The hospital lift doors opened on the fourth floor, and Bodie and Doyle stepped out. As the two CI5 men walked down the corridor to the floor nurse’s station, Doyle said, “We’re in luck, Bodie. No one else’s around.”
Nodding in agreement, Bodie stopped at the four-foot-high counter that separated the ward desk from the hospital’s pedestrian traffic while Doyle split off to the right, where the patients’ charts were neatly slotted in a standalone filing display.
“Excuse me, sister,” Bodie flashed the pretty nurse his devil-may-care grin, “I’m lookin’ for a mate of mine. Name’s Murphy -- you’d know ‘im right off the bat. Tall, dark and handsome -- though not as good looking as me.” Bodie leaned over the barrier. “Can you tell me what room he’s in --” he peered appreciatively at the young woman’s chest and read the name on her badge, “Christy?”
The novice sister’s attention was totally occupied by the overly familiar stranger in front of her, and she did not see Doyle pick up one of the charts, scan it and return it to the chart rack. Joining his partner at the counter, Ray asked, “What room is Mr. Murphy in, luv?”
Smoothly straightening up, Bodied remained silent while the flustered nurse collected herself enough to answer calmly, “Mr. Murphy’s in room 417, about halfway down the hall to your right.”
The two men smiled their thanks and headed down the corridor to visit their recovering fellow agent.
“That was a waste of your charm,” Doyle remarked as they walked away. “There’s nothing on his chart but the surname: Murphy.”
“My charm is never wasted, Raymond,” Bodie rebuked.
Doyle let that slide. “The prognosis is good for a full and speedy recovery,” he said, knowing that Bodie was inwardly fretting if not guilt-ridden over involving Murphy in his chimney-climbing stunt yesterday, which had landed six-two with a bullet in his shoulder.
Pleased at the news, Bodie nevertheless returned to the subject at hand. “We’ll just have to execute Plan B, that’s all.”
Unnoticed, Doyle scowled. He was beginning to wish he’d never expressed his curiosity about the Smurph’s distinct lack of a first name while he and Bodie were pub-crawling last night. Bodie’s devious military mind had seized on the chart-reading caper they had just unsuccessfully completed as a harmless way to discover Murphy’s full name. His partner hadn’t mentioned a back-up plan at that time, and Doyle was sure that they should quit while they were ahead. Apparently, Doyle’s curiosity had sparked a similar interest in Bodie, who was not easily thwarted from his goals, no matter how trivial they turned out to be.
“Plan B? What’s that?”
“A wee bit of breaking and entering, laddie,” Bodie spoke with strong overtones of the Cow’s Scottish accent.
“The CI5 personnel files?! You want us to break into Cowley’s office?” Doyle came to a screeching halt. “Are you daft?”
“Listen, Ray. This will work; I know it will.”
Reluctantly, Ray’s green eyes turned to his partner. “Okay...I’m listening.”
“First, we don’t have to break into the Cow’s office to get the files -- or the central filing room, either. Ingrid’s got ‘em in her office.”
About to ask why Cowley’s current secretary had custody of the personnel files, Doyle remembered that CI5’s semiannual performance review was starting in a few days. “So?”
“So, I’ve got keys to the filing cabinets.”
“What? You sweet-talked Icy Ingrid into giving you her keys? I’m impressed, Bodie.”
“No,” Bodie fidgeted, “I had copies made when I was seeing Betty a few years back. Look, Ray, the Old Man changes his secretaries three times a year, but he doesn’t rotate his filing cabinets.”
“Maybe he should.” Doyle glanced sharply at his partner. “’M glad you’re on our side,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Eh?”
“Let’s go tell Murphy the good news,” Doyle improvised as they reached the door to room 417.
* * *
“That was too easy,” Bodie complained in the scant light of Ingrid’s desk lamp, turned on at its lowest setting.
“Of course it was easy -- for us,” Doyle amplified. “We know that the computer nightshift only uses the basement, we’re expert lock-picks, and we know the night watchman’s exact routine. Anyone else would have his work cut out, breaking into CI5, believe me, mate.” Doyle sneaked a peek at his watch. “We’ve only got 18 minutes ‘til Fred’s next pass.”
Taking the hint, Bodie padded silently over to the filing cabinet and pulled out his duplicate file key. Quietly, he unlocked the case and, aided by his penlight, located Murphy’s folder, bringing it back to the desk. He seated himself and brought the file’s first page over to the barely adequate light source to read.
“Bloody hell!” he hissed softly.
Doyle was instantly alert. “Bodie?”
“The Smurph beat us to it, the crafty devil! He’s gone and put white-out over the first and second names on the application!” Picking up another sheet from the folder, Bodie whispered, “Crikey! ’E did it throughout the entire file! How bad could his given name be?”
“Dunno... Alistair? Seamus? Eugene?” Doyle guessed.
“Have to go to Plan C to find out.”
Doyle winced. “Plan C?”
“Computer files,” Bodie said with determination.
Rapidly joining Bodie’s side of the desk, Doyle whispered fiercely, “Now just a minute, Bodie! Enough’s enough! That computer tracks everyone who uses it, every time they use it, and it’s got more passwords and secret codes than a Get Smart rerun! We are not bustin’ into CI5’s computer!”
He firmly nudged his partner out of the chair. “Let me have a look at that file first.” Picking up the top sheet of paper and holding it up to the lamp, Ray muttered idly, “How bad could a name be? Maybe it’s redundant, like Murphy O’Shaughnessy Murphy or, even worse, Murphy Murphy Murphy.”
“3M, eh? In that case, he oughta tape his mouth shut and move to Minnesota!” Bodie glanced expectantly at his partner, but Doyle remained buried in his file reading. Bodie frowned. If he could think up outrageous stateside puns about companies that made tape and Post-it notes, Doyle should at least acknowledge how terrible they were.
Minutes later, Doyle radiated quiet triumph. “Ah-ha!”
“What is it?”
“He got careless towards the end, or p’raps he was running out of white-out. The last page has a spot I can almost read through.” Doyle held the page up as close as he could to the light and, straining to read the letters, whispered, “U-L-Y-S-S-E-S.”
“Ulysses! Ugh!”
“Shhh! It gets worse.” Doyle spelled out the middle name, “F-L-A-V-I-U-S.”
“Ulysses Flavius!” Bodie was speechless.
“Yeah...the poor kid.”
“Well, just think what the other kids would’ve called him: Uly, Useless, Lissie, Lizzie....” Doyle unconsciously fingered his damaged cheekbone. “Children can be so cruel sometimes.”
Bodie remained silent.
“Aw, c’mon, Bodie. You must’ve been teased, too. William Andrew Phillip Bodie? At least your names are common -- even if there are three of them.”
“Common?” Bodie echoed disdainfully. “Regal, not common, old son.”
Ray chuckled quietly. “Regal, eh? So what’d they call you when you were growin’ up, ‘King’?” Doyle wondered if he would finally discover Bodie’s youthful moniker: Bill, Will, Phil...Willy-Nilly?
“No, they did not,” and Bodie failed to elaborate any further. Gathering up the file from the desk, he stealthily crossed back to the cabinet, put the pilfered file back and locked the drawer. They only had four minutes left before Fred strolled down the hallway. “Ulysses Flavius Murphy,” he said, awed. “Well, he’ll never hear it from me.”
The room was conspicuously silent.
“Ray?” he prodded.
“Nor me,” Doyle agreed hastily, flicking off the desk light. As the twosome stole over to the door, Doyle tacked on honestly, “Unless Murphy gets me really, really narked at ’im.”
THE END
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