“Hell-let-loose,” she muttered and began ringing Mattus’ ’phone.
Miss Withers sat drumming her desk. Again. That’s the third one! Superstitions! Like three on a match!
Dr. Sidney Mattus turned over in his white iron bed in his “Germicidal Cell,” and reached for the ringing telephone.
“Huzzies!”
He spat the word with sleepy vehemence born of unconscious fatigue. The contact between his ear and the receiver took several motions.
“Nayaa.” The inflection bore no interest, it was simply a sign that contact had been established.
“Dr. Mattus?” Miss Withers’ voice was like a splash of cold water.
“What is it?” he was bluntly and resentfully awakening.
“Miss Withers, speaking. The woman in Medicine, Ward B, Bed 11, is dead.”
“Humh? Dead? Couldn’t be!”