“Fifteen,” he whispered aloud, and hopped again. Standing on the ground floor, the adventure had seemed tame enough. But as he made his way laboriously upward, to a point where the stairwell passed through the first-floor ceiling, he saw that a misstep now would cost him a devastating tumble.
With a flush of apprehension, he realized that returning to the blissful, restful haven of his ward cot required descending whatever he ascended. Six treads lay ahead. And suppose the doorway was locked? Bertha had said the front door key fitted all the locks, but did she mean interior doors as well?
His ribs told him loudly to do something, rather than hanging from his crutches half up or half down.
Clenching his teeth, he heaved himself up three more, stopped, and regarded the doorway ahead. The knob was one tread out of reach, and he hunched up that step. Back pressed against the wall, he reached out and tried the knob. It turned, but the door remained secure.
Thomas retrieved the key from his vest. It turned the lock effortlessly, and his pulse quickened. The door opened inward, revealing only darkness. The air itself told him that the room was large. This was no closet he had opened.
He navigated the final step and leaned against the wall, ribs shrieking, hip throbbing. After a moment he fumbled a match from his pocket, closed his eyes, and snapped it with his thumbnail. The head broke off and sailed away. The second match he raked across what felt like a plaster wall, and then flinched at the flare of light. Logically placed, a gaslight was mounted just to one side of the stairwell, and he lit it, turning it up full.
“My God,” he breathed as he turned to face the room.
Chapter Thirty-one
The light threw shadows around two rows of ceiling supports. It appeared to Thomas that the major portion of the second floor was included in this single room.
To his right, the banister continued, taking another flight upward to the third floor.
He counted seven desks, one near each ceiling support and gaslight. Along the back wall a huge pigeonhole cabinet reached to the ceiling, most of its bins heavy with paperwork. Framing the cabinet were two doorways toward the back of the building.
Thomas pushed away from the wall, heading through the center of the room toward the first desk. He paused and lit another gas lamp, then settled into the comfortable swivel chair, much like the furniture one might expect to see in a bank office.
Turning to face the desk, he admired a Remington visible writer, one of the newfangled, latest generation of machines that produced typed figures the equal of a print shop. Around the machine, the desk was a model of organization.
On the left was a pile of correspondence, and as Thomas leafed through the missives, he saw that the envelopes were addressed to various iterations of Dr. John Haines’ name and the clinic’s title and address. The postmarks and return addresses represented a scattering of states in the southern midwest. On each envelope, a large, bold number was written and circled with heavy grease pencil. The majority were number 1’s, with a scattering of 2’s, 3’s, and 5’s. Each envelope had been opened, the included letter turned slightly sideways to peek out of the top.
To the right of the Remington a wooden box contained a supply of clinic letterheads, the impressive engraving of the planned clinic building gracing the top of the printed sheets. Another wooden box labeled R & S included apparent correspondence printed on clinic letterheads. Yet another was marked File.
Thomas reached out and picked up the top letter from the R & S collection, to which was pinned a carbon copy of the clinic’s response, as well as the original correspondence and envelope marked with a circled number one. Also attached was a blank version of a lengthy questionnaire that appeared to explore a patient’s symptoms.
The clinic’s letter was addressed to Mrs. John Henry Tyler, and Thomas saw that it was Mrs. Tyler’s letter that was pinned to the reply.
Being careful not to smudge the fragile carbon of the clinic’s response, Thomas slipped Mrs. Tyler’s original letter from the envelope. It was dated the eleventh of August.
Dear Sir,
I write to you in hopes of recieving one of your dianostic insturments. I have been troubled of late with sleeplessness, irritabilty, and other signs of feminine weakness. As we have no doctor in our village, and am not able to travel distance, your assistance would be appreciate.
Thomas frowned and read the letter again. The “dianostic insturment” must refer to the voluminous questionnaire attached.
The typed letter of response from the clinic, as yet unsigned, was brief and to the point:
My dear Mrs. Tyler,
I am glad to acknowledge receipt of your letter of 11 August requesting assistance with diagnostic procedures. Please be aware that because of our enormous case load, we have found it necessary to reserve our services for only the most troublesome, acute cases. However, you mentioned that medical care was sadly lacking in your area, and it is our hope to be of some assistance. Enclosed is a diagnostic questionnaire prepared by our medical staff. Please address each question completely, as every individual’s case is certain to include details unique to itself. Omit nothing, allowing neither false modesty nor self-consciousness to come between you and effective diagnosis and treatment. The sooner your reply is received, the sooner we may analyze your condition and recommend prompt treatment.
We urge you, if unwilling or unable to travel to our clinic and research center, to seek immediate and comprehensive medical treatment from a trusted physician near your home. Still, because our treatment regime has enjoyed such tremendous success, we urge you to act promptly. Your patient profile and diagnostic questionnaire are the first step, without which we can do nothing for you. To further assist you toward health without delay, we are sending, by separate package, a sample of our patented tonic, which you will find most efficacious.
The letter, neatly centered on the letterhead’s sheet, bore the closure “Dr. Zachary T. Riggs, M.D., Director of Clinical Research and Operations.” The reply seemed eminently sensible and medically cautious.
He restacked the various documents, laying them back in the wooden tray. The selection of typed responses apparently awaiting signatures was nearly two inches high. Being careful not to dislodge anything, he slid the tray toward himself so he could pick up one corner of the bundle. The stack easily included two dozen responses, each similar to the one typed to Mrs. Tyler. In each case, a diagnostic questionnaire was attached. All of the letters in the ‘R & S’ tray were number 1’s. A sheet of foolscap was folded around each bundle.
The file tray included only carbon copies of clinic letters, each with one of the handwritten numerals circled in the top left corner.
Thomas saw that the topmost copy was numbered 2, and he picked it up gingerly. The letter was addressed to Mr. Burton Roman, with only the address. Paris, Illinois given.
My dear Mr. Roman:
As you know, because of a vast patient load spurred by the success of our treatment regimes, we have strictly limited the number of new patients added to our practice. Still, the contents of your letter of 13 July, and the answers provided on your diagnostic questionnaire, have prompted me to forward your case to Dr. Herman Tessier, formerly of Betil, Austria, but now on our staff. Dr. Tessier has agreed to take on your case, a most perplexing and challenging one.
In just a few days time, Dr. Tessier will be in correspondence with you. However, because of the gravity of your situation, Dr. Tessier has authorized and directed us to send you a temporary supply of the clinic’s Universal Tonic, enough to build your strength prior to treatment. The supply is sent free of charge. If you experience an increase in vitality, as most of our patients do, you may order additional supplies of the Tonic, at the price indicated on the included advertisement.
Once again, the letter was signed by Dr. Riggs.
Thomas frowned and replaced the letter. Tessier? Who was this
new doctor? He thumbed the pile of correspondence until he found a number 5, the highest number he had seen, this time with a large capital letter T added after the numeral.
It was addressed to the Reverend Clark Nolan of Clemson, Tennessee, and Thomas settled back with it in hand.
My dear Reverend Nolan:
You cannot imagine our delight to receive your letter of 23 July indicating that Dr. Tessier’s Metabolic Oil has effected a complete cure in an otherwise debilitating case of cancer of the esophagus. As we have related to you in the past, there is no “magic” in Dr. Tessier’s formulation; only a most fortunate discovery that certain vegetable oils, when working in combine and when taken as directed, produce a rapid and miraculous result. In regards to your own case, we both congratulate you on health attained, and encourage you to continue a strict regime of Dr. Tessier’s. The 16-ounce bottle you requested is being shipped promptly. If there is undue delay, or if the medications arrive in anything but perfect condition, please do not hesitate to contact us. Time wasted is health lost.
Dr. Zachary Riggs had signed this letter also.
“My God,” Thomas whispered, uneasiness replacing his earlier admiration. “Dr. Tessier…I should like to meet this fellow.” He replaced the letter. Taking his time with each pile, he counted the correspondence. The documents that covered this first desk included the names of fifty-seven patients. Growing more curious by the moment, Thomas struggled to his feet, leaning his right hip against the desk so he could reach each pile of documents. Of the fifty-seven patients, thirty-nine were either outright requests for the “diagnostic questionnaire,” or were vague medical complaints first answered by sending the questionnaire as a reply. Four were testimonials similar to Reverend Nolan’s. Eleven of the fifty-seven were number 2’s, letters that included a referral to Dr. Tessier based on the questionnaire. A bottle of tonic was always included. Thomas found three number 3’s. In each case, he saw that a 3 included a reply from Dr. Tessier himself. Selecting one, Thomas relaxed back in the chair. His left eye burned from reading the letter, written to a man in Dundee, New York.
Dear Mr. Murtaugh,
It is with interest and, I confess, some grave misgivings, that I read your profile. It appears that at this time you are suffering from a severe sarcoma, or cancer, of the lip. From your description, the cancer may have spread to your soft palate, tongue, and salivary glands. At the same time, it is apparent that the surgeries you have endured have provided you with no relief. In the vast majority of cases such as yours, my Metabolic Oils have provided prompt, permanent relief, with the cancer driven from the system by the combined action of the essential, natural oils. While I am relieved that the trial prescription of Metabolic Oils sent to you by my assistants has provided some measure of relief, you are wise to continue, even intensify, the treatment. As per your request, we are sending you the 32-ounce quantity of Metabolic Oils. Take as directed, increasing the original prescription to six doses each day, rather than four. With confidence that you will soon enjoy perfect health, I am,
Tessier had signed over his typed name with a great flourish.
Thomas dropped the letter back in the tray, his gut clenched in a tight ball. “Dr. Wilhelm, I wish you were here,” he said aloud. He could picture his favorite professor and mentor at the university standing in the auditorium, cigar clenched between yellow teeth, forefinger wagging toward the heavens as he faced the students. “Beyond any doubt,” the eminent physician had shouted, “any and every advertisement for a cancer cure cloaks a swindle. There is no disease more dreaded, more lethal, and more perplexing to the physician. There is no disease that so effectively destroys the patient’s hope as it destroys the body. Charlatans and swindlers know that as well as we do. It is that very hopelessness on which they prey.”
Thomas turned, pushing the chair in a circle so he could survey the room. He had stopped at the first desk, and now saw that each of the others was equally awash in paperwork. Of the seven desks, six included Remingtons. The last did not; it held a mound of newspapers and what appeared to be a row of textbooks propped up by the wall against which the desk was nestled.
He stood up again, one hand on the desk for balance. Making his way toward the back, he approached the desk with the newspapers. Sinking into the chair, he was immediately struck by the aroma, more a bouquet, that he had come to associate with Alvina Haines.
Chapter Thirty-two
Three grease pencils lay neatly arranged at the front margin of the desk blotter. On the floor to the left of the desk, pushed up against the wall, was a bin of mail—a bushel of letters in all shapes and sizes.
“My God,” he breathed. None of the letters were yet opened. He turned back to the desk and rested his left hand on a low pile of neatly folded newspapers. The top edition, the Weekly Courier and Express from Mount Payson, Kentucky, was folded to expose the masthead. On the desk blotter, what appeared to be a design for an advertisement was in progress. The advertisement, sized for a half page, touted Dr. Tessier’s Metabolic Oils as well as Dr. Haines’ Universal Tonic. An inset box at the bottom of the ad also featured an engraving that advertised the Medical Advisor. The book was available for $4.25.
Thomas read the advertisement carefully, noting the sidebar that presented the testimonials of satisfied patients…patients like the Reverend Nolan. A flowery description of the clinic included mention of Dr. Herman Tessier, recently arrived from Austria; Dr. Zachary Riggs, lately of Cincinnati Eclectic College of Medicine and Surgery; and, of course, Dr. John Haines, founder of the clinic and Vital Research Center. The center of attraction, presented in an ornately bordered frame, was an announcement for the diagnostic questionnaire, sent free of charge to patients who “suffer from ills, disease, afflictions, and general debility, as the first step down the path to glorious and perfect physical and mental health.”
Most of the advertisement had been clipped from another publication, but Alvi—Thomas assumed it was her work—had penciled in various additions and deletions. “No other medications work so completely, thoroughly, and gently,” the advertisement claimed. “Because of our exacting standards of laboratory and clinical procedures in the manufacture of our preparations, we can guarantee complete relief and cure for any ills for which we prescribe medication and dosage. Do not be misled by imitations.”
Thomas leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He could imagine the process. Sitting at this desk, Alvina opened the mail, extracted any money orders that might be included, then passed the letter along with appropriate instructions to be answered by one of the six young ladies.
He turned and surveyed the wall cabinets. If the pigeonhole system organized and stored the original letters and the copies of their responses, it must have included thousands of documents.
But what of Zachary Riggs? He swiveled the chair, regarding the two doorways in the back wall. Perhaps. The first door opened to reveal a dark hallway leading to an outside entrance. The second door was locked. Thomas still had the skeleton key in his pocket, and he fished it out. It slid into the lock easily enough but refused to turn. Wiggling it this way and that didn’t help.
“We find you in the most intriguing places,” a gentle voice behind him said, and Thomas startled so violently that he felt as if he’d been stabbed in a dozen places. He gasped and staggered sideways, his right shoulder smacking into the wall.
“My God, man, I’m sorry,” Zachary Riggs said. He reached out and took Thomas by the left elbow. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Thomas struggled to catch his breath. He wasn’t about to argue the point, but the thought occurred to him that had Riggs not meant to startle him, the big man wouldn’t have padded across the floor as quietly as a cat.
“No, I’m…,” Thomas whispered, seeing spots before his eyes. He bent over, trying to take the weight off his ribs. He saw then that Riggs was in stocking feet and wrapped in a great, red robe tied at the waist with a gold sash, the outfit a
ccentuating his considerable bulk.
“Were I not seeing you standing here, I would find it impossible to believe that you negotiated those stairs unaided,” Riggs said. He reached out and pulled Alvi’s chair close. “Here, sit before you fall on your face. You know, I thought I heard something…Perhaps it was your crutches thumping on the stairs. I imagined all variety of intruders.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Thomas said, maneuvering into the chair. “And I confess, my curiosity won over. Here I am, pottering away downstairs while the wheels of commerce turn up here.” He tried for a light tone, as if he actually believed what he read in the newspaper advertisement on Alvi’s desk. “I hadn’t seen you or Alvina all day, so busy were we with patients.”
“Your first day was something of a trial for you,” Riggs agreed. “Although John tells me the day was really quite serene.” His neatly clipped beard bobbed as he nodded vigorously. “He already values your assistance, you know. He spoke of some really quite impressive surgery.” His face suddenly growing sober, Riggs frowned at a new thought. “He’s losing his sight, you know.”
“Yes, he told me. In his right eye.”
“Well, in both, now.”
“He spoke of that.”
“He’s a proud man.” Riggs sighed. “I can only imagine how hard it is for him. We would have everything to gain if you would consent to examine him.”
“I have only a rude foundation in ophthalmology, nothing more,” Thomas said.
“But you’ve attended the best schools, and are bright and observant. He…we…would value your opinion.”
“Have you examined him, then?”
“I have,” Riggs replied. “But I am no surgeon, sir. I know of no relief for his retinopathy, and was hoping that you would bring some new techniques that might benefit. Both his case and with others.”
“I doubt that I can provide anything that the specialists haven’t considered,” Thomas said. What does Dr. Tessier think? he was tempted to ask.
Race for the Dying Page 21
