As we reached the far end of the dining hall, we came upon a man standing alone. He was not tall, but had a thick chest and gave the impression of great strength. He was serious-looking, like a stern schoolmaster, but impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a brilliantly white collar and dark blue silk tie. He appeared to be older than the Professor or Welch, and was light-haired and balding, with a carefully trimmed, turned-up mustache and a beard cut close to his cheeks. Behind his pince-nez, his eyes were an odd blue-green and arresting, as if they had been lit from the rear.
Even had his demeanor not been so haunting, there was little danger that my memory of this man would be lost among the others. I had seen him before—not at a medical facility, but at The Fatted Calf, where he had been taken away by a short, mustached man in a bowler hat.
The Professor extended his hand, smiling. “Doctor,” he said, “I am so pleased to see you again.”
The other nodded and accepted the Professor’s hand, but there was little warmth in his demeanor. “And I you, Doctor,” he replied evenly.
“Ephraim Carroll,” the Professor said, “I would like you to meet the finest surgeon in America, Dr. William Stewart Halsted.”
I took Halsted’s hand. His fingers were short but his grip was firm and confident, his stub of a thumb pressing into the flesh of my hand. His eyes unflinchingly held mine. I could read nothing from his gaze and hoped that he read nothing from mine.
“It is an honor, Dr. Halsted,” I said, after it was clear that he would not speak first. “Dr. Osler speaks of you in exalted terms.”
Halsted nodded perfunctorily, but otherwise did not change expression. The effect was unnerving. I could not imagine that he recognized me from The Fatted Calf—I had been across the room. Might he have seen me somewhere else, perhaps with Turk earlier that evening, or outside Mrs. Fasanti’s when I had come upon my dying colleague? I fervently hoped he had not. I was violating strict scientific method to think so, but the man before me was so startling … so chill and controlled … that at that moment I had not one scintilla of doubt that he was capable of visiting Turk at his home and, by either force or subterfuge, inducing the younger man to take poison.
At luncheon, conversation centered on the hospital, and through the first courses Billings explained the theory behind the planning and construction. The Johns Hopkins University was the first institution of higher learning in the United States constructed specifically to promote research. The hospital, although physically removed from the university campus, was to be an extension of that mission, as would be the medical school, which Billings said would be complete within three years.
Billings, a surgeon by training, but a man who had emerged as the nation’s most forward-looking thinker in public health and hospital design, had been persuaded by Gilman to join Johns Hopkins after a brilliant career in the army. He had been the man who had convinced the trustees to make research and medical education integral to the hospital’s mission.
Although the discourse was fascinating, for me the event was dominated by the man diagonally across from me. Dr. Halsted spoke very little, even when he was asked about the many improvements in both surgical technique and equipment upon which he was currently engaged. But laconic or not, Halsted’s brilliance was inescapable. In ten words, he could express an insight that seemed a century ahead of its time. I understood very quickly why the Professor considered this man a treasure to be protected, as one would encase a rare gem in a museum. Belying his deportment, Halsted seemed to have a human side as well. During his discussion of surgical gloves, he mentioned that Caroline Hampton, the nurse whose sensitivity to carbolic soap had spurred the innovation, was now his fiancée. As soon as the discussion moved to other topics, however, Halsted once again retreated into silence. But, to me, his presence dominated the table.
After luncheon was done, we toured the hospital and the facilities, which, as I had come to expect, were nothing short of miraculous. Every possible innovation had been incorporated into the design of the wards and the operating theaters, and the laboratories were more extensive than anything I had ever seen. Even the Professor seemed awed. When we had completed our tour, it was near dusk, so we repaired to Gilman’s home, where we would be staying, to relax until dinner. Gilman and his wife left us to ourselves, placing a bottle of sherry and two glasses on a tray on the sideboard.
“Well, what do you think, Ephraim?” demanded the Professor after each of us had poured a glass and settled into an extremely commodious side chair. “Quite an establishment, eh?”
“Indeed,” I agreed enthusiastically. “With a staff to match. I will feel like an interloper on Olympus.”
“Ha! This may surprise you, Ephraim, but I find the atmosphere a bit intimidating myself.”
“Intimidating indeed. And no one more than Halsted. Has he always been such a presence?”
The Professor pulled at one end of his mustache. “In fact, the frost in his demeanor is a recent phenomenon. He used to be an extremely affable and outgoing chap. Did you know that he was also a superb athlete? He rowed, played baseball, performed gymnastics … do you know what football is?”
“It’s a sport that some colleges play, isn’t it? Sort of tug-of-war in reverse. A lot of fellows lined up in opposition, each side trying to a push a ball over a line by shoving the other fellows backward?”
“That’s pretty much it,” agreed the Professor. “It takes strength and a certain ferocity. The university has a team, although I’ve never seen the game. It has become quite popular, I hear, at Yale. Halsted was one of the originators of the sport and named captain of his team at Yale.”
“I was not aware that he was such a violent man,” I said.
“I didn’t say he was violent, only that he played a violent sport in college. He fancies dachshunds as well.”
“Of course,” I said quickly. “But you also said that he used to be affable. What changed him?”
The Professor sighed. “It was the cocaine.”
“And you are sure he is no longer under its influence?” Both Monique and Haggens had indicated that Turk was in the drug trade. What other reason could there be for a man like Halsted to seek Turk out?
“Why would you think otherwise?”
“No reason at all,” I ventured hastily. “But cocaine craving has proven to be so terribly difficult to overcome….”
“You cannot imagine,” sighed the Professor. “It’s been torture for the poor fellow. And to think it was his own fearlessness that caused the problem in the first place.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“He always proceeded according to what he thought best, regardless of personal consequences. Some years ago, when his sister suffered a postpartum hemorrhage, Halsted performed an emergency transfusion, using his own blood, and saved her life. When his mother became ill one year later, he diagnosed the ailment as gallstones. Her physicians insisted he was wrong and refused to operate, so Halsted performed the surgery himself, although he had never operated on a gallbladder before. He saved her life as well.
“When the opportunity came to experiment with cocaine as an agent to block sensation in individual nerves, he chose to use himself as the first subject. After he became addicted, he was shunned by those very colleagues who had lauded him. Only Welch, who had been the chief pathologist at New York Hospital, stood by him. Eventually, Welch brought him here to stay in his home. Is it any wonder that a man who has been through such an experience would undergo a change of personality?”
I agreed that it was understandable.
“Understandable?” exclaimed the Professor. “Inevitable, more likely.” Then he paused, as he often did when a revelation overtook him. “But why all this interest in Halsted?”
“It is just that he is so riveting,” I replied, attempting to keep my response casual. “A man of such ability who has been forced to overcome an immense obstacle cannot help but be an object of fascination.”
“It’s true. E
xcuse my shrill tone, Ephraim. It’s simply that those of us who have witnessed his ordeal have become extremely protective of him.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I understand.”
CHAPTER 16
WE PASSED AN AGREEABLE EVENING with the Gilmans, and then retired early. The return trip to Philadelphia, late Sunday after another round with the Hopkins staff, was more subdued than our ride south, both the Professor and I retreating to our thoughts.
At the hospital on Monday, Simpson was curious about the visit to Baltimore, but I could not spare the time. She was matter-of-fact as I hurried off to discharge my duties, but she nonetheless seemed insulted at my avoidance. I did not want to cause her distress, but I was preoccupied by what I must do that evening.
After I had finished for the day, I once more made my way across the city. I arrived soon after six and Mike stepped aside to let me pass, even venturing a small smile. I was now, it seemed, an accepted member of the Fatted Calf family.
Haggens also seemed pleased to see me. “Well, Doc,” he said with a grin, “welcome back. Didn’t expect to have the pleasure again so soon.” His affability, as always, was offset by the sly squint that he never seemed able or willing to suppress. “I’d like to think you came because of our classy décor,” he went on, “but I figure it’s because you want something.”
“True enough, Haggens,” I replied. I discovered I was becoming more comfortable in his company. There was a freedom in Haggens’ world that was absent in mine: I was finding it held great appeal. I had also come to understand that, so long as I did not betray him, there was little threat of arbitrary violence. “The last time I was here, you offered me your associate’s services if I ever needed to wander about alone down here. I was hoping the offer was sincere.”
His brow furrowed slightly as he calculated the implications of my request. Haggens was as accomplished in the science of survival as was the Professor in the science of medicine. After a few seconds’ consideration, he smiled once more and turned his hands palms up, the universal protest of innocence. “Why, of course I was sincere, Doc. Just where is it that you want Mike to escort you to?”
“Wharf Lane.”
The grin vanished. “Turk’s place? You found it?”
“Not exactly.” I related the finding of the key. I made a point of mentioning where Turk had hidden it, deciding that Haggens would appreciate the irony.
“Plado?” he asked. “Some old Greek?” Haggens shook his head at the wonder of it all. “But how do you know what door the key fits?”
“I don’t,” I replied. “But I believe you said that Wharf Lane is only one block long. Turk certainly did not do his business out of a storefront, so I assume the key must fit a door that leads somewhere else. There can’t be too many possibilities—upper floors or back rooms. I thought I would just try all the locks, until I found the correct one.”
“Oh, you did, did you? Just kinda mosey down Wharf Lane tryin’ locks. People down there don’t take kindly to strangers sticking keys in their doors.”
“And thus, Mike,” I said. “If he is all you say he is, of course.”
Haggens stroked his chin for a moment, then nodded. “And what if you find something?”
“I would have to see what the something is, but I could then inform the authorities according to the terms of our bargain. There would be no need to mention you at all. After all, I found the key in a book.”
Haggens glowered. “You sayin’ I can’t read?”
“Of course not,” I replied without apology. “But the circumstances under which I came across the key have nothing whatever to do with you, and there would be no reason for Borst to suspect that I had not found out about Wharf Lane through devices of my own … from Monique, for example.”
Haggens’ smile returned. “Okay, Doc. No offense taken.”
“Can I have Mike, then?” I asked.
“Sure,” Haggens replied. “I think I might toodle along with you as well.”
“You? Why?” Haggens’ presence had not been in my plans and definitely added a layer of menace. If what we found in Turk’s den turned out to be a threat to him, Haggens could simply instruct Mike to make certain I was never seen again.
Haggens rose. His attendance, it seemed, was not to be negotiable. “What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?”
“Frankly, no. Should I?”
“You wound me,” he said. He took a step for the door and then stopped. “Oh, yeah. One other thing.”
“Yes?”
“We’re chums, right?”
“To the end,” I replied.
“Thought so. Well, since I’m doing all this for you, I thought maybe you might do something for me?”
“And what might that be?”
Haggens heaved a sigh. I braced myself for whatever conspiracy he was about to try and involve me in. He glanced about and, even though we were alone in the room, lowered his voice and said, “I been having some trouble breathing, Doc. Especially lying down. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I can’t breathe hardly at all. Then I get dizzy when I stand up. What do you think it is?”
A medical question! It should not have been a surprise. No doctor can go anywhere without fielding inquiries, often from complete strangers, whether on breathing, or itches, or pains, or bathroom habits.
“Did you ever have rheumatic fever?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Haggens replied, “when I was a kid. Do you know what I got?”
“I can’t be sure without an examination. At the least, I would have to listen to your heart.”
Haggens started to unbutton his vest.
“No, no,” I said. “I can’t do it now. I need my stethoscope. Are you willing to come to the hospital?”
Haggens cocked his head as if I had suggested he turn himself in to the police.
“All right,” I said, realizing that I had just bought myself insurance. “I’ll come back later this week. No one will know. That is the way you want it, I assume.”
Haggens nodded. “Just so, Doc.” He rebuttoned his vest and reached for his coat. “Well, let’s go see what Turk was into.” He removed a kerosene lantern from a shelf and bade me to follow him out.
I had arrived at The Fatted Calf during last light. As we left, the streets were fully in the dark and, although it was still early enough to be the dinner hour, a sinister pall lay over the neighborhood. Wharf Lane, according to my host, was only about a five-minute walk, and so I set off, strolling along the Philadelphia docks with Haggens and Mike, whereas the previous day, I had walked the corridors of the Johns Hopkins Hospital with the Professor, William Welch, and Daniel Coit Gilman.
After a few minutes of winding down narrow thoroughfares, we turned off a derelict avenue into a street whose broken stone thoroughfare was scarcely wide enough to accommodate a wagon. Haggens nodded to indicate that we had reached our destination. I had expected a ramshackle series of storefronts, but was unprepared for the hovels and boarded-up windows that graced both sides of Wharf Lane. Not one of the gas lamps was lit, so the street was illuminated only by the indirect light that bounced its way into the narrow track from streetlamps on the larger roads. Turk could not have chosen a more repulsive spot.
Haggens lit his lantern and turned down the wick so that it gave off only sufficient light to allow us to make our way. There was no need to call any more attention to our presence than was necessary. As we began down the lane, Mike lagged a few steps behind, clearly ready to intercept anyone who attempted to surprise us from the rear. Haggens, I was certain, despite his lack of bulk, would be more than a match for anyone sufficiently foolhardy to try a frontal assault. And, although I saw no revolver, I assumed that both were armed. Still, each made it a point not to walk too close to the buildings on either side, a strategy that I immediately emulated.
Wharf Lane was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. More than that, I was, and there is no better word, proud to be accepted by these men. They lived by the
ir wits and their courage, without artifice, making no apologies for their behavior, and conducted themselves, once one understood their rules, with an odd sort of integrity. I at last understood why the underworld held such allure for those forced constantly to endure the strictures of polite society.
The task of finding the proper match for Turk’s key seemed at first as if it would be easier than I had thought. Many of the doors to the buildings were boarded up entirely, or had otherwise obviously been out of use for substantially longer than a week or two. By the time we had reached the end of the lane, however, there had been only three locks that were possible and none was the home to Turk’s key. I turned to look back, wondering if we had missed something. Perhaps, I thought with despair, the key was for something different entirely.
“Come on,” said Haggens, “we’ll try the alleys.”
I asked what he meant and he explained that there were alleys that backed the buildings on either side that also provided access. The alley was, if possible, even more sickening. The stench was as bad as in the Dead House and, as soon as we turned in, I heard a soft rumble and then scurrying. Through the haze, I detected movement about halfway down and, as my eyes adjusted to the scene, I realized with a start that it was human.
“They’re like rats, Doc,” said Haggens. “Don’t worry none. They want less part of us than we do of them.”
The form had disappeared, somehow blending into the architecture and piles of waste. To reach bottom in Haggens’ world was to be reduced to bestiality. Was this what awaited a woman like Monique, I wondered, when her looks abandoned her entirely?
We made our way up the alley, looking for a door that might spell success. About three quarters of the way to the next street, I saw it. It was grimy and the wood was split, but the lock was in decent repair and the ground in front showed signs of recent traffic. I slipped the key into the lock; turned and clicked. Haggens nodded to Mike to remain downstairs, and we stepped inside.
The Anatomy of Deception Page 18
