appendix. As he gazed at her, she opened her eyes and stared at him dully.
“Take it easy,” Shannon said gently. “You’ll be all right.”
She made no answer, seemed not to have heard him, and her eyes closed.
Lewis Sprang entered the cabin and stood quietly, puffing on a cigar. From out on the pier the siren died with a hoarse moan and in a moment a thin angular man wearing a dark blue suit and black Homburg poked his head into the cabin. He was panting as if he’d run all the way across the city to the pier, and his pale blue eyes bulged behind rimless glasses. His gaze darted to the woman. “She dead?”
Lewis Sprang removed the cigar from between his teeth and spoke in mincing, soprano tones. “No, she’s not dead. This is just a five dollar ambulance run. No funeral, no casket sale, no gouging the relatives.”
The undertaker shot Sprang a look of pure hate and was about to retort angrily when Shannon said sharply, “Get a stretcher and a blanket, Lee. This woman is going to the hospital.”
Lee Hoyt, owner and proprietor of the Hoyt Funeral Home, turned abruptly and left the cabin. Shannon grinned at Sprang. “You shouldn’t needle him.”
The lawyer grinned back, showing yellow teeth. “Hell, he’s too greedy, always was, like a—ghoul.” He drew on his cigar and added contemptuously, “Undertakers!”
“We need ’em,” Shannon said, “the same as we need lawyers—and doctors.”
“Hell, when my time comes I want to be cremated. No fuss, no bother, no flowers, no damned simpering relation. Funerals are barbaric, a carry-over from the jungle. Honest to God—” Sprang broke off abruptly and bent over, his face twisted. His cigar fell from his mouth and he slumped to the floor. “Clint…”
Shannon went to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Pain,” Sprang gasped, “all of a sudden, in—in my back, low down…” The old lawyer twisted convulsively. There was sudden sweat on his face.
Shannon turned swiftly, opened his bag, took out a hypodermic needle and a small glass vial. Deftly he filled the needle and made the injection in Sprang’s left arm, near the shoulder, after which he supported the lawyer’s head and wiped the sweat from his face. “You’ll feel better in a moment, Lew,” he said, “but you’ll need surgery this time. You can’t put it off any longer.”
Sprang lay with his eyes closed, grimacing with pain, and did not answer. Mortimer Watson stood by watching in shocked surprise. “What’s the matter with him?” he asked Shannon.
“Kidney stone attack. He’s had ’em before.”
Lee Hoyt entered the cabin carrying a rolled-up stretcher. When he saw Sprang on the floor his eyes bulged in surprise. “What happened to him?”
“He’s sick,” Shannon said softly. “We’ve got two patients for the hospital.”
George Yundt lay face down on the bed in his room at the Y.M.C.A., his fingers digging into the pillow, his thoughts skirting the edge of panic. The huge building held a Sunday afternoon quiet. The only sounds were the faraway traffic noises in the street three floors below, the whir of water from the shower room down the hall and the muted strains of music from a radio in one of the rooms.
There was a knock on the door and George jerked his. head up. “Who is it?” he asked sharply.
“Me—Al. What’re you doing, George?”
“Nothing.”
“Let’s go to a movie, or something.”
George sighed and gently pounded a fist against the pillow. It was just Al Habrig from down the hall, a genial, middle-aged bachelor who worked as a line man for the power company. “I don’t feel like it, Al,” he said. “You go ahead.”
“Okay.” Al Habrig’s voice was cheerful, “See you later, kid.” George heard his steps receding down the hall toward the stairway.
George lowered his head and his fingers resumed their gentle digging at the pillow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
At Memorial Hospital in Harbor City Dr. Shannon gave swift
“Take it easy,” Shannon said gently. “You’ll be all right.”
She made no answer, seemed not to have heard him, and her eyes closed.
Lewis Sprang entered the cabin and stood quietly, puffing on a cigar. From out on the pier the siren died with a hoarse moan and in a moment a thin angular man wearing a dark blue suit and black Homburg poked his head into the cabin. He was panting as if he’d run all the way across the city to the pier, and his pale blue eyes bulged behind rimless glasses. His gaze darted to the woman. “She dead?”
Lewis Sprang removed the cigar from between his teeth and spoke in mincing, soprano tones. “No, she’s not dead. This is just a five dollar ambulance run. No funeral, no casket sale, no gouging the relatives.”
The undertaker shot Sprang a look of pure hate and was about to retort angrily when Shannon said sharply, “Get a stretcher and a blanket, Lee. This woman is going to the hospital.”
Lee Hoyt, owner and proprietor of the Hoyt Funeral Home, turned abruptly and left the cabin. Shannon grinned at Sprang. “You shouldn’t needle him.”
The lawyer grinned back, showing yellow teeth. “Hell, he’s too greedy, always was, like a—ghoul.” He drew on his cigar and added contemptuously, “Undertakers!”
“We need ’em,” Shannon said, “the same as we need lawyers—and doctors.”
“Hell, when my time comes I want to be cremated. No fuss, no bother, no flowers, no damned simpering relation. Funerals are barbaric, a carry-over from the jungle. Honest to God—” Sprang broke off abruptly and bent over, his face twisted. His cigar fell from his mouth and he slumped to the floor. “Clint…”
Shannon went to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Pain,” Sprang gasped, “all of a sudden, in—in my back, low down…” The old lawyer twisted convulsively. There was sudden sweat on his face.
Shannon turned swiftly, opened his bag, took out a hypodermic needle and a small glass vial. Deftly he filled the needle and made the injection in Sprang’s left arm, near the shoulder, after which he supported the lawyer’s head and wiped the sweat from his face. “You’ll feel better in a moment, Lew,” he said, “but you’ll need surgery this time. You can’t put it off any longer.”
Sprang lay with his eyes closed, grimacing with pain, and did not answer. Mortimer Watson stood by watching in shocked surprise. “What’s the matter with him?” he asked Shannon.
“Kidney stone attack. He’s had ’em before.”
Lee Hoyt entered the cabin carrying a rolled-up stretcher. When he saw Sprang on the floor his eyes bulged in surprise. “What happened to him?”
“He’s sick,” Shannon said softly. “We’ve got two patients for the hospital.”
George Yundt lay face down on the bed in his room at the Y.M.C.A., his fingers digging into the pillow, his thoughts skirting the edge of panic. The huge building held a Sunday afternoon quiet. The only sounds were the faraway traffic noises in the street three floors below, the whir of water from the shower room down the hall and the muted strains of music from a radio in one of the rooms.
There was a knock on the door and George jerked his. head up. “Who is it?” he asked sharply.
“Me—Al. What’re you doing, George?”
“Nothing.”
“Let’s go to a movie, or something.”
George sighed and gently pounded a fist against the pillow. It was just Al Habrig from down the hall, a genial, middle-aged bachelor who worked as a line man for the power company. “I don’t feel like it, Al,” he said. “You go ahead.”
“Okay.” Al Habrig’s voice was cheerful, “See you later, kid.” George heard his steps receding down the hall toward the stairway.
George lowered his head and his fingers resumed their gentle digging at the pillow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
At Memorial Hospital in Harbor City Dr. Shannon gave swift
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