Something for the Sweeper | Page 6

more firmly around the grip of
the Police Positive and then suddenly kicked the door open and stepped
to one side. The door swung in a dark, silent arc and banged against the
wall. After about thirty seconds, Jones looked cautiously around the
edge of the doorway and saw Mrs. Boone and Sarah.
Mrs. Boone was lying in front of the door. She wore a long,
old-fashioned coat with a thin fur collar and an old-fashioned hat that
sat high on her gray hair. The hat was tipped sidewise now at a
grotesquely jaunty angle. She was lying on her back, and she had one
arm thrown across her face.
Sarah was crumpled in a heap under one of the boarded windows, and

the failing sunlight made a barred pattern across her broad face. A little
trickle of blood on her cheek glistened brightly. One smooth white arm
was flung limply wide. Jones could see the birthmark on it. The lax
fingers just touched a stubby automatic lying there beside her.
Jones came inside the room, taking one cautious step, then another. He
knelt beside Mrs. Boone. She was breathing faintly. There was a
swollen, blue-black welt on her cheek. Jones leaned over Sarah and
touched the smooth white arm. Then he suddenly spun around and ran
out of the room. He ran down the walk, through the gate, on down the
street. He ran two blocks to a corner drugstore, dodged into a telephone
booth, dropped a nickel in the instrument, and dialed the operator.
"Ambulance," he said breathlessly.
Dusk was a soft-gray smoothness closing down slowly over the row of
houses that were just alike when Jones stopped on the sidewalk in front
of the Boones' and looked up the steep front stairs at Morganwaite.
Morgan-waite was sitting on the top step, leaning forward weakly, as if
he had collapsed there. His broom was lying beside him, and he had the
evening paper spread across his knees.
"Hello," Jones said, and climbed the steps slowly and sat down beside
him..
Morganwaite's hand was trembling a little, and he touched the paper on
his knees with his forefinger gingerly. "This paper--I picked it up. The
newsboy--delivered it just like any other night. It says that Sarah killed
her father and tried to kill her mother and then--had an attack of
remorse and killed herself."
"It's mostly right," said Jones. "Only Sarah didn't kill herself. She isn't
dead."
"Not dead," Morganwaite repeated dully.
"No. They thought she was, at first. I did, too. I never saw anybody that
looked deader. But the bullet was a small-caliber one. It didn't penetrate

her brain. Gave her a multiple skull-fracture. It's a toss-up whether
she'll pull through or not. The doc thinks she's got a good chance.
Funny thing--she's in the same room her father was in at the hospital.
That's the wing where they put the head injuries, and it was the only
room vacant. She doesn't know it, of course. She's unconscious."
"Mrs. Boone," Morganwaite said. "There--there was no mistake about
her? She's--all right?"
Jones nodded. "Just a concussion and shock. She's not even in the
hospital. She's staying at a private nursing-home."
"Sarah," said Morganwaite. "I can't believe it. I can't think she'd do
that."
"People do," said Jones. He stretched his feet out on the stairs, grunting
painfully. "Chilblains--I get 'em every spring. They're killing me. Ever
have 'em?"
"No," said Morganwaite.
Jones sighed. "You're lucky. Can you look after things around the place
here for a couple days? Mrs. Boone will be O.K. by then."
"Yes," said Morganwaite.
Jones got up. "Well--I've got to go. So long."
Morganwaite didn't answer. He sat staring straight ahead with eyes that
were wide and unseeing.
There were two big stone pillars on either side of the broad walk that
led up to the entrance of the City Hospital. Jones was leaning against
one of them, a thin indistinguishable shadow in the darkness, with his
hat pulled low over his eyes. He was peering around the edge of the
pillar, up toward the entrance of the hospital. After a moment, he
stepped from behind the pillar, walked quickly up to the steps, pushed
the plate glass door open.

A thick-set man with square, heavy shoulders was standing just inside
the door. He wore a blue overcoat and a black felt hat, and he had a thin
white scar on his face that ran from the corner of his left eye straight
down across his cheek to the line of his jaw.
"Jones?" he asked softly.
"Yes," said Jones in a surprised voice.
The scarred man stepped forward and picked up Jones by the front of
the trenchcoat. He swung Jones around and slammed him against the
wall.
"Careful," said Jones. "Don't step on my feet,