Something for the Sweeper | Page 4

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 office near here?"
"Sure, on Court Street. Three blocks down and one to your right."
"Show me," said Jones. He opened the door of the taxi, climbed in, and plumped himself down on the seat with a sigh of relief.
It was a 'small, neat office with a big plate glass window that ran clear across the front and had an enormous bullet painted on it with red lines trailing behind to show it was traveling at tremendous speed. There were several people waiting when Jones limped up to the high counter and leaned on it with his elbow, looking as mysterious and hard-boiled as possible in view of the fact that his feet were hurting him more and more all the time.
A clerk with a polished haircut and a vacantly cordial smile stepped up to the other side of the counter. "Yes."
"I'm a detective," Jones sneered at him. "Don't act funny. Just be