The Anatomy of Deception

by Lawrence Goldstone

  I thought of my reading, my practiced speech and dress, my deportment … were we not all creations of ourselves? “I suppose that’s the best way to be,” I agreed.

  “The only way.” He drained his glass and signaled for another. “And my creation fully intends to enjoy his life in wealth and comfort.”

  “Wealth and comfort have their place, certainly,” I said. “But so does excellence. You could be a fine doctor.”

  “Are you implying that I am not a fine doctor now?”

  “Not at all. You are obviously highly intelligent with excellent medical instincts….”

  “Better than yours?”

  “I don’t know.” I considered the question. “Perhaps. You certainly have many qualities that I admire.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I have something that you don’t seem to,” I persisted.

  “And what might that be?”

  “A love of the profession … a desire to heal. Perhaps that is what makes me such a prig in your eyes. We can do things in medicine today that would merely have been dreams even fifty years ago. I want to take the best advantage possible of every innovation, master every new technique.”

  “Bravo,” Turk replied. “A fine speech worthy of an admirable fellow. So, what you are saying, Carroll, is that being a doctor is important. For special people in society. A higher calling. With a higher morality.”

  “I feel privileged to be a physician, not superior. Morality has little to do with it.”

  “In that I agree. Osler is your model, I presume.”

  “One could do far worse. Dr. Osler is committed to medicine and the good it can do.”

  “For its own sake?”

  “For the sake of his patients.”

  “His patients?” Turk leaned back. His face had flushed from the beer. “You really think Osler doesn’t care about making money? Then why did he come here in the first place? Weren’t there enough patients in Canada?”

  “He came for the opportunity,” I said heatedly. “It was an honor to be asked to come to Philadelphia.”

  “A very lucrative honor,” he retorted. “And if he gets a more lucrative honor somewhere else, he’ll go there.”

  “No, Turk. You’re wrong.”

  “Anything you say.”

  I decided to change the subject, to try to determine whether Turk’s invitation had anything to do with his odd behavior in the Dead House, but I was clumsy in execution. “No, I apologize,” I said. “Perhaps you’re correct. Who can know the mind of another? To that very point, I certainly hadn’t expected Dr. Osler to send us all home so early this afternoon. I wonder why he did that.”

  Turk shrugged, but our eyes met and for an instant I had a disquieting glimpse of the anger, of the smoldering intensity behind his mask of nonchalance. It was not the beer—this was not a man who would easily be rendered stupid by drink—but I had touched something and for a moment he could hide neither his malignity nor his curiosity.

  “Perhaps he had theater tickets, too,” he said, recovering again almost instantly. “He might be sitting next to us tonight, in fact.”

  “No,” I pressed. “There was something decidedly odd in his manner with the final cadaver. You must have seen it.”

  “Not really,” Turk replied, his eyes sweeping the crowded room. “I expect that he just didn’t want to cut up someone so young and pretty.” He removed his watch from his vest pocket. “It’s time to be going,” he announced.

  I thanked Turk again for paying the bill and followed him back through the restaurant. We repaired to the hansom and journeyed south and farther east until, after about ten minutes, we reached our destination, the Front Street Theatre. I again was surprised by the plethora of carriages in the street.

  There was a good deal of milling about on the sidewalk under the marquee—no one who could help it ventured into a street where so many horses were idling. The atmosphere was gay and boisterous, quite unlike, say, the Arch Street Theater downtown, where Mrs. Drew demanded decorum even if one had come to witness a comedic revival of Augustin Daly or a Dion Boucicault melodrama.

  Turk jumped out of the hansom, gesturing for me to follow. We barged into the lobby, forcing our way past any number of our fellow theatergoers, each of whom, in turn, was endeavoring to force his way past those in front of him. The crowd was a remarkable polyglot—everything from common louts to finely dressed swells, and even a few couples in evening clothes. I’d heard that many otherwise fashionable members of society came to theaters such as this to mix with the more common elements of society, but I’d thought the tales apocryphal. I no longer felt so ridiculous in my suit and hat although, taking Turk at his word, I suspected those in better dress—like me—were at some risk of their possessions from pickpockets who had undoubtedly intermixed themselves in the throng.

  Turk pulled me off to the side, where a sallow-faced man with slicked hair in a dilapidated cutaway coat was standing in front of a doorway.

  “Ah, Mr. George,” said the man with a small obsequious bow and a distinct burr to his speech. “So nice to see you again.”

  Turk produced two tickets, which the man examined. “Box number three,” he said. “Up the stairs on the right.”

  “Mr. George?” I asked Turk as we climbed to the mezzanine floor.

  “No one knows anything more about me than they need to,” he replied absently. He stopped and took me by the elbow. “To people down here, I’m just ‘George.’ I would appreciate it, if we happen on any of my acquaintances tonight, that you remember that.”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  Turk found our box and we took the two front seats. As he had predicted, the cushions were worn and lumpy. The once- burgundy velvet coverings had weathered into a dull brown and the floor had clearly not been swept in some weeks. Over the railing, I could see the crowd below, mostly those of lesser means, shuffling in their seats with anticipation, more like a bacchanal mob than theatergoers awaiting the evening’s entertainment. The orchestra was a squalid bunch whose instruments appeared to have been rescued from the ravages of some great flood or earthquake.

  Soon the house lights went down, the arc lights at the foot of the stage went up, and the musicians began to play. The sense of expectation in the air was distinctly primal. The curtain rose to reveal two lines of female dancers, one at either side of the stage, and at their appearance the audience broke into a cheer that sounded to me like a lascivious whoop. The dancers wore short, bodicelike dresses, purplish red stockings that ran in a crisscross pattern up to the middle of their thighs, and shiny black shoes. They danced with frozen smiles, and all were heavily rouged. Holding the front of their dresses up to reveal their legs to the bottom frill of the bodice, the women ran at each other, passing in the middle of the stage.

  The audience encouraged every move with a cheer. Although the dancers exhibited scant artistry in their gyrations, there was an odd allure in the way these women flew about the stage; leaping and prancing, robust and ungainly. Finally, they formed a line, each dancer draping an arm over the woman to either side of her, and then kicked their legs in unison to the rhythmic clapping of the crowd below. The scene was at once repellent and fascinating.

  The show lasted little more than an hour. The dancers were superseded by a female singer, and then a number of brief scenarios, each featuring a woman and sometimes a man in abbreviated garb, and each with a prurient theme. When the dancers returned to the stage, my eyes were drawn immediately to a tall woman with red hair and long, lean legs, who moved with a lithe grace absent in her peers. I was surprised that someone of such beauty and distinction was forced to work in Bonhomme’s Paris Revue. Once or twice, she glanced up at our box and flashed a small smile.

  “Well, Carroll,” said Turk, after the show had ended and the gaslights had come up. He was forced to lean close to me and raise his voice to be heard over the raucous applause and wild yells for “encore” from the crowd. “What did you think?”
<
br />   “It was very … lively.”

  “Tell me,” he asked, “did you like the dancers?”

  “Quite talented, I thought,” I said. There was no harm in being polite.

  “They are talented, to be sure,” Turk replied. “Do you remember the tall one with red hair? We’re having drinks with her. You are, I mean. She’s best friends with my date.”

  I tried to stifle a grin. My experience with women might be woefully inadequate, but it was certainly serendipity to be thrown together by circumstance with the very woman one had been admiring in secret.

  When we arrived at the stage door, ten or fifteen men were already waiting. A few appeared disreputable, but most seemed reasonably well-off. Many were older, in their fifties at least.

  After about ten minutes, the cast began to emerge. The one with red hair was named Monique, Turk informed me, while he awaited Suzette. I spotted Monique immediately, walking with a dark-haired woman at least six inches shorter than she. Both waved excitedly when they spotted Turk and hurried in our direction.

  “Hi, Georgie,” cooed Suzette, who could only have been French if Ireland had been shifted to the continent. She took Turk by the arm. “Let’s go. I’m parched.” She squinted up at me. “Ooh. This must be your good-looking friend. Lucky Monique.”

  Monique sidled up and took my arm. She had full lips, a small, turned-up nose, and emerald eyes, an odd assortment of parts that went together well as a whole. “I am a lucky Monique,” she confirmed. “And what might your name be, good-looking friend?” Her voice was husky and sensual. She was apparently from the same part of France as Suzette.

  “Ephraim,” I said, taking a hint from Turk and giving as little information as possible.

  “Well, Ephie,” trilled Monique, “let’s be going then.”

  Turk led us to the ever-faithful liveryman and gave him directions to someplace called “The Fatted Calf.” The ride was brief, but we were four in a seat meant to accommodate three. To the giggles of the women, we squeezed together, Monique’s arm thrown over my shoulder. She was uncorseted and I could feel the supple line of her breast against my chest.

  Even from the street, The Fatted Calf emitted a din. The man at the entrance, an enormous, pink-faced ruffian with thick muttonchops, smiled at Turk convivially and swung open the door. As soon as we stepped inside, what had been a muddled roar became more distinct as loud conversation and hoarse laughter.

  There was another man at the entrance to the large room, similar in look and bearing to the giant outside, only half his size. He yelled hello to “George” and led him through the packed tables. A film of dust hung in the air, diffusing the light and giving the room a translucent, netherworld haze.

  As we negotiated our way forward, we were unable to avoid jostling those seated at the tables on either side of us, but no one protested. Many of the patrons appeared to be seamen, most of the lowest stripe, although I was sure that rogues of all occupations were amply represented. A goodly number of cheap and heavily made-up women were interspersed throughout the bar, and caused the room to reek of an odd mixture of sweat, stale beer, cigar smoke, and flowery perfume.

  Suzette kept both of her arms grasped around Turk, pressing against him, and Monique took the same attitude with me. The soft flesh of her breasts and thighs now fully rubbed against me and I felt the beginnings of arousal, which, even in these circumstances, was highly embarrassing. Monique noticed it as well, and pressed even closer. As much as I wanted her to continue, I hardly wanted to announce my condition to the other patrons. I kept looking forward, following the other two, hoping it would pass before it became more obvious.

  Finally, we reached an empty table at the far corner of the room, one which ordinarily would have been barely comfortable for two. Monique released my arm, and, mercifully, the fullness receded. Turk slipped a coin into the small man’s hand and I thought it ironic that someone would pay to get a table in this establishment.

  A thickly rouged young woman in a plunging white blouse and black bodice appeared immediately to take our order.

  “Let’s have champagne,” decreed Turk gaily. “Ephraim here has generously offered to pay.”

  I hadn’t, of course, and I suspected it would be costly, but it seemed only fair after the expense Turk had gone to for the tickets and dinner.

  “Indeed,” I said, “champagne it shall be.”

  Monique reached out and clasped my hand. “Oh, Ephie, I knew you’d be nice.”

  The bottle seemed to be at our table the next second. We toasted to life, and drank. The “champagne” had a tart, acrid taste, but none of my companions seemed to care. The first glasses were downed almost instantly, even mine, and then seconds. Soon, the bottle was empty. Another swiftly replaced it.

  Monique, who admitted she was not French, claimed to be nineteen. Like Turk, she had been raised in an orphanage, where she had danced so avidly that the administrators had actually engaged an instructor to teach her the rudiments of ballet. She had shown promise and, two years ago, had gone into the world to seek employment with a dance company.

  “I tried everywhere,” she said, shaking her head in dismay. I realized that she was far more attractive than I had first thought. “It’s just too hard for a girl like me … who doesn’t know anyone …”

  “One more?” I looked up; the waitress was holding up an empty bottle.

  There are two types of inebriation. With the first, one knows one is drunk and attempts to be on guard, albeit with varying degrees of success. With the second, far more dangerous, one has no idea that one’s decisions and behavior have been slurred and thus proceeds as if nothing at all were amiss. At that moment, as I peered at the blurred bottle in the waitress’s hand, I passed from one type to the other.

  “Certainly,” I agreed. “Let us have another.”

  The more Monique confided her travails in the world of dance, the closer she moved to me. She leaned forward, offering me her breasts. I could feel the heat come off her and she smelled of roses, yet slightly musky. Her lips shone and when they parted, I was aware of nothing else. I felt I would reach for her on the spot, when suddenly she leaned back with a smile.

  “Suzette and I are going to the powder room for a moment, Ephie.”

  I was watching them move through the tables toward the rear, Monique’s hips moving back and forth liquidly, when Turk interrupted my reverie in speech that seemed to slur. “I’ve been thinking, old boy, perhaps you were right about Osler. Why do you think he refused to autopsy that girl?”

  I still retained just enough of my wits to remember that he was asking the same question I had put to him earlier. “You were probably right,” I said, with a wave of my hand. “He probably thought she was too pretty to cut up.”

  “Yes,” agreed Turk. “That must have been it. Still, you must have seen him jump … say, you did see … you told me.”

  “Did I?” I replied. “I don’t remember.”

  “You did,” Turk said, and then he paused. “We’re friends now, right?”

  “Absolutely.” I nodded for emphasis.

  “You like Monique?”

  “Absolutely,” I repeated. “She’s beautiful.”

  “She likes you. I’m glad I got you two together.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What did you see of her?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl in the morgue.”

  “Oh.” I put a finger to my lip. “Roughly handled. Big bruise on her left arm. Didn’ you see?”

  Turk shrugged. “Does he ever talk about me?”

  “Who?”

  “Osler.”

  “Talk about you how?”

  “C’mon, Carroll. Friends don’ lie to each other. Did he say anything about me?”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure? I know he talks to you.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Turk’s eyebrows turned down, as pondering some question, but then he shrugged as if to dismiss the question
entirely.

  The girls returned a few moments later. They seemed to glance at Turk before resuming their seats. Monique had renewed her scent and I started to lean toward her, when the man from the door, shorter muttonchops, appeared at our table and put his hand on Turk’s shoulder. “Someone to see you,” he said gravely.

  “Can’t see anyone now, Haggens. Having far too good a time.” Turk waved in mock gaiety.

  But Haggens did not leave. “Better see this one,” he said.

  Instantly, Turk seemed to sober. He looked up at Haggens, their eyes held for a moment, and then Turk pushed back his chair. “Only take a minute, Carroll,” he told me. “Entertain the ladies for me.”

  “I wonder what that could be about?” I asked, addressing the question to the table after Turk had moved across the room.

  “Oh, his fixing, no doubt,” replied Suzette hazily.

  “His fixing?”

  “Oh yes. Georgie’s a great fixer. If you need something you don’t have, he’ll get it for you …” She giggled. “And if you have something you don’t want, he’ll get rid of it.”

  Before I could inquire further, I heard the sound of shouting, loud enough to pierce the din. I turned and saw a highly agitated man with a turned-up mustache and beard arguing with Turk. I could not tell what the squabble was about, but the older man grabbed Turk by the coat. Turk pushed him and then moved forward, wagging a finger under his chin. Haggens appeared, seized the older man by the arm, and said something in his ear. The older man drew back, still furious, but reluctantly turned for the door, Haggens close behind to make sure he arrived there.

  As they reached the exit, another man was waiting, a small man wearing a bowler hat, but otherwise obscured by a post. He moved forward for just an instant to take the older man’s arm.

  I bolted upright, the effects of the drink gone. Although it could not possibly be true, it appeared that the man in the bowler was Dr. Osler. I started to push out of my seat to get a better look, but the crowd had swallowed him up. No, I decided, after I was sure they were gone, I had been mistaken. Surely, this was a datum I had misread—Philadelphia is filled with small men in bowler hats.