The Hospital Murders

“Cub? Harold Barton. Will you go over to Weber’s and telephone me at my home, please? Right away.”

Five minutes later, Doctor Ethridge Sterling, Junior, turned from an elevator on the first floor of the Medicine Clinic of the Elijah Wilson Hospital, gave a vacant nod to two internes and shambled through the door, into the accident corridor and out into Beeker Street.

In Weber’s restaurant he folded himself into a telephone booth and said:

“Riverside 7863.”

While waiting for the connection his long fingers manipulated a cigarette. He was more excited than he dared to admit.

What the hell could Dr. Barton, a life-long friend of his father and Pediatrician-in-Chief of the Elijah Wilson even before he was born, have to say which was too confidential to transmit over a hospital telephone?

The operator invaded his curiosity.

“Deposit a nickel. Five cents, please.”

Cub Sterling’s rangy legs began untwisting. He begged:

“Hey! Wait a minute!”

Folding back the door of the booth he bellowed:

“Gimme some nickels, quick, Otto!”

Otto Weber had been bartender, confidant, and advisor to the staff of the Elijah Wilson when Cub Sterling was in short pants. He waddled from his bar:

“Sure, Cub!”

The temporary Physician-in-Chief gave the bartender a boyish grin and arrayed the nickels in front of the telephone box. Then he said:

“Here are two nickels, lady. If I talk up a dollar don’t you interrupt me. This is Wilson 7390. I’ll pay you after I’m through.”

“It is against the rules....”

“Lots of things are! Thank you, mam!”

A slight giggle was her response and Dr. Barton’s voice drowned that.

“Cub?”

“Yessir.”

“Ethridge Sterling, Junior?”

“Yessir!”

“Harold Barton. I had to make sure. I’m in a terrible mess, son. I need your help! If I take time to come over to the hospital ... it’ll be too late!”

With his left little finger Cub gave the interior of his ear a violent shake and transferred the receiver. He moistened his lips, but Dr. Barton forestalled his words:

“Don’t interrupt me, Cub! Time is valuable! My brother, the Attorney-General, is slated to be elected senator next fall. The cards are stacked. Today the Governor gave a political barbecue at his camp. Half an hour ago, while returning, Herb had an automobile accident ... out on Lincoln Highway. No, he wasn’t hurt. Much too drunk for that! But the girl was. A newspaper reporter. What? Couldn’t tell you. Never saw her.

“Another car of newspaper people came by. They had an A. P. man along. Of course Herb could ‘hush’ it locally, but the A. P. man refused to kill the story nationally unless Herb promised to get the lady into the Elijah Wilson and foot all bills.

“She’s in an ambulance now. On the way. Internal injuries. No, you miss the point! The man insists her reputation as well as her ... organs ... must be intact. Will you take her under an assumed name ... in case she dies? Say her father is a friend of yours, and you recognized her. Anything! If that won’t do, think up another one. Awfully unethical, I know! But I can’t stand behind any more relatives ... right now...!”

The last sentence contained a note Cub had never heard in Barton’s speech. A helplessness....

Outside in Becker Street an ambulance screamed up the long hill. Cub’s cigarette was adding another hole to the already scarred floor of the booth.

He said, and his voice had its steel under which he buried real emotion:

“Certainly, Doctor Barton, I’ll take her in. But everything is occupied except a dying patient room off Ward B. Will the Attorney-General pay for frills? Private nurses ... so on?”

“For anything, son! And Cub ... please ... you know MacArthur and Herb admire each other. If you don’t mind...?”

The clanging bell vibrated down Cub’s free ear. He snapped:

“Between ourselves, Doctor. Suppose we leave it that way? Hear an ambulance now! Report to you later, sir. Not at all! ’By!”

Otto Weber flicked his towel and shouted when Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Junior, flung open the door of the telephone booth:

“Stoop, Cub! Stoop!”

As the tall, angular body shot across Beeker Street, Otto plodded into the booth, picked up three nickels, stomped out the cigarette and replaced the receiver upon the hook.

Across Beeker Street two firemen were lifting the padded stretcher from a municipal ambulance. One of them ceased pulling for a second and changed his tobacco wad to the other side.