Adeane’s eyes grew wary. “I should stick my neck out lying to the police for a dame like that! It’s the truth, but she still owes me something as I see it. I saved her a lot of grief. It seemed like a chance, so I followed it up. And what do I get? The cold shoulder! Because—you say—she’s upset by her husband’s death—a guy she was on the point of divorcing! I said I was sorry he was dead, didn’t I?”
Basil gave it up. Adeane was unteachable.
“If only she’d read that scene where Bugsy and Lulu gang up on Flo!” went on Adeane. “It’s stark realism—a slice of life raw and bleeding. I got the idea out of Krafft-Ebing.” He looked up suddenly. “You know, doc, you might be a lot of use to me.”
Basil had an instant impression that Adeane classified everyone he met by their possible usefulness to himself. “I’m afraid I couldn’t afford to back a play—”
“Oh, I don’t mean that. But you’re a psychiatrist, aren’t you? And all the characters in my plays have something the matter with them—usually psychopathic. You could tell me a lot about symptoms and things like that. For instance, take Bugsy, the sadist, in
Basil disliked having his brains picked. “You ought to look it up at the medical library.”
“What medical library?”
“The one at Fifth Avenue and 103rd. Once you learn your way about there you can find anything. They have books you won’t find in any of the public libraries or even at Columbia.”
Adeane pouted. “It’s pretty hard for a layman to find out about these things in libraries. You spend hours looking something like hay fever up in card indices. It’ll say
“What you want is a general reference book,” advised Basil. “A sort of medical encyclopedia that’ll give you a bird’s-eye view of the symptoms, treatment, and so forth, for each disease. Then you can fill in the rough outline with your own characters and local color, I suppose?”
“Uh-huh,” responded Adeane. “If I could find a book like that it would keep me busy for years.”
“Then your best bets are Barr, Tice, and Cushny.” The taxi swung into West 44th Street. Basil wondered if posterity would thank him for putting still more pathology into Adeane’s plays. “Each one has written, or rather edited, a pretty inclusive survey of disease in several volumes. With three of them to check on each other you can’t go far wrong. If you want more details, they always give bibliographies.”
“What are those names?” Adeanne drew out a stubby pencil and scribbled on the cover of his wilted script. “Barr—Tice—Cushny. Thanks a lot.”
Adeane backed out of the cab gracelessly. “So long, doc. And thanks for the lift.” He turned and swaggered down the stagedoor alley, a ridiculously cocky figure with his reddish hair and mustard tweed jacket exposed to the rain.
Basil gave Seymour Hutchins’ address to the cab driver and leaned back in his seat with closed eyes. Again he was seeing Adeane as he had first appeared on the terrace—coming up to Margot so insolently, the script in one hand, its brass staples gleaming in the sun. . . .
IN THE WEST FORTIES there is a small shabby hotel. To people from out of town it looks exactly like all the other small, shabby hotels in the theatrical district. Only dyed-in-the-wool New Yorkers who know the various planes and facets of their city well realize that this particular hotel has been for years the headquarters of all those stage people who cannot afford to live at clubs or luxury hotels. Young actors on their way up and old actors on their way down pass each other at this half-way house between success and failure. Seymour Hutchins had lived there before he became a star and returned there now he had ceased to be one. According to Milhau, who gave Basil the address, Wanda and Rod had both lived there in their salad days, but not Leonard, who always occupied a little attic room at the Players when he was in New York, no matter how much money he was making.
There were only three people in the shallow lobby, yet Basil recognized each face as one he had seen on the stage that season in a minor part. He gave his name at the desk and asked if Mr. Hutchins could see him. The message was relayed through a switchboard operator, and a moment later he was in a rheumatic elevator creaking up to the twelfth floor and room 1243.
