Dead as a Dinosaur by Frances Lockridge Page A

“few thousands” was without interest, academic or other. There was no case. There was only one of those things, destined to proceed to the observation ward of Bellevue Hospital, unless there was family intervention.
    â€œHow is he?” Bill asked anybody who had an answer.
    â€œDoing as well as can be expected,” Wayne Preson answered. “As they always are.”
    Weigand expected rebuke, waited for amplification. But the elder Presons offered neither. Homer Preson, in response to Weigand’s slightly lifted eyebrows, merely nodded. It was Wayne who amplified. A nurse had visited them about an hour earlier and used the familiar words. She had also suggested that they might as well go home, since no change was to be expected immediately; she had promised they would be notified when Dr. Preson awakened. But they had decided to wait a little longer. He looked at Weigand. “Couldn’t you—?” he asked.
    Bill could. He went in search of information. It carried him past a nurse and her familiar assurances. It carried him to a resident physician.
    â€œOh, coming along all right,” the resident said. “These things take time, you know.”
    â€œHe’ll be all right, then?” Bill said.
    â€œWhy—” the resident said. “Oh yes, I’d think so, captain.”
    Now Bill Weigand waited, letting the physician feel that more was expected.
    â€œYou understand,” the physician said, “that tolerance varies. Recuperative powers vary. There are—elements. Body weight enters in, of course. Other things.” He managed, Weigand thought, to assume the appearance of a man who has said something.
    â€œRight,” Bill Weigand said, “go on, doctor.”
    â€œThat’s all,” the doctor said. “All I can tell you at the moment.”
    â€œNo,” Bill said. “I’m not a relative, doctor. I’m a policeman. I take it you’re not satisfied?”
    â€œThese things vary,” the doctor said again. “There’s quite a skin rash, in this case. Characteristic of the stuff, you know. The blood pressure’s down, of course. Quite noticeably down, as a matter of fact. Still, he ought to respond to treatment. I’d have been happier if we’d got him sooner but—” He stopped. He shrugged.
    â€œI take it,” Bill Weigand said, “that he hasn’t started to respond yet?”
    â€œWell—” the doctor said. “No, he hasn’t, captain. Not that that proves anything.”
    â€œHe’s still in danger?”
    â€œWell—” the physician said again. “As for that, I suppose you could say that. It’s just a word, after all. I think we’ll bring him around all right. We usually do.” He nodded, seeming to reassure himself. “Takes a while,” he said. “You might tell his people that. Get them to go home. No use their sitting in there all night.”
    Bill Weigand told the Presons there was no change, and wouldn’t be for hours. He got them to go home, Wayne in a jaunty British sport car; the elder Presons by cab. Weigand watched them go and went home himself.
    It was not until a few minutes before ten o’clock the next morning that Dr. Orpheus Preson died of respiratory paralysis.
    Weigand was reporting, at that time, to Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O’Malley. An hour earlier, he had checked the hospital and been told there was no change. (There had been, however, no further contention that Dr. Preson was doing as well as could be expected.)
    Oral reports to Inspector O’Malley were likely to prove protracted, especially when the inspector was in a mood both thorough and retrospective. That Thursday morning he was. He sought a complete recapitulation of all that was known about Dr. Preson, and what he heard reminded him of things which had happened in the older days, when cops didn’t fiddle-faddle. On this, and