I found it, way up near the end of the corridor, and I didn’t bother to knock.
The guy was sitting there in a garish bathrobe, at a big shiny desk, going over some sort of ledger. This was no ward room. He looked up at me with burning eyes all wide and lips swelling toward a yell they didn’t reach, perhaps because of my determined expression. He stood, quickly.
I shut the door behind me, advanced, and said:
“Good morning. You’re in trouble.”
People must always be curious as to trouble, because after the three seconds it took me to cross the room, his words were:
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I said, “that you’re about to suffer a lawsuit for holding me incommunicado, and another one for malpractice, for your indiscriminate use of narcotics. I’m already suffering withdrawal symptoms and might do something violent….”
He stood up.
“Get out of here,” he said.
I saw a pack of cigarettes on his desk. I helped myself and said, “Sit down and shut up. We’ve got things to talk about.”
He sat down, but he didn’t shut up:
“You’re breaking several regulations,” he said.
“So we’ll let a court decide who’s liable,” I replied. “I want my clothes and my personal effects. I’m checking out..”
“You’re in no condition—”
“Nobody asked you. Pony up this minute, or answer to the law.”
He reached toward a button on his desk, but I slapped his hand away.
“Now!” I repeated. “You should have pressed that when I came in. It’s too late now.”
“Mr. Corey, you’re being most difficult….”
Corey?
“I didn’t check me in here,” I said, “but I damn well have a right to check me out. And NOW’s the time. So let’s get about it.”
“Obviously, you’re in no condition to leave this institution,” he replied. “I cannot permit it—I am going to call for someone to escort you back to your room and put you to bed.”
“Don’t try it,” I said, “or you’ll find out what condition I’m in. Now, I’ve several questions. The first one’s who checked me in, and who’s footing my bill at this place?”
“Very well,” he sighed, and his tiny, sandy mustaches sagged as low as they could.
He opened a drawer, put his hand inside, and I was wary.
I knocked it down before he had the safety catch off: a .32 automatic, very neat; Colt. I snapped the catch myself when I retrieved it from the desk top; and I pointed it and said: “You will answer my questions. Obviously you consider me dangerous. You may be right.”
He smiled weakly, lit a cigarette himself, which was a mistake, if he intended to indicate aplomb. His hands shook.
“All right, Corey–if it will make you happy,” he said, “your sister checked you in”
“?” thought I.
“Which sister?” I asked.
“Evelyn,” he said.
No bells. So, “That’s ridiculous. I haven’t seen Evelyn in years,” I said. “She didn’t even know I was in this part of the country.”
He shrugged.
“Nevertheless….”
“Where’s she staying now? I want to call her,” I said.
“I don’t have her address handy.”
“Get it.”
He rose, crossed to a filing cabinet, opened it, riffled, withdrew a card.
I studied it. Mrs. Evelyn Flaumel. . . .The New York address was not familiar either. but I committed it to memory. As the card said, my first name was Carl. Good. More data.
I stuck the gun in my belt beside the strut then, safety back on, of course.
“Okay,” I told him. “Where are my clothes, and what’re you going to pay me?”
“Your clothes were destroyed in the accident,” he said, “and I must tell you that your legs were definitely broken–the left one in two places. Frankly, I can’t see how you’re managing to stay on your feet. It’s only been two weeks—”
“I always heal fast,” I said. “Now, about the money. . .
“What money?”
“The out-of-court settlement for my malpractice complaint. and the other one.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Who’s being ridiculous? I’ll settle for a thousand, cash, right now.”
“I won’t even discuss such a thing.”
“Well, you’d better consider it—and win or lose, think about the name it will give this place if I manage enough pretrial publicity. I’ll certainly get in touch with the AMA, the newspapers. the—”