"It's too late to worry about that," I said. "Fade away, brother. Shake the dust off your feet. And if you could bring me a little Scotch for dinner I'd welcome it."
"I'm afraid patients aren't allowed alcohol," he said seriously, without taking his eyes off Hopper.
"Then drink some yourself and come and breathe over me," I said. "Even that would be better than nothing."
He said he didn't touch spirits and went away, a perplexed, scared look on his face.
Hopper stared across the room at me, and under the intense scrutiny of those glaring eves I felt a little spooked. I hoped fervently the handcuff on his ankle was strong enough to hold him if he took it into his head to try and break loose.
"I have been thinking, Hoppie," I said, speaking slowly and distinctly. "What we must do is to cut that punk Bland's throat and drink his blood. We should have done it before."
"Yes," Hopper said, and the glare in his eyes began to fade. "We will do that."
I wondered if it would be safe to try for the key now, but decided against it. I wasn't sure of Brother Quell. If he caught me trying I felt it would sadden his young life even more than it was saddened already.
"I will make a plan," I said to Hopper. "Bland is very cunning. It won't be easy to trap him."
Hopper seemed to calm down and his face stopped twitching.
"I will make a plan too," he said.
The rest of the evening went by while he made his plan and I thought about what I was going to do if I got free of the cuff. It seemed unlikely that I should be able to escape from the house, but if I could locate Anona Freedlander and have a talk with her and warn her she was soon to be rescued I wouldn't waste my time. Then when Kerman showed up—and I was certain he would show up sooner or later—we wouldn't have to waste time hunting for her.
Quell looked in occasionally. He didn't do more than put his head around the door, and Hopper was too preoccupied with his plans to notice him. I made ssh-ing signs every time Quell appeared, pointing at Hopper and shaking my head. Quell nodded back, looking more like a horse than ever, and went silently away.
Around eight o'clock, he brought me in a supper-tray and then went to the foot of Hopper's bed and smiled at him.
"Would you like something to eat, Mr. Hopper?" he asked coaxingly.
Hopper's reaction to this gave even me a start. It nearly gave Quell heart failure. Hopper shot forward to the end of the bed, his arms seemed to stretch out as if they were made of elastic, and his hooked fingers brushed Quell's white jacket. Quell sprang back, stumbled and nearly fell. His face turned the colour of putty.
"I don't think Mr. Hopper wants anything to eat," I said, the piece of chicken I was chewing suddenly tasting like sawdust. "And I don't think I'm that keen either."
But Quell wasn't interested in how I felt. He went out of the room with a rush of air, a streak of white and a bang of the door.
Hopper threw off the bed-clothes and started after him. He landed with a crash on the floor, held by his ankle, and he screamed. He jerked madly at the chain, bruising his ankle. Then, when he found he couldn't get free, he swung himself up on to the bed and threw himself on the chain of the handcuff. He began to pull at it, while I froze, watching him. From where I was the chain looked horribly fragile. The thought that this madman might break loose while I was still chained sent a chill up my spine. My hand went to the bell and hovered over it.
He had the chain now in both hands, and, bracing his feet against the end bar of the bed he strained back, his face turning purple with the exertion. The bar bent but held, and the chain held, too. Finally, he dropped back, gasping, and I knew the danger was over. I found sweat on my face. Without exactly being aware of it those past minutes had been about the worse I had ever experienced.
The purple colour of Hopper's face had turned to white. He lay still, his eyes closed, and I waited, watching him. After a while, and to my surprise, he began to snore.
Then Quell came into the room, carrying a strait jacket. His face was pale, but determined.
"Take it easy," I said, and I was startled how shaky my voice sounded. "He's asleep. You better have a look at that handcuff. I thought he was going to break loose."
"He couldn't do that," Quell said, dropping the strait jacket. "That chain is specially made." He moved closer and looked down at Hopper. "I'd better give him a shot."
"Don't be a fool," I said sharply. "Bland said you weren't to go near him."
"Oh, but he must have an injection." Quell said. "If he has another attack it might be very bad for him. I don't want to do it, but it's my duty."
"To hell with your duty," I said impatiently. "Handling that guy is like handling a bomb. Leave him alone."
Cautiously Quell approached the bed and stood looking down at Hopper. The heavy, snoring breathing continued, and, reassured, Quell began to put the sheet back in place. I watched him, holding my breath, not knowing if Hopper was faking or not. I didn't know if Quell was just dumb or very brave. He'd have to be completely dumb or have nerves like steel to get as close to this lunatic as he was.
Quell tucked in the sheet and stood away. I saw little beads of sweat on his forehead. He wasn't dumb, I decided. That made him brave. If I had one, I would have given him a medal.
"He seems all right," he said more cheerfully. "I'll give him a shot. If he has a good sleep he'll be all right tomorrow."
This suited me, but, for all that, I was worried. No amount of medals nor money would have persuaded me to get that close to the sleeping Hopper.
"You're taking a chance," I said. "The needle will wake him. If he gets his hands on you, you're a goner."
He turned to stare at me in a puzzled way.
"I don't understand you at all," he said. "You don't behave like a patient."
"I'm not a patient," I said solemnly. "I'm Sherlock Holmes: remember?"
He looked sad again and went out. Minutes ticked by. Hopper didn't move. He continued to snore, his face slack and exhausted.
Quell returned after what seemed hours and couldn't have been more than ten minutes. He carried a tray covered with a towel.
"Now look," I said, sitting up. "Suppose you take off my handcuff? Then if there's trouble I can help you. You seem to be a sensible sort of guy. If he wakes up and grabs you I can hit him over the head."
He looked at me seriously like a horse inspecting a doubtful sack of oats.
"I couldn't do that," he said. "It would be against the rules."
Well, I had done all I could. The ball was in his corner now, and it was up to him.
"Okay," I said, struggling. "At least I'll pray for you."
He charged the syringe and approached Hopper. I watched, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck rising and my heart beginning to thump against my ribs.
He was a little shaky, but his serious, horse-like face was calm. Gently he pushed Hopper's pyjama sleeve back and poised the syringe. It was like watching a man fiddling with the fuse of a delayed-action bomb. There was nothing I could do but watch and sweat for him, and I sweated all right, wanting to tell him to hurry up, and for the love of Mike not to stand there like a dummy, but get the thing over.
He was a little short-sighted in spite of his glasses, and he couldn't see the right vein. His head kept getting closer and closer to Hopper while he peered at the white, sinewy arm. He seemed to have forgotten how dangerous Hopper was. All he seemed to be thinking about was to make a good job of the operation. His face was only about a foot away from Hopper's when he nodded his head as if he had found the vein he was after. Very gently he laid the side of the needle down on the vein.
I wasn't breathing now. My hands were clutching at the sheet. Then, just as he was going to plunge in the needle, he drew back with an impatient exclamation and walked over to the tray he had left on the chest of drawers.
My breath whistled in my dry mouth as I said unevenly, "What the hell's the matter now?"
"I forgot the ether," he said. "Stupid of m
e. One should always clean the skin before making a puncture."
He was sweating almost as badly as I, but he had been taught to use ether before giving the syringe and that was the way he was going to give it: come hell, come sunshine.
Hopper stirred slightly as Quell dabbed on the ether. I was half out of bed with nervous anticipation, and Quell's hand was unsteady as he began the ghastly hunt for the vein again.
Down went his head within a foot of Hopper's, his eyes intent on Hopper's skin.
Suddenly Hopper opened his eyes. Quell was too busy to notice.
"Look out!" I croaked.
As Quell looked up with a stifled gasp, Hopper, moving with the speed of a snake, had him by the throat.
VI
With one furious, violent movement I dragged the heavy sheet off my legs and threw myself out of bed. I had a crazy idea die force of my throw would wrench the bed free so I could drag it across the floor and get at Hopper. But the bed held, and I only succeeded in knocking the breath out of my body.
Quell's wild yell hit the ceiling, bounced off and burst over me like shrapnel. He yelled again, and then his next yell trailed off into a blood-chilling gurgle as Hopper's hands cut off his breath.
I didn't look at them. I was afraid to. The sound of the struggle was bad enough. Instead, I hoisted myself up on the bed, slid to the end and got my free leg over the bed-rail and on to the floor. I was in such a panic I could scarcely breathe, and I was shaking like an old man with the palsy. I stretched towards the chest of drawers. My finger-tips just brushed the handles of the top drawer. Behind me came a savage growling noise: a noise like nothing I have ever heard or ever want to hear again. I strained frantically towards the drawer handle. My fingernails got a purchase. I pulled madly away from the handcuff and the skin around my ankle felt as if it was on fire.
My nails hooked into the handle and the drawer opened an inch. It was enough. It gave me just enough purchase to pull the drawer right out so it fell with a crash to the floor. It was full of towels and surgical bandages, and, hanging over the rail I scrabbled madly among the junk, hunting for the key.
A sudden yammering noise behind me sent my blood pressure up, but I didn't pause in my frantic hunt. I found the key at last between two towels, and, sobbing for breath, I swung myself back on the bed, searching for the tiny lock opening in the cuff. My ankle was bleeding, but I didn't care about that. I sank the key into the lock, turned it and the cuff came off.
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 he
r.
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.
Lay Her Among The Lilies Page 17
