The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“I have waited for your return.” The doctor snapped out his watch as he spoke. “Not simply to advise you, but to warn you. The patient will get better here, with proper care, the right nourishment, and — and less disturbances. If you move him there is the possibility — I’ll say more — the gravest probability that he will die.” And at the request of my unknown client he dismissed the nurses.

“I understand and appreciate your interest.” My boss had some dignity of his own when he wished to use it. “Let me assure you, Doctor, that you have done all that your professional ethics demand — even as your deepness of human feeling dictates. Let me assure you again that for this man to remain here means almost certain death. No.” He raised his hand. “I have said more than I should, now.”

“But an ambulance, surely?”

My client hesitated a moment, and then:

“I am afraid not. Too many would know — and to drive it myself would create hospital talk. No.” And suddenly and abruptly, “You will kindly ask the nurses to return and make the patient ready to travel.”

“But my dear sir, it is a question of human life, and—”

“You are not going to dispute my authority.” A hand went into his pocket and came out with a folded sheet of paper.

“No... no.” The doctor turned slightly sulky. “I took the trouble to check you up more fully on that this evening from the district attorney’s office.”

“From the district attorney, himself — personally?”

“No. From the district attorney’s office.”

“You’ve been a fool.” My client exploded slightly for the first time, and then calmer, “or perhaps I have. But let me assure you that the importance of the man being moved is now even graver. You will call the nurses — at once. Any delay on your part is hampering the cause of justice.”

“It’s kidnaping,” the doctor mumbled. Looked again at the document which my client held in his hand before him, and finally went to the door.

“Kidnaping, certainly — but official kidnaping.” And as the nurses came into the room, “You will do me the kindness, Doctor, to tell me just how long ago you telephoned to the—” with a glance at the nurses, “officials.”

“Shortly. Perhaps an hour ago. The thing worried me. I—. Can’t you wait a minute, sir? The whole thing is unseemly — inhuman — and without precedent in the hospital.”

“So — they suggested that you hold the man. Not by force, Doctor — not by official authority — but, let us say, by diplomacy.”

And he had the doctor. He squirmed beneath those eyes — the accusation in the man’s face. But years and breeding will tell. Dignity won out and the doctor gave him eye for eye.

“And what if they did, sir? It was most natural. You are not hinting that the district attorney’s office of New York City would enter into a conspiracy with me to hamper, as you put it, the cause of justice — or that they are not acting in this situation in good faith! I believe, sir, were it as you have hinted, the word would be ‘crooked.’ ”

“Not ‘crooked,’ Doctor. Let us say ‘a hurt pride’ — ’a false ambition’ — or perhaps just the word ‘politics.’ A word with you in private?”

And I was out of it. But the doctor was a more friendly man when, ten minutes later, we descended to the basement of the hospital in the slowly moving elevator, while Detective Sergeant O’Rourke held the limp, unconscious body of a little old man in his strong arms.

As we passed that main floor I breathed easier. Not in fear or even excitement, you understand. Perhaps in relief. For, after all, the game as I play it is always in the interest of my client. And the man who moved so quickly by the open steel work of the old elevator shaft door was John H. Holloway, an assistant district attorney of the city of New York.