Something for the Sweeper | Page 6

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, or I'll kill you."
He said it in such a murderously calm voice that the scarred man let go of him. Jones straightened the front of his coat with a jerk and a shrug of his shoulders. "You don't have to tell me," he said. "I know you're a cop."
"Yeah," said the scarred man. "Maybe you didn't think there were any cops in this town. Maybe you think you've been playing a little game of hide-and-seek with yourself. What's the big idea of trying to make us look like monkeys?"
"I can't help what you look like. You wanted to see me, you said."
"All right. You've been in this case from the first. In fact, you started the ball rolling. You found Hendrick Boone. Did you stick around? No, you ducked out before we got here. You found the other two. Now, just what do you think you're doing?"
"Trying to find a murderer."
The scarred man stared at him. "Are you so dumb you haven't figured it out yet? Sarah Boone did for her father and tried to do for her mother so she'd get the money her uncle left."
"Did she?" said Jones.
"Why, sure. What--" The scarred man's hard eyes narrowed.