“Help! Stretcher party! At once!” Aleida yelled, scratching her throat. “Hugh, tell me where it hurts.”
A raspy moan. Surely he hurt everywhere.
She lifted masonry from his left hand, which lay with fingers twisted. “Oh no,” she whispered, and she cleared his back, his hips. “We’ll get you free, get you to the hospital.”
“Beatrice ... murder.”
He’d figured it out too. “I know. She—she tried to kill me.”
“What? How dare ...”
She stroked his hair. “I’m all right. I need to find the police, but first we need to help you.”
“P’lice ... looking fr’her ... fr’you.”
Aleida paused with her hand cupping the back of his head, his dusty hair. He’d come for her. He’d sent the police to find her. He hadn’t forgotten her for one moment.
She loved him so much, and she pressed a kiss to his temple, aching for him. Dare she tell him she loved him?
Two men rounded the corner with a stretcher, and Aleida eased out of the way. “His name is Hugh Collingwood. His left hand may be broken—be careful. He has asthma and he’s having a severe attack. He’ll need care immediately.”
Hugh groaned and nodded. Yes, the attack was severe. If he didn’t receive treatment soon, he’d die. Aleida pressed her hand to her churning stomach.
The stretcher party removed the last of the rubble and rolled Hugh onto the stretcher.
Encased in black tailcoat and white waistcoat, Hugh’s chest rose and fell visibly. With anguished eyes, he stretched one hand to her. “A ... lei—”
The stretcher party hustled away with him.
Aleida picked up Beatrice’s evening bag and followed. The first aid post would have a telephone or a messenger, some means to summon the police.
One street away, the party entered a building and found a doctor. Aleida stood nearby to make sure the doctor was informed of the asthma.
The doctor pressed a stethoscope to Hugh’s chest. “Sister—epinephrine,” he said to a nursing sister, then craned his head toward a young lady sitting by a telephone. “Send for an ambulance.”
“Already here.” She pointed to the door.
“Thank goodness.” Aleida stepped aside.
First aid workers cut off the sleeves of Hugh’s evening jacket and his shirt.
The doctor took a syringe from the nurse, and he plunged the needle into Hugh’s vein. “All right, send him to the hospital.”
If only Aleida could ride with him. But the ambulance would be full, and they wouldn’t allow it.
“Hugh.” She stroked his arm as he passed, grasped for his good hand, missed. And he was gone.
45
SUNDAY, MAY11, 1941
The hospital ward teemed with men in far worse shape than Hugh. He bore a cast on his left hand, bandages on various cuts, and a rattle in his chest from the worst asthmatic attack of his life.
But he lived. As did Aleida.
If only he could get out of bed, find a telephone, and ring her, find out how she was doing, ring the police station, learn whether they’d arrested Beatrice.
Under the blankets, his legs jiggled. The physician had restricted him to bed.
