United States.”

  “Can you imagine that!,” the cab driver said again. “I don’t suppose you’d part with him for any money.”

  “Not for any money in the world,” Malone said. Not, he reminded himself, that he wasn’t going to try and find a good home for the Australian beer hound, tomorrow. It was just that the cab driver didn’t seem like quite the right type.

  The drugstore clerk filled the prescriptions, reached for the cocoa butter and said, “If it’s for the little dog, we have a flea paste that will work much better.”

  “It isn’t for the little dog.” Malone said indignantly. “It’s for a very good friend of mine.” He added, “But perhaps you’d better give me the flea paste, anyway.”

  Back at Jake and Helene’s apartment, Malone found Helene sitting on the edge of the bed with a pencil and paper in her hands. “I’m counting the spots as they come out,” she announced. “We have a bet on, odds or evens, including everything down to the collar bone. Would you care to place a small wager?”


  “I would not,” Malone said. He was reminded of an unpleasant fact. The twenty dollars he had borrowed that afternoon from Joe the Angel had gone fast, what with beer for the mutt, taxi fares, and other odds and ends. Perhaps he’d better go back and have a further conference with the niece and nephew of his client. After all, it was his duty to keep in touch with them at a time like this, and regardless of how late it might be, he knew at least four reputable gambling joints where he could get a check cashed. “This is all very pleasant,” he said to Helene. “There’s nothing I enjoy more than attending a case of chicken pox. But I’ve got a client on my hands, and what I always say is, ‘Business before pleasure.’” He added, “And would you mind looking after the dog for me until I get back?” He hoped the mutt wouldn’t complain too bitterly while he was away.

  Helene sighed. “If you must desert us at a time like this, go right ahead, and as long as you’re not worried about the mutt catching chicken pox, we, don’t mind. I’ll feed him beer, and if he gets lonesome, I’ll read aloud to him. But at least, wait until I fix Jake’s cocoa butter.” She bustled off to the kitchenette.

  When she was out of earshot, Jake said, “Tell me the truth, Malone. How do I look?”

  “You look fine,” Malone lied.

  The big red-haired man’s face had always been covered with a fine collection of freckles. It was now also covered with an even finer collection of red dots, which, unfortunately, went very badly with the shade of his hair.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Malone said, heartily. “The cocoa butter will fix you up fine.”

  “Malone,” Jake said again, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

  “If it’s about making your will,” Malone said, “I haven’t time to bother with it right now.”

  Jake waved that aside. “Come here, Malone. Quick. Before Helene gets back. It’s really for her sake, too, but she wouldn’t admit it.”

  Malone walked over to the bedside, wondering if chicken pox was ever accompanied by delirium.