Being a Saturday his office was closed, so by nine o'clock that morning he was at the hospital. There he met the usual obstruction, but a ten-dollar bill and a friendly orderly got him at last to the floor where Anne had been taken. There were two men outside the door of her room. A weary-looking officer in uniform was sitting in a chair, and a middle-aged detective was standing beside him. It was a moment before he recognized Close.
In his anger he was about to confront the detective, but as he approached a doctor in a long white coat came out closing the door behind him, and Close halted him.
"How about it, doc?" he said. "Going to live?"
The doctor yawned. He also looked as though he had been up all night.
"She's still in shock," he said. "If it means anything to you, she's got a penetrating wound in the left shoulder above the clavicle, but she missed both the subclavian artery and vein."
"Put in plain language, that means she's going to live?"
"Probably. Who knows?"
Then Close saw Forsythe and grinned.
"If this is your girl friend you sort of got it in reverse, didn't you?" he said. "She killed him, all right. Open-and-shut case. Maybe she can prove self-defense, but I doubt it. It looks pretty deliberate. Not that he's any loss," he added.
"What do you mean, open and shut?" Forsythe said indignantly. "Anybody see her do it?"
"Nothing to it. Gun beside her on the floor, and her husband dead ten feet away!"
"No chance he did it, then?"
"Not with a bullet from a thirty-eight in the back of his head, son. He never knew what hit him."
The doctor, looking interested, was standing by. Forsythe appealed to him.
"Just what are her chances?" he asked. "She's a friend of mine and if there's anything I can do—"
"We've operated. That's about all I can tell you. We got the bullet out. The rest is up to her. But apparently she struck her head on an iron doorstop when she fell. Seems to have considerable concussion."
He moved away, stethoscope trailing from the pocket of his coat, and the officer in uniform got up stiffly, said he was going to the men's room, and left. Forsythe found himself alone with Close, who seemed rather amused.
"Never know what a woman will do, do you?" he observed. "Looks like a nice girl, too. If she lives she can probably plead self-defense. Get off with a dozen years or so."
Forsythe's hands shook as he took a cigarette and lit it.
"I don't believe it," he said stubbornly. "She would never do a thing like this. Never. Is she conscious?"
"You heard the doc. She's had a concussion, she's had an anesthetic, and she's probably full of dope. Also she's a mighty sick girl, Forsythe. And maybe that's not a bad thing."
Forsythe knew what he meant. He felt a cold anger sweep over him.
"Just remember something, Close," he said. "I came to you with this story two or three days ago. Maybe if you'd been interested all this wouldn't have happened."
"What does that mean?" Close said shortly. "It wasn't my case then. It is now. As a matter of fact the Automobile Squad tried to pick up Collier that day, but he'd disappeared."
"He came home, didn't he?"
"All right. All right. Somebody slipped, but his wife didn't."
"I want to see her."
"The hell you do. Nobody's seeing her."
"I want to be sure it's Anne Collier in there," Forsythe said stubbornly. "How do you know it is? I advised her to go to her aunt in Connecticut. Possibly she's there now."
"She's been identified by Hellinger, the superintendent." But seeing Forsythe's face he moved aside. "All right," he said, "I'll give you thirty seconds."
It took less than that. It was Anne, a slim flat unconscious figure on the high hospital bed, with a nurse beside her taking her pulse, and the edge of a surgical bandage on her left shoulder showing above the blanket. Neither man spoke until they were in the hall again, Forsythe because he could not. Close eyed him.
"It's pretty early, but you need a drink, fellah," he said, not unkindly. "My car's outside. I'll buy you one."
Not until Forsythe had downed a straight Scotch at a nearby bar did Close say anything more to him. Then: "Just what's your interest in this case, Forsythe? You're taking it pretty hard, aren't you?"
"She's my client, and her brother was a friend of mine. Killed in the war."
"You said she came to you about a will?"
Forsythe nodded. "She knew she was in danger if he learned about the bank account."
"So you think he did learn?"
"Hell, I don't know and I don't care. Suppose she did kill him? Maybe a girl can be driven to desperation and do a thing like that. But look, Close, she has a kid she's crazy about. Why try to kill herself?"
"When she realized what she'd done—"
"Don't give me that! If he threatened her with a gun, she had a clear out, didn't she? He was a bad actor and she knew it."
"Did she know about the wire on the stairs?"
"I didn't tell her. It's possible Hellinger did. It's not likely it was Jamison. He doesn't know her."
"Jamison? The fellow who raised the alarm?"
"Yes. He lives on the floor above. The night Anne fell he ran down and got caught on the wire himself. He was pretty well banged up. I gather he still is."
But they were getting nowhere. Close looked at his watch.
"Got to go," he said. "The lab should have compared both bullets by now. Not that there's any doubt about them. Both from the same gun, a thirty-eight automatic. It belonged to him. The woman who comes in to clean has seen it in a drawer there."
"What about prints on it?" Forsythe asked.
"Don't get prints on these checkered wood grips," Close said. "Trigger smeared, but the laboratory has it. May get something. Don't really need it, of course."
Quite suddenly Forsythe was angry again. His face reddened and he had difficulty in keeping his hands off the detective with his complacent assurance.
"The fellow was a bastard," he said furiously. "And it might interest you to know that this woman you're so damned ready to railroad to the chair is a lady, and I'd like to bet she's never fired a gun in her life."
Close eyed him warily.
"I'm railroading nobody," he said. "This is my job. But even the best families slip up now and then. And keep your fists down. I'm wearing a new suit."
Forsythe felt foolish. It was silly to antagonize this man, and also it occurred to him that there was something he ought to do.
"Sorry," he said apologetically. "I guess I'm excited! There's another thing, too. She has this aunt somewhere in Connecticut. Someone ought to see her. Only I don't know where she lives. I think it's back in the country, so she may not know what's happened."
"Know any way to reach her?"
"Maybe, in the apartment itself. She would write, I suppose."
Close grunted, then without further words he put Forsythe in his car and drove to the apartment. As in the hospital, there was a patrolman on guard outside the Collier door, and to his evident relief Close let him go.
"I'll give the key to the superintendent, O'Hara,"