Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 2, April/May 1966

The Hand by Charles A. Freylin

She sat frigidly, hands together in her lap, fingers locked securely. Her blonde hair was in violent disarray and her face was a staring mask of psychogenic despair.

Conrad tells me I might have prevented the whole thing. I wonder though, how I could have seen such a far-reaching tragedy and the night of horror from those few whispered words.

Bleeker came into the laboratory that morning and handed me some papers. “Will you sign these, Doctor? Six copies. Original for the county, one for us, one for—”

“What is it? Oh, the assault case.”

“Positive Florence test. That man has had it.” Bleeker leaned against my desk, scratching his ribs monotonously.

“For goodness’ sake, Lover, stop scratching,” I growled.

“Sorry, sir. He’ll get the axe for this, all right. Cops are in there talking to the girl now.”

“Why don’t they leave her alone?”

“Your head’s aching again, isn’t it, Dr. Claude?”

“Yes. Listen, I’m going into Physiotherapy and lie down for a bit. If I go to my room the telephone will annoy me—” I paused at the threshold. “When Dr. Andrews comes in, will you call me? He wants to see the autopsy on Mrs. England. She died last night, you know.”

Bleeker nodded. “I’ll look after things, Dr. Claude.”

I walked rapidly down the hall and turned into the darkened Physiotherapy section, leaving the door ajar behind me. This was a barn of a room not yet in operation. The Venetian blinds were kept closed. It was crowded with extra furniture and accessories that had yet to be distributed.

An iron lung sat in the center on the floor, where segments of shipping batts still clung to its under structure. Ranged against the wall was an array of surgical stands, instrument cabinets, wheel chairs, unopened crates, and complex diagnostic equipment. I noted with satisfaction the bust of Beethoven (which I was planning to pilfer) still perched incongruously in a far corner on top of an EKG machine. A donation from some civic-minded citizen of Southport, no doubt.

Against the wall to my right was a clumsy looking wicker chaise longue. I had arranged the high end of it toward the door, so that if anyone entered (such as Conrad), he’d have to look twice to see me lying on it. He didn’t really care; it was a question of pride with me.

I stretched out gratefully on the thin mattress and closed my eyes. Almost at once the headache began to subside. It had been like this since the Tenaru engagement on Guadalcanal where, as Regimental Surgeon, I was nearly killed by a grenade fragment. It penetrated my skull and lodged precariously in the subarachnoid space. With a little rest the periodic headaches vanished like magic. In the circumstances, I was very lucky indeed.

I had been advised to avoid a vigorous practice, so I took the opening at Southport’s new general hospital. Like Conan Doyle’s celebrated Watson, I came home from the war something of an invalid, keeping my professional boot in the door.

I lay there several minutes listening to the muffled wind outside portending an approaching storm. Then I heard hasty footsteps, and the starchy unmistakable swish-wish of approaching nurses from out in the hall. They came into the room and began whispering together like pretty witches on a heath.

“Are you sure we can get it?”

I recognized Miss Kirk, our Central Supply nurse.

Another one whispered. “We can get it, Kirk, but do you really think we ought to do this?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” said still a third. “Don’t you feel this is going a little too far, Kirk?”

Now the whole group erupted into a chorus of dissenting feminine whispers.

“Oh, look, you kids... Hush!” Miss Kirk was exasperated. “It’s all in fun. How about what she did to me? I didn’t get mad. Remember after the hospital opened last March — she put that spider on my bed? It almost scared me to death. Oh, no. I owe little Norma a good one. She’s probably cooking things up for me right this minute.”

There was a moment of silence. Now I was too embarrassed to get up. If I moved, the chaise would creak, so I lay still and waited, faintly annoyed.

The furtive conversation was resumed, mostly in hoarse, indistinct whispers until one of them said, “All right, Kirk. I’ll go along. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

This acquiescence broke up the meeting and they moved to the doorway where someone said, “Count me out, girls.”

As their footsteps retreated down the hall, I heard Miss Kirk again. “All right, Phyllis. You’re out. Now, who’s going to ask Bleeker...” I heard no more. Little Miss Kirk. I never heard her voice again. Not ever.

I got up yawning, rubbing my face with both hands. I smiled indulgently. Good kids, I thought. Our nurses were good kids. I wondered idly what they were up to. Then I forgot about it for the moment.

I opened a blind and stood looking out at the prospect. It was heavily overcast, and the wind was mounting. While this part of South-port had better homes, they were somewhat scattered over a vast desolate woodland area. It wasn’t raining yet, but toward the east the sky was black and menacing. Truly, the shape of things to come.

Perhaps the weather induced me to pick on my laboratory staff that afternoon. I wound up a tirade with my chief technician. “You’re in charge of this lab, Bleeker. You’ve got two girls under you. Keep them on the ball. Joan’s on vacation, so Millie will have to bear down a little until she comes back.

“Millie’s getting careless. She does good work, but she leaves glassware all over the place. I don’t like it; Mr. Conrad doesn’t like it. After all, he is the superintendent. You know, being your sweetheart doesn’t excuse Millie...”

“No, sir. But you’re my boss, not Conrad. He doesn’t have to be such a snoop. The creep.”

“Conrad’s not such a bad sort,” I protested. “He’s responsible for this entire hospital — you know that. Don’t worry; run this lab properly and I’ll back you to the limit. Don’t forget, Conrad’s got to answer to the board of directors.”

“Yes, sir.” Bleeker started to scratch again but caught himself and pretended to reach in his pocket.

I leaned back in my chair and regarded the golden haired beauty at the other end of the lab. She was browsing through Todd and Sanford while waiting for a solution to come to temperature, and she was looking very pretty doing it.

“And Bleeker...”

“Sir?”

I lowered my voice. “This is a small hospital. I know Millie is a very attractive girl, and that you’re engaged. But you’re going to start a scandal. Go somewhere else besides my chaise longue to hold hands.”

“But, Dr. Claude, I haven’t—”

“Oh, come on, Bleeker. I haven’t always been silver-haired and fifty-five, you know. Here — I found this on my favorite headache chair.” I handed him one of Millie’s scented handkerchiefs with the big M in the corner.

I laughed. “And don’t tell her I found it. Enough said?”

Early that evening the storm broke and raged far into the night. About two a.m., it settled into a steady cadent downpour. Sharp exploding thunder and frequent arc-bright flashes of lightning had subsided to the horizon where feverish veins persisted along with heavy intermittent rumbling.

That’s when they brought in Norma Walden. I recall the details of that tragic morning only too clearly. It was mere chance that I happened to be around. Really, it was something for the resident to handle, but this time I meddled a little.

My bachelor’s room was a little cul-de-sac off the laboratory. I had slept a few hours when the grumbling of thunder awakened me. I went prowling to the dining room for a midnight forage and a chat with the night nurses, then wound up in an argument with the orderly about the battle of Savo Island. He’d been on the Vincennes when she was blasted from under him.

With happy malice I had awakened Shelley, the resident, and we played chess in the doctor’s lounge until two. He had gone back to his room when I started up the corridor past the silent Ward 3. I was about to swing into the lab when a group of girls appeared in the hallway.

They were coming from the front lobby, pushing a wheel chair. Miss Kirk was among them. Hers was the voice I had recognized in Physiotherapy the day before.

We met under the light outside Ward 2. They were all Southport nurses. Miss Kirk and the girl in the wheel chair were dressed in pajamas and bathrobe; the other two were in street clothes.

I looked at the figure in the wheel chair more closely and at first did not recognize Norma Walden, day nurse from OB.

She sat frigidly, hands together in her lap, fingers locked securely. Her blonde hair was in violent disarray and her face was a staring mask of psychogenic despair. Except for occasional jerking of fingers, she made no sign of life. Her pupils were enormously dilated. Across her upper lip I saw a curious rusty streak, like an absurd, painted moustache.

“What is it?” I asked Miss Kirk. “What’s happened here?”

Miss Kirk’s face was chalk white. They were all deathly pale, the four of them, like a phantom quartet liberated by the storm.

The night nurse bumped through the swinging doors of Ward 2. “What on earth is wrong here? Oh, hello, Dr. Claude—”

“Good morning, Miss Lessinger.”

She rested a hand on the wheel chair. “Why, Norma! It’s Norma Walden!” She looked over the silent caravan. “The whole nurses’ home is here! What’s the matter? Food poisoning?”

“Hardly,” I muttered. I felt Norma’s wrist with some difficulty. It was cold and dank, the pulse thready and rapid.

The hospital was coming to life now. Shelley came pounding up in his white rubber shoes. “I just got a call from the front office that Miss Walden would be admitted. Thanks to our chess game I was up for this one, Dr. Claude.”

None of the four nurses had said a single word. I moved away from the wheel chair. “Can’t one of you tell us what’s happened here? Miss Kirk?”

She gripped the back of the wheel chair tighter, but maintained a frozen silence. I turned to the two girls in street clothes. I had seen them in the building from time to time, but I didn’t know their names.

Gently as possible I said, “Flow about you? Can one of you say something?”

Without warning, Edith Kirk crumpled into a heap behind the wheel chair. Her two companions remained quite motionless.

“Will you look to her, Shelley?” I bent over the girl in the wheel chair again. I sniffed suspiciously; there was no odor.

Shelley picked up the unconscious girl. “Miss Lessinger, open those doors, please,” he said. “Let’s push Miss Walden into the ward.”

I turned to Miss Lessinger. “It looks as if all four of them ought to be in bed. Hadn’t you better call Miss O’Neil at the nurses’ quarters — maybe she knows what’s happened. Anyway, she should be advised that some of her nurses are sick.”

I glanced around at the dispersing crowd. The two pale nurses in street clothes had disappeared. I wondered about it. I was puzzled about something else, too. One of them had carried a large beaded handbag. For some reason it jarred me.

I went slowly to my room and had a drink of brandy. That nurse had been wearing a dark tailored thing of very conservative cut. And she had carried a large beaded handbag.

I picked up the telephone and waited.

“That you, Dr. Claude?” Even the PBX operator was wide awake this morning.

“Yes. Listen, Miss Lopez. Would you wear a large, beaded handbag with a strictly tailored outfit?”

It took a moment to register, then she said, “A large beaded... Oh, no. Never. I sure wouldn’t. A paper bag would look better.”

I thanked her and hung up. I strolled back to Ward 2 and ran into Shelley. “Did you get them to bed?” I said.

“Just Miss Kirk and the Walden girl. The other two took off like zombies. Look, Dr. Claude, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t get a word out of those girls to save my life. What do you make of it? I know the two we put to bed are in a state of shock. The other pair didn’t appear to be a whole lot better off.”

“Let’s go to the lab and make some coffee, Shelley; we’ll talk about it for a while.”

He watched me pour cold water into an Erlenmeyer flask and place it over a Bunsen burner. I set out some cups and paper towels.

“It’s shock syndrome all right, Shelley. That’s for sure. Severe shock. In Miss Walden’s case it’s darned near total collapse. In fact, I’d say that girl is in trouble. There’s a curious thing about all this though.”

“Yes,” he snorted. “They’re women and none of them will talk.”

“Well, I don’t mean that. Have you observed the varying degrees of shock? The girl in the wheel chair was in a virtual coma. Miss Kirk, who fainted, was the next most serious. The two in street clothes were just pale, silent and badly shaken. Indeed, they’ve more than likely gone back to the nurses’ home.”

“That’s right. What about poison — Norma Walden getting the largest amount?”

“Possible, Shelley, but most unlikely. Can you think of a poison that behaves this way — that leaves no odor — and that four of them would have ingested?”

“Mm. I won’t argue with a pathologist on that, Claude.”

I smiled at the young man’s familiarity. “No poison, no injuries. There’s only one possible answer.”

He rested his chin on his hand and stared at me.

“I think those four nurses were nearly frightened to death, Shelley.”

Norma Walden died at seven o’clock in the morning. Edith Kirk waxed catatonic, and Shelley started intravenous plasma on her. Southport Hospital was buzzing.

Dressed all in brown, Conrad reminded me of a cocker spaniel. He was nervous enough, and he all but barked in his high pitched prattle. He couldn’t sit still. A pile of papers on his desk was weighted down with an open telephone directory.

“Good morning, Dr. Claude. You were about last night, I understand, when this crazy business started.”

He had a cigarette going in an ashtray but he lit another, which afforded me a twinge of perverse amusement.

“Yes, Mr. Conrad. I was here. Is that why you wanted to see me? I have an autopsy...”

“It is. I’ve talked with the supervisor of nurses. I’ve talked to the resident. I’ve been to the nurses’ quarters. Miss Herron and Miss DeMaras left early this morning. Packed their things and left.” His voice had risen to a squeak.

“You mean they’ve resigned?”

“They’ve resigned. Dr. Claude, I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. Not one person I’ve talked to has thrown any light on this fantastic situation. Can you tell me what in the devil happened to those nurses last night?”

“No, sir; I cannot. I can only tell you what I told Shelley. With this latest development my suspicion is reaffirmed that those four girls were frightened out of their wits. I’d say it’s a certainty now.”

“Shelley mentioned that. Frightened... You think fear did this to four adult women...”

“Not just fear, Mr. Conrad. Stark terror. I’d stake my life on it.”

Suddenly I recalled the scraps of conversation I had heard in Physiotherapy the day before. We can get it, Kirk, but do you really think we ought to do this?

And Edith Kirk’s reply: It’s all in fun. How about what she did to me?

This was it, of course. There must be an ominous link between the recent macabre events and the clandestine gathering the day before.

I owe little Norma a good one, Miss Kirk had said; a chilling statement in the light of the mysterious tragedy.

I decided to withhold all this from Conrad for the moment. I wanted to be sure of myself.

On the way back to the laboratory I remembered something else. The last thing I heard Miss Kirk say was, All right, Phyllis; you’re out. Now, who’ll ask Bleeker... Or words to that effect. Bleeker!

But Bleeker emphatically denied knowing anything about the matter. I badgered him a little, but got nowhere, except that he became irritated with me and began scratching himself, probably as a subtle means of revenge.

But I believed him. He was honest, and a crackerjack technologist, even if he did drive me crazy with his infernal scratching.

There was still the Phyllis person. She had backed out of something. I wondered what that something was.

I said to Bleeker, “Do you know a nurse here named Phyllis?”

He leaned against the lab bench and puffed out his cheeks. “Phyllis... Phyllis... No, sir; I don’t.”

“Find out who she is, will you, Lover? Let me know, but keep it quiet.”

The autopsy on Norma Walden revealed what I had half expected. There was evidence of long standing myocardial damage, which explained her failing to survive severe shock. I reported my findings in writing and sent a copy to Mr. Conrad. It read in part:...POST MORTEM EXAMINATION DISCLOSES THAT THIS FEMALE SUFFERED SHOCK SYNDROME OR ACUTE CIRCULATORY COLLAPSE OF REFLEX ORIGIN WHICH RESULTED IN IRREVERSIBLE CIRCULATORY EMBARRASSMENT. THERE WAS MARKED CARDIAC HYPERTROPHY AND MYOCARDIAL INSUFFICIENCY. PROBABLE CAUSE OF DEATH: CONGESTIVE HEART FAILURE...

It was still overcast when I walked into Southport for a haircut late that afternoon. I nosed through the newspapers but saw nothing about the riddle at South-port General. Good for Conrad; he hated publicity.

Stopping at Southport Inn for a sandwich and coffee, I ran into Gerald Houser, an old colleague of mine who was on the surgical staff at Southport.

“Any developments on that nurse business, Claude?” he wanted to know.

“Two of them resigned, you know.”

“No! Well I’ll be darned. Very singular, indeed. I hear Conrad has a private investigator on it.”

“Well, well,” I chuckled. “The foxy so-and-so never said anything to me about it.”

I elected to walk rather than take the bus back to the hospital, although a fine drizzle had begun to fall. I thought about the rusty streak on Norma’s face and the beaded handbag that nurse had carried. A paper bag would look better...

I paused a moment in front of the nurses’ home. It was a two-story affair, rectangular and nondescript, contrasting sharply with the one-storey hospital. Now it was growing dark and I felt the first trace of autumn chill. One of the windows showed light in the second floor rear; the rest were black and sightless.

I shivered a little and walked hurriedly up the deserted street to the brightly lighted main building.

A typewritten note was fastened to my lab coat with a huge safety pin; it read: Dr. C: Ph. is Mrs. Minetti on W-3. Also please call Conrad at his home. Bleeker.

A duplicate message was anchored under my telephone. Bleeker was thorough, even if he was itchy. I called Conrad right away.

“I wanted your opinion, Dr. Claude,” he said. “Do you think the police should be called on this business? Miss O’Neil thinks so.”

“You mean the Norma Walden matter, of course.”

“Yes.”

I thought for a moment, while we listened to each other breathe. “No, Mr. Conrad, I don’t. I mean, not yet, anyway.”

“You’re sure?”

“Well, no. I’m a doctor, not a policeman. But let’s face it; there’s been no foul play that we know of. Surely, Miss Walden wasn’t murdered. I went over that body very carefully.”

“But how about the agency that frightened those girls — and caused all this mess? Perhaps it’s still extant. Shouldn’t the police give that nurses’ home a good going over?”

“Now, that’s something else. You have a point there. I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“I have. But I don’t want bad publicity for the hospital. Do you see? We’re new, so vulnerable.”

“Let’s sleep on it, Mr. Conrad. Anyway, don’t you have a private detective on this?”

“Maybe I have. That’s not the police, though.”

“No.”

“All right. Thanks for calling, Dr. Claude. Good night.”

“Wait a moment... Mr. Conrad?”

“Yes?”

“I should tell you something. I said I hadn’t thought about having the police go into the matter of what frightened those girls. What I really meant was I think the answer lies among the girls themselves. I don’t think there is an outside agency.”

“Do you know this?”

“I’m convinced of it.”

“You’re holding out on me, Claude.”

“Well, I am.”

“That’s a fine thing. I’m only the superintendent.”

“You have my word, Conrad, I’ll give you all I have tomorrow.”

There was a brief pause. “There’ll be no more trouble?”

“Not the way I see it.”

“All right. All right, Dr. Claude. Good night.”

Phyllis Minetti was off duty so I called her at home.

“Yes, I can come in, Dr. Claude,” she said. “I’ve got to give the children their supper first. My husband won’t be home until later.”

I’d seen the plump dark haired Mrs. Minetti on Ward 3 several times. When she walked into the laboratory I knew her at once. I came right to the point.

“Do you know why I asked you to come in, Mrs. Minetti?”

“I’m sure it’s about Norma Walden... and the others.”

“I’m no investigator, you know.”

“No. But you were here. And you’re about second in command at this hospital.” She smiled. “In charge, I mean.”

“Do you know anything about what happened, Mrs. Minetti?”

“No.”

“No ideas?”

“None.”

“Well, a few days ago you walked into Physiotherapy with at least two other nurses. Remember?”

She looked completely surprised, but showed no signs of distress. “You saw us...?”

“I was in there. Oh, I wasn’t spying on you. I was lying down with a headache when you people came in.”

“Well, if you were there, you know I had nothing to do with this hand business, Dr. Claude.”

There it was. But I missed it. “I know. I believe you, Mrs. Minetti. I heard you when you declined to have anything to do with some conspiracy. Miss Kirk called you by name. But you see, it follows that you knew what was going to happen.”

“I’ll have nothing to do with it, Dr. Claude.”

“You’re already involved.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“This isn’t a whodunit, Mrs. Minetti. You know as well as I do that a girl is dead. Another is deranged, perhaps irretrievably. Two more resigned at an ungodly hour without a moment’s notice. For all we know they may be mentally disturbed, too. All this without any explanation, which undoubtedly you can provide.

“I have reason to believe that Mr. Conrad is going to notify the police department tomorrow. Don’t you see the position this puts you in? Puts all of us in?

“It’s almost a certainty that a group of you girls got together for some kind of mischief, or practical joke, and the thing backfired. I think, Mrs. Minetti, that those four girls were — if you’ll permit a touch of melodrama — hoist by their own petard.”

She shook her head stubbornly. “Dr. Claude, I know exactly how you feel — how Miss O’Neil feels. But why pick on me? Ask the girls who resigned. Ask Ruth DeMaras or Marjory Herron; they were there. I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean any disrespect, but I had nothing to do with what happened and I’m not going to get mixed up in it now.”

I sighed. I decided the woman was not too bright. “Well, all right. I’m only trying to help us all. Thank you for coming in and talking to me.”

Shelley and I looked in on Edith Kirk that night; there was no change.

We stopped to chat in the doctor’s lounge and that’s when I saw the whole thing. It struck me like a thunderbolt. Unwittingly, Phyllis Minetti had told me, and it nearly slipped away. Something she said came back to me as I talked with Shelley.

The resident had asked me if open surgery were ever done in cases of Dupuytren’s contraction. Then I remembered her remark, well, if you were there, you know I had nothing to do with this hand business... Those were the words Mrs. Minetti had used.

I told Shelley about the incident in Physiotherapy.

“That’s it, Dr. Claude!” he exploded. “Of course! This was a practical joke that backfired. All we have to do is find out what it was.”

“I think I know, Shelley. Come on. Let’s go over to the O. R.”

A clipboard hung on the wall in the vestibule outside of the main operating room. I lifted it off the hook.

“Let’s see. What date was it when the girls came into Physiotherapy?”

“That would be... Tuesday, the seventeenth,” Shelley said.

“Good. All right, let’s see. This schedule of operations is sent to all departments concerned, as you know. Let’s go back to the seventeenth. Nineteen, eighteen... here it is. Here’s the answer, Shelley.”

The schedule read:

“You see it?” I asked grimly.

“No.”

“The hand business, Shelley. Remember I told you Edith Kirk said Norma had put a spider on her bed — that it nearly scared her to death?”

“Yes.”

“Those girls got that amputated hand and used it on Norma Walden somehow, as a practical joke.”

“Great day in the morning!”

“Let’s call Conrad.”

Miss O’Neil finally contacted Ruth DeMaras at her sister’s home in Paragon Falls. A private investigator dug her up, and reported back to the wily Conrad. Miss DeMaras was the girl of the beaded handbag. Her companion was nowhere to be found.

Miss DeMaras reluctantly agreed to come back when she was assured there would be no trouble. So far, miraculously, news of the mysterious incidents had not trickled to the press.

We held a closed conference in the superintendent’s office. Moran, Shelley, Miss O’Neil, Miss DeMaras, Conrad and I were present.

After an hour-long conclave I walked into the laboratory looking very grave indeed. Bleeker and the green-eyed Millie were waiting to gang up on me for the story. Millie poured me a cup of instant coffee with Victorian coquetry. Bleeker pushed sugar and milk in front of me knowing full well I never use it.

“All right,” I growled. “I’ll talk. It’s pretty gruesome, though. According to Miss DeMaras, Edith Kirk and the Walden girl had been enthusiastic practical jokers since their training days, especially with each other.

“From Central Supply, Edith floated around the hospital a good deal and came across a copy of the surgery roster the day a hand amputation was scheduled. This gave her the idea for a joke to end all jokes.”

“Why did my name come into this, Dr. Claude?” Bleeker had his arms folded, probably insurance against scratching.

“All specimens removed during surgery are sent to the laboratory for pathological examination. That’s the law. Just like a biopsy. That’s where you and I would have come in, Bleeker.

“But it was simpler for Miss Kirk to slip into the utility room of the O. R. after the operation and steal the amputated hand, which lay encased in a rubber glove in a bucket. Each of the O. R. staff would think the other had sent the specimen to the laboratory. In a new hospital like this, these things can happen very easily. They can happen anywhere.

“At the nurses’ home that night, Edith Kirk decoyed her friend out of her room. With two confederates this was no problem. It’s of no real consequence, but Miss Kirk and the Walden girl had both washed their hair; they were wearing pajamas.

Shelley strolled into the laboratory and sat down looking disgusted. “Telling them about it?”

“Yes. Stick around a minute. I’ll soothe you with a chess game... Anyway, while two nurses looked on, Edith placed the hand on Norma’s pillow. Edith was, therefore, the most guilty. She loosened the overhead light so that Norma must switch on her bedside lamp and get the full shock. Which she did. Tell them, Shelley.”

The resident made a sick face. “They all hid and watched for Norma’s return. She entered the darkened room and closed the door behind her. Evidently the one street lamp over that way threw enough light so she could find her bedside lamp without any trouble. They heard the wall switch snap a few times, but of course it was ineffectual. In a few moments, Norma switched on the lamp; a line of light appeared under the door.

“Then it got rough for everybody. The minutes started to roll by and the pranksters panicked, for no sound came from inside that room. You can imagine.” There was a painful silence.

“What became of the hand, Dr. Claude?” Bleeker asked.

“After they finally opened the door and looked into the room and saw what they had done, Miss DeMaras had presence of mind — and the courage — to grab it and stick it in an old handbag she had. I wondered about the handbag that morning. She got rid of it up here after the excitement — threw it in the incinerator.”

“Will there be any charges against the girls, Doctor?” Millie asked.

“I don’t think so. I’d say there’s been enough suffering for all concerned, wouldn’t you? Mr. Conrad is praying by the hour that this doesn’t get out. I don’t think there’s a chance in a million to suppress it.

“But, good Lord! What killed Norma and turned Edith into a virtual psycopath?”

“Bleeker, have you ever come upon a severed hand, unexpectedly? On a wild stormy night? Norma Walden did; for all well ever know, inches from her nose.”

He glanced thoughtfully at his own open hand, and I saw Millie shudder.

Shelley shook his head like a bull. “It’s the most frightful thing I’ve ever heard of; do you know that? I’ve got poor Conrad eating tranquilizers like peanuts. Edith Kirk has had it, too. We just shipped her off to the state hospital at Weymouth.”

Millie adjusted a green scarf inside her lab coat and looked at me. “Dr. Claude, what was that business about the streak on Miss Walden’s mouth? And I still can’t see why they were all so badly shaken...”

I glanced at Shelley, who shrugged indifferently. “Well, Millie.” I lowered my voice. “You may as well get all of it. When the girls opened Miss Walden’s door, they found her sitting up in bed cross-legged and staring. She was holding onto the hand as if it were a chicken bone. She was eating the goddam thing.”