* * * * *
Zorchi's secretary was there, too. He was in a small anteroom, sitting
on a hard wooden chair; as we passed him, I saw the hostility in his
eyes. He didn't say a word.
Beyond him, in an examination room, was Zorchi, slim, naked and
hideous, sitting on the edge of a surgical cot and trying not to look
ill at ease. He had been shaved from head to knee stumps. Esthetically,
at least, it had been a mistake. I never saw such a collection of skin
eruptions on a human.
He burst out, faster than my language-school Italian could follow, in
a stream of argument and abuse. Defoe listened icily for a moment,
then shut him up in Italian as good as his own. "Answer questions;
otherwise keep quiet. I will not warn you again."
I don't know if even Defoe could have stopped Zorchi under normal
conditions. But there is something about being naked in the presence of
fully dressed opponents that saps the will; and I guessed, too, that
the shaving had made Zorchi feel nakeder than ever before in his life.
I could see why he'd worn a beard and I wished he still had it.
"Dr. Lawton," said Defoe, "have you completed your examination of the
insured?"
A youngish medical officer of the Company said, "Yes, sir. I have the
slides and reports right here; they just came up from the laboratory."
He handed a stapled collection of photographic prints and papers to
Defoe, who took his own good time to examine them while the rest of us
stood and waited.
Defoe finally put the papers down and nodded. "In a word, this bears
out our previous discussion."
Lawton nodded. "If you will observe his legs, you will see that the
skin healing is complete; already a blastema has formed and--"
"I know," Defoe said impatiently. "Signore Zorchi, I regret to say that
I have bad news for you."