Davis was hardly listening—he was headed toward the telephone and Dr. Cardiff.
“—them weeds growing there is hemp, and it ought to be cut down and burned—”
“All right—all right.”
“—because I read how them G-Men are cutting it down—because guys sell it to school children, and I had to chase some fellas out of there one day—”
Davis stopped.
“What are you talking about?”
“That marijuana, Mr. Davis. The peddlars make them reefers out of it and it drives them school children crazy. And if it got in the papers that marijuana was on your estate—”
Carlos Davis stood in place and uttered a long mournful cry.
VII
The Trainor girl, lately subject to Carlos Davis’ commiseration, awoke about noon feeling that there were people in the room and that they were staring at her. She stood up, with those indispensable dabs at the hair that, though symbolic in their result, give a woman a sense of being “fixed up.”
The party that had entered consisted of Dr. Cardiff, and two husky younger men with a firm, alert manner—and, hovering tentatively in the background, that celebrated shadow known as Carlos Davis.
Dr. Cardiff said Good Morning somewhat 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 a syringe can be.”
The young men nodded. One of them said: “We understand, doctor. We look under mattresses and down the drains, and inside of books and powder-boxes.”
“Behind their ears,” supplemented the other young man. “Sometimes they keep it there.”
“And be pleased to examine those bannister spokes,” proposed Dr. Cardiff. “Monsen may have been trying to get at it.” He brooded momentarily. “I wish we had one of those broken spokes.”
Carlos Davis spoke up uncertainly.
“I don’t want any violence. Don’t start looking behind his ears till you get him in custody.”
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. This time, behind the wink, he divined a warning.
Other signals were going on. 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 shortly—and then, “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!”
Dr. Cardiff may have detected the sudden sweat upon the young actor’s forehead, for he gave him that headshake that all over the world means: Don’t pay any attention.
Pettigrew reached out and patted Emmet’s knee gently.
“Mr. Monsen, I understand you’ve been sick, and sick people aren’t always responsible for taking the right medicine. Ain’t that true, Doctor?” He looked at Dr. Cardiff, who gave him encouragement. “Now I’m a deputized commissioner from the county police—and I’m also a male nurse—”
At this point the doorbell rang, and since all the other people in the room seemed concentrated upon the chair where Emmet sat, the Trainor girl went into the hall.
Upon the steps stood a pretty girl in a state of agitation, holding a package in her hands; she stared uncertainly at Miss Trainor.
“Are you the lady here?” she asked.
“I’m Mr. Monsen’s secretary.”
The new arrival gave a gasp of relief.
“If you’re a working girl you’ll understand. I’m from the Johanes Laboratories—and there was a mix-up, a hurry call and I—and they sent the wrong cardiograph here.” For a moment she tried to bluff it out—fell before the infinite forgiveness of the smile. “You know? The wrong heart chart?”
Miss Trainor nodded—she was so intent upon what was going on inside the house that she was giving the girl only half her attention.
“It was almost very serious. The man who got Mr. Monsen’s chart thought he was so well that he was just going to take up polo again—and his chart that Mr. Monsen got—”
She ran out of breath—but by this time the Trainor girl’s smile had brightened—by what can only be measured in ohms. She took over.
“Does this package have Mr. Monsen’s correct chart?”
“Yes.”
“All right—I’ll take care of this. You needn’t worry. Dr. Cardiff isn’t on this case anymore.”
After the girl had gratefully departed Miss Trainor stood there unwrapping the envelope. The cardiograph meant little to her—but she was so presumptuous as to read the explanatory letter that went with it before she went back into the living room.
The situation there was physically unchanged but—enlivened. The second young man had returned from his search of the house and stood over Emmet, weighing half a dozen capsules in his hand. Emmet was not amused. His expression was one she had never seen before—it was like the calm he had described in his book, before the up-rush of some immense monsoon.
“Those are pills that Dr. Cardiff gave me,” he said slowly. Then he turned to the other man and sank his voice to a confidential note:
“If you want to know who’s been giving me this stuff—” He turned toward Davis. “There’s a certain plant that grows wild in various sections—”
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 you doing here?”
“Here on call,” he said. He indicated Miss Trainor with a touch of reproach: “The lady got me out here last evening—but I guess she forgot about me. I’ve been asleep in the back seat of a car.”
Miss Trainor spoke up, addressing Carlos Davis.
“This man’s a nurse too,” she said. “I had him come here after Mr. Monsen dismissed the others.”
“She made me keep out of the way,” Jim complained. “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.
“Find any junk? Say, that’s what I slept in—a 1932—”
“That’s my car,” objected Miss Trainor. “And a very good one.”
It was perhaps this last remark which prompted her to step forward and hand the revised cardiograph to Dr. Cardiff—with a few of those brisk words—the kind that are sometimes described as “well-chosen.”
There were still roses around the door a week later—Angele Pernets and Cherokees and Cecile Brunners in the yard, and Talismans and Black Boys climbing over the porch in a multi-colored rash and peering around the corner of screens. They seemed to have a curious herbal effect not usually attributed to roses, for Emmet did not even use the last of the green capsules to cure up 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 of them merely communicated. And though the roses were quitting for the year pretty soon, it seemed likely it would go on between these two forever.
