The Anatomy of Deception

by Lawrence Goldstone

  “Upon my departure from Providence, I was pronounced cured, my secret safe. Still, when I returned to New York, my friends and associates abandoned me. For many, the opportunity to sneer at the fallen Halsted was simply too great a temptation to resist. Except for Welch. Welch remained as intimate as before and was also the only one who at first guessed that I was still in the grip of the drug. My demeanor had been so altered, however, that it was not long before tongues began to cluck. When Welch went on to Baltimore, I was left completely alone, a pariah.

  “But my salvation was at hand. Welch persuaded Gilman and Billings to take me on. My gratitude was boundless and I was determined to justify his trust by ridding myself of my addiction once and for all.

  “I decided that if I could not resist the drug, I would put myself where there were no drugs to be had. I booked passage on a ship bound for South America, and, lest I lose control completely, took with me a minimal amount of cocaine. Within two days of sailing, I had used my entire supply. I stayed in my cabin, refusing to come out, even for meals. The agony became so great that I was emitting loud moans, more animal than human. On more than one occasion, the steward knocked on my door and asked if I needed the services of a physician … quite humorous, don’t you think?

  “Finally, I could endure it no longer. I burst from my cabin in the middle of the night, tore through the ship, and smashed my way into the captain’s cabin, with the aim of availing myself of whatever narcotics were in the medicine chest. I overpowered the captain and was subdued only when he raised the alarm and four sailors came to his assistance. By that time, the captain had grabbed his pistol and it was only because I was so obviously mad that I was not shot. I eventually managed to explain my situation, how I had come to be the way I was, and the captain, a decent and sympathetic man, did not have me arrested when we reached port. He even supplied me with small amounts of morphia on the return voyage to keep my situation manageable.”

  “On Dr. Halsted’s request,” said the Professor, “the captain had cabled Welch in Baltimore. Welch came immediately and, as a result, the affair was not made public, not even to the Hopkins administration. I am counting on your discretion, Ephraim, to see that it remains that way.”

  “I will not repeat what I have been told in confidence,” I said.

  “I have no doubt of your honor,” the Professor replied. The remark stung like nettles.

  “Welch took me to Baltimore,” Halsted went on, “and into his home. He watched over me as one would tend a sick child. I told him of the success that the ship captain had substituting small quantities of morphia for cocaine, and Welch thought that an excellent idea. His hypothesis was that if cocaine addiction was the more powerful, it was vital to put an end to it by any means possible. That hypothesis proved correct. By injecting small amounts of morphia, I was able to rid myself of cocaine. It was my most blissful and productive period in five years. And, although I found that I had to slightly increase the frequency of my morphia injections over time, the effects of that drug were far less deleterious than of the other. Moreover, Welch was able to quietly spread word that Halsted was cured.

  “Everything seemed to be going smoothly until six months ago, when I had occasion to come to Philadelphia to consult with a private patient. This patient, quite well-to-do, had a testicular tumor and was too embarrassed to come to Baltimore. He had set up a surgical facility at his country home and asked me to remove the growth there. His personal physician would assist and three private nurses would tend to him during his recuperation.

  “More to the point, however, this man had also used morphia, but was of course unaware that we had that in common. He had been attempting to cure himself for years, although his wealth enabled him to remain a user with no one the wiser. Whilst we spoke, he told me of a new and miraculous substance, whose origins and composition were unknown, which had allowed him to break his dependency. It was only available, he said, through underworld channels and was extremely costly, but well worth it to anyone of means who found himself in a similar state.

  “As you might imagine, Dr. Carroll, I was buoyed by this news, but unable to request specifics from my patient without revealing my own dependency. I immediately made inquiries in the lesser areas of the city, however—one learns by necessity how to do such things—and was soon rewarded with the information that someone known as ‘George’ was the source of this new drug.”

  “And ‘George,’ of course, was Turk,” I said.

  “Of course.” Halsted was so terse in his confirmation that I felt a fool for my comment. “I arranged a rendezvous at which I purchased a small quantity of the drug. I had no idea that this mysterious ‘George’ was a doctor, just as Dr. Osler had no idea that he was a drug supplier. To my view, while obviously a more educated and polished sort than one usually encounters in such places, I assumed that he was simply a man who had been raised in wealth and descended into iniquity. I am, as you know, familiar with the breed.”

  “Nonsense,” said the Professor. “You have never and will never descend into iniquity.”

  Halsted ignored the comment. “Before injecting myself, I performed an analysis of the powder with Frohde’s reagent, as I am sure you have, and then checked the literature. When I came across Wright’s experiment, I knew precisely with what I was dealing. Only then did I inject the drug and, once I did, it became clear that my patient was correct. Diacetylmorphine did most definitely quell the need for the more pedestrian form of the drug.

  “I decided to be clever. Not wishing to be dependent on a denizen of the underworld, I attempted to replicate Wright’s experiment. I would synthesize diacetylmorphine myself. Wright must have been lucky, though, because my attempts were not successful. As far as I can determine, acetylizing morphine renders it fat-soluble and therefore more efficacious, but my efforts produced no such result. Assuming that Turk was also not producing the drug himself, my next step was to attempt to discover where he was acquiring his supply of diacetylmorphine, but I failed here as well. I wonder, Dr. Carroll, if you have had more success?”

  “Actually,” I said, feeling quite proud of myself, “I have.” I began to recount my correspondence with the Bayer Company, but then stopped, knowing that I could have no honest reason to suspect that a German dye maker was synthesizing diacetylmorphine. But it was too late.

  “The Bayer Company?” asked the Professor. “Wherever did you get hold of that?”

  I was trying to think of a creditable lie, but Halsted made it unnecessary. Rather than pursue the Professor’s query, he began to tug lightly on his beard.

  “Aniline dyes,” he mused. “Very interesting.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would a dye maker be involved with such a substance?”

  “You should have read further, Ephraim,” said the Professor. “There has been growing awareness in Germany of a parallel between aniline dyes and synthesized medicines. As you may know, mauve, the first synthesized coal tar dye, was discovered quite by accident in 1856, while the Englishman, Perkin, was attempting to synthesize quinine. Three years ago, the most effective antipyretic we have was discovered by two German interns who used a mislabeled jar of naphthalene while experimenting on treatments of intestinal parasites. The substance, which reduced fevers, but did nothing to the parasites, turned out not to be naphthalene, but acetanilide, a commonly used aniline dye intermediate made by the Kalle Company. Kalle had no previous experience in pharmaceuticals, but immediately sought a patent, and so we now have Antifebrin. Bayer, another dye works and one of Kalle’s competitors, then also began experimenting heavily in medicines. Two years ago, they thought they had stumbled on a pain reliever, which they called phenacetin, but it was found to cause kidney failure. Diacetylmorphine is obviously one of the substances with which they are currently working.”

  “But they responded to my cable denying any such work.”

  “That is hardly surprising, Doctor,” said Halsted. “There are millions to be made i
n pharmaceuticals. We are dealing with easily synthesized substances here. The trick is to find one that works before your competitors. If diacetylmorphine is seen to have medicinal properties, whoever acquires the patent will accrue all the profits. Bayer would never chance alerting any potential challenger to its researches.”

  “Then how did Turk get it?”

  “Drugs are like a leaky roof, Ephraim,” said the Professor. “Water always finds the hole. In this case, someone at Bayer must have been stealing a supply of the drug and either he or a confederate had the foresight to ship it to America, where demand is always high and German authorities would have no power.”

  I turned my attention back to Halsted. “But isn’t diacetylmorphine addicting in its own right?”

  “The evidence is not clear,” replied Halsted. “I am able to maintain equilibrium on a substantially more modest dose than of morphia, so it is quite possible that it can be used safely for clinical purposes. Addiction tends to be progressive, however, so there is no telling what the future holds.”

  “We are dealing with that issue in Dr. Halsted’s case,” said the Professor, “as you will see.” I thought we would move on from there, but the Professor had not forgotten. “So, Ephraim, how did you come up with the Bayer Company?”

  I had no choice at that point than to admit that I had not simply found a key and turned it over to the police, but had visited the den on Wharf Lane before the police. I told them of the discovery of the hidden compartment and finding the drugs and the weapons inside. I did not mention the journal. I wanted to decipher the entries before I divulged its existence to anyone.

  They both listened, rapt. When I was done, the Professor sighed and shook his head. “Ephraim,” he said. “We have underestimated you. You’ve been cleverer than we supposed—and a good deal more reckless. You must have had the devil of a time of it, juggling the police, Miss Benedict, Jonas Lachtmann, and us.”

  “It has been something of a strain,” I admitted, but I was also feeling more than a little self-important at having impressed Halsted and the Professor with my sleuthing.

  “Well, Ephraim, I think you can relax now. Perhaps we should allow Dr. Halsted to finish.”

  Halsted nodded and took another sip of tea. He was methodical in his movements, almost practiced, as if he had taught himself to think through even the simplest action before actually performing it. “During one of my visits to Turk,” he went on, “he informed me that he knew that I was a surgeon of some repute. At the time, I could not imagine how he had come on such knowledge. I was making only occasional visits to Philadelphia and had in no way identified myself. Now, of course, it is clear from whence this bit of knowledge emanated.

  “As a price for his silence—and an uninterrupted supply of the drug—Turk demanded that I perform certain services for him. When I asked what services he had in mind, he told me that, from time to time, young ladies in trouble came to him for assistance. His meaning was instantly clear. I told him he was insane if he expected me to perform abortions. He merely shrugged and said that there had been no harm in trying.

  “When I returned to Baltimore with the supply that Turk had then sold me, I discovered that it was not diacetylmorphine at all, but simple morphia. I confess to say that I panicked. The prospect of a return to morphia addiction was terrifying. I surreptitiously returned to Philadelphia to confront him. I had a difficult moment when I ran into Weir Mitchell on the street, but I told him that I had come to town to perform surgery.

  “I found out where Turk lived … a tortuous process, as I am told you know as well … and surprised him at his home. He told me that I could have the new drug anytime I wanted—all I needed to do was to help him out. I refused.

  “I went back to Baltimore, but became increasingly desperate. I returned to Philadelphia yet again and accosted Turk at that waterfront saloon he frequented.”

  “The Fatted Calf?” I asked.

  “Yes. That was the place.” Halsted removed his pince-nez and polished the lenses with a handkerchief that he removed from his vest pocket, slowly, his fingers moving at constant speed like a metronome. When he was done, he checked the result, then replaced it on the bridge of his nose. “By that time, Welch had begun to suspect that my situation had deteriorated and that it had something to do with my frequent trips to Philadelphia. He made Dr. Osler aware of the situation. Together they resolved to once more render me assistance beyond that which anyone has a right to expect.

  “I was beside myself by the time I arrived at the bar. I had come to see Turk as the embodiment of evil, a fiend withholding a lifesaving drug from a desperately ill unfortunate. I burst in and accosted him. Turk responded by threatening to expose me to the world. ‘The great Halsted on drugs again,’ was I think how he put it. At just that moment, Dr. Osler arrived. Unbeknownst to me, Welch had been observing me and cabled Dr. Osler that I was on the train. Dr. Osler followed me from the station to the bar, and then took me back to the station and returned me to Baltimore.”

  “Even then,” the Professor said, “I never knew that it was Turk whom Halsted had come to see. I waited at the door whilst someone else went across the room to fetch him. When we left, Halsted merely said that the man was a monster. He did not identify him by name.”

  “Thus, when you saw me arguing with Turk at The Fatted Calf,” Halsted went on, “it was natural to assume that I knew him as a physician or even a fellow conspirator, instead of merely as a drug supplier. In that, Dr. Carroll, you were mistaken.”

  “How did you know that I saw you at The Fatted Calf?” I asked, astonished.

  “I knew you had been with Turk that evening,” said the Professor. “The extrapolation was not unreasonable.”

  At that point, Halsted placed his hands in his lap. He had finished. For some moments, no one spoke as I tried to digest all of what he had said. He had accounted for every incident, every open question. Each conclusion that I had drawn could be accounted for by this alternate construction of the facts. Halsted’s version amounted to a set of coincidences, certainly, but no more so than mine.

  But the more powerful impression was of Halsted, the man. The Professor had been correct. Greatness fairly flew off him. I thought of the passion with which Dr. Osler had spoke of the noble, doomed Servetus and understood why he would go to such enormous lengths to protect the man before me. For the Professor, Halsted, like Servetus, had every element of the protagonist of a Greek tragedy: accomplished, courageous, indomitable, but ultimately struck down by circumstance and coincidence. For Servetus, there had been no pulling back from tragedy, while here, Welch and the Professor—and quite possibly I—might succeed in carving a very different end to the story.

  “So, Ephraim,” Dr. Osler said, “now that you have heard the truth, perhaps you will enlighten us as to your theory of the events? It seems apparent that you believe that Dr. Halsted bungled Rebecca Lachtmann’s abortion and, to cover it up, he poisoned Turk.”

  “Yes,” I was forced to admit, “that is what I thought.”

  “In your version, was I complicit in these crimes? Or simply aware of them and covering up?”

  “The latter,” I confessed weakly.

  “Very well,” the Professor said. “Not an unreasonable conclusion, as I said. But how did you account for a surgeon of Dr. Halsted’s talents perforating the bowel during a routine procedure, even granting that the environment was challenging?”

  “I assumed that the drug had rendered his hand unsteady.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t do at all, Dr. Carroll,” said Halsted. “I’ve performed hundreds, if not thousands, of operations under the influence of drugs and have never … not once … botched any of them.”

  “That is what I wanted to tell you, once again trusting in your confidence,” interjected the Professor. “Dr. Halsted is too valuable to society—too many lives are at stake—for us to take a risk on his incapacitation. Dr. Halsted’s efforts to shake free of drug addiction have been Herculean
and, one day, might well have resulted in a freedom from dependence. For the time being, however, Welch and I have convinced Dr. Halsted that, rather than continue to compromise both his health and his abilities, he should instead maintain himself on morphia. He can do so at minimal levels, which will allow him to continue to work.”

  “Is it possible to attain such an equilibrium?” I asked, skeptical.

  “Most definitely,” avowed Halsted. “Once I had freed myself from a need to eliminate morphia entirely, I found that I could control the cravings with judicious administration. Would that I had done so before I encountered Turk.”

  I had a final question. “Dr. Osler, why did you refuse to autopsy Rebecca Lachtmann if you had no idea who she was or how she died?”

  The Professor’s expression grew serious, almost sad. “In that, Ephraim, Turk was correct. While in Montréal, I fell in love with a young woman named Elise Légér. She was a remarkable beauty, but her father was a clergyman who disapproved of my profession, or at least the manner in which I conducted it. He refused to give his consent to my proposal of marriage. Elise and I were heartbroken. We even discussed elopement. In the end, however, she simply could not disobey her father and we never saw each other again. But she is in my thoughts often.”

  The Professor’s eyes drifted away, into his youth. “When I swung open the cover of the ice chest, the resemblance was remarkable. It was as if I were staring at Elise. I knew after a few seconds that it could not have been, of course. I had not seen her in over fifteen years, and she would by now be thirty-five, far older than the woman we saw. But it was quite a shock all the same. It is not every day that one sees a ghost of one’s past, eh?

  “It seems,” he went on, “that this was another occasion where you took a set of symptoms and extrapolated into a reasonable diagnosis that turned out to be incorrect. Turk reacted because he knew it was Rebecca Lachtmann, and it must have given him quite a fright to believe that I was reacting for the same reason. So, knowing that I often confided in you, he asked you to join him for the evening, gave you too much to drink, and then, I am sure, tried to persuade you to divulge anything that I might have said that would have put him at risk.”