They went out of the room.
“In a way, you know,” said one of the officers on the other side of the door, “too bad he’s not going to die. Some world, right?”
In the silent hospital room the blackened eyes of the man in the bed near the window were open. After a while he began to moan.
His room-mate, a man named Robinson, who had had an appendectomy (which is nothing, these days) wished the nurse would hurry up and put the poor fellow out of his misery again. The other man began to move the great mittens on his hands in a restless way, as if he were weaving or something.
Mr. Robinson, who was feeling terrible (although not, himself, in pain), said, “Listen, try and take it easy. Okay?”
The other man could hear, had heard; his head turned.
“Listen,” said Mr. Robinson, “it’s got to be pretty rough, not knowing who you are. But you don’t want … I mean … you don’t want to give up or anything. I mean, I don’t think you ought to worry too much about who you are, anyhow,” said Mr. Robinson, who ran a delicatessen in an ordinary way and was no genius, no angel, and not even a psychiatrist, but who just wanted in an ordinary human way to stop the other’s suffering, if he could. “The thing of it is,” he said, “your connections, once they show up, they’re the ones will let you know who you are, believe me.”
The other man lay very still.
“At least you’re not alone,” his room-mate said. “For tonight, anyway, there’s me, whoever I am.”
“Sssso … Sssso …” The other man made sound through his wired jaws, and the sound blurred off to a kind of buzz.
“What’s that you’re trying to say? So? Is that it? So?”
The other’s head rolled, despairingly. “Oonacoota … oom … oo … ah. Oonacoota … oom … oo … ah …”
“Now wait,” said Mr. Robinson. He reached for the pad and pencil he had handy. “I’m writing that down. You said that before. Those cops, seemed to me, kept egging you. But they didn’t believe you’s meaning anything. Gimme that again.”
“Oonacoota … oom … oo … ah …”
“That’s what you said before. So it’s got to mean something. Well, what I mean … you never know. So why don’t you go ahead, say what comes in your mind. I’m listening.”
The other man wasn’t moaning anymore. His attention seemed caught. Mr. Robinson was glad.
After a long silence, the man said, “Oom … id … ul …”
“Yah, I’m listening. Ooom … id … Middle, you mean, maybe?”
“Oom … iddleton … lil … lil … lit … ul.…” The head turned. A hope seemed to spring up and tighten that neck to the tension of life.
“Gotcha,” said Mr. Robinson, scribbling. “Go on.”
About the Author
Edgar Award–winning Charlotte Armstrong (1905–1969) was one of the finest American authors of classic mystery and suspense. The daughter of an inventor, Armstrong was born in Vulcan, Michigan, and attended Barnard College, in New York City. After college she worked at the New York Times and the magazine Breath of the Avenue, before marrying and turning to literature in 1928. For a decade, she wrote plays and poetry, with work produced on Broadway and published in the New Yorker. In the early 1940s, she began writing suspense.
Success came quickly. Her first novel, Lay On, MacDuff! (1942) was well received, spawning a three-book series. Over the next two decades, she wrote more than two dozen novels, winning critical acclaim and a dedicated fan base. The Unsuspected (1945) and Mischief (1950) were both made into films, and A Dram of Poison (1956) won the Edgar Award for best novel. She died in California in 1969.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1969 by Jack and Charlotte Lewi Family Trust
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4277-2
This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
CHARLOTTE ARMSTRONG
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.
The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.
58 Warren Street
[email protected]
(212) 587-1011
Monday through Saturday
11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.
FIND OUT MORE AT:
www.mysteriousbookshop.com
FOLLOW US:
@TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop
SUBSCRIBE:
The Mysterious Newsletter
Find a full list of our authors and
titles at www.openroadmedia.com
FOLLOW US
@OpenRoadMedia
Seven Seats to the Moon Page 30
