Testimony Of Two Men (21 page)

Robert recalled Dr. Bedloe as a tall and stately middle-aged man with a pink complexion, cold blue eyes and an authoritative manner and an absolutely positive voice. Like so many of his kind he had a thick and flowing mop of white and silken hair, and he was reputed to be very wealthy from his investments in oil wells in Titusville. Jonathan said, as he and Robert left the room, “I’d call Bedloe an anus, except that would be disparaging a very hard-working and long-suffering part of the body, much abused and rarely giving any trouble except to the sedentary. I think I’ll just call him a cloaca, which isn’t flattering the cloaca, which always serves tome purpose, which Bedloe doesn’t. Except that he does, in a way, cleanly carry away a lot of the bloody sewage his pet hacks spew up in the operating rooms. Cleanly away, with no one suspecting except a lot of us younger doctors and most of us wouldn’t dare say anything. I always did. He hates my guts.”

The nurse twitched her long white skirts out into the hall after them. “Dr. Bedloe,” she began, in her admonishing voice, and then she brightened. “Oh, here he is now!”

Dr. Humphrey Bedloe was indeed bearing down on them like an eagle. “Jon!” he said. “I’m glad I caught you! It’s very important”

“Well,” said Jonathan, leaning negligently against the wall, “what have I done now? You know I don’t have but half
a
dozen patients in this penitentiary these days.” Then he looked at the older man with curiosity. “What’s the matter— Doctor? Having a touch of angina again?”

Dr. Bedloe was indeed pale and appeared agitated. He nodded curtly at the nurse, who scuttled away. He bit at the end of his silken white mustache. He glanced warily at Robert. “I must speak to you alone, Jon. It’s of the utmost importance.”

“Speak away,” said Jonathan, not moving. “Bob here is my replacement. He’ll be cleaning up after your butchers, who don’t even have a sense of proportion enough to wear the straw hat of an honest butcher. Speak away.”

Dr. Bedloe’s agitation increased. He gave Robert
a
quelling look. Only two weeks ago Robert would have obeyed that glance and would have discreetly moved off. Now he stood solidly on his big legs and did not stir. For an instant Dr. Bedloe openly and actively disliked him and there was a blue glitter of ominous threat in his eyes.

“It’s very private, Jon.”

“Nothing’s private. Not to me, any longer.”

Again the older man savagely bit on his mustache. Then he said, “It’s my niece, you know her, Hortense Nolan. You were at her wedding. She married the Nolan boy. Oh, damn it, Jon! I can’t stand here like this and inform the whole hospital!”

“If I remember,” said Jonathan, “you did inform the whole hospital. About me. Even before I was arrested. In fact, you didn’t even wait for the indictment before you had me removed from the staff. A very precipitate fella, you. Dear, paternal Humphrey.”

“My God,” said Dr. Bedloe, and Robert, with interest, saw actual despair on the man’s face. “Why do you bring that up now? Isn’t it over with? I’m thinking of Hortense. I’ve thought lots of things about you, Jon. Always did. But I never thought you were malicious.”

Now Jonathan was looking intently at him. “There is something wrong, isn’t there? Well, what about Hortense? Pretty girl, if I remember. Lots of red hair and big white teeth. Nineteen? Well?”

“It’s—you know, Jon. You know all about it! She was pregnant—”

“Yes. I remember. And I recommended young Harrington to you, when you asked me to deliver her. But young, modern doctors aren’t good enough for you and your family, are they? You said old Schaefer would deliver her. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Dr. Bedloe bent his head. “That’s true. He did deliver her, at St. Hilda’s. Five days ago. A nice baby, a boy.”

“Well?”

“It’s this, Jon—”

“Now, don’t tell me the girl has puerperal fever, for God’s sake!”

“Peritonitis.”

Jonathan lifted himself from the wall and he looked at Dr. Bedloe with open hatred and disgust. “I told you. Old Schaefer isn’t fit to deliver a cow. Never washes his hands; it’s a principle of his, since asepsis was introduced years ago. He doesn’t believe in germs even now, does he? But he’s such a benign old bastard and gives the girls such encouragement and pats their cheeks sweetly before he slaps the chloroform over their noses. Peritonitis, by God! Well, what did you expect?”

“She’s dying, Jon. She’s like a daughter to me; never had any of my own. And she’s dying. They telephoned me from St. Hilda’s just now. She—she’s been feverish since yesterday, and now today—”

“And he infected her, the bloody old swine, with his patting dirty hands. What had he been doing before? An autopsy?”

Dr. Bedloe spread out his hands. “Jon, they think she needs an immediate operation—to save her life. She—she bled a little more than ordinarily after the delivery. Thought she was out of danger. Jon, she’s dying.”

Jonathan said in a loud voice, “An operation? Hysterectomy? At her age?”

All at once Dr. Bedloe looked old and stricken and sick. “It’s even worse. The—the baby died last night. A—a brain injury, birth injury, I think. Was doing so well, too, in spite
of
the high forceps. All at once. She’s only nineteen, Jon.”

“Sweet Jesus,” said Jonathan.

Robert Morgan did not even wince. He was too horrified.

“Jon, Louis Hedler said I should call you at once. He said if anyone can save Hortense, it is you.”

“Good old Louis,” said Jonathan. He shook his head. “Look, Humphrey, I’m not going to get into this, not even for little Hortense. It’s your dirty work; you’re not going to smear me with it. Where’s old Schaefer?”

“He never leaves her for a moment. It’s—pathetic—”

“I bet it is. She’s his goddaughter, isn’t she? No, I’m not getting into this filthy mess and then letting you sing it out that it was all my fault. No, Humphrey. I’m sorry, but the mess is in your own lap.”

Dr. Bedloe grasped Jon’s arm. “Please, Jon.” His voice broke. “Don’t think of anything else but Hortense. I promise you—”

“Sure you will. Anything as of now. But if Hortense dies, and she probably will, then it’ll be all my fault. Wasn’t it your wife who spread it around that there was something mysterious about little Martha Best’s death? Yes, it was. My mother told me.”

“Jon, I’ll be there in the operating room. Half a dozen of us will be there.”

“Fine, fine. In your germy frock coats. No, thank you. I’m sorry about Hortense. But call Harrington, Humphrey, as you should have called him in the beginning.”

Dr. Bedloe seemed about to burst into tears. “I—I thought about that. He refuses.”

“Good for Phil. Look, I’ll say a prayer for Hortense, if I can remember who to, but not for me, Humphrey.”

He shook his head and turned away, then caught young Robert’s eyes. He stared and said with disgust, “Oh, not you, too!”

“I’ll be there,” said Robert. “I’ll help.”

“You and your pretty little red mustache!” Jonathan regarded him with contempt. “Let me warn you: Never clean up after the hacks. Or try to. After it’s too late, the hacks will sing, ‘He did it, he did it!’ They never forgive us for having a decent medical education. Come on.”

“Please, Jon,” said Dr. Bedloe.

“What more can this stinking town say about me? Just that I murdered Hortense. Bob? Coming? We’re going over to St. Hilda’s.”

Jonathan and Robert arrived at St. Hilda’s after a fast ride through the town. They had not spoken, though Jonathan had given Robert many a grim and accusatory glance, as if all this were the younger man’s fault, and as if Robert had forced him into this dangerous situation. But Robert smiled under his mustache. They went at once to the luxurious suite of young Hortense Nolan, and there Jonathan found Dr. Emil Schaefer sitting beside the bed of Hortense, who was whining painfully and protesting, while the doctor gently and lovingly urged her to eat “just a little, dear. This good broth. This dainty piece of chicken, this hot buttered muffin. You must keep up your strength.”

Jonathan walked in, almost running, swept the spoon from the doctor’s hand, and lifted the filled and steaming tray and hurled it furiously against the wall with a resounding crash. “God damn it!” he exclaimed. “Are you trying to kill the girl? Out, out. I want a conference with all of you.” Dr. Schaefer, a short and rosy man with a bald head and a thick gray beard, stared at him as at a mad dog, and he rose slowly, his blue eyes blank and staring. Dr. Bedloe, who had followed on Jonathan’s heels, looked with dismay at the ruins of the “nourishing lunch” but said as easily as he could, “Emil, I called Jon Ferrier—he’s used to these things—and we’d like to consult with you.”

“You called this—this—” Dr. Schaefer stammered.

“Emil, she’s my niece. There are some modern things, you know—”

The fair fat face of Dr. Schaefer turned very white. “If he touches her, then I must leave the case, Bedloe.”

“Louis Hedler has also asked Jon,” said Dr. Bedloe, in terror of Jonathan’s refusal. “Please, Emil.”

“On second thought,” said Jonathan, “I want him here. I want to ask him some questions. I also want those two last-year interns, Moe Abrams and Jed Collins, who’ve been suffering enough under the hacks. I also want Louis. Go and get them, Humphrey.” He spoke to the Chief-of-Staff of the Friends’ as if he were a lackey. “I won’t even look at the girl until you’re all here. And you might tell Moe and Jed to bring their notebooks. This is not only for their information but for my own protection.”

His dark lean face was very pale and his black eyes flashed at Dr. Bedloe threateningly. Dr. Schaefer took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face and his hands. Jonathan took one step toward him, seized the handkerchief, stared at the elderly man and then at his hands, then threw the handkerchief into his face. “So, you have a cold, have you? And you’ve been examining her—how many times today, you criminal fool? With germ-laden hands?”

“I won’t stand this!” said Dr. Schaefer. “I won’t bear these insults from a jackanapes, an incompetent, who even bungled—”

“Emil, for God’s sake!” cried Dr. Bedloe in an agonized voice.

“Deliberately,” added Dr. Schaefer, who appeared on the verge of a stroke.

“Never mind him, Humphrey,” said Jonathan. “Go and get those people. Let him stand here and blubber. He’ll have enough to do to answer questions later.”

He pushed his hands into his pockets as if he were sheathing daggers. Does he have to be so violent? Robert asked of himself, then he moved slowly to the fine brass bed and looked down at the young girl there.

Hortense Nolan lay high on a bolster and pillows and sheets of the best and softest linen, and it was evident to Robert that she was almost moribund with sepsis. She was so slender and small and young that she appeared to be hardly more than twelve years of age, and her mass of red hair was in strong contrast to the ashen pallor of her little face. It flowed over her pillows like a flag of danger and fell over her panting breast. Her eyes were half open and sunken in gray pits; their color was clouded by a glaucous film. Her nostrils

were pale and pinched, her lips faintly purple. She was delicately made, with the slightest of arms, the daintiest of hands. The latter were pulling restlessly and aimlessly at the bed linen, and Robert felt sick and frightened. Her breath was slow yet noisy in the suddenly silent room. But Jonathan would not look at her; he stood at the windows and stared out, while Dr. Schaefer pressed his fat back hard against the wall near the door.

Two nurses came in and hurried to the bed. Jonathan said without turning, “Don’t go near that bed or touch that girl!”

The nurses gaped at him, and both their fresh-colored faces hardened with surprise and knowing significance. They turned as one to Dr. Schaefer and spoke to him obsequiously, “Doctor, Mrs. Nolan’s parents and her husband are outside and wish to see Mrs. Nolan.”

“Yes, yes,” said the overwhelmed man. “Of course. Send them in.”

“No,” said Jonathan. “If they come in,
I
go—out. And
I
won’t come back.”

But the nurses only awaited Dr. Schaefer’s orders, smiling contemptuously, ignoring Jonathan. Dr. Schaefer hesitated. His effort to come to a decision turned his plump face scarlet. He looked at Jonathan’s back with hate. “I—we—we are having a consultation,” he said to the nurses. One of them, the older, stepped back in astonishment. “With Doctor—
Ferrier?”

“With Dr. Ferrier,” said Dr. Schaefer. The young women gaped again. They turned their heads slowly and regarded Jonathan at the window. Their astonishment grew immense. “Please leave,” said Dr. Schaefer in a choked voice. The girls flurried from the room, their long white skirts rustling. They could not wait to report this incredible scene to their sisters. Robert could hear their fluting and agitated voices retreating down the hall. Silence entered the room again, except for the anguished breathing of the dying girl, who appeared to be totally unaware of the men in the room, the broad sunlight of afternoon and the corridor noises and the soft wind lifting the frilled curtains at the windows. She had sunken into that profound detachment and distance which is the anteroom of death. But Jonathan did not look at her; Robert saw his pale and sallow cheek, the hard jutting of his cheekbones and jaw, the tensity of his whole body, as if he were on the point of losing control of himself.