The Autobiography of a Quack [10]
added the wolf, ``if you do it well.''
Then I knew it was serious.
With this the man buttoned about him a shaggy gray overcoat, and took his leave without a single word in addition.
A minute later he came back and said: ``Stagers is in this business, and I was to remind you of Lou Wilson,--I forgot that,-- the woman that died last year. That's all.'' Then he went away, leaving me in a cold sweat. I knew now I had no choice. I understood why I had been selected.
For the first time in my life, that night I couldn't sleep. I thought to myself, at last, that I would get up early, pack a few clothes, and escape, leaving my books to pay as they might my arrears of rent. Looking out of the window, however, in the morning, I saw Stagers prowling about the opposite pavement; and as the only exit except the street door was an alleyway which opened along- side of the front of the house, I gave myself up for lost. About ten o'clock I took my case of instruments and started for File's house, followed, as I too well understood, by Stagers.
I knew the house, which was in a small up- town street, by its closed windows and the craped bell, which I shuddered as I touched. However, it was too late to draw back, and I therefore inquired for Mrs. File. A haggard- looking young woman came down, and led me into a small parlor, for whose darkened light I was thankful enough.
``Did you write this note?''
``I did,'' said the woman, ``if you're the coroner. Joe File--he's my husband--he's gone out to see about the funeral. I wish it was his, I do.''
``What do you suspect?'' said I.
``I'll tell you,'' she returned in a whisper. ``I think he was made away with. I think there was foul play. I think he was poisoned. That's what I think.''
``I hope you may be mistaken,'' said I. ``Suppose you let me see the body.''
``You shall see it,'' she replied; and following her, I went up-stairs to a front chamber, where I found the corpse.
``Get it over soon,'' said the woman, with strange firmness. ``If there ain't no murder been done I shall have to run for it; if there was''--and her face set hard--``I guess I'll stay.'' With this she closed the door and left me with the dead.
If I had known what was before me I never could have gone into the thing at all. It looked a little better when I had opened a window and let in plenty of light; for although I was, on the whole, far less afraid of dead than living men, I had an absurd feeling that I was doing this dead man a distinct wrong--as if it mattered to the dead, after all! When the affair was over, I thought more of the possible consequences than of its relation to the dead man himself; but do as I would at the time, I was in a ridiculous funk, and especially when going through the forms of a post-mortem examination.
I am free to confess now that I was careful not to uncover the man's face, and that when it was over I backed to the door and hastily escaped from the room. On the stairs opposite to me Mrs. File was seated, with her bonnet on and a bundle in her hand.
``Well,'' said she, rising as she spoke, and with a certain eagerness in her tone, ``what killed him? Was it poison?''
``Poison, my good woman!'' said I. ``When a man has typhoid fever he don't need poison to kill him. He had a relapse, that's all.''
``And do you mean to say he wasn't poisoned,'' said she, with more than a trace of disappointment in her voice--``not poisoned at all?''
``No more than you are,'' said I. ``If I had found any signs of foul play I should have had a regular inquest. As it is, the less said about it the better. The fact is, it would have been much wiser to have kept quiet at the beginning. I can't understand why you should have troubled me about it at all. The man had a perforation. It is common enough in typhoid.''
``That's what the doctor said--I didn't believe him. I guess now the sooner I leave the better for me.''
``As to that,'' I returned, ``it is none of my business; but you may rest certain about the cause of your brother's death.''
My fears were somewhat
Then I knew it was serious.
With this the man buttoned about him a shaggy gray overcoat, and took his leave without a single word in addition.
A minute later he came back and said: ``Stagers is in this business, and I was to remind you of Lou Wilson,--I forgot that,-- the woman that died last year. That's all.'' Then he went away, leaving me in a cold sweat. I knew now I had no choice. I understood why I had been selected.
For the first time in my life, that night I couldn't sleep. I thought to myself, at last, that I would get up early, pack a few clothes, and escape, leaving my books to pay as they might my arrears of rent. Looking out of the window, however, in the morning, I saw Stagers prowling about the opposite pavement; and as the only exit except the street door was an alleyway which opened along- side of the front of the house, I gave myself up for lost. About ten o'clock I took my case of instruments and started for File's house, followed, as I too well understood, by Stagers.
I knew the house, which was in a small up- town street, by its closed windows and the craped bell, which I shuddered as I touched. However, it was too late to draw back, and I therefore inquired for Mrs. File. A haggard- looking young woman came down, and led me into a small parlor, for whose darkened light I was thankful enough.
``Did you write this note?''
``I did,'' said the woman, ``if you're the coroner. Joe File--he's my husband--he's gone out to see about the funeral. I wish it was his, I do.''
``What do you suspect?'' said I.
``I'll tell you,'' she returned in a whisper. ``I think he was made away with. I think there was foul play. I think he was poisoned. That's what I think.''
``I hope you may be mistaken,'' said I. ``Suppose you let me see the body.''
``You shall see it,'' she replied; and following her, I went up-stairs to a front chamber, where I found the corpse.
``Get it over soon,'' said the woman, with strange firmness. ``If there ain't no murder been done I shall have to run for it; if there was''--and her face set hard--``I guess I'll stay.'' With this she closed the door and left me with the dead.
If I had known what was before me I never could have gone into the thing at all. It looked a little better when I had opened a window and let in plenty of light; for although I was, on the whole, far less afraid of dead than living men, I had an absurd feeling that I was doing this dead man a distinct wrong--as if it mattered to the dead, after all! When the affair was over, I thought more of the possible consequences than of its relation to the dead man himself; but do as I would at the time, I was in a ridiculous funk, and especially when going through the forms of a post-mortem examination.
I am free to confess now that I was careful not to uncover the man's face, and that when it was over I backed to the door and hastily escaped from the room. On the stairs opposite to me Mrs. File was seated, with her bonnet on and a bundle in her hand.
``Well,'' said she, rising as she spoke, and with a certain eagerness in her tone, ``what killed him? Was it poison?''
``Poison, my good woman!'' said I. ``When a man has typhoid fever he don't need poison to kill him. He had a relapse, that's all.''
``And do you mean to say he wasn't poisoned,'' said she, with more than a trace of disappointment in her voice--``not poisoned at all?''
``No more than you are,'' said I. ``If I had found any signs of foul play I should have had a regular inquest. As it is, the less said about it the better. The fact is, it would have been much wiser to have kept quiet at the beginning. I can't understand why you should have troubled me about it at all. The man had a perforation. It is common enough in typhoid.''
``That's what the doctor said--I didn't believe him. I guess now the sooner I leave the better for me.''
``As to that,'' I returned, ``it is none of my business; but you may rest certain about the cause of your brother's death.''
My fears were somewhat