It fogged faintly.
He took it away in a bemused fashion, not letting himself hope, polished it again, and put it back to her mouth. Again it fogged, lightly but definitely.
She was alive — she was alive!
He wondered a moment later why he could not see her clearly and discovered that his face was wet. He wiped his eyes and went on with what he had to do. There was that needle business — if he could find a needle. He did find one in a pin-cushion on her dressing table. He brought it back to the bed, took a pinch of skin on her forearm, said, “Excuse me, kid,” in a whisper, and jabbed it in.
The puncture showed a drop of blood, then closed at once — alive. He wished for a fever thermometer, but they had none — they were both too healthy. But he did remember something he had read somewhere, something about the invention of the stethoscope. You rolled up a piece of paper —
He found one of suitable size and rolled it into a one-inch tube which he pushed against the bare skin just over her heart. He put his ear to the other end and listened.
Lubadup-lubadup-lubadup-lubadup — Faint, but steady and strong. No doubt about it this time; she was alive; her heart was beating.
He had to sit down for a moment.
Randall forced himself to consider what to do next. Call a doctor, obviously. When people were sick, you called a doctor. He had not thought of it up to this time because Cyn and he just never did, never needed to. He could not recall that either one of them had had occasion to do so since they had been married.
Call the police and ask for an ambulance maybe? No, he’d get some police surgeon more used to crash cases and shootings than anything like this. He wanted the best.
But who? They didn’t have a family physician. There was Smyles — a rum dum, no good. And Hartwick — hell, Hartwick specialized in very private operations for society people. He picked up the phone book.
Potbury! He didn’t know anything about the old beezer, but he looked competent. He looked up the number, misdialed three times, then got the operator to call it for him.
“Yes, this is Potbury. What do you want? Speak up, man.”
“I said this is Randall. Randall. R-A-N-D-A-double L. My wife and I came to see you yesterday, remember? About — ”
“Yes, I remember. What is it?”
“My wife is sick.”
“What’s the trouble? Did she faint again?”
“No…yes. That is, she’s unconscious. She woke up unconscious — I mean she never did wake up. She’s unconscious now; she looks like she’s dead.”
“Is she?”
“I don’t think so — but she’s awful bad off, doctor. I’m scared. Can you come over right away?”
There was a short silence, then Potbury said gruffly, “I’ll be over.”
“Oh, good! Look — what should I do before you get here?”
“Don’t do anything. Don’t touch her. I’ll be right over.” He hung up.
Randall put the phone down and hurried back to the bedroom. Cynthia was just the same. He started to touch her, recalled the doctor’s instructions, and straightened up with a jerk. But his eye fell on the piece of paper from which he had improvised a stethoscope and he could not resist the temptation to check up on his earlier results.
The tube gave back a cheering lubadup; he took it away at once and put it down.
Ten minutes of standing and looking at her with nothing more constructive to do than biting his nails left him too nervous to continue the occupation. He went out to the kitchen and removed a bottle of rye from the top shelf from which he poured a generous three fingers into a water glass. He looked at the amber stuff for a moment, then poured it down the sink, and went back into the bedroom.
She was still the same.
It suddenly occurred to him that he had not given Potbury the address. He dashed into the kitchen and snatched the phone. Controlling himself, he managed to dial the number correctly. A girl answered the phone. “No, the doctor isn’t in the office. Any message?”