“Eat out of the ward refrigerator and shut up!
“MacArthur gave me the head of all nurses, the leavings of a general gone senile, and she took me to all of the clinics. So I could look the doctors over. Administrator from a distant hospital line, you know.... I’ve hammered into MacArthur that it’s a crazy doctor.”
“Could you find one, Sherlock?”
“Didn’t see anything else! Crazy ain’t the beginning of it! First we took in the Eye Clinic, all the wards dark and dismal and the air full of unuttered screams, and people putting their hands up close to their faces to see if they are better.
“That’s run by an old soft soap artist with hair and complexion like the guts of a soft-boiled egg. Pure and precious. Pat the tail off a Shetland pony and grab out your eye ’fore you knew it. Peters. Doctah Petahhs. Princeton ’92 and Sons of Cincinnati rosette.”
“Your control?” Snod’s voice was casual and flat. “Snappin’ out eyes gets a man in the habit of murdering, Mr. Higgins.”
“Aw hush, you little pan-toter. He’d run from a Pansy in a dark alley.”
“So would I.”
“From there,” Higgins’ voice was stern, “we went on to see the kids. The pediatrician’s square. Eyes like a searchlight. Kids play around him. Kids and dogs know. He does not suspect Sterling, and he knew I was a detective. He didn’t say either.”
“Didn’t anybody utter a word this morning?”