Part 28 (1/2)

”Frank's dead,” Ismi said, and crossed himself.

”Would that the other were dead too,” Miss Lolly muttered. ”So long as he can breathe she's in danger. I feel it in my bones. I can't help it, Ismi. I feel it.”

”He is paralysed,” the old man insisted. ”You don't know what you're saying. You haven't seen him. He can't even speak.”

”He is Max,” Miss Lolly said. ”I'm frightened. To think she is opposite his room. It's too close, Ismi. If he finds out Ismi groaned.

”You go on and on,” he said. ”I tell you he can't move. He'll never be able to walk again. I know. Look what happened to me, and Max is twenty times as bad as I was.”

Miss Lolly went to her suitcase, opened it, took out a heavy throwing-knife.

”There's nothing he can't do with a knife,” she said, showing it to Ismi. ”I kept this. It is his-one of many. He could throw a knife even if he couldn't walk. There's nothing he can't do with it.”

Ismi wrung his hands.

”You're wearing me out,” he groaned. ”You go on and on. He hasn't a knife. He hasn't any weapon. Nothing . . . please stop. Nothing can happen to her.”

Miss Lolly eyed him.

”I'm going to the hospital,” she said. ”I couldn't rest. I should have gone before now if it hadn't been for you.”

Ismi started to his feet.

”What are you going to do? You're not going to tell them who he is-what he's done? You wouldn't do that?”

”I must warn them,” she said firmly. ”I don't trust him.”

Ismi caught her hands in his.

”Don't tell them,” he pleaded. ”They wouldn't treat him so well if they knew. They have his name on the door and a special nurse. He is very ill. Have a little mercy, Lolly. He is my son.”

”He had no mercy for me,” Miss Lolly said quietly.

”But he is helpless now,” Ismi said. ”Go and see for yourself. He can't do anything evil. This may be the making of him. When he is well enough I'll take him away. I'll begin a new life for him. Don't tell them.”

”Why did you have such a son?” Miss Lolly burst out. ”I warned you. Why did you marry such a woman? I told you she was no good, and you found that out soon enough. Why didn't you listen to me ?”

Ismi sat down again.

”You were right,” he said. ”I wish I had listened to yon. What am I going to do, Lolly? There's no future for me now. I have little money.” He put his hands over his eyes. ”It won't last long. Every nickel will have to go to Max. He needs it now.” He rocked himself backwards and forwards. ”I feel so old and useless, Lolly.”

While he was speaking Miss Lolly moved silently to the door. She opened it, stood looking back at the old clown as he moaned to himself.

”What's to become of us?” he went on. ”I know you're right. He is evil. He'll go on doing evil no matter how helpless he is, because he thinks evilly. . . .”

But Miss Lolly didn't hear. She was already running down the stairs, and it wasn't until she reached the main lobby of this shoddy little hotel that she realized that. she was still grasping the heavy throwing-knife, and hastily she hid it from sight under her coat.

A couple of drummers, fat, oily-faced men, nudged each other as Miss Lolly crossed the lobby.

”That's the kind of hotel this is,” one of them said to the other. ”Even the dames have beards.”

But Miss Lolly paid no attention, although she heard what was said. She went into the dark street, and after a minute or so hailed a pa.s.sing taxi.

She arrived at the Santo Rio Memorial Hospital as the tower clock chimed eleven.

The porter at the gate eyed her with a mixture of disgust and contempt on his round fat face.

”You can't see anyone now,” he said firmly. ”Come tomorrow. The Head Sister's off duty and the resident doctor's on his rounds. It's no use wagging your head at me. You can't come in,” and he turned back to his office, closing the door firmly in Miss Lolly's face.

She looked up at the immense building with its thousands of lighted windows. Somewhere in this building was Max: opposite his room was Carol.

She had a presentiment of danger. She knew Max. If he learned that Carol was so close to him he would move heaven and earth to get at her. Setting her ridiculous hat more firmly on her head, she walked quietly past the porter's lodge and moved quickly, like a lost shadow, towards the main hospital building.

Max reached the opposite door, paused for a moment to lift himself up on his arm to read the nameplate. A hot wave of vicious exaltation ran through him when he saw the name: Carol Blandish. So she was there; behind that door, now within his reach. He fumbled at the handle, pushed the door open, dragged himself along the floor into the room, closed the door.

The room was in semi-darkness, lit only by a small blue pilot light immediately over the bed. For a moment or so Max could see nothing, blinded by the contrast between this dim light and the harsh light of the corridor. Then things in the room began to take shape. He became aware of the bed, set in the middle of the room, the white enamelled table by the bed and the armchair. But his whole vicious attention was concentrated on the bed.

He crawled towards it, paused when he reached it. It was a high bed, and reaching up he could only just get his fingers on the top of the edge of the mattress. When he raised himself on his right arm he could see Carol lying in the bed, but as his left arm was useless he could not reach her.

She lay on her back, the sheet drawn up to her chin, her face the colour of snow in the bluish light. She looked as if she were dead- very lovely and calm-but he could see the slight rise and fall of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as she breathed. Her head was swathed in bandages, and only a wisp of her beautiful red hair showed beneath the bandages.

Max saw nothing of this: all he saw was someone to kill, just out of his reach, and, trembling with fury, he caught hold of the bedrail and tried to lever himself up, but the dead side of his body proved too heavy.

He thought for a moment that he was going to have another stroke. To be so close to her; to have had to suffer so much to get to her and for her still to be safe and beyond his reach was more than he could endure. He relaxed on the floor, shut his eyes, tried to control the pounding of blood in his head. He must think. There must be some way in which he could reach her.

Perhaps if he pushed the armchair against the bed he could hoist himself on to it and be within reach. He began to drag himself across the floor to the armchair when his ears, never ceasing to listen for an alarming sound, warned him that someone was coming.

He paused, listened intently.