Part Four: Archie Goes To Princeton Plainsboro
The drive to Princeton wasn't as bad as I had feared. We took the Heron, and House was happy to be driven, snoozing most of the way. I was apt to forget he was a cripple, he was so abrasive and forceful all the damn time, but I noticed now that he was still tired despite what should have been a decent night's sleep. I also noticed him popping his little Vicodin pills periodically, more so than I had noticed the day before.
We arrived at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and went up to Wilson's office first. The door was locked, but House had a key, on his regular key ring along with what looked like his own door key, office key and other significant keys. House then booted up Wilson's computer and guessed the password on the third try. We could have phoned Wilson to get the password, of course, but House clearly took a smug pleasure in being able to do it himself.
I took the desk chair to look at Wilson's email account. It was interesting browsing Wilson's inbox, though there was very little personal stuff. Lots of work emails--patients, treatments, meetings, admin. Nothing from House ("I only send him spam," House explained.) It wasn't hard to find the email string from Catherine. I glanced at it enough to see what it was, printed it all out, and forwarded it to Wolfe for good measure. Not that Wolfe would find it before he saw the printouts.
Then we went to see Dr. Cuddy, the Dean of Medicine. I'd never met a Dean of Medicine before, so I didn't know what to expect, but it wasn't the glamorous brunette with flowing hair, tight sweater and cleavage you could ski down, who was sitting behind the big desk in the big office.
"Cuddy!" House greeted her as we walked in. He openly ogled her chest. "Glad to see the twins are doing fine. Looks like you need to let them out for a bit of exercise though, the way they're straining at the leash there."
"Dr. House, I'm so glad you decided to find time to come into work at last this Monday afternoon," Cuddy said in an acid tone.
"I've been busy trying to keep your Head of Oncology out of jail," House protested, sitting down.
"Wilson phoned me this morning and explained everything that happened, and asked me to rearrange all his work for a week," Cuddy said pointedly. "You, on the other hand, just didn't show up when you should have. Cameron did your clinic duty this morning."
"She loves doing that," House said to me, in a blatantly insincere tone. "Cuddy, this is Archie Goodwin. Nero Wolfe's lackey."
"Lackey, flunkey, right-hand man, all round dogsbody, that's me. Very pleased to meet you, Dr. Cuddy," I said cheerfully.
"Likewise, Mr. Goodwin," Cuddy said with warmth. "This whole thing with Wilson is ridiculous. I hope you and Mr. Wolfe can clear it up quickly."
"We'll certainly try," I assured her, trying not to stare at her cleavage. It was difficult. It kind of drew the eye.
"I need some time off," House announced. He and Cuddy bickered for a few minutes about why House had to be in New York just because Wilson was. However it was obvious that Dr. Cuddy wasn't going to say no, merely trying to score a few points.
They agreed on a week, then House looked at me and said, "Okay, Goodwin, let's go."
"Not just yet," I said smoothly. "Dr. Cuddy, can I have a word with you in private?"
House's eyes narrowed as he thought for a few seconds, and because he wasn't stupid, he figured it out. "You want to talk about me. You think I'm a suspect? You're checking up on me?"
I ignored him and said to Cuddy, "Just a quick word."
"Of course," Cuddy said. "And congratulations, Mr. Goodwin. Even though you've only known House for a couple of days, you already realize that you always need to check up on him. House--go and find your staff. Mr. Goodwin will want to see them too. And they might even need some kind of direction from you."
House snorted, stood up and stalked out.
--
Cuddy vividly remembered that House had volunteered for the Saturday afternoon clinic duty shift. Clearly House volunteering for anything was a once in a lifetime occurrence. She had been in the hospital on Saturday herself--a Dean's work was never done--and was sure she had seen him, both in the clinic and around the hospital afterwards.
"But you don't need to take my word for it," she added. "We'll go check with Nurse Previn, who was working the desk in the clinic that day. Anything else you need to know, before we do that?"
"Did you know Catherine Wilson?"
"No." Cuddy shook her head. "I know Julie, and I met Bonnie once, but never Catherine."
"Julie and Bonnie being Dr. Wilson's other wives?" I asked. Just call me the Great Detective.
"That's right," Cuddy confirmed. "I don't know when Wilson was married to Catherine, but it must have been long before I met him."
"How long have you known Dr Wilson?" I was curious.
"Since I hired him here as an attending, eleven years ago," Cuddy said briskly. "First appointment I made after I became Dean. One of the best, too."
"And House?"
"Ah, that's a lot more complicated. Shall we go see Brenda?" Cuddy was evasive. I would have liked to have pressed, but it didn't seem justified. I suspected she and House had some sort of past. She had looked at House as if she didn't know whether to damn him or date him.
We went out and found Nurse Brenda Previn. Brenda clearly disliked House--her lip curled every time his name was mentioned--and I believed her implicitly when she said with the greatest reluctance that House had been around all that afternoon, and had certainly done his own clinic duty. She also recalled that he had gone back towards his office afterwards, and she'd seen him leave the hospital a couple of hours later. And what really clinched it was that she pointed out there would be a record on the CCTV cameras, which pointed both at the clinic station and also at the main door.
"We had those put in after House got shot," Cuddy explained.
"House got shot?" I was fed up being surprised by new information about House. Not that it was particularly surprising that someone would want to shoot House, actually. I'd been strongly tempted myself just this morning.
"A guy just walked in, shot House in his own office, and left before anyone thought to stop him." Cuddy sighed. "I'll get you the tapes for Saturday."
She walked me up to House's office first. I wasn't surprised it was next door to Wilson's; in fact, I would have been surprised if it hadn't been. The door and walls were all glass, and I wondered if this was part of Cuddy's strategy of always checking up on House. Certainly we were able to see clearly from outside that House was hard at work, playing a retro-style game on his computer. Lemmings, from the look of it. Cuddy opened the door to the adjoining conference room, also with glass walls, where three doctors in white coats were sitting waiting for us.
"Mr. Goodwin, these are House's fellows; Robert Chase, Allison Cameron and Eric Foreman," she introduced us. "Guys, this is Archie Goodwin from Nero Wolfe's office. I don't know what House has said to you, but I'm ordering you all to give Mr. Goodwin all the help you can, and tell him the truth. Mr. Goodwin, I'll go get you the tapes."
Cuddy left, and I immediately forgot about her cleavage, because sitting there in the middle was a girl who was easiest on the eye of any doctor I ever saw. In fact, she was the girl who I was going to marry. I envisaged the phone call I would have to make to Wolfe after this meeting. I'd have to explain that Jersey had more attractions than I'd realized. The commute from Princeton to the brownstone would be a drag, though. Actually, as she worked for House, and as House had to be old enough to be her father, that would kind of make House my father-in-law. This might need a bit more consideration.
The three of them were looking at me expectantly. I dragged my attention away from Cameron to take in the other two. Robert Chase, smiling; Eric Foreman, suspicious glare. I then looked back at Cameron again and smiled, and noticed out of the corner of my eye that Chase's expression changed to suspicious too.
I asked the three of them about Saturday, and the picture that emerged confirmed that House had been around all day and into the evening. As well as the notoriety of House's Saturday afternoon clinic duty, they had gotten a patient that morning, and although House had diagnosed him swiftly with vasculitis, none of the three of them had believed it, and had spent the afternoon and early evening running tests for other things. Apparently, it was never vasculitis. Except it had been, this time. They'd called it a day when the last test came back about nine PM, when all three of them had seen House in his office.
"Does he usually stay that late?" I asked. House didn't strike me as a workaholic.
"No," said Foreman. "He's outta the door at five. Earlier, if he can get away with it."
"Not when we have a patient," Cameron protested. "He might stay all night."
"Not after the patient's been diagnosed," Chase pointed out, and Cameron reluctantly agreed.
"So why'd he hang around this time?" I pressed.
"Presumably for the same reason he did the clinic duty," Chase suggested. "He was trying to get out of something else that evening. We didn't know what at the time, but I guess now we know it was the party Wilson was at."
They had seen the papers, of course, and were unanimous in their surprise and shock at Wilson's arrest. Wilson would never have murdered anybody.
"Except House sometimes, but then we could all murder House sometimes," said Foreman. "If House ever gets offed, you'll have a wide circle of suspects."
"That's not funny," Cameron said reprovingly. "You know House nearly was murdered." She looked at me. "He was shot. It was terrible. We were all right there." She paused, and added, "Thank goodness he didn't die, it would have been a terrible loss."
I was starting to sense some hero worship here. Maybe Cameron didn't just see House as a father-figure.
Chase offered another opinion. "House didn't murder this woman, he'd never let Wilson take the blame."
I thought that was a pretty convincing argument, but Cameron looked dubious and Foreman downright skeptical.
"Remember Tritter?" Foreman asked, and looking at me, explained, "Cop. Went after House. House forged prescriptions in Wilson's name, Wilson could've gone to jail. House dumped on Wilson, big-time, and never lifted a finger to help him."
"That's not true," Cameron burst out, and an argument ensued, Cameron apparently taking the line that Wilson had betrayed House somewhere along the line and it was very generous of House to have forgiven him. I couldn't follow the detail, much as I would have liked to. It transpired during the course of the conversation that Foreman had resigned from House's employ a week ago, and was currently working out his notice. Hey, somebody here had the sense to be getting out from under House after all.
The conversation ended when Cuddy appeared with CCTV tapes. We went through to House's office, where House had a TV and VCR; Cuddy stuck a tape in and we all solemnly sat and watched images of House (and Chase, Cameron, Foreman and Cuddy herself) moving around the hospital last Saturday afternoon and evening, well after the point where any of them would have had to have left to get to New York in time to kill Catherine Wilson. I thanked Cuddy for the tapes and gave her a receipt.
I said goodbye to Cuddy, Cuddy's cleavage, my future wife, and House's other staff, and left with House to go to Wilson's.
"Have fun with my staff?" House asked in the car.
"They seem like a nice bunch."
"I've got the smallest department in the hospital but it shows up damn well in the diversity stats," House said cheerfully. "Twenty-five per cent disabled, twenty-five per cent black, twenty-five per cent female, twenty-five per cent British. If I could just persuade Prince Charles to discover his inner gayness I'd hit the equal opps jackpot. Unfortunately he seems more focused on banging Cameron in the broom closet."
I was sorry to hear that about Cameron, though not surprised. I supposed marriage to her would never have worked out anyway. Actually, the thought of being attached to anyone near House was discouragement enough.
Wilson lived in a hotel. I might have vowed not to be surprised about anything with House anymore, but I could clearly still be surprised about Wilson. I wasn't surprised that House had a key to Wilson's room. I wandered around, musing on how few possessions Wilson seemed to have. There had been more personal items in his office--hell, on his desk--then there were at his home.
"So why does Wilson live in a hotel?" I asked, as House moved around, opening and shutting closets, flinging a random selection of clothes into a bag.
"You'd have to ask him that," House said shortly.
I'd hit a nerve. One of House's nerves, too. "How long has he lived in a hotel?" I altered my angle of enquiry.
"Since his third marriage ended, more than a year ago," House said, turning to open a drawer so I couldn't see his face.
"More than a year in a hotel," I mused. "Must be expensive."
"Wilson's a department head, he can afford it," House said in a tone of dismissal. "Why do you live with Wolfe, anyway? And Fritz, too?"
"Goes with the job," I said breezily. "Wolfe never leaves home, remember. And you had dinner with us last night--if you could eat Fritz's cooking at every meal, would you live anywhere else?"
I expected a smart comeback, but House didn't reply.
--
We were back in the Heron heading towards New York when Wolfe called me on my cell. He was hoping to hear about the emails we had found. Saul and Fred had rustled up the two troublemaking women, Tammy Marchant and Sandra Jenner. Wolfe was about to see them both, and he thought it might be useful to know the information in the emails first. When he realized I was driving, however, Wolfe backed off immediately. Wolfe thinks I put myself in mortal peril every time I step in a car. He also hates cell phones, and the idea of taking a call on a cell in a car amplified these two anxieties way beyond the sum of their parts.
"I'm on hands free!" I said, annoyed.
"You should be concentrating on the road," Wolfe said firmly.
"Mr. Wolfe," House butted in. "I'm not driving, I'm just sitting here. I could read you the emails."
The man just couldn't help sticking his nose in. I glared at House. House looked back innocently. Wolfe was silent for a few seconds, then agreed. House found the emails, spent a minute rustling pages, then started to read them out. There were seven emails in all; House started reading from the bottom of the string, so we got them in chronological order.
From: Cath
To: James
Hi James,
Sorry I haven't been in touch for a while. And yes, there's a reason I'm emailing now! I'm coming through Jersey with Scott next week on the way to Atlantic City, and I thought maybe we could detour via Princeton and say hi, perhaps meet for lunch?
Hope you're well. In other news, I'm thinking about branching out into conference event planning. It's got a lot of potential. The only trouble is there's this other woman who does the same thing, thinks I'm invading her turf. She's pretty hostile, keeps badmouthing me to potential clients. I'm hoping I don't wake up one day and find a horse's head in my bed.
Hope to see you soon,
Cath
From: James
To: Cath
Hi Cath,
Nice to hear from you. Interested to hear about the conference planning, must be a good line to go into, I go to so many conferences! Does this mean business is good? Sure, lunch would be fine, I'll be interested to meet Scott. BTW you remember House--he'll be coming along too.
James
"You should know," House interrupted his own reading to interject here, "Wilson really didn't want to meet them, but felt he should, the idiot. He couldn't face it on his own so he bribed me to come along."
"What did he bribe you with?" I said, curious.
"He did a week of my clinic duty. Afterwards I said it should have been two weeks." House paused, thinking. "He paid for lunch too, of course. Lunch for four at Cafe Spiletto, must've cost a pretty penny. Anyway..."
From: Cath
To: James
Hi James,
Yes, work is going well. Lots of bookings, keeping me busy, happy clients making personal recommendations which is always the best way. There's just one pain in the ass client at the moment, this woman who thinks I wrecked her wedding when she basically wrecked it herself. She won't stop phoning and faxing and emailing me, demanding compensation. She can go to hell, she's not getting anything out of me.
Of course I remember House, and I'm sure we'll all have a lovely lunch together. I'll call you nearer the time to arrange a time and place. Looking forward to seeing you!
Cath
"Lovely lunch my ass. It sucked big time," House pronounced. "Awkward as hell. Conversation impossible. Boyfriend was an idiot. I'd have left in a heartbeat but Wilson struggled through, being a sucker for punishment." A thought occurred, and he tapped the sheaf of papers on the dashboard for emphasis. "I tell a lie. It was a lovely lunch, in that the food was fan-tas-tic." He smacked his lips together. "I had the foie gras and the lobster. And we had this very nice bottle of Bordeaux which I pretty much drank on my own. Cath and Scott couldn't have much of it because they were driving, and Wilson didn't have much of it because he had a patient or something that afternoon. I don't know, scheduling patients after lunch, he should know better."
I mused that Wilson really had had to bribe House with that lunch.
We now had the references to both the trouble-making women which Wolfe had wanted, which was good. Actual documentary evidence of other suspects. There were still a few more emails in the string, so House continued reading.
From: James
To: Cath
Dear Cath,
It was very nice to see you the other day and to meet Scott. Sorry House was being a bastard, but you know what he's like. Anyway I hope you enjoy the rest of your trip.
James
I looked at House to see what his reaction was to that one. He had a satisfied smirk on his face.
From: James
To: Cath
Dear Cath,
I just got the invitation to your engagement party, congratulations! I don't think I'll be able to come unfortunately, but sure I'm it will be a great event.
Say hi to Scott from me. All the best!
James
"He showed me the invite," House remembered. "Very fancy, heavy cream card and calligraphy. I said, I hope you don't expect me to come to that, it'll cost you the rest of the year in clinic duty. He laughed and said even he drew the line at that." House sighed and looked down for the next email.
From: Cath
To: James
James,
PLEASE come, I really want you to be there, I know it might seem a bit weird but it would be great to feel I kind of had your approval. It's like a whole new start for me, and I'd be so happy to see you there.
Cath
From: James
To: Cath
I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was so important to you. Of course I'll come. I'll be leaving House at home this time, I imagine that will come as a relief to you!
James
"Idiot couldn't say no," House said shortly. "Damsel in distress needs him, he has to go try to help. Story of his life."
Wolfe thanked House for reading the emails, said rather curtly that he hoped I still had my full attention on the road, and hung up.
--
As we approached the city half an hour later, I noticed that House appeared to be increasingly uncomfortable. He started to shift around in his seat, moving his bum leg around. I asked if he was okay. It was a mistake.
"Of course I'm okay," House snarled. "I'm a cripple who's been cramped in this stupid car for a pointless hundred mile round trip."
I dropped House at his hotel. "Tell Wilson I'll see him tomorrow," House muttered as he clambered out of the car. I watched him climb the few steps up to the hotel door, leaning heavily on his cane; it looked like it was a big effort for him.
I got home to find Wilson playing pool in the basement with Fritz. They looked like they were having fun, but Fritz had to go prepare dinner, so I offered to finish the game. Wilson wasn't bad. I beat him with no problem, but it was a good game.
"I'm rusty," he said afterwards. "House and I used to play a lot, years ago...his leg means he can't really stand steady enough to line up the shots properly any more." He smiled self-consciously. "These days we play foosball instead."
"What happened to his leg?" I was curious. "He hasn't always been crippled?"
"Oh, no. God no." Wilson put the cue down and leaned against a bookcase. "He had an infarction--a blood clot in his thigh--about eight years ago. It wasn't diagnosed for three days, until he figured it out himself, and he suffered muscle cell death in the meantime. It's left him in chronic pain. As you might have noticed." Wilson sighed. "Before that he used to do everything. He played lacrosse, he played golf, he ran, he swam, he skated, anything he tried he was good at." He looked at me. "Where'd he go, anyway? Back to his hotel?"
"Yeah," I said. "He said he'd see you tomorrow. It looked like his leg was playing up a bit. I guess he wanted to rest."
Mistake. Wilson stiffened and looked sharply at me. "What do you mean, playing up a bit?"
I tried to describe how House had looked. I played it down as far as I could, but could see I wasn't fooling Wilson. He asked a few questions and then went quiet. A minute later he excused himself to go back to his room.
Twenty-four hours earlier I wouldn't have thought anything of it, but I had a pretty good handle now on House and Wilson and what made them tick. Wilson wasn't an obvious psycho like House, but they had a lot more in common than appeared at first glance. I went and lurked in the hallway, out of sight behind the coat stand, and a few minutes later Wilson came creeping down the stairs, wearing his overcoat. Wilson glanced around, then walked swiftly towards the front door.
I stepped out to intercept him. "Whoa there, sonny Jim. You're not leaving this house. The police will arrest you and fling your ass in jail if they catch you." Wilson stepped sideways; I stepped with him, grabbed his lapel, and propelled him backwards a few paces. "And if you end up back in jail, Mr. Wolfe will not be happy, and House might actually kill me."
"I've got to see House." Wilson was adamant. "His leg has gone into spasm. He'll be in agony. He's on his own in a crappy hotel room, miles from home, away from the hospital."
"He's got his pills, hasn't he? Won't they have kicked in by now?"
"Archie, you don't understand." Wilson was vehement. "The Vicodin keeps him functioning, but sometimes they're not enough." Wilson caught my eye and held my gaze.
I caved. It was that or lock Wilson in his room. And bastard that he was, I didn't like the idea of House suffering on his own either. I told Wilson firmly that I was coming too and we were going out the back way. I gave Herb Aronson a call, and got him to meet us in his cab at the back of the brownstone in five minutes. On the way to the hotel I called Wolfe on my cell and explained briefly where I was and what had happened. Wolfe, grumpy at being disturbed in the plant rooms, merely grunted.
We arrived at House's hotel room. As the previous occupant, Wilson still had his own key card, and it still worked. Wilson knocked on the door in a perfunctory manner, and let himself in without waiting for an answer.
House was lying in bed, body hunched up, his face covered in sweat. His voice when he spoke, though, had lost none of its acid. "What the fuck? --Wilson, what the hell are you doing here?"
Wilson ignored the question and went over to House. I lingered by the door. Wilson didn't touch House, just stood a foot or so away, looking down at him.
"Looks like you need a session with Ingrid," Wilson said, his voice deliberately light.
"Yeah, she's only in the next state. Call her, will you, get her to drive fifty miles." House had shut his eyes. His breathing was ragged. "I can ride this out."
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, then turned and walked back towards me. He nodded at the door, and we both stepped out into the corridor. I flipped the lock on the door so it closed but didn't lock. Wilson pushed it shut behind him.
"Archie, do me a favor, take a walk. Go sit in the bar for half an hour," he said quietly.
"No way." I didn't want to let Wilson out of my sight.
"Archie, House is in really--bad--pain." Wilson spoke with emphasis. "He's obviously taken all the Vicodin he dares--which is way too much anyway--and he'd probably take more than that if he was at home. But he's not at home, he's here in New York because of me, and he's not risking overdosing while he's out here. And there's nothing I can do, except try and get him to let me massage his leg. And he hates that, and he's sure as hell not going to allow it while you're around. Please, Archie."
I caved again. "Twenty minutes," I said. Wilson looked grateful. "I'll be right outside."
Wilson went back into the room. I stood outside for a few minutes, then figured the odds on Wilson absconding out the fire escape were low, as House would not be going with him in that state. I walked down to the hotel bar and ordered a glass of milk. No sooner had I taken a sip then my cell rang. It was Wolfe.
"Lieutenant Rowcliff was here looking for Dr. Wilson," Wolfe said. He sounded furious. "Fritz denied him entry. Rowcliff was verbally abusive and shouted through the door. He suspects Dr. Wilson is not in the brownstone. He knows Dr. Wilson has a friend in New York, who stood bail, and it will take only one phone call for him to find out who Dr. House is and where he is staying."
"I'm on my way." I was already half way up to House's room. There was a police siren in the distance, getting louder and louder. It stopped right outside the hotel. I flipped my cell shut and ran the rest of the way.
"We have to go--" I burst in the door and stopped a couple of feet into the room, taken aback. House was sitting up on the bed, he wasn't wearing his pants, and there was a huge, ugly gash running the length of his right thigh. The scar was enormous and black, and deep. I looked at House's leg, and I couldn't imagine how he could even walk, let alone do anything else.
Wilson, sitting next to the bed, raised his head and glared at me. House, apparently past caring too much, didn't react.
"Wilson, we have to go right now," I said, trying not to look like I had been staring at House's leg. "Lieutenant Rowcliff is looking for you, there's a police car right outside and they'll be up here any minute."
Wilson hesitated. House rasped, "For fuck's sake, go, Wilson. Do you want to end up in jail again? And you are not losing me that bail money."
Wilson stood up reluctantly.
"I'll handle Rowcliff," House said, reaching for his pants as I opened the door to leave.
"Get him stuttering," I advised over my shoulder.
I raced towards the back stairs and Wilson followed. We were just in time. I heard the elevator ping behind us as it arrived on our floor just as we entered the stairwell.
--
Back in Herb's cab, heading back to the brownstone, Wilson said abruptly, "Archie, is it possible that House could come and stay at Mr. Wolfe's house? You've got another guest room, haven't you?"
I was reluctant to land Wolfe with a second houseguest, having never actually asked before taking in the first one. "Talk to Wolfe."
We arrived back at the brownstone, came in the back way, and found Wolfe in the office. Wilson came and sat in the red chair, and apologized for the trouble he'd caused. He then pitched his request for House to stay.
"We can get a doctor to see Dr. House," Wolfe said, seeking another solution. "Any medication he might need prescribed--Dr. Vollmer could--"
Wilson sighed. "I'm a doctor. House is a doctor. Mr. Wolfe, House is a self-confessed drug addict. He's addicted to Vicodin, and no other medical professional would prescribe the amount that I do, not without knowledge of House's medical history. And anyway, right now even the Vicodin isn't enough, nothing short of morphine would help, and even House knows that's really not a good idea."
Wolfe was seeking to understand. "Drug addict is a strong statement. I can see he could be dependent on the Vicodin to function. But addicted?"
"House is both chemically dependent and addicted," Wilson stated unequivocally. "Part of the problem is that he has an addictive personality, he's a thrill-seeker--never afraid to experiment, always after new highs, and he'll lie and cheat to get what he wants. But he also has good reason for it--he's missing most of the thigh muscle in that leg, and he suffers from chronic pain. No medication can wholly relieve chronic pain, it can only manage it. House has tried many medications and only opiods have ever made a difference to him."
"There must be other options open to him, apart from medication?" Wolfe queried.
"Rehab? He's tried it. Kind of. When it was that or jail. I've seen him detox a few times--once in a managed way in rehab, a couple of times cold turkey--it's not a pretty sight, and fundamentally he doesn't want to do it enough." Wilson ticked off on his fingers. "Experimental treatments? --House is first in line, he once faked brain cancer to try and enter an experimental trial. Physical therapy? It got him out of a wheelchair and walking again in the first place, it doesn't help now with the pain. Massage, heat treatment, that can help a bit, but he's out of his comfort zone here. I know you only met him yesterday but you can see what he's like. He's terribly proud, very independent, has to be practically at death's door before he asks for help from anyone, including me. Especially me. He won't accept pity, or what he perceives as pity; he once catheterized himself rather than get me or any other doctor to do it. He's never comfortable in hotels, certainly not in the one he's in at the moment, the bed there is really not providing enough support."
Once he was sure that he understood the situation, Wolfe swiftly came to a decision.
"Dr. Wilson, I will be honored if Dr. House comes to stay in this house while he is in New York." Wilson looked relieved. Wolfe looked at me. "Archie, please ask Fritz to air the North Room and then go and fetch Dr. House. You are not going too, Dr. Wilson," Wolfe added sternly. "I think it very likely that the police will return to check your whereabouts, having failed to see you this afternoon."
I went to get House. At least this time, on my own, I was able to walk down the front steps and get in a cab openly. I found House in his hotel room, fully dressed, on his feet, apparently trying to walk off the pain. Although he was evidently suffering, he was actually chipper after his encounter with Rowcliff. House had picked up on my tip and managed to get Rowcliff stuttering within a minute or two of bursting into the room; very satisfactory, as Wolfe would have said.
I'd wondered if House might be too pig-headed to come back to the brownstone with me, but instead he graciously accepted the invitation, remarking that the hotel mattress was the worst he'd ever tried to sleep on, and that included the camping mat he'd had as a kid and the bed in the room of a seriously cheap hooker in Shanghai. He didn't have a lot of stuff to pack, fortunately, just one small knapsack. We were soon ready to go and House checked out of the hotel.
By the time the cab pulled up outside the brownstone I was afraid that I'd have to carry him. Not that House would have allowed such a thing while he was still conscious. He got out of the cab and headed up the seven steps with a look of grim determination. I could see the muscles in his hand and arm bulging and flexing, as he leaned almost all his weight on the cane. There was no point offering to help, although I did pick up his bag and he pretended not to notice. I went up ahead of him to open the door, and then down again to the street to pay off the cab. I headed quickly back up the steps, and paused on the top of the stoop. I looked into the brownstone through the front door.
House was in the hallway swaying heavily on his feet, and I realized he'd been waiting for me to get out of sight before he'd let himself show this sign of mortality. For a second I thought he was going to fall, but then Wilson was there, grabbing his arm, and House actually let him take it. He must have been bad. Wilson led House to the elevator, and they went on up to the North Room.
I came back inside the brownstone and shut the front door behind me. I then spotted Wolfe, standing in the office, peering into the hall. He'd seen the same as I had.
"It beggars belief in this day and age that a man, a medical doctor, can be in such pain," Wolfe expounded. "It seems ludicrous that modern medicine can be so inadequate."
END OF PART FOUR