“I wonder.”
“Huh? What do you mean? Do you mean that Potbury might be mixed up in this huggermugger, too?”
“I don’t know. I’d just like to forget all about our Mr. Hoag.”
“But there’s no harm in this, bright eyes. I’ll just pop into the car, slide down there, ask the worthy doctor a few pertinent questions, and be back for you in time for lunch.”
“The car is laid up for a valve grind; you know that.”
“O.K., I’ll take the el. Quicker, anyway.”
“If you insist on going, we’ll both take the el. We stick together, Teddy.”
He pulled at his lip. “Maybe you’re right. We don’t know where Hoag is. If you prefer it — ”
“I certainly do. I got separated from you for just three minutes a little while ago and look what happened.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I sure wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, kid.”
She brushed it away. “It’s not me; it’s us. If anything happens to us, I want it to be the same thing.”
“All right,” he said seriously. “From now on, we stick together. I’ll handcuff us together, if you’d rather.”
“You won’t need to. I’m going to hang on.”
VI
Potbury’s office was to the south, beyond the university. The tracks of the elevated ran between familiar miles of apartment houses. There were sights which one ordinarily sees without any impression registering on the brain; today she looked at them and saw them, through her own brown mood.
Four- and five-story walk-up apartment houses, with their backs to the tracks, at least ten families to a building, more usually twenty or more, and the buildings crushed together almost wall to wall. Wood-construction back porches which proclaimed the fire-trap nature of the warrens despite the outer brick shells, family wash hung out to dry on those porches, garbage cans, and trash bins. Mile after mile of undignified and unbeautiful squalor, seen from the rear.
And over everything a film of black grime, old and inescapable, like the dirt on the window sill beside her.
She thought of that vacation, clean air and clear sunshine. Why stay in Chicago? What did the town have to justify its existence? One decent boulevard, one decent suburb to the north, priced for the rich, two universities and a lake. As for the rest, endless miles of depressing, dirty streets. The town was one big stockyard.
The apartments gave way to elevated-train yards; the train turned left and headed east. After a few minutes they got off at Stoney Island station; she was glad to be off it and free of that too-frank back view of everyday life, even though she exchanged it for the noise and seedy commercialism of Sixty-Third Street.
Potbury’s office faced on the street, with an excellent view of the elevated and the trains. It was the sort of location in which a G. P. could be sure of a busy practice and equally sure of never being bothered by riches or fame. The stuffy little waiting room was crowded but the turnover was fast; they did not have long to wait.
Potbury looked them over as they came in. “Which one of you is the patient?” he asked. His manner was slightly testy.
They had planned to lead up to the subject of Hoag by using Cynthia’s fainting spell as an excuse for consultation; Potbury’s next remark queered the scheme, from Cynthia’s viewpoint. “Whichever one it is, the other can wait outside. I don’t like holding conventions.”
“My wife — ” Randall began. She clutched his arm.
“My wife and I,” he went on smoothly, “want to ask you a couple of questions, doctor.”
“Well? Speak up.”
“You have a patient — a Mr. Hoag.”
Potbury got up hastily, went to the reception-room door, and assured himself that it was closed tightly. He then stood and faced them, his back to the only exit. “What about — Hoag?” he said forebodingly.
Randall produced his credentials. “You can see for yourself that I am a proper inquiry agent,” he said. “My wife is licensed, too.”
“What do you have to do with — the man you mentioned?”
“We are conducting an investigation for him. Being a professional man yourself, you can appreciate that I prefer to be frank — “