Something for the Sweeper | Page 4

with Number Twelve. She said: 'If there's any
more, I'm not going to all this trouble. The next one is going to be just
plain Jones.' So here I am."
The nurse wrote in her book. "Address?"
"Suburban Mortgage and Trust--New York City."She closed the
notebook, laid the pencil carefully beside it. "This way, please." She
went along the hall to the last door on the right and, standing in front of
it, turned to look at Jones. "You are not to speak to him. You
understand?"
"Right," said Jones.
The door swished a little, opening slowly. The room was a small one,
and the high iron bed was in the corner beside the big window. The
man in the bed made a bulging mound of the covers. He was lying on
his back, and there was a white bandage like an adhesive and gauze
skullcap on his head. There was something the matter with his face.
The nurse made a gasping sound, and her starched stiffness seemed to
crack. She ran across to the bed, and Jones trailed right behind her. She
fumbled under the covers, found the man's limply slack wrist. It was a
thick wrist, big-boned, and the hand was big and square and powerful.
The nurse's voice was breathlessly small. "No--pulse. He strangled
himself--"

"He didn't have to do it, himself," Jones said. "He had some help." He
pointed to the red blotches, slowly turning dark now, on the thick
throat.
"Pulmotor," the nurse said, and started for the door.
Jones caught her arm, spun her around. "No. A pulmotor won't do him
any good. Look at the color of those marks on his throat. Who came to
see him this afternoon?"
The nurse jerked against his grip. "His daughter. She left a half hour
ago. Said--he was asleep."
"He was, all right," said Jones. "You sure it was his daughter? Sarah?
You've seen her before?"
"Yes--yes. Let go!"
"You sure it was Sarah?" Jones repeated. "You positively saw her?"
"Yes! She was veiled, but her arms--the birthmarks--"
"Oh, yeah," said Jones. "Anybody else come?"
"No!" She twisted free, ran out the door.
Jones looked closely at the face of the man on the bed. It was Hendrick
Boone. Jones went out of the room. There was no one in sight in the
corridor, and he went out through the glass partition and walked along
the hall until he found a stairway and went down it.
In five minutes, he came out in the main entrance hall of the hospital
and entered one of the public telephone booths beside the reception
desk. He consulted the directory, finally deposited a nickel and dialed a
number. He could hear the telephone at the other end ring and ring. It
rang for a long time while Jones squinted at the black hard-rubber
mouthpiece in front of him and muttered to himself inaudibly. Finally,
the line clicked.

"Hello," a voice said casually.
"Is Sarah Boone there?" Jones asked.
"Who?"
"Sarah Boone."
"Where?"
Jones drew a deep breath. "Oh, it's you again, is it? Listen,
Morganwaite, this is Jones, the detective that was there this morning. I
want to know if Sarah Boone is there and by there I mean where you
are. Now, quit playing around and answer me."
"No," said Morganwaite.
Jones choked and then recovered himself. "Are you saying no, you
won't answer me, or no, she isn't there?"
"No, she isn't here."
"Is Mrs. Boone there?"
"No. She left as soon as she got Sarah's message."
"Message?" Jones said. "Sarah sent her a message?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"Mrs. Boone told me."
"When?"
"When she got it."
"That's what I want to know!" Jones said explosively. "When did she

get it?"
Morganwaite was silent while he evidently considered the matter at
some length. "About a half hour ago."
"What did the message say?" Jones asked.
"I don't know. Mrs. Boone didn't say. She just left."
"What kind of a message was it? Telephone--telegraph?"
"No."
"Well, what kind?"
"A written message--in an envelope."
"Who brought it? Come on now, shake yourself and think hard."
"It was a boy," said Morganwaite pensively. "A boy in a gray uniform
on a red bicycle. A small boy with freckles."
"Thanks," said Jones. He hung up, took out his handkerchief and wiped
his forehead. Then he got up and walked quickly out of the hospital.
There was a taxi-stand across the street. Only one taxi was there now,
and its driver was sitting disconsolately on the running-board cleaning
his fingernails with a jackknife. He stood up when Jones approached
and said, "Taxi?" in a not very hopeful voice.
"Is there a messenger service around town that specializes in red bikes
and gray uniforms?" Jones asked him.
"Sure. Bullet Service."
"Have they got a branch