The Moon by Night (46 page)

He sighed, fingering the coverall, feeling the quality broadcloth and the fine stitching of the embroidery. “I had an idea that this wasn't going to link up to anyone in particular, but it sure is funny, the story about it.”

“Please tell me. It is extremely curious.”

“Yes, ma'am. Well, there's a pawnshop down on Greenwich Avenue, the pawnbroker by the name of Mike Beasley….” Officer Goodin told Cheney the story—as told to him by the pawnbroker—of the pretty foreign lady who came into his pawnshop to sell her clothes and how she had carelessly sold the baby carriage but wouldn't sell the doll at any price. He told Cheney that the woman asked about St. Luke's, but couldn't understand directions in English.

“So she thanked him and left. She stopped just outside the shop like she didn't know where to go. She stood there for a few minutes, just looking around, kind of lost. Then a couple of toughs barged into her, and she stuck her nose in the air and marched off. Mike watched to make sure the toughs didn't follow her, and they didn't. She went up the street and around the corner, and Mike thought that was that.”

“But it wasn't?”

“No, ma'am. Mike closed up last night at nine o'clock as usual. Now understand that the shop is on a corner with an alley between it and the next building. There's a side door on the alley, which Mike only uses to move big stuff into the shop, like stoves and pianos and such, instead of coming in the front door through all the junk he's got piled up sky-high,” the officer said dryly. “But generally the side door stays locked, and Mike comes and goes from the front door. So when he left last night, he went out the front door.

“Well, he came in this morning, walking up the street, passing the alley. He looked up the alley this morning, same as he always does, and this morning there's a blanket of fresh new snow, and there's an odd lump right by his side door. He goes to see about it and finds the foreign lady, dead. Her head had a big lump on it and a lot of blood.”

“How was she positioned?” Cheney asked.

“She was sitting up, just like she was alive and had sort of sat down to a picnic. She was sitting ladylike, with her knees bent and her legs tucked under her neatly, as ladies do. You understand, do you, Dr. Duvall?”

“Yes, I know exactly what you mean,” she answered. “What about the money?”

“Gone,” he said. “Not a cent on her. The coverall and the doll were right by her, and the coverall was still folded neatly, like Mike had seen her fold it and hang it over her arm. Her cloak was gone. It was one of those full billowing things with the hood and the tassel.”

“A mantle,” Cheney said.

“Yes, that's it, a mantle,” he repeated carefully.

Hesitantly Cheney asked, “You do believe him, Officer Goodin? This Mike, the pawnbroker?”

He thought long and hard before answering. “I've studied about it, surely have. I've got to say I believe him. He's not above buying goods without checking too close on where they've come from, but I don't think he'd do murder. His story rang true. You know how you can tell when people are telling the truth if you listen hard enough and watch them?”

“No,” Cheney said, smiling, “I don't, really. But I suppose that's why you're the policeman and I'm not.”

He smiled his characteristic mournful smile. “Maybe so, ma'am, but I'm hoping that lady will tell you her story, you see. You'd be her best bet, I know. That's why I particularly wanted you to do her autopsy, Dr. Duvall. Because you're her last and best hope of hearing the last story she'll ever tell.”

Cheney still hadn't “heard the lady's story” by ten o'clock Saturday night, for there had been no time to do the autopsy. She and Dev had each taken a four-hour sleep break at the office that morning, but by the afternoon the emergency ward was busy with more influenza victims, more sprains and bruises and broken bones from accidents during the snowstorm. And, of course, with thirteen patients in the hospital and four of them—including Baby Girl Cranmer—classified as critical, everyone had been very busy all day. All of the interns had stayed at the hospital, taking turns sleeping in one of the cubicles. Mrs. Flagg had to take a day off. She had been working from ten to fourteen hours a day for the entire week. She called in Kitty Kalm and set up two teams of attendants: Kitty and Timothy, and Carlie and Miss Nilsson, to work three rotating eight-hour shifts on Saturday and Sunday.

Cleve Batson sent word that he was much better and could work. But Dev sent back a stern rebuke for him to stay in bed—and isolated—until Monday. Cheney remarked to Dev, “Perhaps I should have taken Dr. Pettijohn up on his offer to work a shift or two this weekend. I mean, it was my on-call weekend anyway, so it doesn't make any difference to me, but I know you and Victoria had several things planned this weekend.”

He shrugged. “I consented to take the post of chief physician and chief of surgery. In circumstances like this, it's my responsibility to make it right if there's a problem with the staff physicians.”

Cheney reflected that Victoria seemed to always accept her disappointments with Dev's hectic schedule with perfect aplomb.
And so, for that matter, does Shiloh. He's an angel about all of it. But does that mean that it's right?

She had had no more time for such philosophical musings, however, because the steady demand from patients and walk-ins went on relentlessly all day and into the night.

At ten-thirty she was doing an extra meds round on the women's ward when the meds cart ran out of laudanum. She hesitated, considering taking care of it herself, but then decided it was more efficient to get Carlie to do it. The hospital purchased laudanum by the case, each containing four five-gallon carboys. Carlie poured it up into the hospital's distinctive cobalt-blue square-shouldered eight-ounce bottles and stocked the wards and supply carts. Cheney knew that Carlie could find the laudanum faster than she could and could also probably get a couple of dozen bottles poured before she could gather the empty bottles and the funnels.

Leaving the meds cart outside of Cassandra Carteret's private room, she hurried down the hallway, only to see Dev coming to meet her. “I'm out of laudanum on the men's ward supply cart,” he said. “What about yours?”

Cheney shook her head, and Dev turned to fall into step with her. “I'm out too. I decided that Carlie can get us resupplied faster than I can, so I thought I'd get him to do it, and I'll cover the emergency patients until he returns. You know, Dev, it certainly seems to me that we're using an awful lot of laudanum. Why do you think that is?”

“I don't know. I've noticed it too. I thought I'd speak to Victoria and make sure that we're not buying an inferior quality to save money.”

“I already asked her, and she said that St. Luke's is buying the best quality drugs available from a pharmacological supply house in Canada. Even though we buy in bulk, we still pay about the same price as small quantities from apothecaries here. But their product is superior, and they do have quantities of just about everything available to ship immediately. Victoria said she had learned this from Dr. Baird in San Francisco. After many years of searching for the most economical and efficient way to supply St. Francis Hospital, he found that this company in Canada is best overall.”

“She would know,” Dev said, frowning. “Then there must be a reason for the increase in usage, but I doubt we'll have time to figure it out tonight.” They walked into the emergency hall, where eight of the twelve cubicles were occupied. Carlie was changing the sheets on one of the unoccupied beds. Cheney explained to him what she needed.

“I can do that, Dr. Duvall,” he said eagerly. “Do you want me to finish making up this bed first?”

“No, Carlie, Dr. Buchanan and I will take care of it.”

“We will?” Dev said blankly as Carlie left.

“It's about time you learned how to do hospital quarter corners,” Cheney said sternly.

“It is?” he said helplessly.

Just then Officer Goodin loomed up in the doorway, his flat hat piled with fresh powdery snow. “Carlie told me I'd find you here. I've brought in two, Dr. Duvall, Dr. Buchanan, if you wouldn't mind seeing to them.” He spoke with unusual impatience, and Cheney noted his lack of a greeting, which was very unlike the respectful policeman.

“Two more bodies, you mean, Officer Goodin?” Cheney asked in a kindly manner.

“No, two more idiots,” he rasped. “One crook and one policeman, both bloomin' idiots.” He looked up the hall and motioned impatiently. A grumpy-looking older man dressed in a cheap flashy suit came stumping down the hall, holding his right hand with his left. Behind him limped a young policeman, occasionally pushing the man in front of him.

“The first idiot is Alfie Emmett, better known as Alfie the Pocket—just take a guess why,” Officer Goodin said, clapping an iron hand on his shoulder, pulling open the man's very roomy sack coat to reveal four large pockets sewn into the lining. One bit of a gold watch chain was hanging out of one pocket, and like a striking snake Officer Goodin snatched it away before the man could move. Holding it up and swinging it like a metronome, Officer Goodin growled, “And the poor sop who lost his watch never knew what hit 'im, I can tell you that. Sit down there, Alfie, on that bed, where I can watch you.”

The young policeman looked like he was about nineteen years old. The silver wreath on his cap with the silver NYC centered in it was polished to a high shine, as were his ten silver buttons and his badge. His knee-length regulation frock coat was spotless and pressed, but his breeches had tears at both knees. One of his knees had split into a gaping, profusely bleeding wound. As he sat on the other bed, he grimaced with pain, then glared at Alfie, who assumed a look as innocent as a lamb.

“And this is idiot number two, Officer Monty Jamison,” Officer Goodin pronounced darkly, looming over the smaller man and crossing his arms like an Olympian judge. “Didn't I tell you not to chase him, Monty? Didn't I try to tell you?”

“But he picked that man's pocket right in front of me on the train platform,” the young policeman said pleadingly. “Then he ran.”

“Just because something runs don't mean you have to chase it,” Officer Goodin snorted. “If you hadn't chased him, then he would have been the only idiot with something broke.” He turned to the two doctors. Cheney was kneeling, examining the policeman's knee, while Dev was looking at the pickpocket's hand.

“Mr. Pocket, you have a broken thumb,” Dev said.

“Oh no, it can't be!” Alfie groaned. “And me right-handed too!”

“Put a cramp in your career, won't it,” Officer Jamison taunted him.

“Put a cramp in your running,” Cheney said, manipulating the officer's lower leg gently. He made a low groan of pain. “You've strained the Achilles tendon in your right leg, Officer Jamison. And this left knee is going to swell up considerably, I should think, with this deep of a gash. It needs sutures, and you'll have to keep from bending your knee for at least a week.”

“A week!”

“Told you not to chase him,” Officer Goodin grunted.

Cheney rose, looking at Dev questioningly. He shrugged. “I'll take the thumb. It won't take long.”

“All right, I'll take the knee,” Cheney said. “I'll fetch the cart.”

Dev turned to the young policeman. “She's going to have to cut those breeches if you don't take them off.”

“No, they cost twenty-five cents!” he said, struggling to his feet and shedding them. He had red long johns on, and he gave Alfie a look that would boil water. “If you say one word, I'll forget I'm not s'posed to strike a prisoner in custody.”

“I didn't say nothing 'cause I was just wishing they was mine,” Alfie said mournfully.

“Well, even you couldn't steal my best long johns,” Monty threatened as Dev and Officer Goodin helped him up onto the bed and Dev arranged one blanket over his lap and one over his feet. Though they had had a fire roaring for two days and nights, the cubicles were still chilly.

“How'm I going to walk my beat if I can't bend my knee?” Officer Jamison asked Dev plaintively.

“Very slowly, I'd guess,” Officer Goodin answered smartly.

“You got a lot to cry about. At least you can still do your job,” Alfie the Pocket complained.

“Alfie, picking pockets is not a job,” Officer Goodin growled. “It is a criminal activity. And I've a good mind to lock you up for good this time!”

“Might as well,” he said morosely. “Leastwise they feed you in lockup.”

“So they do, but in the Tombs the food's mighty cold and mighty long in coming,” Officer Goodin threatened.

“The Tombs! Aw, c'mon, Policeman Preach, you wouldn't send a man like me to the Tombs! Why, I'm no common criminal, knocking people on the head and stealing everything they got on 'em right down to their flamin' red long johns!”

“I told you not to say anything about that!” Officer Jamison barked, starting up.

Without ceremony and not very gently, Officer Goodin pushed him back down. “Monty, sit down. You're acting your age. Try to do better.”

Cheney appeared at the doorway, pushed the supply cart in, then closed the doorway curtains to both cubicles.

“Don't pull the side curtains, Dr. Duvall,” Officer Goodin ordered. “I gotta watch both of them.”

Dev and Cheney took tins of carbolic salve to disinfect the gashes on their patients. The big gash on Officer Jamison's right knee was very deep, with small bits of wood and dirt ingrained in it. Cheney said, “I'm going to have to debride this wound, Officer Jamison, because it's dirty.”

“What's debride?” he asked cautiously.