Operation Nassau Read Online Free
behind. ‘Rodney Trotter,’ the Cockney voice further volunteered, with accents of boundless goodwill. ‘Sergeant Trotter of the Royal Scots. Your part of the world, eh, Miss MacRannoch?’
I smiled, slightly, without I trust showing my irritation. Behind, the man Brady’s voice said, ‘Doctor MacRannoch, Trotter. Name, rank and number, you know?’
The Sergeant was a small muscular man, aged perhaps forty- seven, with the lined face of one much given to bawling commands. His voice was rich and unexpectedly carrying. He took Brady’s intervention in good humour. ‘I thought she was travelling in civvies like myself,’ he said. ‘Don’t want all the world to know you’re a doctor, eh, Doctor? The arguments I’ve got into about the Army, so soon as I mentioned me rank. Besides, a girl wants to be chatted up as a girl, not a bloody meat-butcher, don’t she?’
I am aware that I lose colour when angry, but I am perfectly capable of keeping my temper under provocation. ‘If you address me as “Doctor”,’ I said, ‘I shall be perfectly satisfied.’
His eyes became round, and for a moment I thought he was going to add to his impertinence. However, he merely said, after a moment, ‘Well, my name’s Rodney, and you can call me that any time you like, Doctor. You did a great job on that chap, anyhow. You can quote me for reference.’ Then the drinks trolley came round, followed by lunch, and he was snoring before the brandy was finished.
I had caviare, clear turtle soup with sherry, lamb noisettes with truffles, cherry meringue gateau with coffee, and two petits fours. Sir Bartholomew, to whom I had given a mild sedative slumbered peacefully through lunch, and had a little warm milk on awakening. Shortly after this, he expressed a wish to retire, and since both Brady and Trotter were slumbering, he was aided to do so by the steward, assisted by a Turkish youth sitting behind him. I thought when he returned he looked pallid; his pulse rate had risen and his breathing had become rapid and more shallow. He showed no wish to speak. I moved over beside him, and had just fastened his seat-belt for the descent when he became rigid and I saw that another attack was imminent, on at least the same scale as the one he had suffered the previous day. I pressed the button for the steward and opened my bag with one hand, supporting him with the other.
The details of what followed are not particularly attractive or even clinically abnormal, given the proper diagnosis, and I shall not dwell on them. Enough to say that the worst was over by the time the ambulance got us from the New Providence airport through Nassau and up the incline to the United Commonwealth Hospital, and that by the time he was settled in the private ward with the entire staff hanging about chattering, Bahamian-style outside his open door, he was conscious and weakly recovering. Indeed he smiled up at me as I bent over him, changed into my white coat. ‘What was it?’ he said.
‘Something you ate. Sir Bartholomew, did you have anything to eat or drink on the plane, apart from the warm milk?’
‘You know I didn’t,’ he said. He had a slow, mannered voice: a remnant perhaps of official days in Britain. I would guess at public school and Cambridge, perhaps. His face changed. ‘At least - I had an aspirin in the lavatory, from the pack in my pocket. Had a crashing headache.’
‘In water?’
‘Steward gave me a glass.’
‘Do you mind, Sir Bartholomew,’ I said, ‘if I remove the aspirins and subject them to some tests? If food poisoning is at the root of your trouble, we must for everyone’s sake discover the source of bacteria. Contaminated tablets, for example, might have caused both attacks. There is another thing I wish to ask you. Sir Bartholomew, do you know of anyone in New York with a personal grudge against you?’ And I informed him of the telephone call I had received at the Trueman.
‘A joke, perhaps,’ I said. ‘On the
I smiled, slightly, without I trust showing my irritation. Behind, the man Brady’s voice said, ‘Doctor MacRannoch, Trotter. Name, rank and number, you know?’
The Sergeant was a small muscular man, aged perhaps forty- seven, with the lined face of one much given to bawling commands. His voice was rich and unexpectedly carrying. He took Brady’s intervention in good humour. ‘I thought she was travelling in civvies like myself,’ he said. ‘Don’t want all the world to know you’re a doctor, eh, Doctor? The arguments I’ve got into about the Army, so soon as I mentioned me rank. Besides, a girl wants to be chatted up as a girl, not a bloody meat-butcher, don’t she?’
I am aware that I lose colour when angry, but I am perfectly capable of keeping my temper under provocation. ‘If you address me as “Doctor”,’ I said, ‘I shall be perfectly satisfied.’
His eyes became round, and for a moment I thought he was going to add to his impertinence. However, he merely said, after a moment, ‘Well, my name’s Rodney, and you can call me that any time you like, Doctor. You did a great job on that chap, anyhow. You can quote me for reference.’ Then the drinks trolley came round, followed by lunch, and he was snoring before the brandy was finished.
I had caviare, clear turtle soup with sherry, lamb noisettes with truffles, cherry meringue gateau with coffee, and two petits fours. Sir Bartholomew, to whom I had given a mild sedative slumbered peacefully through lunch, and had a little warm milk on awakening. Shortly after this, he expressed a wish to retire, and since both Brady and Trotter were slumbering, he was aided to do so by the steward, assisted by a Turkish youth sitting behind him. I thought when he returned he looked pallid; his pulse rate had risen and his breathing had become rapid and more shallow. He showed no wish to speak. I moved over beside him, and had just fastened his seat-belt for the descent when he became rigid and I saw that another attack was imminent, on at least the same scale as the one he had suffered the previous day. I pressed the button for the steward and opened my bag with one hand, supporting him with the other.
The details of what followed are not particularly attractive or even clinically abnormal, given the proper diagnosis, and I shall not dwell on them. Enough to say that the worst was over by the time the ambulance got us from the New Providence airport through Nassau and up the incline to the United Commonwealth Hospital, and that by the time he was settled in the private ward with the entire staff hanging about chattering, Bahamian-style outside his open door, he was conscious and weakly recovering. Indeed he smiled up at me as I bent over him, changed into my white coat. ‘What was it?’ he said.
‘Something you ate. Sir Bartholomew, did you have anything to eat or drink on the plane, apart from the warm milk?’
‘You know I didn’t,’ he said. He had a slow, mannered voice: a remnant perhaps of official days in Britain. I would guess at public school and Cambridge, perhaps. His face changed. ‘At least - I had an aspirin in the lavatory, from the pack in my pocket. Had a crashing headache.’
‘In water?’
‘Steward gave me a glass.’
‘Do you mind, Sir Bartholomew,’ I said, ‘if I remove the aspirins and subject them to some tests? If food poisoning is at the root of your trouble, we must for everyone’s sake discover the source of bacteria. Contaminated tablets, for example, might have caused both attacks. There is another thing I wish to ask you. Sir Bartholomew, do you know of anyone in New York with a personal grudge against you?’ And I informed him of the telephone call I had received at the Trueman.
‘A joke, perhaps,’ I said. ‘On the
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