He drank his own glass of juice, then carried the other into the bedroom. “Come on, bright eyes-reveille!” When she did not stir at once he began to sing. “Up with the buttercup, come on, get up, get up! Here comes the sun!”
Still she did not budge. He set the glass down carefully on the bedside table, sat down on the edge of the bed, and took her by the shoulder. “Wake up, kid! They’re movin’ hell-two loads have gone by already!”
She did not move. Her shoulder was cold.
“Cyn!” he yelled. “Cyn! Cyn!” he shook her violently.
She flopped lifelessly. He shook her arm. “Cyn darling- Oh, God!”
Presently the shock itself steadied him; he blew his fuses, so to speak, and was ready, with a sort of ashy dead calmness to do whatever might be necessary. He was convinced without knowing why, nor yet fully appreciating it, that she was dead. He could not find her pulse-perhaps he was too clumsy, he told himself, or perhaps it was too weak; all the while a chorus in the back of his mind shouted, “She’s dead . . . dead . . . dead-and you let her die!”
He placed an ear over her heart. It seemed that he could hear her heart beat, but he could not be sure; it might have been only the pounding of his own. He gave up presently and looked around for a small mirror.
He found what he wanted in Cynthia’s handbag, a little makeup glass. He polished it carefully on the sleeve of his robe and held it to her half-opened mouth.
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.”