"H. L. Gold - And Three to Get Ready" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gold H. L)

would all be my fault. But I outgrew it, which Schatz said most people do. Only there are some who
don't, like our little nameless friend, and they often get themselves twisted up like this.
"But that Paul Michaels," I said. "The crook who got shot. He's in the critical ward right here in this
hospital."
"It's a city hospital," he answered, lighting a butt and looking tired. "Everything the private hospitals
won't touch, we get. That's why we have this patient, too."
"Any special instructions?" I asked.
"I don't think so. This kind of case is seldom either suicidal or homicidal, unless the guilt feelings get
out of hand. Keep him calm, that's all. Sedation if he needs it."
I had plenty to do around the mental hygiene ward without the little guy to worry about, but he wasn't
much trouble. Until about an hour or two after supper, that is. I had some beds to move around and a
tough customer to get into the hydrotherapy room, so I didn't pay much attention to the little guy and his
restless eyes.
He came up to me, twitchy as hell, and grabbed my arm with both his hands.
"I keep thinking about thatтАФthat name," he babbled. "I keep wanting to say it. Do something! Don't
let me say it!"
"Who?" I asked, blank for a minute, and then I remembered. "You mean this crook Paul
MichaelsтАФ"
He got white and jumped up and tried to stop my mouth, but I'd already said it. I tried to calm him
down and finally had the nurse give him some phenobarb, all the time explaining that the name had
slipped out and I was sorry. You know, soothing him.
He said, trembling, "Now I know I'm going to say it. I just know I will." And he shuffled over to the
window and sat there holding his head, looking sick.
I got to bed about midnight, still wondering about the poor little guy who thought he could kill people
that easy. I had the next morning off, but I didn't take it. There were cops all over the place and Dr.
Schatz looked real worried.
"I don't know how our new patient is going to take this," he said, shaking his head. "That Paul
Michaels we had hereтАФ"
"Had?" I repeated. "What do you mean, had? He transferred to a prison hospital or something?"
"He's dead," Schatz said.
I closed my mouth after a few seconds. "Aw, nuts," I grumbled, disgusted with myself. "I was almost
believing the little guy did it. Michaels was shot up bad. Hell, he was on the critical list."
"That's right. There'd be nothing remarkable if he died ... from the bullet wound. But his throat was
slit."
"And the little guy?"
"We have him full of Nembutal. He was shouting that he had said Michaels' name three times and that
Michaels would have to die and he would be responsible."
"You haven't told him yet," I said.
"Naturally not. It would really put him into a spin."
It was a solid mess from top floor to basement, so I had to give up my morning off. The patients,
except the little guy who was in isolation, all found out about Michaels somehowтАФyou can't stop things
like that from spreadingтАФand I had a time handling them. In between, though, I learned how the case
was developing.
There was this old cop Slattery we generally have for cases like Michaels sitting outside the critical
ward, watching who went in and out. There had been somebody with Michaels on the stick-up, see, who
made it while Michaels was plugged, and the cops don't take chances that maybe the accomplice or
someone from the underworld might want to get at the patient when he's helpless. They always put a
guard on.
Well, Slattery is all right, but he maybe isn't so alert any more, and somebody slipped past him late at
night, cut Michaels' neck with probably a razor blade, and then got out again without Slattery noticing.