The heavy lids dropped suddenly, opened again with an effort. The finger slid off the nerve.
It wasn’t jumping any more.
“I like you,” she said drowsily. “Who did you say you were?”
“Malloy. Vic Malloy: a sort of detective.”
She nodded.
“Malloy. I’ll try to remember. I have a very bad memory. I never seem to remember anything.” Again the lids began to fall. I stood over her, watching. “I don’t seem to be able to keep awake.” Then after a long pause and when I thought she was asleep, she said in a faraway voice: “She shot him, you know. I was there. She picked up the shot-gun and shot him. It was horrible.”
I rubbed the tip of my nose with my forefinger. Silence settled over the room. She was sleeping now. Whatever the nurse had pushed into her had swept her away into oblivion. Maybe she wouldn’t come to the surface again until the morning. It meant carrying her out if I could get out myself. But there was time to worry about that.
If I had to carry her I could wrap her in the sheet, but if she insisted on walking, then I’d have to find her something to wear.
I looked around the room. The chest of drawers stood opposite the foot of the bed. I opened one drawer after the other. Most of them were empty; the others contained towels and spare bedding. No clothes.
I crossed the room to the cupboard, opened it and peered inside. There was a dressing-gown, slippers and two expanding suit-cases stacked neatly on the top shelf. I hauled one of them down. On the lid were the embossed initials A.F. I unstrapped the case, opened it. The contents solved my clothes problem. It was packed with clothes. I pawed through them. At the bottom of the case was a Nurse’s uniform.