Skeleton Key by Lenore Glen Offord Page B

metallic crown of a helmet.
    The warden was hurt. That must have been blood she had touched. Georgine tried to recall her lessons in first aid, she felt gently for a spurting artery and found none that could be determined by touch. She thought, though, that there must be broken bones. How could one tell?
    The small torch still glowed through its layers of paper, at the side of the road. It must have been flung from his hand at the moment of that impact, whatever it had been; doubtless the flashlight had fallen on the carpet of leaves beside the road. But what had hit him? What had made that frightful crash?
    Her groping fingers encountered and held something small, hard, cylindrical, which she thought must be his whistle. It was dry and clean to the touch; nevertheless, Georgine conquered a moment of shuddering repugnance before she put it to her lips and blew a long steady note. There was no shrilling vibration, only a melancholy hoot that seemed to mingle with the night like an owl’s call. She blew it again. The man beside her stirred and moaned.
    Far up the road a door opened. Georgine could see a sliver of light, instantly extinguished. A voice came quavering down to her, “Wh-what is it?”
    With a tremendous effort she made her own voice come steadily. “I’ll need some help. The warden’s been hurt.”
    The other voice came in a little shriek. “A bomb?”
    â€œI don’t think so. Who is that—Mrs. Gillespie? Can you feel your way down here?”
    â€œI—we’re not supposed to come out,” the voice floated plaintively down to her. “Can’t it wait till the lights come on?”
    â€œHow do we know when that’ll be? We ought to do something now! You come down here—he’s breathing so queerly—” Georgine felt herself beginning to crack under the strain. She got up unsteadily, very slowly stumbled over to the flashlight and picked it up. If you held it close to the surface of the road, you could see where you were going. It took her back to the unconscious form in mid-pavement; as she regained Hollister’s side she heard cautious steps feeling their way downhill.
    Georgine held the light close to Hollister’s face.
    Three feet away, Mimi Gillespie stopped in her tracks and began to scream. “Oh, turn off that light! Don’t! Don’t shine it on him, I can’t—”
    It wasn’t the bleeding from the scraped and lacerated face that was the worst; curiously, what made Georgine’s head swim and weighted her stomach with cold lead was the mark of a tire-tread, clearly printed in dust across the man’s jacket, across the white felt of his armband.
    â€œHow could it have been a car?” she said weakly. Mimi’s screams had died to gasps, now. “Nobody would have been driving in the blackout. Nobody’d drive down here, anyway. Mrs. Gillespie, get back to your house or find a telephone somewhere, and call a doctor and the ambulance.”
    â€œYou can’t,” Mimi wailed. “Nobody can get one, the telephones don’t answer. I tried when the blackout began, and you can’t even raise Central.”
    â€œIsn’t there anybody?” Georgine said desperately. “An advanced first-aider, someone who can help?”
    â€œNot up here, not tonight. The old Carmichael ladies—they might do it, but they’re away,” Mrs. Gillespie babbled. “ You do something, can’t you? Oh, poor Roy!”
    â€œI don’t know enough about it. And there’s nothing to work with, I daren’t move him; all we can do is cover him up,” said Georgine dully.
    â€œThat’s a good idea.” Mrs. Gillespie’s voice was stronger, as if all the problems had been solved. “I’ll get a blanket, if I can—” She bent over suddenly. “Listen! Did he say something? Maybe he’s not so badly hurt, maybe he was just stunned.”