Talk of The Town by Charles Williams Read Free Book Online Page B

porch, sprinkled a heavy coating of soda over one half of it and waited. In a few minutes the untreated part tore at a touch, like wet paper, but that under the soda was merely discolored. I kicked it off onto the gravel and went back. My hand itched where it had been in contact with the acid. I found a tap in front of the office and washed it.
    I could take her car if I could find the keys. But I wanted to talk to the doctor before he left, and I had to be here when the men from the Sheriff’s office showed up. I went inside and called a taxi. When I hung up I could hear the professional murmur of the doctor's voice in the bedroom. With nothing to occupy my mind for the moment, I was conscious of the rage again. The yearning to get my hands on him was almost like sexual desire. Cool off, I thought; you’d better watch that. In another minute or two a car stopped outside. I went out.
    It was Jake, with his keyboard of grave and improbable teeth. “Howdy,” he said.
    “Good morning, Jake.” I handed him a twenty. “Run over to the nearest grocery store or market, will you, and bring me a case of baking soda.”
    He stared. “A case? You sure must have a king-size indigestion.”
    “Yeah,” I said. When I offered no explanation, he took off, still looking at me as if I’d gone mad.
    There’d probably be very little chance of tracing the acid, I thought. We were dealing with a sharper mind than that: he’d know better than to buy it, and if he could break into that garage to lift my number plates he could certainly do the same to some battery shop to steal it.
    I glanced at my watch with sudden impatience. What the hell was keeping them? It had been ten minutes since I’d called. I went back inside. Josie had come out and was standing by the desk in doleful and anxious suspension as if she couldn’t figure out which way to turn to pick up the broken thread of her day. The doctor came out through the curtains and set his bag on the desk. He was carrying a prescription pad.
    “What do you think?” I asked.
    He glanced at me, frowning. “You’re not a relative by any chance?”
    “No,” I said.
    He nodded. “I didn’t think she had any here—”
    “Listen, Doctor,” I said, “somebody’s got to take charge here. I don’t know what friends she has in town, or where you could run down her next of kin, so you might as well tell me. I’m a friend of hers.”
    “Very well.” He put down the prescription pad, undipped his pen, and started writing. “Get these made up right away and start giving them as soon as she wakes up. I gave her a sedative, so it’ll be late this afternoon or tonight. But what she needs more than anything is rest--”
    He stopped then and glanced up at me. “And what I mean by rest is exactly that. Absolute rest, in bed. Quiet. With as few worries as possible and no more emotional upheavals if you can help it.”
    “You name it,” I said. “She gets it.”
    “Try to get some food into her. I’d say off-hand she was twenty pounds underweight. I can’t tell until we can run lab tests, of course, but I don’t think it’s anemia or anything organic at all. It looks like overwork, lack of sleep, and emotional strain.”
    “What about nervous breakdown?”
    He shook his head. “That’s always unpredictable; it varies too much with individual temperament and nervous reserve. We’ll just have to wait and see what she’s like in the next few days. Off-hand, I’d say she’s dangerously close to it. I don’t know how long she’s been over-drawing her account, and I’m no psychiatrist, anyway, but I do think she’s been under too much pressure too long—”
    His voice trailed off. Then he shrugged, and said crisply, “Well, to get back to more familiar ground. This is a tranquillizer. And this one’s vitamins. And here’s Phenobarbital.” He glanced up at me as he shoved the prescriptions across the desk. “Keep the phenobarbs yourself and give it to her by individual