nitery, I watched the news summary on television, and retired at 9:30.
At 10:15 p.m. the airport doctor rang, a courtesy call, to inform me that Sir Bartholomew Edgecombe had received the necessary treatment, was quite out of danger, and was now resting comfortably in the hospital. I thanked him, and went back to sleep.
At 11 p.m. the telephone rang again, and an unknown American voice said, “Is this Doctor MacRannoch?”
“It is,” I said. Night interruptions are part of a doctor’s life, which is why I go to bed early. “Who is speaking?”
“Doctor Douglas MacRannoch?” The voice was muted and overfamiliar in manner, reminding me of a chocolate commercial to which I am not at all partial.
“Speaking. Who is calling?”
“Doctor MacRannoch,” the voice said again lovingly. I can use no other word. “Today you saved a man’s life. Just don’t do it again, will you? Just don’t do it again.” And there was a tap followed by the pneumatic drill noise of a broken connection. I quickly put the phone down.
At that moment, someone banged on my door.
I sat still. The Trueman is a respectable business hotel just off Times Square with perhaps twenty-five stories of bedrooms, mostly occupied by travelers who mind their own business and seldom stay more than one night. The staff are adequate but quite uninvolved, their main concern being to make the beds if possible by 8 a.m. each morning. At night the guests may do each as he pleases.
One of the guests, it seemed, was pleased to knock on my door in a city where I knew no one. On the other hand, the telephone was by my side, and I had put the chain on the door, receiving my customary electric shock as I did so. Since both the ringing of my telephone and my voice had undoubtedly also been heard, I filled my lungs and said, “Yes? Who is it?” just as the knock was repeated. At the same time I lifted and opened my medical bag, which stood on the chair by my bed, and began to locate and fill a standard plastic syringe with 10 cc. of a seven-percent solution of Pentothal sodium.
The knocking stopped. “Doctor MacRannoch? I beg your pardon,” said another American voice through the door — a voice I had recently heard. “I do beg your pardon if you were asleep, but this is Wallace Brady, remember? I’ve just been to the hospital and seen Sir Bartholomew Edgecombe. I’ve got something to tell you.”
“I know.” I said. I finished filling the syringe, wiped it, repacked my bag and reached across for my dressing gown. “I’ve just had a call from Doctor Radinski. I hear he has made a good recovery. Thank you for coming to tell me.”
“He has, but it isn’t that. Doctor MacRannoch — ” It was an educated voice, in so far as such a thing may be said of a transatlantic inflection, and socially confident. “—Doctor MacRannoch, I know it’s late and our acquaintanceship is of very short standing, but I have a message for you from Sir Bartholomew which I promised to give you tonight. I’ll tell you through the door if you wish, or I’ll telephone you, but I’d appreciate it if you felt able to see me.”
“Just now?” I said. I tied the dressing gown, put the syringe in one pocket, and rang the bell for room service.
“Two minutes?” he said, instilling appeal into his voice. All the same, it was not quite sufficiently flexible, I judged, to be the murmuring voice on the telephone.
“Very well,” I said, and unhooking the chain, drew open the door. “I’ve just rung for some coffee. Perhaps you will join me.”
Mr. Wallace Brady entered, fully dressed I was happy to see, crossed the room, and sat in a distant armchair. He made no attempt whatever to molest me. In fact he seemed, if anything, to find the situation amusing. I put my hands in my dressing-gown pockets and remained standing. “Yes?”
“Do sit down,” he said. “You must be tired, and I’ve interrupted your sleep. And the coffee’s on me. Unless you’d prefer
At 10:15 p.m. the airport doctor rang, a courtesy call, to inform me that Sir Bartholomew Edgecombe had received the necessary treatment, was quite out of danger, and was now resting comfortably in the hospital. I thanked him, and went back to sleep.
At 11 p.m. the telephone rang again, and an unknown American voice said, “Is this Doctor MacRannoch?”
“It is,” I said. Night interruptions are part of a doctor’s life, which is why I go to bed early. “Who is speaking?”
“Doctor Douglas MacRannoch?” The voice was muted and overfamiliar in manner, reminding me of a chocolate commercial to which I am not at all partial.
“Speaking. Who is calling?”
“Doctor MacRannoch,” the voice said again lovingly. I can use no other word. “Today you saved a man’s life. Just don’t do it again, will you? Just don’t do it again.” And there was a tap followed by the pneumatic drill noise of a broken connection. I quickly put the phone down.
At that moment, someone banged on my door.
I sat still. The Trueman is a respectable business hotel just off Times Square with perhaps twenty-five stories of bedrooms, mostly occupied by travelers who mind their own business and seldom stay more than one night. The staff are adequate but quite uninvolved, their main concern being to make the beds if possible by 8 a.m. each morning. At night the guests may do each as he pleases.
One of the guests, it seemed, was pleased to knock on my door in a city where I knew no one. On the other hand, the telephone was by my side, and I had put the chain on the door, receiving my customary electric shock as I did so. Since both the ringing of my telephone and my voice had undoubtedly also been heard, I filled my lungs and said, “Yes? Who is it?” just as the knock was repeated. At the same time I lifted and opened my medical bag, which stood on the chair by my bed, and began to locate and fill a standard plastic syringe with 10 cc. of a seven-percent solution of Pentothal sodium.
The knocking stopped. “Doctor MacRannoch? I beg your pardon,” said another American voice through the door — a voice I had recently heard. “I do beg your pardon if you were asleep, but this is Wallace Brady, remember? I’ve just been to the hospital and seen Sir Bartholomew Edgecombe. I’ve got something to tell you.”
“I know.” I said. I finished filling the syringe, wiped it, repacked my bag and reached across for my dressing gown. “I’ve just had a call from Doctor Radinski. I hear he has made a good recovery. Thank you for coming to tell me.”
“He has, but it isn’t that. Doctor MacRannoch — ” It was an educated voice, in so far as such a thing may be said of a transatlantic inflection, and socially confident. “—Doctor MacRannoch, I know it’s late and our acquaintanceship is of very short standing, but I have a message for you from Sir Bartholomew which I promised to give you tonight. I’ll tell you through the door if you wish, or I’ll telephone you, but I’d appreciate it if you felt able to see me.”
“Just now?” I said. I tied the dressing gown, put the syringe in one pocket, and rang the bell for room service.
“Two minutes?” he said, instilling appeal into his voice. All the same, it was not quite sufficiently flexible, I judged, to be the murmuring voice on the telephone.
“Very well,” I said, and unhooking the chain, drew open the door. “I’ve just rung for some coffee. Perhaps you will join me.”
Mr. Wallace Brady entered, fully dressed I was happy to see, crossed the room, and sat in a distant armchair. He made no attempt whatever to molest me. In fact he seemed, if anything, to find the situation amusing. I put my hands in my dressing-gown pockets and remained standing. “Yes?”
“Do sit down,” he said. “You must be tired, and I’ve interrupted your sleep. And the coffee’s on me. Unless you’d prefer
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