interested."
Obviously, Laribee was not interested in worth-while endeavors. He seemed to want to follow Miss Brush onto the dance floor. And the only means of doing so was to ask Miss Powell to dance. She accepted with surprising alacrity, and they sailed away like any ordinary, unhappily married couple. But that predatory look was still in the Bostonian spinster's eye. I wondered whether she was planning to start work on his diamond shirt studs.
After they had gone, I felt under the pillow. The watch was there. But it wasn't alone. It lay in a little nest of other treasures. I found a bandage, a pair of scissors, a half empty bottle of iodine, and a clinical thermometer. Miss Powell, like a health-conscious squirrel, must have been storing up medical supplies for the winter.
I slipped the watch into my pocket, meaning to return it to old Laribee myself. But I had no idea what to do with the rest of the things. I glanced helplessly around the room and Mrs. Fogarty caught my eye.
"Take a look at this," I said as she hurried over.
The night nurse pulled at the sleeves of her evening dress as though it were a uniform.
"Poor Miss Powell," she clucked agitatedly. "She was so much better and now she's started taking things again. Such a good mind as she has, too."
"I don't know about the mind," I said. "But she's got million dollar fingers. It's kleptomania, I suppose?"
Mrs. Fogarty nodded absently but didn't give me a verbal reply. This little incident seemed to worry her more than I had expected. She gathered up the treasure-trove and carried it to Dr. Stevens who was standing nearby. I heard her say:
"Here are some of the things that were missing from the surgery, doctor. There's nothing else except two bandages and the stop watch."
Stevens' cherubic face had gone grave. Muttering something about being a doctor and not a detective, he hurried out of the room.
A few minutes later Laribee came back from the dance floor alone. I congratulated him on disposing of Miss Powell, but he seemed jumpy, nervous. As he sat down at my side, I noticed that his face was unusually pale. Suddenly, as though with an effort, he said in a low, earnest voice:
"Mr. Duluth, if I ask you a question, you won't think I'm mad, will you?"
By tacit consent we inmates made a point of accepting each other's sanity. I asked politely what he meant and, thinking he referred to his watch, was about to produce it when he added:
"Do you or do you not hear a low, fast ticking like a—?"
He broke off. I knew he meant a tape-ticker and that he couldn't bring himself to say the word. For a moment I imagined it was just one of his delusions. Then I realized that it was nothing of the sort. Distinctly I could hear a rapid ticking—far faster than a watch. It seemed to come from the neighborhood of Laribee's left coat pocket.
"Yes, I can hear it," I said, feeling almost as surprised as he looked. "Try your left-hand pocket."
Dazedly and with trembling fingers, old Laribee thrust his hand into his pocket. It came out clutching a round metal object, which I recognized immediately as one of those gadgets Stevens used in the surgery to take pulse tests, blood pressure rates, and what-nots. It was obviously the clinical stop watch which Mrs. Fogarty had referred to as missing.
It was ticking very fast and somehow its sound took even me back to the panic days of 1929.
"A stop watch," Laribee was murmuring softly. "It's only a stop watch." Then he turned to me and added sharply: "But how on earth did it get there?"
"Perhaps someone traded it for this," I said, handing him back his watch.
He stared in astonishment and then took it from me with a pitying smile. Obviously he felt that it was I rather than he who was on the shady side of the fringe. As he fingered the cold platinum of the watch, I noticed an almost beatific expression pass across his face.
"So you see," he said to himself, "they're trying to frighten me. That's all it is. I'm not mad, of
Obviously, Laribee was not interested in worth-while endeavors. He seemed to want to follow Miss Brush onto the dance floor. And the only means of doing so was to ask Miss Powell to dance. She accepted with surprising alacrity, and they sailed away like any ordinary, unhappily married couple. But that predatory look was still in the Bostonian spinster's eye. I wondered whether she was planning to start work on his diamond shirt studs.
After they had gone, I felt under the pillow. The watch was there. But it wasn't alone. It lay in a little nest of other treasures. I found a bandage, a pair of scissors, a half empty bottle of iodine, and a clinical thermometer. Miss Powell, like a health-conscious squirrel, must have been storing up medical supplies for the winter.
I slipped the watch into my pocket, meaning to return it to old Laribee myself. But I had no idea what to do with the rest of the things. I glanced helplessly around the room and Mrs. Fogarty caught my eye.
"Take a look at this," I said as she hurried over.
The night nurse pulled at the sleeves of her evening dress as though it were a uniform.
"Poor Miss Powell," she clucked agitatedly. "She was so much better and now she's started taking things again. Such a good mind as she has, too."
"I don't know about the mind," I said. "But she's got million dollar fingers. It's kleptomania, I suppose?"
Mrs. Fogarty nodded absently but didn't give me a verbal reply. This little incident seemed to worry her more than I had expected. She gathered up the treasure-trove and carried it to Dr. Stevens who was standing nearby. I heard her say:
"Here are some of the things that were missing from the surgery, doctor. There's nothing else except two bandages and the stop watch."
Stevens' cherubic face had gone grave. Muttering something about being a doctor and not a detective, he hurried out of the room.
A few minutes later Laribee came back from the dance floor alone. I congratulated him on disposing of Miss Powell, but he seemed jumpy, nervous. As he sat down at my side, I noticed that his face was unusually pale. Suddenly, as though with an effort, he said in a low, earnest voice:
"Mr. Duluth, if I ask you a question, you won't think I'm mad, will you?"
By tacit consent we inmates made a point of accepting each other's sanity. I asked politely what he meant and, thinking he referred to his watch, was about to produce it when he added:
"Do you or do you not hear a low, fast ticking like a—?"
He broke off. I knew he meant a tape-ticker and that he couldn't bring himself to say the word. For a moment I imagined it was just one of his delusions. Then I realized that it was nothing of the sort. Distinctly I could hear a rapid ticking—far faster than a watch. It seemed to come from the neighborhood of Laribee's left coat pocket.
"Yes, I can hear it," I said, feeling almost as surprised as he looked. "Try your left-hand pocket."
Dazedly and with trembling fingers, old Laribee thrust his hand into his pocket. It came out clutching a round metal object, which I recognized immediately as one of those gadgets Stevens used in the surgery to take pulse tests, blood pressure rates, and what-nots. It was obviously the clinical stop watch which Mrs. Fogarty had referred to as missing.
It was ticking very fast and somehow its sound took even me back to the panic days of 1929.
"A stop watch," Laribee was murmuring softly. "It's only a stop watch." Then he turned to me and added sharply: "But how on earth did it get there?"
"Perhaps someone traded it for this," I said, handing him back his watch.
He stared in astonishment and then took it from me with a pitying smile. Obviously he felt that it was I rather than he who was on the shady side of the fringe. As he fingered the cold platinum of the watch, I noticed an almost beatific expression pass across his face.
"So you see," he said to himself, "they're trying to frighten me. That's all it is. I'm not mad, of
Similar Books
A Witch Before Dying: A Wishcraft Mystery
Heather Blake
Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6)
Debra Holland
What They Wanted
Donna Morrissey
Where There's Smoke
Karen Kelley
The Silver Bough
Lisa Tuttle
Monterey Bay
Lindsay Hatton
Princess of the Damned
Dahlia Lu
Paint It Black
Janet Fitch
Marie Sexton - Coda 02 - A to Z
Marie Sexton