The Hospital Murders — Context and Discussion

ne gave the Sleeping Beauty a pouty stare. There would be no decompression. By now the blood sugars would have increased to six. They must be done before supper, too!

The nurse followed Dr. Sterling onto the wards and he began his rounds and gave his instructions. At the patient in Bed 11 he stared carefully and turning, snapped:

“How was that thyroid’s basal?”

After her response he walked over to the bed, took the woman’s pulse and said very absently:

“You are doing splendidly. Keep it up!”

The nurse followed him to the elevator and begged:

“You _are going_ by the Admitting Office, Doctor? Will you return the blanks, or shall I keep them until tomorrow?”

He scowled and his black eyebrows met. Then he pushed the elevator button with precision.

“Fill out the details, hair, eyes, that bunk, and give them to me tomorrow. The Admitting Office can wait ... for once.... I’ll telephone over the important particulars. ’Night!”

His “’Night!” was another way of saying, “That’s all! And no more questions, madam!”

The elevator began ascending and the girl operator asked timidly:

“What floor, Doctor?”

Cub Sterling appraised her vacantly:

The girl’s voice quavered:

When the elevator halted, he quickly raised his head:

“By the way, how’s your cold?”

“Haven’t you a cold?” he growled.

“No, Dr. Sterling. Thank you. I haven’t.”

“You’re welcome. Other operator, I guess.”

He stepped from the elevator and began his rounds. A whole avalanche of nurses galloped down the hall and he realized it must be time for the shift. He squinted at his watch and saw that it was almost seven.

“Damn it to hell!” he muttered.

Hot hash was bad enough. By now it would be slime. Better finish the rounds and eat at Otto’s. Herbie’s hands had messed things up! Damned old spider! His memory was focusing upon the girl when the floor interne hurried forward and began to report.

One hour and a half later Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Junior, tilted back in the swivel chair in his private office. His left heel held the edge of the seat, the telephone was balanced upon his left knee, the receiver wedged between his left shoulder and ear. His eyebrows were parted; he had just given his pants a comforting jerk. His mouth twitched occasionally; in his free hands he held a copy of “The Love Books of Ovid” and his eyes measured a familiar illustration. He decided that the legs weren’t up to hers. His father’s voice centered his attention, again.

“Your thyroid, sir. Did a remarkable basal. Pulse is down to 110. Lowest ... so far....”

“Fine! I’ll operate tomorrow if you advise. Drop around later and give her a final once-over. Be there in half an hour.”

“But Father, I’m hungry ... I missed....”

“All right. All right! You always were! Go get your supper. I don’t need you dancing attendance on me! Still know an operative patient when I see one. Don’t interrupt me! You talk too much! Always did! Goodnight, son!”

His gruff affection blacked out the illustration. Cub placed his right foot against the center drawer of his desk and began wondering what he wanted to eat. Shad roe? Lamb chops? Roast beef?

His telephone bell jangled sharply:

He propped open a recent copy of the _New Yorker_ and read four passable cartoons, turned the page, then lifted the receiver.

Dr. Barton’s voice begged:

“Yes, sir. Yes, Dr. Barton. Been trying to get you all evening, sir. Think she’s all right. Pull through. Can’t tell for a certainty yet. Mostly shock. What’s that? Aw, she’s average. Kinda tinselly. By the way, better say none of those paper people can see her for a week. No beaus and no flowers. Righto! Not at all! See you tomorrow, sir.”

Cub replaced the receiver, rose, straightened his tie, changed to a blue serge coat, tore three wedding invitations on his desk to shreds, slung the shreds into the waste basket, slammed the door and slouched up the stairs, whistling.

The jingling of a telephone bell followed him. That’s why he whistled.

Five minutes later, the woman in the Admitting Office wrote Thursday, May 12th for the fourth time, and Sophie Merriweather, Newark, N. J., for the tenth time, and Cub Sterling barged into Weber’s deserted restaurant and said, pathetically:

Then he lifted the hose of a talking tube and ordered:

“Three-minut-steak-two-vrench-vrys-asparaggus-on-toas-celler-y- an’- ollivs- VRIGH-TER-VAY!”

He slid the tube onto its hook, filled two steins with Schlitz, blew the foam, carefully refilled them, and with a “from the heart” motion, pushed them across the counter and soothed:

Cub raised a stein and drained it.