"You think."
Remo frowned as Naomi went to the telephone. There was no Folcroft Sanitarium in New Jersey, according to the information operator. Naomi then dialed New York State.
"I got it!" she cried, clapping her hand over the receiver. "It's in Rye, New York. Write this number down. "
Remo wrote the numbers Naomi called out, wondering what this stuff on the pad about chewing food to a liquid was all about.
Naomi accepted the pad from Remo and dialed Folcroft Sanitarium. "Yes, hello. Could you connect me with Harry Smith?" Pause. "Oh, I see. No, I'm not a relative. The new director? What is his name, please? ... I see.... No, that won't be necessary. Thank you."
Naomi hung up and turned to Remo with a triumphant smile, making her face resemble a hungry clown mask.
"What'd you learn?" Remo asked anxiously.
"We're onto something. There is a Harold Smith there. But he's a patient. They asked if I was a relative."
Remo's hopeful expression deflated. "Coincidence."
"Could be," Naomi said thoughtfully. "But you know, after I told them I wasn't a relative, they asked if I wanted to talk to the new director. That might mean Smith is the old director."
"Strange. Harold Smith was the judge who put me away. I remember it as plain as day."
"Maybe he switched careers?" Naomi suggested.
"Maybe. What was the new director's name?"
"Norvell Ransome. Does it ring a bell?"
"No. Never heard of the guy. I guess we're at a dead end."
"Let's leave that line of investigation for the moment. It'll keep." Naomi began dialing again.
"Who're you calling now?" Remo wanted to know. "New Jersey information. Hello? ... Yes, could I have the number of Trenton State Prison?" Naomi looked over at Remo. What could it hurt? her expression said.
Chapter 19
Dr. Alan Dooley was nervously hovering around his patient when Norvell Ransome waddled into the green hospital room on the third floor of Folcroft Sanitarium. He did not look up as Ransome's prodigious shadow fell over the patient's corpse-gray face. Smith lay under an oxygen tent, intravenous tubes taped to one dead-looking arm.
"He's taken a turn for the worse, but I have him stabilized," Dooley said flatly.
"That is most unfortunate," Ransome said unctuously.
"What?" Dooley asked querulously. "That Smith's condition has worsened or that he's stabilized?"
"I resent that uncalled-for remark, sir," Ransome said, bending over the death mask of a face that belonged to Dr. Harold W. Smith. "You are forgetting your place."
"Sorry," Dr. Dooley said quietly.
"Perhaps your heart is no longer in your work. Hmmm?"
"You have my loyalty, and you know it."
"I have your genitals in my vise grips, Doctor. That is not loyalty. That is servitude, but it suits me and it befits you."
"You cold bastard," Dooley snapped. "I'd love to know where you learned about my ... indiscretion."
"A fondness for prepubescent girls is not an indiscretion, sir. It is a disease. As for my sources, let us say that I have access to a great many secrets. Your slimy little foibles being among the least of them. Now, update me on Dr. Smith's condition."
Dr. Dooley wiped his perspiring forehead. "He's still in a coma. His heart began fibrillating, but it stabilized by itself."
"He appears even more corpselike of visage than before, eh?"
"Illusion. When you haven't been here for a few days, it just seems that way because he's nearly the color of lead. We call the condition cynanosis. In Smith's case, the gray coloration is due to a congenital heart defect. There's a flaw in the wall of his left ventricle. I examined his medical records. Smith was a blue baby. The condition-which was the result of insufficient oxygenation of the blood-cleared up when he was still an infant, although the root cause obviously did not. Over the years, his heart has become enlarged. His wife tells me that his skin color had gradually darkened over the years. The shock that stopped his heart simply made the leadenness that much more pronounced."
"I see. And what, if anything, can you do for him?"
"It's touch and go. I'll continue to monitor him around the clock. If he relapses further, naturally I'll resuscitate."
"Hmmm," Norvell Ransome said softly. "I would prefer that you do not do that."
Dr. Dooley shot the fat man a glaring glance.
"I can't do that," he said heatedly. "You know that. No matter what you threaten me with." Sizing up the fire in the physician's eyes, Norvell Ransome nodded. His pursy lower lip protruded like a hemorrhoid.
"I can see that, Doctor. Very well. Let me relieve you for a few days. You've obviously been under great strain."
"Not until you bring in another doctor," Dr. Dooley said firmly.
"I assure you that the Folcroft medical staff will be equal to the task. No, please. You have my word. Or would you prefer that I report your 'indiscretions' to the AMA?"
"You've made your point," Dr. Dooley said grudgingly.
His shoulders drooping, Dr. Dooley trudged from the hospital room. After he had departed, Norvell Ransome rummaged through a cabinet and found an ordinary box of Band-Aids. He selected a broad one and carefully peeled the backing as he walked over to Dr. Smith's still form. Smith's bluish lips were parted slightly, revealing dull dry teeth. His folded hands showed blued fingernails.
Reaching under the oxygen tent, Ransome affixed the Band-Aid across the patient's slate-gray forehead. The contrast with the flesh-colored Band-Aid was ghoulish. Then, extracting a fountain pen with a solid gold nub, he began to write on the Band-aid in a looping florid script, holding Smith's head still as he did so.
When he was done, he stepped back and read the result: DO NOT RESUSCITATE.
Noticing that he had forgotten to dot the I in "resuscitate," Ransome placed a precise dot in the proper place and, capping the pen, left the room.
To the floor nurse, he said, "Dr. Dooley will be taking a few days off. Please see that Dr. Smith is attended to by our top physician, won't you?"
"Yes, Mr. Ransome." She hurried off to do her duty.
Norvell Ransome allowed himself to admire the play of the nurse's womanly buttocks under the starched white uniform before waddling toward the elevator. He liked the way she had hurried to do his bidding. Like the governor of Florida. And unlike Dr. Dooley.
Soon, many would do his bidding. Not tomorrow, or next month, perhaps. Great plans took time to germinate. Ransome stabbed the down button, and happily, the elevator responded instantly.