Alcoholics, The by Thompson Jim

Author:Thompson, Jim [Thompson, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime, Fiction, Noir, Novel
ISBN: the_alcoholics
Publisher: Mulholland Books / Little, Brown and Company
Published: 1953-01-01T03:00:00+00:00

12

Humphrey Van Twyne III still lay motionless in his cocoon of winding sheets, raised slightly off the horizontal now by the tilting upward of the table slab. On the far side of the table, the side furthest from the door, was a small serving stand which Rufus was facing, his back to Humphrey Van Twyne.

The index finger of his left hand was clenched tightly between Van Twyne’s teeth.

Doctor Murphy took in the component parts of the picture in one swift glance. Obviously, Rufus had turned toward the serving stand, while he was still giving Van Twyne a bite of food. And Van Twyne had snapped down on his finger, thus holding his hand behind him, holding him helpless.

The big Negro was trembling with strain and fear. Doc stepped swiftly around in front of him, looked reassuringly into the ashen face.

“Have you loose in a moment,” he whispered. “How bad has he got you? Into the flesh?”

“D-d-don’t think s-so, suh. I j-just r-r-reachin’ ovah—”

“Sure. Might have happened to anyone, and you handled it just right. Now, just hang on and—”

Doc turned, wheeled around Jeff, standing wide-eyed and pale, and looked down into Van Twyne’s unwinking idiot’s eyes. He raised a hand—dropped it again. Useless to pinch his nostrils shut; he could still breathe through his mouth. And his instinctive animal reaction to a seeming attack would be to clamp down on that finger.

Doctor Murphy raised his hand again, his left one, and laid it gently against Van Twyne’s head. He began stroking the bandages, softly, soothingly. “Good boy,” he murmured. “Good, fine, nice. Good boy, good, good, good…Rufus, move back this way as far as you can but don’t move your finger.…Good, nice, fine, good, good, good boy…”

Doc’s hand moved up to Van Twyne’s forehead, rested there a moment, caressingly, and slid slowly downward until it was lying over the man’s eyes. “Good, good boy, sleepy-bye good boy, nice fine good sleepy…Rufus…a fine good…Rufus, this good, good boy has…all right, Rufus…”

Rufus pulled. His finger slid free, and he staggered forward and went down on his knees. Doc helped him to his feet, stood with an arm hugging the Negro’s shoulders as he nodded to Jeff Sloan.

“Rufus showed a great deal of intelligence there,” he said quietly. “He analyzed his problem, realized that it was something requiring outside help. He’d rather have done without it, naturally; he’d made a mistake and wound up in an embarrassing and painful position. But he knew what had to be done, and he did it. If he hadn’t—if he’d refused to face the facts, and wait for help—he’d have lost a finger. We might even have found him dead up here, bled to death.”

Doc examined the finger and saw that the skin, while deeply tooth-marked, was unbroken. He advised antiseptic and a hot-water immersion, helped Rufus through the door with his tray and serving stand, and turned back to Jeff.

“That Rufus”—be grinned fondly—“I blow my top with him on the average of twice a day, but I wouldn’t trade him for any two people I’ve got.

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