Call Mr. Fortune. Henry Christopher Bailey
Archduke Maurice lay in a room of austere simplicity. A writing-table, a tiny dressing-table, three chairs, and a narrow iron bed were all its furniture. Only three small rugs lay on the floor. At the head of the bed a man stood watching. The Archduchess was on her knees, her face pressed to her husband's body, and she sobbed violently.
The Archduke Leopold looked at Reggie, made a gesture towards her, and said, "My dear Ianthe!"
She looked up flushed and tear-stained.
"I beg your pardon, madame. This is dangerous to the patient," Reggie said.
She gave a stifled cry and rushed out of the room.
The Archduke Leopold seemed to intend to stay, but in a moment the voice of the Archduchess was heard calling for him. "Better go to her, sir. Keep her out of here," Reggie said, and turned to his patient. It was obvious that the Archduke did not relish so brusque an order. But the passionate voice was not to be denied.
The man by the bed and Reggie took each other's measure. "English?" said Reggie.
"Yes, sir. Holt, I am. The Archduke's valet."
"You undressed him?"
"Yes, sir. Was that wrong?"
"Depends how you did it." Reggie began his examination.
The Archduke Maurice was a big man. That is a habit in his family. He had their fairness, but even in coma his cheeks showed more colour than his brother Leopold's, and his yellow hair and beard had a reddish glow. A bold, honest face with plenty of brow. Reggie went over his body with an anatomical enthusiasm for so splendid a specimen.
"Get me some warm water, will you?" Holt went out of the room. Reggie bent over the broad chest. From it, from just above the heart, he drew out a thin sliver of steel. He made a face at it and put it away. Holt came back, and there was sponging and bandaging.
"You washed him before, I see. Any one else touched him but you?"
"Only carrying him, sir. I've been with him the whole time. I found him."
"Oh. Lying on his face, I suppose?"
"No, sir. On his back. Just like he is now."
"Oh. Notice anything?"
"No, sir, I wish I had. I'd like to have the handling of the bounder that did it."
"Well, well, we mustn't get excited. Preserve absolute calm. Holt. He's well liked, is he?"
"Why, sir, we'd do anything for him. He—oh, he's a gentleman."
"Quite so. You mustn't leave him a moment. No one—see, no one—is to come into the room. I'll be back soon."
"Very good, sir. Beg pardon, sir." The good Holt flushed. "What's the verdict?"
"It's not all over yet!" Reggie went downstairs.
And it appeared to him that he interrupted the Archduke and the Archduchess in a quarrel. But the Archduke was very pleased to see him, effusive in offering a chair, and so forth. Reggie was not gratified. "I must have nurses, sir," he announced. "I should like another opinion."
"You see!" the Archduchess cried. "It is as I told you. This boy!"
"The Archduchess is naturally anxious," the Archduke apologized. "By all means nurses. But another opinion—you must have confidence in yourself, my good friend."
"I have. But I want Sir Lawson Hunter to see the case."
The Archduke shrugged. "It is serious then, Dr. Fortune? We do not wish a great noise. Is it not so, Ianthe?"
"I would give my soul to be quiet," she cried.
"Quite," said Reggie.
"Very well. Discretion, then, you understand, my good friend."
"I'll telephone to Sir Lawson at once."
"Indeed? It is serious, then?"
"It's a bad concussion." Reggie bowed and made for the door.
"You—Dr. Fortune——" the Archduchess cried. "Will he—what will happen?"
"There's no reason we shouldn't hope, madame," Reggie said, and paused a moment watching them. Emotion plays queer tricks with faces. They were both in the grip of emotions.
Sir Lawson Hunter is rather fat and his legs are rather short. His complexion is greyish and his eyes look boiled. People call him dyspeptic, though his capacious stomach has never known an ache: or imagine that he drinks, though alcohol and physicians are his chief abominations. His European reputation as a surgeon has been won by knowing his own mind.
Reggie met him at the door and took him upstairs before that puzzling pair, the Archduke and the Archduchess, had a sight of him. "Glad you could come, sir. It's an odd case."
"Every case is odd," said Sir Lawson Hunter.
"He was knocked down by a car. The——"
"If he was, I can find it out for myself. Damme, Fortune, don't bias me. Most unprofessional. That's the worst of general practice. You fellows must always be saying something."
Reggie held his peace. He knew Sir Lawson's little ways, having been his house surgeon. The faithful Holt was turned out of the room. Sir Lawson Hunter went over the senseless body with his usual speed and washed his hands.
"Splendid animal," he remarked. "They run to that, these Pragas. I remember his uncle's abdominal muscles. Heroic. Well. He was walking. A big car driven fast hit him from behind on the right side, fractured two ribs, and knocked him down. Impact of his head on the road has caused a serious concussion. That car should have stopped."
Reggie smiled. "Oh, one of the odd things is that it didn't."
"There's a damned lot of road hogs about, my boy." said Sir Lawson heartily. He was himself fond of high speed. "Well. They sent out, I suppose. Found him lying on his face unconscious."
"No, sir."
"What?" Sir Lawson jumped.
"He was lying on his back."
"Oh, that's absurd."
"Yes, sir. But I've seen his valet who found him."
"These fellows have no observation," Sir Lawson grunted, but there was some animation in his boiled eye. "Damme, Fortune, he ought to have been on his face."
"Yes, sir."
"Miracles don't happen."
"No, sir."
"Now these abrasions on the legs. As if the car had been driven at him again while he lay. A queer thing. Or have there been two cars at him? "
"And there is this too, sir." Reggie held out the sliver of steel.
"I saw the puncture. I was coming to that. Humph! Whoever put this in meant business."
"And didn't know his job. It slipped along the bone and missed everything."
Sir Lawson turned the thing over. "A woman's hatpin. About half a woman's hatpin."
"Fresh fracture. Broke as it was pushed in."
"They're a wild lot," said Sir Lawson, and smiled. "You have no nerves, Fortune?"
"I believe not, sir."
"This ought to be the making of you. You want shaking up. You must stay in the house. By the way, who's in the house?"
"The Archduchess, of course——"
"Ianthe. Yes. Aunt's in a mad-house. Ianthe. Yes. Crazy on motoring. Drives her own car. And have you see Ianthe—since?" Sir Lawson nodded at the body on the bed.
"She is very excited."
"Is she really?" Sir Lawson laughed. "Is she, though? How