gave the operator May’s number. The voice that picked up the receiver sang, “Go-ud after-no-un. Gloucester-r-r Tow-e-r-r.”
Joe mimicked the sing song greeting. “Apart-o-ment four—o-ny-un,” and waited. There was no response. Then the operator said, “Miss Sands does not answer. Shall I leave a message?”
“Sure, sugar. Just tell her Mr. West called.”
He hung up. His wrist said three-fifteen. He went to the closet and brought out a gray tweed reversible topcoat.
“I have an appointment with Parker Raleigh in fifteen minutes at Hillman Hospital. Wonder what the old buzzard’s like.’’ He examined the coat. The tweed side appeared cleaner and he slipped an arm into one of the sleeves. Kierney, who had been watching the weather from the bed, suddenly came to life.
“Hey, what you think you’re doin’? That’s my coat.”
He reached for the coat, but Carton stopped him.
“Let him have it, James Michael, my boy,” he advised. “You won’t need it tonight. We’re Mr. South’s guests here until he decides to share the guineas. How about it, Joey?”
Joe’s bark was several notes higher than normal.
“Goshdarnit, stop calling me Joey!” he shouted.
At the door he realized he was hatless and returned to the closet for a faded Homburg. Plastic features modeled into a mask of melancholy, he handed one of the hundred-dollar bills to the Englishman. Carton held the bill with the tips of his fingers as though it were a dead rat. Then, with a resigned gesture, he shrugged, folded it twice, and put it in his pocket. He said, “ ‘The jingle of the guinea helps the hurt that honour feels.’ No sense thanking you for this, Joey. We’ll both sweat a lot of blood working it out.”
Joe slammed the door without replying.
Chapter Two
HE MERGED into the street in a deluge of rain. Remembering traffic congestion on Broadway he hugged the building and ducked into the nearest subway station. Ten minutes later he was entering Hillman Hospital.
The hospital was situated on the lower West Side just before it becomes the Village. The group of several quiet, unassuming old buildings had once been a charitable institution. Traces of its humble origin were still visible in the discolored red brick and old-fashioned windows and doors. There the telltale marks ended. Inside it was as modern as Radio City.
During the war the wealthy philanthropist, Charles Gordon Hillman, had bought the site and the buildings and had it transformed into a hospital for the wealthy. One of the smaller buildings had been given over to charity patients and free clinics, but to occupy a private room in the main building meant that the patron could write a check in six figures at least.
To the right of the entrance hall was a large, glassed-in office. Behind the opening in a small window, a white-capped nurse busied herself with stacks of papers.
Joe approached the opening and asked for Parker Raleigh’s room. She smiled coldly and said, “Oh, yes, Mr. South, I believe Mr. Raleigh is expecting you. His room is 315. One moment and I’ll tell him you are here.”
She turned her back as she did things to the switchboard. Joe glanced, idly about the entrance hall. He had located the stairway immediately to the right of the elevators when the nurse returned to the window. “Mr. Raleigh will see you in ten minutes,” she informed him briefly and went back to her papers.
Joe walked toward the elevators directly across from the glass enclosure, watching the nurse from the corner of his eye. He was within three feet of the stairway when he saw her turn to the switchboard. The next moment he was climbing the stairs. He was slightly out of breath when he reached the third floor. Here the hospital held no slightest resemblance to the charitable refuge it had once been. On the contrary, there was little about it to suggest a hospital except lingering antiseptic odors and a soft-footed nurse moving down the corridor in front of him. Scarcely a sound reached him as he examined his surroundings.
The numbers over the doors told him that 315 was to his right. The door was open about two inches and he moved nearer to get a better view. The tableau presented by the occupants of the room stopped him for a moment. There was nothing unusual about it, but something in the atmosphere warned him that this was not just nurse and patient. There was more than ordinary professional concern in the face of the trim, dark-haired figure bending over the man on the bed. Joe couldn’t see the man’s face, but something in the nurse’s eyes as she smiled at him reminded Joe of May on the few occasions she softened toward him. He didn’t try to define the impression, but he was sure that if he were in Raleigh’s shoes he’d try to make the most of the situation too. Maybe more than the most. Money doesn’t buy that kind of nursing.
As he raised his hand to knock the girl looked up and saw him. She was almost as tall as Joe. Brunette and as streamlined as the interior of the building. Only her curves were in the right places, and she was as beautiful as a Red Cross poster. He knew by her slight flush that he had been right. She spoke softly to the man on the bed. “I assume this is the gentleman from Mr. Van Pelt’s office.” Her voice was cushioned and as smooth as velvet. Some nurse. He tried not to stare.
The patient turned his eyes slowly in Joe’s direction. “Very well, Miss Gannon.” He studied the detective for a moment and motioned him to enter. He didn’t speak until Joe stood beside the bed. Then he said, “You’re South?”
Joe nodded, and the sick man said, “I’m Parker Raleigh. Sit down. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
To the right of the door into the hall was a large clothes closet, its door partly open. From his position Joe noted two suits hanging on a rack. He wondered what a man lying sick in a hospital bed could possibly want with a complete wardrobe.
Joe’s eyes traveled from the wardrobe to the man on the bed. It wasn’t hard to see that he was unaccustomed to enforced idleness. He made even that undersized bed look as if it had been designed for the chairman of the board. The investment represented in the richly brocaded dressing gown he was wearing would have kept the detective for a week, including Scotches and sodas. The slippers beside the bed were well-worn, but even Joe knew they hadn’t come from Gimbel’s basement. His hair was the kind of gray smart women try to acquire at forty. Joe thought he might be in the middle fifties.
“All right, South,” Raleigh’s voice broke into Joe’s musing. It sounded like the right side of Hyde Park. “Let’s get down to business. Mr. Van Pelt tells me you’ve done jobs for him before.”
Joe nodded. “Sure. Mr. Van Pelt and I understand each other.”
Raleigh didn’t smile. He said, “Then, of course, you know what your job is.” He paused and stared speculatively at Joe. “I sent for you because I’m not in the habit of hiring men I can’t judge for myself. Stuyvesant Van Pelt’s opinion goes a long way, of course, and I hope he isn’t mistaken this time.”
“Mr. Van Pelt isn’t taking chances where I’m concerned, Mr. Raleigh. He doesn’t make mistakes. He can’t afford to.”
The older man glanced at him sharply and frowned. “All right, South. Suppose you give me some facts about yourself.”
“Oh, sure,” Joe agreed. “Where do I begin? I’m thirty-five and white. I’d have graduated from the university
