Grave Error

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “Perhaps,” Nelson answered. “Have you an opinion on the general subject of single women living alone in San Francisco, Mr. Tanner?”

  “I only jump into squabbles I’ve been paid to get into, Mr. Nelson.”

  “Very sensible,” he said.

  “Claire will change her mind when she thinks it over, Mr. Nelson,” the burly man said confidently. “I’ll convince her it wouldn’t be a good idea to move out of here.” He patted her knee and tossed her a proprietary glance. Claire caught it and didn’t seem to mind.

  “I’m sure she will consider your views, Mr. Rodman,” Nelson replied stiffly. “It has become all too apparent in the past few months that she values your judgment more than mine. Or her mother’s.”

  Rodman just shrugged his shoulders.

  “You know that isn’t so, Roland,” Claire insisted. “You’re just upset because you’re not going to get your way for once. It’ll work out. You’ll see.”

  Nelson chuckled dryly and shook his head. Mrs. Nelson came back and handed me my Scotch. I sipped it idly. No one was paying any attention to me.

  “I’m sure it will work out, too, dear,” Mrs. Nelson said to her daughter. “I can understand being desperate to get away from home. I was, too, once.”

  “How old were you when you left?” Claire asked. “Where did you go?”

  The question hung in the air like a blimp. Mrs. Nelson smiled but didn’t answer, and Claire looked eagerly from face to face, searching for support, but no one met her eyes. There seemed to be some tension in the room, shared by everyone but me. I just wanted another drink.

  “Well,” Nelson said abruptly, “we can debate this another time. Mr. Tanner is here to discuss Institute business, not Claire’s future domicile. Perhaps you will excuse yourself so we can proceed, Mr. Rodman.”

  “Sure,” Rodman said. “I’ll be taking off. See you tomorrow, Claire.”

  Rodman got up and headed for the door and Claire said she would see him out. She pushed a button and her chair surged forward briefly, then pivoted and followed Rodman out of the room, whirring like a dentist’s drill.

  “I’m afraid Claire is quite smitten with Rodman,” Nelson said to me after they had gone. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Do you have children, Mr. Tanner?”

  “No. Nor a wife.”

  “Then all this must seem strange to you.”

  “Not really. I come from a big family. We were fighting all the time. I’ve got four scars on my body and three of them were put there by my brothers.”

  Nelson wasn’t paying attention. “I truly want Claire to be like other girls,” he said abstractedly, “to have the same freedom, the same interests, the same opportunities. But I can’t ignore the fact that she’s a cripple. I simply must make sure she isn’t hurt any more than is inevitable.”

  “Most people get hurt at one time or another, Mr. Nelson,” I said. “You can’t prevent it, but sometimes you can keep the pain from lasting too long.”

  “Perhaps,” Nelson said and turned back to the fireplace. “I don’t like Rodman,” he went on. “He’s too old for Claire. I think he’s after something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, but Alvin Rodman is simply not the type of individual who would find someone like Claire attractive. He must be seeking some other prize.”

  “You could do a lot of damage if you’re wrong,” I said.

  “I’m aware of that. But I’d bet my life that Rodman is not in love with a lame little girl.”

  “She’s not little anymore, Roland,” Mrs. Nelson interjected sternly. “You treat her like a baby and you must stop it. Al is a perfectly fine man and he is obviously very fond of Claire. I for one hope they get married.”

  “God forbid.” Nelson looked pained.

  Claire and her chair rolled back into the room. Her eyes were as bright as brass buttons.

  “Al says I’m being unfair to you, Roland,” she said soberly. “Am I?”

  “I don’t know, Claire. Can we talk about it later?”

  Claire nodded. The rest of us sat down. A grandfather clock subdivided the silence and offered it cheap.

  “You’re a private detective,” Nelson began. It was an accusation, but one I was used to.

  “Correct.”

  “Do you work alone, or do you have an agency?”

  “Alone.”

  “What happens if you need additional personnel to do a satisfactory job?”

  “I have a couple of men who help me out once in a while. Or I hire someone from one of the big outfits, like Cork.”

  “Then why should we use you instead of Cork?”

  “Because I’m good. And because with me you know who you’re getting. With Cork you can’t tell until it’s too late.”

  “Have you ever done anything like this before?”

  I nodded. “I’ve assumed cover identities to get inside companies and expose industrial espionage. That kind of thing.”

  “And you plan a similar operation at the mental health clinic?”

  “That’s about the only way to verify the suspicions you all seem to have.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Maybe a few days; maybe several weeks. Of course they might be legit.”

  “No. They are engaged in a fraudulent enterprise. You may be certain of it. My source is unimpeachable.”

  “Every source is impeachable,” I said.

  “Not this one,” Nelson answered. “The only question here is whether you can get evidence to prove what we know is happening. The Langdale clinics are bogus. And lethal. They are owned and operated by criminal elements. What you have to do is prove it.”

  “If I do find some evidence, what do I do—turn it over to the police?”

  “Definitely not. Report immediately to Bill Freedman. Take no further action until you are authorized to do so.”

  “I have a license, you know. The bureau doesn’t take kindly to withholding evidence of a crime.”

  “If you prove a crime has been committed you needn’t worry about the evidence being withheld, Mr. Tanner.”

  “I hope not.” I almost pursued the subject further, until I remembered I wasn’t going to do the job in the first place.

  “You know that these clinics may be financed by organized crime,” Nelson continued.

  “Yes.”

  “Does that worry you?”

  “Sure. It should worry you, too.”

  “Have you dealt with that element before?”

  “A few times. Mostly around the edges. San Francisco doesn’t have much of that action.”

  “Will you be recognized?”

  “It’s possible, but I doubt it. The mob and I don’t travel in the same circles; I can’t afford the tab.”

  Nelson looked at me levelly, and those liquid eyes became chips of granite. “I trust you will take suitable precautions. It could be very damaging to the Institute if you are harmed in some way. Very damaging.”

  “To say nothing of the damage to me.” I was getting tired of being grilled by Roland Nelson. I liked it better on the other side of the questions.

  “Just remember that we must, above all, receive accurate information,” Nelson added. “No mistakes; no false charges. There are many people waiting for the Institute to stumble so they can drive us all the way to the ground. I will not allow that to happen.” Nelson’s face reddened.

  “I try not to make mistakes either,” I said. “They can be hazardous to my health.”

  “I suppose that’s true. Perhaps I’m overly concerned, but this is the first time we’ve gone outside the Institute for assistance. I hope we’re not making a mistake.”

  “And I hope the information I dig up will be used responsibly.”

  “You needn’t worry about that.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see whether one of us should have worried a little more.”

  Nelson set his glass on a
table, uttered a deep sigh, and lowered his head to his hands. His eyes fixed on the glint off a crystal ashtray on the table in front of him. “Many people cannot meet my standards,” he said slowly, his voice now strained and halting. “So many want to do things the easy way, the quick way, the fun way. They fail to understand that the convenient way is always wrong; conversely, the most difficult approach is invariably the best. It has been my experience that excellence does not result from having fun, but only from working hard. Young people have trouble understanding this.”

  “So do old people,” I said, just to be saying something.

  “My philosophy is simple,” Nelson continued. “Each of us is privileged to be a human being, to be blessed with the ability to think, to communicate, to analyze. All men have an obligation to justify the precious status awarded them, to earn the right to be called men. It is a universal imperative. We must live the good life in order to be worthy of life itself.

  “Of course it is not easy to do good in the world. Many forces, from within and without, are arrayed against us. First, we must conquer our own fear, the fear that keeps people, good people, from standing up for their rights, the fear that allows governments and corporations to victimize those they are supposed to serve. And once the fear is conquered, we must prepare for the fight. Get the facts, despite the obstacles, despite the lies and treacheries, then use them. In the press, in the courts, in the streets if necessary.”

  Nelson’s wife and daughter couldn’t take their eyes off him. Neither could I. I thought of pictures I had seen, of Karl Marx and Cotton Mather and other crusaders, whose eyes seemed to see clearly things that remained blurred and vague to other men.

  “There will be mistakes along the way, of course,” Nelson intoned. “Serious mistakes. But that is not important. Perseverance is the key. To persevere, even though it may seem the goal is not worth the effort, or that the effort is ineffectual. So many quit at the first obstacle. I’ve been tempted to quit many times, to fool myself into believing that other things, easier things, are more significant. But surrender is easy; therefore, it is wrong. To continue the fight is difficult; therefore, it is right. It’s a simple equation.”

  Nelson’s soliloquy thundered into silence. His words were those of an inquisitor, a man who sat in judgment of others and found most of them wanting, including himself. I wondered if they were also the words of a man laboring to assuage his guilt over a momentary surrender to baser instincts. Anyone with a sense of morality as highly developed as Nelson’s could easily be lured into blackmail. Few sexual aberrations would fit into the code he had just expressed.

  The grandfather clock was still slicing up the silence when Nelson suddenly shuddered, his whole body twitching violently, as if to rid itself of demons. “I have to go,” he said abruptly. “I’m speaking at the university tonight. Give me a call if you run into problems. We have many resources at the Institute.”

  “If I run into problems with the syndicate, you don’t have the kind of resources I’ll need.”

  Nelson stood up, clearly eager to get away. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” he said.

  “Let’s.”

  Nelson hurried toward the door, then turned back. “I’ve found very few people in this world whom I can trust,” he said to me. “I hope after this is over I can add your name to the list.” Then he was gone.

  Somewhere a telephone rang and Mrs. Nelson went off to answer it, leaving Claire and me to bite out nails and try to think of something to say. People were always running off before I had a chance to ask them any questions.

  SEVEN

  “Would you come down to my room for a minute, Mr. Tanner?” Claire asked suddenly. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.” My business with the Nelsons had apparently concluded, so I got up and hurried after her chair, an aging greyhound after a mechanical rabbit.

  She led me to the back of the house and into a tiny elevator that was big enough for the two of us, but just barely. After she reached up and pushed the down button the cage began to groan and rattle.

  It was a slow ride. When we stopped there was a long pause, then the door opened directly into a large bedroom with a low ceiling and a high window that would have given us a good view of a set of knees if anyone had been walking by. The window was barred.

  “Daddy doesn’t trust the neighborhood,” Claire said when she saw me notice the bars. If Nelson didn’t trust this neighborhood he wouldn’t trust any neighborhood that I had ever been in.

  “I’m beginning to wonder,” Claire went on, “if Roland put the bars up more to keep me in than the criminals out.” She was smiling as she said it.

  “He wouldn’t be the first father who had trouble seeing his daughter as anything but a toddler in a pink dress and patent leather shoes,” I said.

  “I don’t think that’s quite it, Mr. Tanner; Roland didn’t know me as a toddler. I was ten when he took me out of the orphanage. I love him more than anything, but he thinks just because I can’t walk I have to be guarded like Fort Knox. I’m through living like a hothouse plant.”

  “Maybe you should try to see it from his side.”

  “Oh, I know. He thinks he’s doing what’s best for me. I don’t doubt that. But he’s wrong. I’m crippled and I’m adopted and I’ve been living off the kindness of others all my life. It’s made me feel like a giant leech and I’m sick of it. I need to establish my own identity. Now.”

  She was blunt, but her perceptions were probably accurate. I was starting to like Claire. She was an engaging combination of youth and maturity, and her room reflected it. Her small brass bed was covered with frilly pillows and large stuffed animals. At the head of the bed a Raggedy Andy flopped like a recumbent six-year-old. The glossy art prints on the wall were more sophisticated—Miro, Matisse, Cezanne, Shahn—with the largest a full-size reproduction of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It hung above the foot of her bed and made me wonder where those swirls of color took Claire at night just before she fell asleep. I hoped it wasn’t into the mad misperceptions of the man who created them.

  The chair began to whine again and Claire rode over to the bed and pulled herself up onto it before I could get over to help. Feeling a little foolish, I sat down on a chair in front of her dressing table. On the mirror I noticed an enlarged snapshot of Al Rodman pushing Claire and her chair along some tree-lined path. A second photo showed a much younger Claire and her father in front of a brick building burdened by the gracelessness of an institution. I guessed it was the orphanage in Sacramento.

  A large landscape painting was reflected in the mirror as well. It wasn’t bad if you went for that kind of thing, a small lake with a dock and a canoe tied alongside, and a path from the dock to a cabin on the edge of a pine forest. A small boy sat on the end of the dock, a cane pole in his hand and a straw hat on his head. Norman Rockwell would have done it better, but all the same, it was a poignant rendition of a happy time that probably never was. Much more real than the painting were the steel nails fastened to the walls of the room to help Claire move around without her chair and without her legs.

  “You were very patient up there,” Claire said. “Roland doesn’t go off like that very often but when he does it’s kind of hard to take, at least for some people.”

  “I didn’t mind. I just felt slightly more inadequate than usual.”

  “He does have that effect. You just have to remember that Roland feels as unworthy as the rest of us. Perhaps even more so. He has his handicaps and I have mine.” She laughed.

  I told Claire I liked her room. She told me she was getting tired of living underground and was anxious to get into her new place.

  “This thing about the apartment is the first real argument daddy and I have ever had,” Claire said wistfully. She suddenly sounded half her age.

  “I think he’ll come around.”

  “I hope so. I don’t want to hurt him. If Al and I get married that’s going to cause another problem,” she added.


  I didn’t say anything. Claire propped herself up on some pillows and stretched out on the bed.

  “Daddy doesn’t hide the fact that he doesn’t like Al, does he?” she asked.

  “He probably wouldn’t like anyone who might take you away.”

  “It’s not that. I think he expects some prince charming to ride up and carry me off. One of those brilliant young men down at the Institute. But boys like that aren’t interested in girls like me. Oh, they come by, once in a while, but we always spend the evening either talking to daddy or about daddy. It doesn’t take a mind reader to know that he’s the one they’re really interested in.”

  “Maybe they’re just making conversation.”

  “No, it’s just that they’re totally immersed in their work. Which is fine for daddy but not so good for me. I know Al Rodman isn’t a genius and he’s not going to do great things with his life or anything, but I think he really likes me. He’s a lot older and everything, but he’s my only chance. I don’t think I can pass it up, even if Roland objects.”

  It was sad to see her analyze her situation so coldly. She deserved a better opinion of her prospects and I wanted to tell her so, but there was no reason for her to take my word for it.

  “Well,” she said abruptly, “I didn’t bring you here to discuss my home life or my love life either, Mr. Tanner. I want to ask you a favor. Do you know a detective named Harry Spring?”

  “Sure. I know Harry.”

  “How well?”

  “Pretty well, actually. We’re friends.”

  “What do you think of his work?”

  “He’s good. One of the best.”

  “Well, that’s nice to know. Because I’ve hired him.”

  I don’t know what I’d expected her to say, but it wasn’t that. I asked her what Harry was doing for her.

  “I’d rather not say,” she answered. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I’d feel better if no one knew. For now. He won’t tell you, will he?”

  “Not unless you authorize him to.”

  “Good.”

  “So is that it? You just wanted to know what I thought of Harry Spring?”