Lay Her Among The Lilies

Hopper threw off the bed-clothes and started after him. He landed with a crash on the floor,

held by his ankle, and he screamed. He jerked madly at the chain, bruising his ankle. Then,

when he found he couldn’t get free, he swung himself up on to the bed and threw himself on

the chain of the handcuff. He began to pull at it, while I froze, watching him. From where I

was the chain looked horribly fragile. The thought that this madman might break loose while

I was still chained sent a chill up my spine. My hand went to the bell and hovered over it.

He had the chain now in both hands, and, bracing his feet against the end bar of the bed he

strained back, his face turning purple with the exertion. The bar bent but held, and the chain

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held, too. Finally, he dropped back, gasping, and I knew the danger was over. I found sweat

on my face. Without exactly being aware of it those past minutes had been about the worse I

had ever experienced.

The purple colour of Hopper’s face had turned to white. He lay still, his eyes closed, and I

waited, watching him. After a while, and to my surprise, he began to snore.

Then Quell came into the room, carrying a strait jacket. His face was pale, but determined.

“Take it easy,” I said, and I was startled how shaky my voice sounded. “He’s asleep. You

better have a look at that handcuff. I thought he was going to break loose.”

“He couldn’t do that,” Quell said, dropping the strait jacket. “That chain is specially made.”

He moved closer and looked down at Hopper. “I’d better give him a shot.”

“Don’t be a fool,” I said sharply. “Bland said you weren’t to go near him.”

“Oh, but he must have an injection.” Quell said. “If he has another attack it might be very

bad for him. I don’t want to do it, but it’s my duty.”

“To hell with your duty,” I said impatiently. “Handling that guy is like handling a bomb.

Leave him alone.”

Cautiously Quell approached the bed and stood looking down at Hopper. The heavy,

snoring breathing continued, and, reassured, Quell began to put the sheet back in place. I

watched him, holding my breath, not knowing if Hopper was faking or not. I didn’t know if

Quell was just dumb or very brave. He’d have to be completely dumb or have nerves like

steel to get as close to this lunatic as he was.

Quell tucked in the sheet and stood away. I saw little beads of sweat on his forehead. He

wasn’t dumb, I decided. That made him brave. If I had one, I would have given him a medal.

“He seems all right,” he said more cheerfully. “I’ll give him a shot. If he has a good sleep

he’ll be all right tomorrow.”

This suited me, but, for all that, I was worried. No amount of medals nor money would

have persuaded me to get that close to the sleeping Hopper.

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“You’re taking a chance,” I said. “The needle will wake him. If he gets his hands on you,

you’re a goner.”

He turned to stare at me in a puzzled way.

“I don’t understand you at all,” he said. “You don’t behave like a patient.”

“I’m not a patient,” I said solemnly. “I’m Sherlock Holmes: remember?”

He looked sad again and went out. Minutes ticked by. Hopper didn’t move. He continued to

snore, his face slack and exhausted.

Quell returned after what seemed hours and couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. He

carried a tray covered with a towel.

“Now look,” I said, sitting up. “Suppose you take off my handcuff? Then if there’s trouble I

can help you. You seem to be a sensible sort of guy. If he wakes up and grabs you I can hit

him over the head.”

He looked at me seriously like a horse inspecting a doubtful sack of oats.

“I couldn’t do that,” he said. “It would be against the rules.”

Well, I had done all I could. The ball was in his corner now, and it was up to him.

“Okay,” I said, struggling. “At least I’ll pray for you.”

He charged the syringe and approached Hopper. I watched, feeling the hairs on the back of

my neck rising and my heart beginning to thump against my ribs.

He was a little shaky, but his serious, horse-like face was calm. Gently he pushed Hopper’s

pyjama sleeve back and poised the syringe. It was like watching a man fiddling with the fuse

of a delayed-action bomb. There was nothing I could do but watch and sweat for him, and I

sweated all right, wanting to tell him to hurry up, and for the love of Mike not to stand there

like a dummy, but get the thing over.

He was a little short-sighted in spite of his glasses, and he couldn’t see the right vein. His

head kept getting closer and closer to Hopper while he peered at the white, sinewy arm. He

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seemed to have forgotten how dangerous Hopper was. All he seemed to be thinking about

was to make a good job of the operation. His face was only about a foot away from Hopper’s

when he nodded his head as if he had found the vein he was after. Very gently he laid the side

of the needle down on the vein.

I wasn’t breathing now. My hands were clutching at the sheet. Then, just as he was going to