Sirquit Murders English

“Docterr Ste-earling, Junyior, Doct-terr Eth-err-ridge Ste-earling, Junyior. Calling Doct-terr....”

The loud speaker whined through laboratories, permeated kitchens, rasped in corridors. In the service corridor of Medicine Clinic the orderly rolling the laundry bin halted to listen and expectorate. Four floors above, Cub Sterling pulled in his long stride and reached for a nurse’s desk ’phone. His voice pushed through the mouthpiece and almost immediately severed the monotonous breathing of the loud speaker. He said:

“Doctor Ethridge Sterling, Junior, is answering from Ward D, Medicine Clinic.”

The dead voice of the operator responded:

“Doc-terr Ste-earling, Jun...?”

Cub’s patience and his ear were closely allied. He cocked his head and barked:

“Well, what is it?”

Her voice dropped several octaves. She cooed:

10

“Justa minnit, Docterr Sterrling. Docterr Barton’s calling....”

Barton’s voice intervened:

“Cub? Harold Barton. Will you go over to Weber’s and telephone me at my home, please? Right away.”

Five minutes later, Doctor Ethridge Sterling, Junior, turned from an elevator on the first floor of the Medicine Clinic of the Elijah Wilson Hospital, gave a vacant nod to two internes and shambled through the door, into the accident corridor and out into Beeker Street.

In Weber’s restaurant he folded himself into a telephone booth and said:

“Riverside 7863.”

While waiting for the connection his long fingers manipulated a cigarette. He was more excited than he dared to admit.

What the hell could Dr. Barton, a life-long friend of his father and Pediatrician-in-Chief of the Elijah Wilson even before he was born, have to say which was too confidential to transmit over a hospital telephone?

The operator invaded his curiosity.

“Deposit a nickel. Five cents, please.”

Cub Sterling’s rangy legs began untwisting. He begged:

“Hey! Wait a minute!”

Folding back the door of the booth he bellowed:

11

“Gimme some nickels, quick, Otto!”

Otto Weber had been bartender, confidant, and advisor to the staff of the Elijah Wilson when Cub Sterling was in short pants. He waddled from his bar:

“Sure, Cub!”

The temporary Physician-in-Chief gave the bartender a boyish grin and arrayed the nickels in front of the telephone box. Then he said:

“Here are two nickels, lady. If I talk up a dollar don’t you interrupt me. This is Wilson 7390. I’ll pay you after I’m through.”

“It is against the rules....”

“Lots of things are! Thank you, mam!”

A slight giggle was her response and Dr. Barton’s voice drowned that.

“Cub?”

“Yessir.”

“Ethridge Sterling, Junior?”

“Yessir!”

“Harold Barton. I had to make sure. I’m in a terrible mess, son. I need your help! If I take time to come over to the hospital ... it’ll be too late!”

With his left little finger Cub gave the interior of his ear a violent shake and transferred the receiver. He moistened his lips, but Dr. Barton forestalled his words:

“Don’t interrupt me, Cub! Time is valuable! My brother, the Attorney-General, is slated to be 12 elected senator next fall. The cards are stacked. Today the Governor gave a political barbecue at his camp. Half an hour ago, while returning, Herb had an automobile accident ... out on Lincoln Highway. No, he wasn’t hurt. Much too drunk for that! But the girl was. A newspaper reporter. What? Couldn’t tell you. Never saw her.

“Another car of newspaper people came by. They had an A. P. man along. Of course Herb could ‘hush’ it locally, but the A. P. man refused to kill the story nationally unless Herb promised to get the lady into the Elijah Wilson and foot all bills.

“She’s in an ambulance now. On the way. Internal injuries. No, you miss the point! The man insists her reputation as well as her ... organs ... must be intact. Will you take her under an assumed name ... in case she dies? Say her father is a friend of yours, and you recognized her. Anything! If that won’t do, think up another one. Awfully unethical, I know! But I can’t stand behind any more relatives ... right now...!”

The last sentence contained a note Cub had never heard in Barton’s speech. A helplessness....

Outside in Becker Street an ambulance screamed up the long hill. Cub’s cigarette was adding another hole to the already scarred floor of the booth.

He said, and his voice had its steel under which he buried real emotion:

13

“Certainly, Doctor Barton, I’ll take her in. But everything is occupied except a dying patient room off Ward B. Will the Attorney-General pay for frills? Private nurses ... so on?”

“For anything, son! And Cub ... please ... you know MacArthur and Herb admire each other. If you don’t mind...?”

The clanging bell vibrated down Cub’s free ear. He snapped:

“Between ourselves, Doctor. Suppose we leave it that way? Hear an ambulance now! Report to you later, sir. Not at all! ’By!”

Otto Weber flicked his towel and shouted when Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Junior, flung open the door of the telephone booth:

“Stoop, Cub! Stoop!”

As the tall, angular body shot across Beeker Street, Otto plodded into the booth, picked up three nickels, stomped out the cigarette and replaced the receiver upon the hook.

Across Beeker Street two firemen were lifting the padded stretcher from a municipal ambulance. One of them ceased pulling for a second and changed his tobacco wad to the other side.

A big man bent over him and snapped:

“Did you get this accident out the Lincoln Highway?”

“Yeah ... looks like them dolls in the wax-works down to Holiday Park.”

14

Cub Sterling’s left shoulder rose abruptly. His voice ascended, too:

“Be careful. Take it easy ... easy ... these steps are high!”

While the stretcher was rolling into the Accident corridor, Cub lurched into both accident rooms, saw that the tables were occupied, and turned to the internes:

“I’ll take her up to Medicine Clinic, myself. Internal injuries. Just got a telephone message. Father’s a friend of mine in the East. ’Phone Miss Kerr to prepare Room Two off Ward B.”

Halfway up the corridor to the Medicine Clinic a student nurse and an orderly stepped briskly. The orderly gripped the handle bar of a swishing stretcher. Upon the stretcher, completely covered, lay an inert figure.

Five feet behind, his shoulders stooped, his body tense, slouched Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Junior. Upon either side of him, like stubby pencils, a fireman tiptoed. Cub bit his lips and said:

“Who called you?”

“Where? When? For what?” the one with the cud growled.

Cub threw his hand forward, motioning.

The younger fireman answered:

“Fellow used to do fire chasing for The Call. And say, Doc, he promised us a new stretcher, but he didn’t say when ... if it’s the same to you...?”

15

The student nurse and orderly pranced out of sight. Cub Sterling moved toward the fireman and said:

“It’s still yours! I’m scared to move her more than necessary. Send it down in the elevator as soon as she’s transferred. You wait at this door.”

Inside the door of Medicine Clinic, Miss Roenna Kerr, head nurse, accosted Dr. Sterling. The pompadour which overhung her long face was a blueing-water white.

Beside her with the quiet diffidence of a poodle, a fat interne was anchored. Miss Kerr said:

“Dr. Mattus, and Dr. Sarah James, the floor interne on B are off this afternoon, Dr. Sterling, so I brought the interne from A.... And am I correct in understanding that you ordered this patient into a dying patient room off Ward B?”

Dr. Sterling’s voice was crisp and ominous:

“Room Two. You are.”

“But Dr. Ethridge....”

Her bust began to inflate. His reply corroded her vanity:

“I’ll see you later, Miss Kerr.”

The student nurse, the orderly, the stretcher swished aboard the elevator, Dr. Sterling and the interne followed. Dr. Sterling, the professor, made the interne forget the friction. He snapped:

“Give you instructions after examination, Doctor. One of the most interesting things in Internal 16 Medicine. Possible fractures, concussion, heart involvement ... anything....”

As the stretcher passed through the ward on into the room, the interne trembled behind. Dr. Sterling’s last sentence had been, “Done many decompressions?” Gosh! Those older fellows hadn’t performed many ... yet.... Lucky! Had wanted to go to the Thursday matinee himself, but Dr. Mattus and Dr. James off.... Damn those blood sugars on Ward A. What was a sugar content compared to a decompression?

In the dying patient room off Ward B, a hospital bed stood halfway between the outside window and the door which opened onto the short corridor. In the far corner of the oblong room was a stationary washbowl with chromium fixtures. Over this basin was a glass shelf. Upon the shelf was a stack of paper towels. Two Windsor chairs, one straight, one a rocker, and a bedside table completed the equipment. The floor was covered with battleship linoleum and highly polished.

In the Ward B wall was a glass inset through which the dying patient bed was visible to a standing nurse. On the room side of the inset was a window shade, always lowered during examination.

Cub Sterling went over to the stationary basin and turned back the cuffs of his white hospital coat. Then he took a cake of soap and lathered his hands 17 thoroughly. The interne followed him and Cub instructed:

“Lather. Rinse. Lather. Dry. Best sterilization in the world. After the examination wash it off.”

He was silhouetted against the outside window. His carriage and angularity portrayed his nerves. His spreading fingers were tapering and full of conscious strength; the joints were oiled with mental precision. Occasionally his teeth measured the outer rim of his controlled lips. His mind twitched with his mouth muscles. Poor old Barton! He had never understood his mild manners before. They were a cover up....

The floor nurse interrupted:

“The patient is ready, Doctor.”

Cub Sterling veered in time to see the interne, thumbs together, rocking his hands to and fro through space. Fat people irritated him. He barked:

“Quit that foolishness, and take this history!”

He strode to the bed and his left shoulder, which he raised in the way some men do an eyebrow, began rising.

The interne lifted an offended pencil. Sterling was crazy as a bedbug ... but he knew his guts!

Then Cub’s fingers automatically began the manual examination and his mind revolved and rushed.

“Beauty! ... A nose and mouth which balanced. 18 Hair as fine as a baby’s and filled with sunshine. Skin so transparent you could almost poke your finger through it. The eyes should be ... blue ... brown...? No! Something else....”

He lifted a lid gently.

“Ah, violet ... of course! Only violet eyes could go with lips that curved that way.... She was too swell to be true...! Something must ruin her ... the teeth, probably....”

His fingers actually hesitated as he pulled back the lips; then, as they relaxed again, he drew his right forefinger down the cheek, as though examining the jawbone. The motion was soft and utterly gentle. It carried a sense of private approval.... The teeth were perfect....

To cover up this sudden finding of a live flesh and blood perfect person, his dictation clipped and became intricately anatomical.

During the chest examination he noted the nasty bruises against the cup-like breasts, and decided it was time to pull himself together. She probably murdered the English language and slept with all comers. The Attorney-General, for instance....

His irritation vibrated into her leg, when he felt for torn tendons. The girl roused herself momentarily and screamed:

“I don’t give a damn what kind of general you are! I’ll slap your face again! Take y’ dirty hands off me!”

19

The interne had been called away over the loud speaker; the floor nurse was busy at the ward telephone. Cub Sterling tiptoed to the door and closed it swiftly.

The tired wrinkles around his eyes began to crinkle, a fine humor relaxed his brittle body. He came back to the bed and squeezed the curly head of the unconscious figure against his long leg.

Then he leaned over and whispered in the little ear:

“You are all right, kiddo! But for God’s sake, wake up!”

Then he went back to methodically examining her legs and laughed shortly at the downy patches where the calves curved behind the small ankles; at the lopsided little V’s in the big-toe nails....

Never before in all of his medical experience had he had a devastating, unconscious, perfectly private patient.... He lifted a foot and laid it from the nape of his palm to the ends of his fingers. It was half an inch short of his nail tips and the little finger of his left hand could extend entirely under the instep without touching flesh....

The girl groaned deeply and Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Junior, intervened....

He took her pulse again. Noted the excellent heart action. Began carefully going over the abdomen. Once or twice she cried distantly, and he decided the best thing to do was to put her out of 20 her pain. The heart action was so splendid that the wisest way to keep her from babbling to the nurses would be to narcoticize her.

So he took her head in his hands and went, painstakingly, over the skull. There were no masses, no abrasions, no visible signs of anything extraordinary. She was in shock, of course. But an accident coupled with an endeavor to make old Herb Barton keep his distance.... That recollection killed his critical faculty for an instant. He lifted the head slightly forward and massaged the curls which nestled in the hollow at the base of the skull.

The fat interne and Miss Kexter, the floor nurse, returned simultaneously. Dr. Sterling resolutely replaced the head among the pillows and said, shortly:

“No signs of concussions, or injuries; with the exception of that abdominal sensitivity. Case of extreme shock. Acute pain is from strained ligaments and bruises. Nurse, give her an eighth of morphia injection. Doctor, keep your eye on her respiration and notify me at ten. I’ll be in my rooms, probably. Main thing is to keep her quiet.”

The nurse’s flat voice replied:

“Yes, Doctor. Do you wish a night nurse, Doctor Sterling?”

“Depends. Let you know later.”

She blocked his exit. Her voice was embarrassed:

“They called from the Admitting Office, Doctor, 21 to complete her history. They said Miss Kerr told them you knew her name. Miss Jaunts asked me...?”

Cub Sterling swirled and glanced swiftly over the face of the patient.

“Thank you. I’ll call by the Admitting Office, myself.” Then he shot at the mouse-haired woman a barrage of questions about the ward patients.

The interne gave the Sleeping Beauty a pouty stare. There would be no decompression. By now the blood sugars would have increased to six. They must be done before supper, too!

The nurse followed Dr. Sterling onto the wards and he began his rounds and gave his instructions. At the patient in Bed 11 he stared carefully and turning, snapped:

“How was that thyroid’s basal?”

After her response he walked over to the bed, took the woman’s pulse and said very absently:

“You are doing splendidly. Keep it up!”

The nurse followed him to the elevator and begged:

“You are going by the Admitting Office, Doctor? Will you return the blanks, or shall I keep them until tomorrow?”

He scowled and his black eyebrows met. Then he pushed the elevator button with precision.

“Fill out the details, hair, eyes, that bunk, and give them to me tomorrow. The Admitting Office 22 can wait ... for once.... I’ll telephone over the important particulars. ’Night!”

His “’Night!” was another way of saying, “That’s all! And no more questions, madam!”

The elevator began ascending and the girl operator asked timidly:

“What floor, Doctor?”

Cub Sterling appraised her vacantly:

“Huh?”

The girl’s voice quavered:

“Where to, Doctor?”

“Top floor!”

“Yes, sir.”

When the elevator halted, he quickly raised his head:

“By the way, how’s your cold?”

“What cold, Doctor?”

“Haven’t you a cold?” he growled.

“No, Dr. Sterling. Thank you. I haven’t.”

“You’re welcome. Other operator, I guess.”

He stepped from the elevator and began his rounds. A whole avalanche of nurses galloped down the hall and he realized it must be time for the shift. He squinted at his watch and saw that it was almost seven.

“Damn it to hell!” he muttered.

Hot hash was bad enough. By now it would be slime. Better finish the rounds and eat at Otto’s. Herbie’s hands had messed things up! Damned old 23 spider! His memory was focusing upon the girl when the floor interne hurried forward and began to report.

One hour and a half later Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Junior, tilted back in the swivel chair in his private office. His left heel held the edge of the seat, the telephone was balanced upon his left knee, the receiver wedged between his left shoulder and ear. His eyebrows were parted; he had just given his pants a comforting jerk. His mouth twitched occasionally; in his free hands he held a copy of “The Love Books of Ovid” and his eyes measured a familiar illustration. He decided that the legs weren’t up to hers. His father’s voice centered his attention, again.

“Yes, son?”

“Your thyroid, sir. Did a remarkable basal. Pulse is down to 110. Lowest ... so far....”