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hesitated. She told the operator, “I'm not sure we can wait that long. Would you check our own guest list to see if we have any doctors registered?”
“I already did that. There's a Dr. Koenig[19] in 221, and Dr. Uxbridge in 1203.”
Christine noted the numbers on a pad beside the telephone.
“All right, ring 221, please.”
There were several clicks as the ringing continued. Then a sleepy voice with a German accent answered, “Yes, who is it?”
Christine identified herself. “I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Koenig, but one of our other guests is extremely ill.” Her eyes went to the bed. For the moment, she noticed, the blueness around the face had gone, with breathing as difficult as ever. She added, “I wonder if you could come.”
There was a pause, then the same voice: “My dearest young lady, it would be a matter of happiness if I could assist. Alas, I fear that I could not.” A gentle chuckle. “You see, I am a doctor of music, here in your beautiful city to 'guest conduct' a fine symphony orchestra.”
She apologized, “I'm sorry for disturbing you.”
Dr. Uxbridge in 1203 answered the telephone at once in a no-nonsense tone of voice[20]. In reply to Christine's first question he responded, “Yes, I'm a doctor of medicine.” He listened without comment while she described the problem, then said, “I'll be there in a few minutes.”
The bellboy was still at the bedside. Christine instructed him, “Mr. McDermott is in the Presidential Suite. Go there, and as soon as he's free ask him to come here quickly.” She picked up the telephone again. “The chief engineer, please.”
Fortunately there was no doubt about the chief's availability. Doc Vickery was a bachelor who lived in the hotel and had one ruling passion: the St. Gregory's mechanical equipment. The chief was a friend of Christine's, and she knew that she was one of his favorites. In a moment his Scottish accent was on the line. “Aye?”[21]
In a few words she told him about Albert Wells. “ The doctor isn't here yet, but he'll probably want oxygen. We've a portable set in the hotel, haven't we?”
“Aye, we've oxygen cylinders, Chris, but we use them just for gas welding.”
“Oxygen is oxygen,” Christine argued. Some of the things her father had told her were coming back.
“Could you order one of your night people to send it up?”
The chief nodded in agreement. “I will; and soon as I get my breeks[22] on, lassie[23], I'll be along mysel'.”
“Please hurry!” She replaced the phone, turning back to the bed.
The little man's eyes were closed. No longer struggling, he appeared not to be breathing at all.
There was a light tap at the opened door and a tall man stepped in from the corridor. He had a thin face, and hair graying at the temples. Beige pajamas showed beneath his dark blue suit. “Uxbridge,” he announced in a quiet, firm voice.
“Doctor,” Christine said, “just this moment…” The newcomer nodded and from a leather bag, which he put down on the bed, swiftly produced a stethoscope. Without wasting time he reached inside the patient's flannel nightshirt and listened to the chest and back. Then, returning to the bag, he took out a syringe, filled it with a medicine, and pushed a sleeve of the nightshirt upward.
Christine whispered, “What is it that's wrong?”
“Severe bronchitis, with asthma as a complication. I suspect he's had these attacks before.”
Suddenly the little man started breathing. His eyes opened.
The tension in the room had lessened. “Mr. Wells,” Christine said. “Mr. Wells, can you understand me?”
She was answered by a series of nods. “You were very ill when we found you, Mr. Wells. This is Dr. Uxbridge who was staying in the hotel and came to help.”
The eyes shifted to the doctor. Then, with an effort: “Thank you.” The words were the first the sick man had spoken. A small amount of color was returning to his face.
“If there's anyone to thank it should be this young lady.” The doctor gave a smile, then told Christine, “The gentleman is still very sick and will need further medical attention. My advice is for immediate transfer to a hospital.”
“No, no! I don't want that.” The words came from the elderly man in the bed. He was leaning forward from the pillows. The change in his condition was remarkable, she thought.
For the first time Christine had time to study his appearance. Originally she had judged him to be in his early sixties; now she added a half dozen years.
The first occasion she met Albert Wells was two years earlier. He had come to the hotel's executive suite, concerned about a difference in his bill which he had been unable to settle with the front office. The amount, she recalled, was seventy-five cents and though the chief cashier had offered to cancel the charge, Albert Wells wanted to prove that he had not made the expense. After patient inquiry, Christine made sure that the little man was right and she sympathized and respected him for his stand. She also decided – from his bill, which showed modest spending, and his clothes which were obviously ready-to-wear – that he was a man of small means[24], perhaps a pensioner, whose yearly visits to New Orleans were high points of his life.
Now Albert Wells declared, “I don't like hospitals. I never have liked them.”
“If you stay here,” the doctor explained, “you'll need medical attention, and a nurse for twenty-four hours at least.”
The little man insisted, “The hotel can arrange about a nurse.” He addressed Christine, “You can, can't you, miss?”
“I suppose we could.” She wondered, though, if he had any idea of the high cost of private nursing.
There was a noise from the corridor. A coveralled mechanic came in[25], wheeling an oxygen cylinder on a trolley. He was followed by the chief engineer, carrying a rubber tube, some wire and a plastic bag.
“This isn't hospital style, Chris,” the chief said. “I hope it'll work, though.”
Dr. Uxbridge seemed surprised. Christine explained her original idea that oxygen might be needed, and introduced the chief engineer. With his hands still busy, the chief nodded. A moment later, the tube was connected.
The doctor returned to the bed. “The oxygen will make you more comfortable, Mr. Wells. I imagine you've had this bronchial trouble before.”
Albert Wells nodded. He said, “The bronchitis I picked up as a miner. Then the asthma came later.” His eyes moved on to Christine. “I'm sorry about all this, miss.”
“I'm sorry too, but mostly because your room was changed.”
The chief engineer had connected the rubber tube to the cylinder. Together with Dr. Uxbridge they arranged the improvised mask around the sick man's face. A steady hiss meant that the oxygen was on.[26]
The doctor checked his watch, then inquired, “Have you sent for a local doctor?”
Christine explained about Dr. Aarons.
Dr. Uxbridge nodded approval. “He'll take over when he arrives. I'm from Illinois and not licensed to practice in Louisiana.” He bent over Albert Wells. “Easier?” Beneath the plastic mask the little man moved his head confirmingly.
There were firm steps down the corridor and Peter McDermott strode in, his big frame filling the doorway. “I got your message,” he told Christine. His eyes went to the bed. “Will he be all right?”
“I
Есть некий д-р Кёниг
деловым тоном
Да. / Слушаю.
брюки
милочка
что он был небогатым человеком
Вошёл механик в комбинезоне
Ровное шипение означало, что кислород пошёл.