One hour later Roger Aldridge had been booked for murder and I was frantically trying to find Warren Dodge. I showed up at the Flatiron Building just as Mamie was closing up shop.
“You’ve been calling and calling,” she said.
“Have you heard from him?”
“No, I haven’t. But that’s not unusual. He left rather late.”
“When?”
“He left here at four-thirty.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“To Donald Root’s.”
“He never showed up there.”
“That’s not unusual, either. Mr. Dodge frequently gets detoured.”
Just then the phone rang. Mamie picked it up, said hello, listened. Her mouth opened and she turned greener than a yokel with his last drink on his first binge. She hung up. She said, “He’s in a hospital.”
“Where?”
“The Flower.”
We didn’t say a word to each other as the cab fought the going-home traffic. At the hospital I paid and we ran up the steps. We inquired at the office, and the elevator took us to the eleventh floor. A young doctor said, “You first,” to Mamie.
I said, “May I see him, too?”
“Wait here. We’ll be out in a few moments.”
I paced the corridor trying to forget the hospital smells and then they were out of his room and coming toward me, and Mamie was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.
“I told him you were here,” she said. “He wants to see you. He’s ordered me to go home.”
“Nothing you can do here,” the young doctor said. “He’s to stay at least overnight, perhaps more.”
Mamie squeezed my arm, then turned away and proceded toward the elevators. To the young doctor I said, “What happened?”
“Emergency when we picked him up. Severe concussion and a bad gash, eleven stitches in his head. He shouldn’t see visitors but he insists on you. Don’t stay more than five minutes.”
The smell of ether was strong in the room. The bed was cranked up to a half-sitting position. Warren Dodge had his eyes closed and his face was paper-white. He looked naked without his monocle. Bandages and adhesive tape made a tight skull cap on his head. He opened his eyes, saw me, tried for a smile and missed. He said, “Hi, Peter.”
“Hi.”
His eyes slid to the doctor. “I want to talk to my friend. Alone, if you please.”
“No more than five minutes.”
I nodded and the doctor went out.
“What happened?” I said.
Weakly he said, “I was slugged.”
“Where?”
“The downstairs lobby at Donald Root’s.”
“Who slugged you?”
“I told the police I didn’t know. I was slugged from behind.”
“Robbery?”
“No.”
His eyes closed again and there was silence except for the rattle in his throat from his breathing. Then his eyes opened.
I said, “Slugged. But why? What motive?”
He winked, but if he was trying for jauntiness, it misfired. He looked tired and old and pathetic. He said, “I told the police I didn’t know who but I do.”
“Then why didn’t you tell them?”
“Because it would have been my word against his and that’s no good. It’s not proof. And he doesn’t think I know which is good. It gives us a weapon.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand it.”
“What happened, Mr. Dodge? We’ve only got five minutes.”
“I want you to work on it, lad. Bill me if necessary.”
“I’ll work on it. But let’s have the story.”
He drew a deep breath, and exhaled in an ether-smelling blast. “I was due at Mr. Root’s. I was a little early. I entered the lobby and pushed the button for the elevator. The indicator showed it was at 4. I turned my back on it as it was coming down. I was wiping my monocle when the blow came. The elevator had opened and a passenger had stepped out. As the blow came I glanced upward at the mirror and I saw him. Then it struck. It was the back end of a pistol. For the life of me I can’t understand it. That’s your job, Peter. If I ever get out of here, I want to know why he struck me. He doesn’t know I saw him.”
“Who, for heaven’s sake?”
“Jonathan Nolan.”