As though the whisper carried to the patient on the bed, she started twitching, making little spasmodic motions with her arms and legs, twisting her facial muscles.
The doctor said, “There, there,” in a soothing voice and nodded to the nurse. The nurse glided around the bed, took the cover from a glass, dipped in a spoon, and held a small towel beneath Mrs. Ashbury’s chin while she tilted the spoon.
Mrs. Ashbury blew out bubbles and spluttered drops of liquid up in the air like a miniature fountain, then swallowed, coughed, choked, caught her breath, and lay still.
Bob said to me, “Where’s Henry? Have you seen him? She keeps calling for him. Bernard Carter telephoned he’d tried every one of the clubs and hadn’t found him.”
I said, “Step in my room a minute where we can talk.”
“I don’t know whether I dare to leave her,” he said, glancing solicitously over toward the bed, but getting up at the same time he started speaking.
We tiptoed out of the room. I looked back over my shoulder, and saw Mrs. Ashbury open her eyes at the sound of the clicking doorknob.
I piloted Bob down the hallway to my room. He looked surprised when he saw Bertha Cool. I introduced him.
“Mrs. Cool,” he said, as though searching his memory. “Haven’t I heard the name somewhere—” He broke off to look at me.
I said, “B. Cool — Confidential Investigations. This is Bertha Cool herself. I’m Donald Lam, a detective.”