“And being born. One cancels out the other.”
“So it does.”
I hadn’t anything else for him. I was tired. My little session with Nurse Gurney had exhausted me. I went over to the files. C file felt like a ton weight, and it was all I could do to heave it on to the flat-topped desk. That was Nurse Gurney’s fault, too. I pawed over the pages, and, after a while, came upon Janet Crosby’s death certificate. I took out an old envelope and a pencil. She had died of malignant endocarditis, whatever that meant, on 15th of May 1948.
She was described as a spinster, aged twenty-five years. The certificate had been signed by a Doctor John Bewley. I made a note of the doctor’s name, and then turned back a dozen or so pages until I found Macdonald Crosby’s certificate. He had died of brain injuries from gunshot wounds. The doctor had been J. Salzer; the corner, Franklin Lessways. I made more notes, and then, leaving the file where it was, tramped over to the clerk who was watching me with lazy curiosity.
“Can you get someone to put that file back?” I asked, propping myself up against the counter. “I’m not as strong as I thought I was.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Malloy.”
“Another thing: who’s Dr. John Bewley, and where does he live?”
“He has a little place on Skyline Avenue,” the clerk told me. “Don’t go to him if you want a good doctor.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
The clerk lifted tired shoulders.