windows in Wing Two. They don't need cleaning, but it would be nice to see you again."
As I spoke, I heard footsteps coming down the corridor behind me. Iris glanced up, the mop motionless in her hand. Her eyes were staring fixedly with an expression of almost mesmerized intensity.
"You mustn't tell him," she whispered breathlessly. "You mustn't tell him about that voice. He'd keep me shut up in my room. He wouldn't let me work."
I turned to follow the direction of her still hypnotized gaze. The approaching figure was bearded and godlike. It was Dr. Lenz.
11
I SPENT the rest of the morning by myself, trying to piece together all the crazy ramifications that had led up to Fogarty's death. I was so angry at the idea of Iris being dragged into the miserable business that I couldn't concentrate. Something told me I ought to report to Lenz what she had said. But she had asked me not to and I didn't want to let the poor kid down.
I suppose I was reprehensible. Maybe I could have prevented a lot of tragedy if I had gone to the authorities then and there. But after all, I was only a jittery ex-drunk trying to get on my feet again. And my ethical standards were still a bit twisted.
No one in Wing Two had been told about Fogarty's death. But despite the discreetly normal behavior of the staff there was a certain restiveness. People on the borderline are particularly sensitive to atmosphere.
Billy Trent asked Miss Brush three times why Fogarty was not on duty. She gave noncommittal replies. But I could see that he wasn't satisfied. In fact, he was unusually silent and didn't jerk a single soda.
I had missed my morning workout. But when we got back from the afternoon walk, Warren appeared, tired and rather irritable. He was running both shifts temporarily, he said. And heaven alone knew when he was going to get any sleep.
The physio-therapy room was closed, and, from the muffled sounds which I heard as we passed it, I guessed that some of Green's men were still in there. Warren took me to the little-used gymnasium. There wasn't much equipment down there so he suggested wrestling as the most effective type of exercise.
We wrestled. At least, he did. I suppose it was good for me, but I did not think so at the time. Although he claimed to be tired, he put up a pretty good imitation of an animated steel vise.
We were alone there, quite some way from the main part of the wing. At one instant he twisted me into a particularly complicated hold which he described with grim inappropriateness as a very pretty cradle. As he rocked me to and forth, stretching my legs in a manner worthy of the Spanish Inquisition, I was suddenly assailed by a feeling of blind, almost overwhelming panic. I suppose it was stupid of me, but I could not stop myself thinking of the night before—of Fogarty and the strait-jacket.
This curative torture went on for a good ten minutes. Warren threw me about far more than was necessary. And when it was over, I saw the reason why. As I reproached him mildly for contorting me into a human pretzel, he replied sourly:
"Well, you got me into a pretty tough spot telling the cops what I said last night about me and Fogarty."
I was surprised at his frankness; surprised, too, at the truculence of his attitude. After all, I was an expensive and fragile patient.
"I'm sorry," I said. "They asked me to give all the dope I had."
"Yeah. They kept me answering questions for a couple of hours, tried to make out me and Fogarty had quarreled. Lucky my sister could check up on me. Otherwise I might be in jail by now. Those dumb cops always want to arrest someone."
"That's too bad," I murmured. "You shouldn't go around shooting your mouth off if you don't want people to repeat what you say/' We were moving to the door when I remembered something. "By the way, why was Mrs. Fogarty crying last night?"
He wheeled toward me, and there was a different expression on his cadaverous face.
"What you driving at?" he said.
"I thought
As I spoke, I heard footsteps coming down the corridor behind me. Iris glanced up, the mop motionless in her hand. Her eyes were staring fixedly with an expression of almost mesmerized intensity.
"You mustn't tell him," she whispered breathlessly. "You mustn't tell him about that voice. He'd keep me shut up in my room. He wouldn't let me work."
I turned to follow the direction of her still hypnotized gaze. The approaching figure was bearded and godlike. It was Dr. Lenz.
11
I SPENT the rest of the morning by myself, trying to piece together all the crazy ramifications that had led up to Fogarty's death. I was so angry at the idea of Iris being dragged into the miserable business that I couldn't concentrate. Something told me I ought to report to Lenz what she had said. But she had asked me not to and I didn't want to let the poor kid down.
I suppose I was reprehensible. Maybe I could have prevented a lot of tragedy if I had gone to the authorities then and there. But after all, I was only a jittery ex-drunk trying to get on my feet again. And my ethical standards were still a bit twisted.
No one in Wing Two had been told about Fogarty's death. But despite the discreetly normal behavior of the staff there was a certain restiveness. People on the borderline are particularly sensitive to atmosphere.
Billy Trent asked Miss Brush three times why Fogarty was not on duty. She gave noncommittal replies. But I could see that he wasn't satisfied. In fact, he was unusually silent and didn't jerk a single soda.
I had missed my morning workout. But when we got back from the afternoon walk, Warren appeared, tired and rather irritable. He was running both shifts temporarily, he said. And heaven alone knew when he was going to get any sleep.
The physio-therapy room was closed, and, from the muffled sounds which I heard as we passed it, I guessed that some of Green's men were still in there. Warren took me to the little-used gymnasium. There wasn't much equipment down there so he suggested wrestling as the most effective type of exercise.
We wrestled. At least, he did. I suppose it was good for me, but I did not think so at the time. Although he claimed to be tired, he put up a pretty good imitation of an animated steel vise.
We were alone there, quite some way from the main part of the wing. At one instant he twisted me into a particularly complicated hold which he described with grim inappropriateness as a very pretty cradle. As he rocked me to and forth, stretching my legs in a manner worthy of the Spanish Inquisition, I was suddenly assailed by a feeling of blind, almost overwhelming panic. I suppose it was stupid of me, but I could not stop myself thinking of the night before—of Fogarty and the strait-jacket.
This curative torture went on for a good ten minutes. Warren threw me about far more than was necessary. And when it was over, I saw the reason why. As I reproached him mildly for contorting me into a human pretzel, he replied sourly:
"Well, you got me into a pretty tough spot telling the cops what I said last night about me and Fogarty."
I was surprised at his frankness; surprised, too, at the truculence of his attitude. After all, I was an expensive and fragile patient.
"I'm sorry," I said. "They asked me to give all the dope I had."
"Yeah. They kept me answering questions for a couple of hours, tried to make out me and Fogarty had quarreled. Lucky my sister could check up on me. Otherwise I might be in jail by now. Those dumb cops always want to arrest someone."
"That's too bad," I murmured. "You shouldn't go around shooting your mouth off if you don't want people to repeat what you say/' We were moving to the door when I remembered something. "By the way, why was Mrs. Fogarty crying last night?"
He wheeled toward me, and there was a different expression on his cadaverous face.
"What you driving at?" he said.
"I thought
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