relaxed picture, even if the light walls, bright lights, antiseptic smell all spelled hospital. Oleg felt his worry subside. “Is this where I have to identify a man?” he began, lowering his voice half-way through his question as he noticed the sign behind the desk: QUIET please. “Or am I on the wrong floor? This is EMERGENCY , isn’t it?”
“Intensive care,” the older nurse told him. “But we take the overflow from EMERGENCY when necessary. You’ve come to the right place.”
Oleg’s eyes followed her glance, to a closed door. “My friend is in there?”
“He is recovering from the anaesthetic.”
“What happened to him?”
“A severe injury to the arm. But he is resting comfortably.” She busied herself at the desk. The younger nurse, her smooth dark hair crowned by a saucy white cap that perched miraculously on top of her head, began to help her stack a pile of clothes into neat order. Mischa’s clothes, Oleg saw.
He said, “Do these belong to the man in that room? If he turns out to be my friend, he’ll need them. I am taking him home.”
The senior nurse exchanged a glance with the policeman. “The wound required many stitches. The doctor will tell you when he can be—”
“But my friend would prefer to leave now. I know him well. He has a fear of hospitals.”
“He has lost a great deal of blood. It would be dangerous to move him.”
“I could hire an ambulance.”
“He requires hospitalisation. His wound has to be dressed professionally. If he dislikes hospitals, there would be no point in moving him to another. Now, would there?” The tone was decided even if subdued, the argument over. She picked up a clipboard, consulted the instructions on it, and hurried off.
And I, thought Oleg, defeated myself in that interchange. Still, it is easier to extract a man from a sickbed in New York than it would be in Moscow. There, they really know how to be on guard. Here—one policeman, soft-spoken and hesitant, who is only now coming forward with a note-book and pencil in hand. He is about as urgent as if he were going to give me a traffic ticket.
The officer had completed his own quiet study of the stranger: just under six feet in height, husky, strong shoulders, dark brown hair worn short, eyes blue and deep set, features strong, manner argumentative. He spoke now, keeping his voice low-pitched. Pity he had to ask the questions right here. But where else? He must keep an eye on the door of that room. “Could you give me some particulars about your friend—height, weight, general description?”
“It’s two years since I saw him last, in Montreal. You see, I am here on a short visit, just arrived this morning—”
“Height and weight, sir. Then we’ll know if there is any reason for you to stay around.”
Better keep the details accurate, thought Oleg, or else I’ll be dismissed. “He is about five feet six inches tall. Weight—I’d say 180 pounds. At least, that’s what it was when I—”
“Yes, sir. Hair? Eyes?”
“Grey eyes. Hair turning grey, worn long. Age—fifty-one.”
“If he has had a haircut since you last saw him, he may be the right man,” the officer observed. “You better wait and have a look at him. How did you learn he was in Lenox Hill Hospital?”
The surprise question fazed Oleg only for a few moments. He plunged into an amplification of the story he had told the girl downstairs. His friend, the tale now ran, had telephoned him at five o’clock, just before he set out for his usual evening stroll down through Central Park. They had arranged to meet on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-ninth Street and then have drinks and dinner together. His friend never arrived. “So I waited. For almost an hour. Then I telephoned his hotel. The clerk said he had left for the evening. I had dinner. Then I telephoned again. And again. He hadn’t returned. I went out for a walk trying to think what I should do.” Oleg paused. Better not mention any
“Intensive care,” the older nurse told him. “But we take the overflow from EMERGENCY when necessary. You’ve come to the right place.”
Oleg’s eyes followed her glance, to a closed door. “My friend is in there?”
“He is recovering from the anaesthetic.”
“What happened to him?”
“A severe injury to the arm. But he is resting comfortably.” She busied herself at the desk. The younger nurse, her smooth dark hair crowned by a saucy white cap that perched miraculously on top of her head, began to help her stack a pile of clothes into neat order. Mischa’s clothes, Oleg saw.
He said, “Do these belong to the man in that room? If he turns out to be my friend, he’ll need them. I am taking him home.”
The senior nurse exchanged a glance with the policeman. “The wound required many stitches. The doctor will tell you when he can be—”
“But my friend would prefer to leave now. I know him well. He has a fear of hospitals.”
“He has lost a great deal of blood. It would be dangerous to move him.”
“I could hire an ambulance.”
“He requires hospitalisation. His wound has to be dressed professionally. If he dislikes hospitals, there would be no point in moving him to another. Now, would there?” The tone was decided even if subdued, the argument over. She picked up a clipboard, consulted the instructions on it, and hurried off.
And I, thought Oleg, defeated myself in that interchange. Still, it is easier to extract a man from a sickbed in New York than it would be in Moscow. There, they really know how to be on guard. Here—one policeman, soft-spoken and hesitant, who is only now coming forward with a note-book and pencil in hand. He is about as urgent as if he were going to give me a traffic ticket.
The officer had completed his own quiet study of the stranger: just under six feet in height, husky, strong shoulders, dark brown hair worn short, eyes blue and deep set, features strong, manner argumentative. He spoke now, keeping his voice low-pitched. Pity he had to ask the questions right here. But where else? He must keep an eye on the door of that room. “Could you give me some particulars about your friend—height, weight, general description?”
“It’s two years since I saw him last, in Montreal. You see, I am here on a short visit, just arrived this morning—”
“Height and weight, sir. Then we’ll know if there is any reason for you to stay around.”
Better keep the details accurate, thought Oleg, or else I’ll be dismissed. “He is about five feet six inches tall. Weight—I’d say 180 pounds. At least, that’s what it was when I—”
“Yes, sir. Hair? Eyes?”
“Grey eyes. Hair turning grey, worn long. Age—fifty-one.”
“If he has had a haircut since you last saw him, he may be the right man,” the officer observed. “You better wait and have a look at him. How did you learn he was in Lenox Hill Hospital?”
The surprise question fazed Oleg only for a few moments. He plunged into an amplification of the story he had told the girl downstairs. His friend, the tale now ran, had telephoned him at five o’clock, just before he set out for his usual evening stroll down through Central Park. They had arranged to meet on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-ninth Street and then have drinks and dinner together. His friend never arrived. “So I waited. For almost an hour. Then I telephoned his hotel. The clerk said he had left for the evening. I had dinner. Then I telephoned again. And again. He hadn’t returned. I went out for a walk trying to think what I should do.” Oleg paused. Better not mention any
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