should say,” he said, “that I don’t know Bart Edgecombe all that well myself. You know, we play golf occasionally. But I didn’t even know he was in New York until we ran into each other this morning.”
The world is full of people who regard medicine as a public charity. “Oh,” I said. “And is Sergeant Trotter a friend?”
Instead of looking irritated, his expression became merely rueful. “Sergeant Trotter,” he said, “is everyone’s friend, as you will find out. He’s regular army and going to Nassau on business, that’s all I know. But he was the only other man to jump to it when Bart conked out and fell, and he stayed with me till you came. In fact, he’s in the next room to mine now, waiting to hear what you say. Just one of nature’s Samaritans.”
I know that type too. I almost changed my mind; but it was a two-hour flight, that was all, and a first-class passenger lunch would save me buying a supper. I stood up and said, “Since we have an early start, perhaps we should have some sleep then. Good night, Mr. Brady.”
He put down his coffee cup and got up. For a moment I thought he was going to reduce the conversation to personalities ; then he shut his mouth and held out his hand. “Good night, Doctor,” he said.
I put the chain back on the lock and emptied the syringe before getting into bed. It was 11:40 p.m.
There is nothing to sap the moral fiber quite like a first-class flight on a Super VC-10, from the nuts and taped music to the champagne and hot cologne-scented towels which quickly succeed them.
The journey to the airport with Sir Bartholomew, who was quite sensible although unsteady on his feet, had passed without incident, and after installing him in comfort on a double seat on the other side of the gangway, I was able to put my walking shoes on the scarlet plush footrest and receive the menu with pleasure. Hot prawns in butter were passed around. “Looks a bit better than he did yesterday, doesn’t he?” said a London voice in my ear, and I perceived that I was sitting next to Mr. Brady’s helper of the airport lounge, and that Mr. Brady himself was nodding good morning from the seat just behind. “Rodney Trotter,” the cockney voice further volunteered, with accents of boundless good will. “Sergeant Trotter of the Royal Scots. Your part of the world, eh, Miss MacRannoch?”
I smiled slightly, without, I trust, showing my irritation. Behind, Brady’s voice said, “
Doctor
MacRannoch, Trotter. Name, rank, and number, you know?”
The sergeant was a small muscular man, aged perhaps forty-seven, with the lined face of one much given to bawling commands. His voice was rich and unexpectedly carrying. He took Brady’s intervention in good humor. “I thought she was traveling in civvies like myself,” he said. “Don’t want all the world to know you’re a doctor, eh, Doctor? The arguments I’ve got into about the army, so soon as I mention me rank. Besides, a girl wants to be chatted up as a girl, not a bloody meat butcher, don’t she?”
I am aware that I lose color when angry, but I am perfectly capable of keeping my temper under provocation. “If you address me as Doctor,” I said, “I shall be perfectly satisfied.”
His eyes became round, and for a moment I thought he was going to add to his impertinence. However, he merely said, after a moment, “Well, my name’s Rodney, and you can call me that any time you like, Doctor. You did a great job on that chap, anyway. You can quote me for reference.” Then the drinks trolley came around, followed by lunch, and he was snoring before the brandy was finished.
I had caviar, clear turtle soup with sherry, lamb noisettes with truffles, cherry-meringue gâteau with coffee, and two petits fours. Sir Bartholomew, to whom I had given a mild sedative, slumbered peacefully through lunch, and had a little warm milk on awakening. Shortly after this, he expressed a wish to retire, and since both Brady and Trotter
The world is full of people who regard medicine as a public charity. “Oh,” I said. “And is Sergeant Trotter a friend?”
Instead of looking irritated, his expression became merely rueful. “Sergeant Trotter,” he said, “is everyone’s friend, as you will find out. He’s regular army and going to Nassau on business, that’s all I know. But he was the only other man to jump to it when Bart conked out and fell, and he stayed with me till you came. In fact, he’s in the next room to mine now, waiting to hear what you say. Just one of nature’s Samaritans.”
I know that type too. I almost changed my mind; but it was a two-hour flight, that was all, and a first-class passenger lunch would save me buying a supper. I stood up and said, “Since we have an early start, perhaps we should have some sleep then. Good night, Mr. Brady.”
He put down his coffee cup and got up. For a moment I thought he was going to reduce the conversation to personalities ; then he shut his mouth and held out his hand. “Good night, Doctor,” he said.
I put the chain back on the lock and emptied the syringe before getting into bed. It was 11:40 p.m.
There is nothing to sap the moral fiber quite like a first-class flight on a Super VC-10, from the nuts and taped music to the champagne and hot cologne-scented towels which quickly succeed them.
The journey to the airport with Sir Bartholomew, who was quite sensible although unsteady on his feet, had passed without incident, and after installing him in comfort on a double seat on the other side of the gangway, I was able to put my walking shoes on the scarlet plush footrest and receive the menu with pleasure. Hot prawns in butter were passed around. “Looks a bit better than he did yesterday, doesn’t he?” said a London voice in my ear, and I perceived that I was sitting next to Mr. Brady’s helper of the airport lounge, and that Mr. Brady himself was nodding good morning from the seat just behind. “Rodney Trotter,” the cockney voice further volunteered, with accents of boundless good will. “Sergeant Trotter of the Royal Scots. Your part of the world, eh, Miss MacRannoch?”
I smiled slightly, without, I trust, showing my irritation. Behind, Brady’s voice said, “
Doctor
MacRannoch, Trotter. Name, rank, and number, you know?”
The sergeant was a small muscular man, aged perhaps forty-seven, with the lined face of one much given to bawling commands. His voice was rich and unexpectedly carrying. He took Brady’s intervention in good humor. “I thought she was traveling in civvies like myself,” he said. “Don’t want all the world to know you’re a doctor, eh, Doctor? The arguments I’ve got into about the army, so soon as I mention me rank. Besides, a girl wants to be chatted up as a girl, not a bloody meat butcher, don’t she?”
I am aware that I lose color when angry, but I am perfectly capable of keeping my temper under provocation. “If you address me as Doctor,” I said, “I shall be perfectly satisfied.”
His eyes became round, and for a moment I thought he was going to add to his impertinence. However, he merely said, after a moment, “Well, my name’s Rodney, and you can call me that any time you like, Doctor. You did a great job on that chap, anyway. You can quote me for reference.” Then the drinks trolley came around, followed by lunch, and he was snoring before the brandy was finished.
I had caviar, clear turtle soup with sherry, lamb noisettes with truffles, cherry-meringue gâteau with coffee, and two petits fours. Sir Bartholomew, to whom I had given a mild sedative, slumbered peacefully through lunch, and had a little warm milk on awakening. Shortly after this, he expressed a wish to retire, and since both Brady and Trotter
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