The house was silent. He peered into the secretary’s office, then stopped short in the doorway of the living room. Stretched on the sofa, apparently alive, but lost in the softest sleep, lay Miss Trainor. He stared momentarily, frowned, uttered a sigh, was half tempted to wake her and ask the address, but gallantly forced himself to turn away and mount the stairs.
In the master’s bedroom he stared at Emmet Monsen, also in peaceful reverie.
A little puzzled he retraced his steps, when suddenly he remembered the spoke that had flown from the window—and then stared transfixed at the bannisters: the spokes were all there. Lightly he bounded up and down several times and, with a slight feeling of nausea, tried his eyes on several other objects. He retreated hastily to the kitchen.
Here he recovered his aplomb—certainly a half empty bottle stood in plain sight on a closet shelf—and with his relief a portion of Dr. Cardiff’s conversation came back to him—this time with meaning.
“…articles that can be concealed in a smaller space than alcohol.”
Carlos Davis dashed outside and in front of the garage took deep breaths of the pure California air.
Cripes! That was it—dope! Emmet Monsen was a secret dope fiend! The subject was somehow confused in his mind with Fu Manchu but it seemed to explain everything—only a dope fiend would have had the diabolical cleverness to wrench out bannister spokes and then replace them without a flaw before morning.
And the girl asleep on the sofa—Carlos Davis groaned—she had probably led a decent life before this Monsen, full of tropical devices, had tricked her into a first whiff of the opium pipe a few days before…
He walked with the head gardener toward his house, and, since he was not apt at phrases, quoted from Dr. Cardiff.
“There are articles that can be hidden in a smaller space than alcohol,” he said darkly.
The gardener got it—glanced back wonderingly.
“My golly! One of them hopheads!”
“And American womanhood!” Davis added cryptically.
The gardener did not make a connection—but his mind jumped to another: “Mr. Davis, I should’ve spoke to you—maybe you know, down around the old stable—”
Davis was hardly listening—he was headed toward the telephone and Dr. Cardiff.
“—them weeds growing there is hemp, and ought to be cut down and burned—the paper says the G-Men are cutting it down, because guys sell it to junior high school children. I had to chase some guys out of there one day—”
Davis stopped.
“What are you talking about?”
“This now marijuana, Mr. Davis. They make them reefers out of it and it drives all them junior high school children crazy. If it got out that it grew on your estate—”
Carlos Davis stood in place and uttered a long mournful cry.
VI
The Trainor girl awoke about noon feeling that there were people in the room staring at her. She stood up with useless, indispensable dabs at her hair.
The party that had entered consisted of Dr. Cardiff and two husky younger men whose civilian clothes did not conceal that they were of the bulldog species. Hovering in the background was that celebrated shadow, Carlos Davis.
Dr. Cardiff said Good Morning grimly and continued a conversation with the two young men.
“The County Hospital has given you your instructions; I am simply here at the request of Mr. Davis. You know the ingenuity of these people—and how small outfit can be.”
The young men nodded and one of them said: “We understand, Doctor. I’ve found plenty of ‘junk’ under mattresses and down drains, and inside books—”
“Behind their ears,” supplemented the other young man. “Sometimes they keep it there.”
“Better examine those bannister spokes,” proposed Dr. Cardiff. “Monsen may have been trying to get at the stuff”. He brooded momentarily. “I wish we had one of those broken ones.”
Carlos Davis spoke up uncertainly.
“I don’t want any violence; don’t start looking behind his ears till you get him off the place.”
A new voice sounded strange from the doorway.
“What’s this about my ears?”
Emmet, fatigued from the effort of shaving, found his way to a chair and looked at the doctor for an explanation, but he found none, nor on any other face till he met the eyes of the Trainor girl—who winked solemnly. But behind the wink, he divined a warning.
Other signals were in the air. The two young men exchanged cryptic glances, whereupon one departed the room while the other drew a chair close to Emmet and sat down.
“My name is Pettigrew, Mr. Monsen.”
“How-do,” said Emmet. “Sit down, Davis—you must be tired. I saw you from my window an hour ago—reaping that weed patch behind your stable. And you were pitching in!”
There was a sudden sweat upon the young actor’s forehead.
“Mr. Monsen,” said Pettigrew, patting Emmet’s knee, “I understand you have been sick, and sick people don’t always take the right medicine. Ain’t that true, Doctor?” Dr. Cardiff nodded encouragement. “I’m a deputized commissioner of the county police—and I’m also a male nurse—”
At this point the doorbell rang. Since the other people in the room concentrated upon the chair where Emmet sat, the Trainor girl went into the hall.
Upon the doorstep stood a rather pretty girl in a state of agitation with a package under her arm.
“Are you the lady here?” she asked.
“I’m Mr. Monsen’s secretary.”
The new arrival looked relieved.
“If you’re a working girl you’ll understand. I’m from the Johanes Laboratories—and there was a mix-up due to a hurry call and… and they sent the wrong cardiograph here, the wrong heart chart.”
Miss Trainor nodded—so intent upon what was going on inside the house that she gave the girl only half her attention.
“It was almost serious,” quavered the girl. “The invalid who got Mr. Monsen’s chart started to take up polo yesterday and fell off his horse—”
She ran out of breath, but by this time the Trainor girl understood—promptly she took over.
“Is Mr. Monsen’s correct chart in this package?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll take care of it—you needn’t worry. Dr. Cardiff isn’t on the case anymore.”
After the girl had hastily departed Miss Trainor unwrapped the big envelope. The cardiograph meant little to her—but she was so presumptuous as to read the explanatory letter before she went back into the living room.
The situation there was somewhat more tense than before. The second young man had returned from his search of the house and stood over Emmet, weighing half a dozen capsules of different colors in his hand.
“Those are pills that Dr. Cardiff gave me,” Emmet said. He broke off at a new interruption—this time a weary voice from the doorway.
“Hello Charlie.”
Pettigrew looked up with recognition at a third young man who stood there.
“Hello Jim!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“Here ‘on call’,” he said. He indicated Miss Trainor with reproach: “The lady got me out here last evening—but I guess she must’ve forgot about me. I’ve been asleep in a car.”
Miss Trainor explained.
“This man’s a nurse too,” she said. “I was afraid Mr. Monsen might injure himself so I had him come here last night.”
“She made me keep out of the way,” complained the nurse called Jim. “She had me dodging around from room to room—then they went out for a walk! I didn’t get to sleep till seven!”
“Find any ‘junk’?” demanded Pettigrew eagerly.
“Any junk? That’s what I slept in—a 1932—”
“That’s my car,” objected Miss Trainor.
She stepped forward with a smile that only Emmet recognized as such and handed the revised cardiograph to Dr. Cardiff.
You big stiff, it seemed to say, I always thought you were and now I know.
There were still roses around the door a week later—Pernets and Cherokees and Cecile Brunners in the yard, and Talismans and Black Boys climbing over the porches in a multi-colored rash. They seemed to have a curious herbal effect not usually attributed to roses, for Emmet did not even need a half box of quinine to cure his malaria.
On the contrary, he dictated—and, as that word has come to have a harsh sound, let it be amended to say that there were long times when no words at all were necessary—when the two merely communicated. And though the roses were quitting for the year pretty soon, this other business might possibly go on forever.
