Death of a Tall Man Read Free Page B

said, only half as a question. Dr. Gordon shook his head.
    â€œI’m not God,” he said. He was looking at a card on his desk as he spoke, not at Grace Spencer. If he had looked at her, her face might have told him she found his last remark unconvincing. But probably it would have told him nothing of the kind; it was a pleasant face he was used to, with good, clear brown eyes. Normal vision, no evidence of undue strain. The undue strain which was sometimes elsewhere in Grace Spencer when she looked at Dr. Gordon was not apparent, even to an outstanding specialist. It occurred to Grace Spencer, sometimes, that Andrew Gordon was excessively interested in what people could see out of their eyes, and insufficiently concerned with what other people could see by looking into them. Not that, as things stood, it would make any difference to her; it was fortunate, indeed, that he never saw anything in her eyes except their physical efficiency.
    â€œIf Mrs. Fleming calls; as she undoubtedly will,” Dr. Gordon said, “tell her yes, she’s got to keep on wearing dark glasses, and I’m very sorry if she thinks they are unbecoming. Tell her a white cane would be even less becoming.”
    â€œAll right,” Grace said. “Actually, it would be fun to tell her just that.”
    Dr. Gordon smiled fleetingly. He agreed it would be fun.
    â€œHowever,” he said, and let it go at that.
    He looked at more cards and stood up.
    â€œIn short,” he said, “continue treatment as before. If the roof falls in, I’ll be at the hospital.” He smiled at her. “And,” he said, “unavailable.” He stood for a moment, looking abstractedly out of the window. Abstractedly, he took a full package of cigarettes from a pocket and his precise fingers found the opener tab of the cellophane wrapping. He flicked it off and his fingers, which seemed so much more deft than most fingers, felt for the package opening.
    â€œYou’re operating, Doctor,” Grace said. It was something she said three times a week; something she said on Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays at, approximately, ten twenty-two A.M.
    â€œDamn,” Dr. Gordon said, as he said at approximately five seconds after ten twenty-two A.M. on Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays. He put the unopened package of cigarettes back in his pocket. He said, “Thank you, Nurse,” with the calculated bitterness which was part of the formula. Then he smiled.
    â€œCompensation cases again at noon,” Grace Spencer said. “It’s Monday.”
    Dr. Gordon nodded; this was a formula recurrent only twice a week, on Mondays and Fridays. He said he remembered. He said he would probably be a little late.
    â€œProbably,” Grace Spencer agreed.
    Dr. Gordon already had his light topcoat back across his arm and was moving toward the door. He still held most of the letters, open now. At Deborah’s desk he paused and dropped them in front of her.
    â€œAppointments, Debbie,” he said. “Nothing Friday afternoon.” He started away. He turned back. “Unless it seems to be really urgent,” he said.
    Deborah said she knew. Dr. Gordon went on across the waiting room, but at the front door he paused again.
    â€œGive the boy my love when you see him,” he said, and went out. It was between ten twenty-five and ten thirty.
    For the next two hours, both Grace Spencer and Deborah Brooks afterward agreed, nothing out of the ordinary happened. There was the usual number of telephone calls—some for appointments, which Deborah handled; some for advice and counsel, which went to Grace. Mrs. Fleming did call. Grace Spencer assured her that it was essential to continue to wear the dark glasses, even if they did make her look like an owl. Deborah made half a dozen appointments for the next two days and refused one for Friday afternoon. She answered letters and typed up the office records of the compensation cases.
    At