Lay Her Among The Lilies

I was careful not to make any sudden movement to attract his attention and lay smoking,

and when I could get my mind away from him, I wondered what Kerman was doing.

How he had persuaded Lessways that he was a writer on mental diseases foxed me, and I

suspected Paula had something to do with that. At least they knew the set-up now. They knew

Anona Freedlander was in the building. They knew about the door at the end of the corridor,

and the mesh-grill over the window. One or the other had to be overcome before they could

rescue me; and I hadn’t a doubt that they would rescue me. But how they were going to do it

was a problem.

Around four-thirty the door pushed open and a young fellow in a white uniform, similar to

the one Bland wore, came in, carrying tea-trays. He was slimly built, overgrown and weedy.

His long, thin face had the serious, concentrated expression of a horse running a race. He

wasn’t unlike a horse. He had a long upper lip and big teeth that gave him a horsey look. It

wouldn’t have surprised me if he had neighed at me. He didn’t. He smiled instead.

“I’m Quell,” he said, setting the tray on the night table. “You are Mr. Seabright, aren’t

you?”

“No,” I said. “I am Sherlock Holmes. And if you take my tip I wouldn’t go near Watson.

He’s in one of his moods.”

He gave me a long, sad, worried stare. From the look of him I guessed he hadn’t been

mixed up with lunatics for very long.

“But that’s Mr. Hopper,” he said patiently, as if talking to a child.

Hopper was sitting up now, clenching and unclenching his fists, and snarling at Quell.

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LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

Quell may have only been in the racket a short time, but he was smart enough to see

Hopper wasn’t in the mood to play pat-a-cake. He eyed Hopper as you might eye a tiger

that’s suddenly walked into your sitting-room.

“I don’t think Mr. Hopper wants to be bothered with tea,” I said. “And if you take my tip

you’ll keep away until Bland returns.”

“I can’t do that,” he said dubiously. “Dr. Salzer is out, and Bland isn’t likely to be back

until after midnight. He really shouldn’t have gone.”

“It’s too late to worry about that,” I said. “Fade away, brother. Shake the dust off your feet.

And if you could bring me a little Scotch for dinner I’d welcome it.”

“I’m afraid patients aren’t allowed alcohol,” he said seriously, without taking his eyes off

Hopper.

“Then drink some yourself and come and breathe over me,” I said. “Even that would be

better than nothing.”

He said he didn’t touch spirits and went away, a perplexed, scared look on his face.

Hopper stared across the room at me, and under the intense scrutiny of those glaring eves I

felt a little spooked. I hoped fervently the handcuff on his ankle was strong enough to hold

him if he took it into his head to try and break loose.

“I have been thinking, Hoppie,” I said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “What we must do is

to cut that punk Bland’s throat and drink his blood. We should have done it before.”

“Yes,” Hopper said, and the glare in his eyes began to fade. “We will do that.”

I wondered if it would be safe to try for the key now, but decided against it. I wasn’t sure of

Brother Quell. If he caught me trying I felt it would sadden his young life even more than it

was saddened already.

“I will make a plan,” I said to Hopper. “Bland is very cunning. It won’t be easy to trap

him.”

Hopper seemed to calm down and his face stopped twitching.

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LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

“I will make a plan too,” he said.

The rest of the evening went by while he made his plan and I thought about what I was

going to do if I got free of the cuff. It seemed unlikely that I should be able to escape from the

house, but if I could locate Anona Freedlander and have a talk with her and warn her she was

soon to be rescued I wouldn’t waste my time. Then when Kerman showed up—and I was

certain he would show up sooner or later—we wouldn’t have to waste time hunting for her.

Quell looked in occasionally. He didn’t do more than put his head around the door, and

Hopper was too preoccupied with his plans to notice him. I made ssh-ing signs every time

Quell appeared, pointing at Hopper and shaking my head. Quell nodded back, looking more

like a horse than ever, and went silently away.

Around eight o’clock, he brought me in a supper-tray and then went to the foot of Hopper’s

bed and smiled at him.

“Would you like something to eat, Mr. Hopper?” he asked coaxingly.

Hopper’s reaction to this gave even me a start. It nearly gave Quell heart failure. Hopper

shot forward to the end of the bed, his arms seemed to stretch out as if they were made of

elastic, and his hooked fingers brushed Quell’s white jacket. Quell sprang back, stumbled and

nearly fell. His face turned the colour of putty.

“I don’t think Mr. Hopper wants anything to eat,” I said, the piece of chicken I was

chewing suddenly tasting like sawdust. “And I don’t think I’m that keen either.”

But Quell wasn’t interested in how I felt. He went out of the room with a rush of air, a

streak of white and a bang of the door.