The Anatomy of Deception

by Lawrence Goldstone

  “Of course, Ephie. You can always join us.”

  As I pulled up a chair, a bottle of presumptive champagne arrived at the table. “On the house,” grunted the waitress who brought it.

  Danielle showed more interest. “You could be family, though,” she said.

  “Back off,” Brigid growled. “If he’d be anybody’s he’d be mine, but Ephie don’t go in for the likes of us. He prefers so-ci-e-ty types.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Word gets around,” she replied. “But why talk about such things now? Let’s drink.”

  The champagne had not improved with age, nor had Brigid’s life. Recent events had brought her some unwanted attention from Sergeant Borst, while the attention she would have wanted, that of well-to-do males, seemed as elusive as ever. Danielle recounted similar tales of life’s cruelties. It was odd to be sitting with these two downtrodden women, little more than prostitutes, and feel quite relaxed and at home. I was ashamed for having judged Brigid without charity.

  Haggens’ bigheartedness did not extend beyond the bottle at the table, but I called the waitress over and asked for a second on my tab, which brightened her considerably.

  Soon, I turned the conversation to Turk. Perhaps he had preferred to boast to women. “I kinda miss ol’ Georgie,” Brigid said. “He was a mean cuss when you crossed him, but he was good for a laugh and he sure did know how to spend money.”

  “Sterling traits to be sure,” I agreed.

  “It’s a lot easier to spend money when yer making barrels of it,” grunted Danielle.

  “Yeah,” Brigid agreed. “He was kinda our Carnegie.”

  I laughed. Turk as a captain of industry—or robber baron—made a more persuasive picture than they knew. I then asked, as I had with Haggens, if they were familiar with Farnshaw, the other George.

  “Sure,” said Danielle. “Don’t you think I read the papers? He’s the one slipped the arsenic to Georgie. He was kinda cute. Was in here about two months ago.”

  It seemed, however, that, like Haggens, Brigid had seen Farnshaw but the one time. “Danielle would know better though,” said Brigid. “She and Georgie was tight.” She smiled. “Really tight, if you get my meaning.”

  “So, you would know if he had … uh … associates in his business?” I asked her.

  “Not personally. The one time I needed services, Georgie did it himself,” she answered. “I was lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Yeah. Georgie wasn’t real good at it. Word was getting around that maybe he wasn’t worth the risk. A little bit after that, he got someone else to do the work. He was the one took the money, though.”

  “You mean the other Georgie? He did the work? That’s what the police say anyway.”

  “Maybe,” said Danielle. “But I always figured it was the old guy.”

  “Old guy?” I asked. I felt a reflex to start, but tried to cover it by taking a sip from my glass. “What did he look like?”

  “Little fella. Dressed like a millionaire. I ain’t never seen a collar so white.”

  “Did he have glasses?” I asked.

  “Yeah. The ones without the hooks for your ears. Why? D’you know him?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I might. He was clean-shaven, am I correct?”

  “Nah,” Danielle replied. “This musta been a different millionaire. He had a mustache and beard both. Took real good care of them, too.”

  “That couldn’t have been who I was thinking of,” I said, playing with the stem of my glass and praying that I was giving nothing away.

  “They had a tiff one night,” said Danielle. “Georgie and the old gent. Musta been something big. Georgie got scary, the way he got all quiet when he was really hot. I think even Haggens backed off him then.”

  “That says something,” I agreed.

  “It does, mister.” Danielle nodded. “I can tell you. But Georgie … he could really make you quake.”

  “What was the fight about?” I asked casually.

  “Georgie had something on the old guy … I couldn’t hear exactly what … but it had something to do with some young bird. I think Georgie wanted money to keep his mouth shut, but the old guy didn’t wanna come across. So Georgie got real quiet, leaned over and said something, too soft to make out, and the old gent went as white as his collar. A few minutes later, he agreed to do what Georgie wanted.”

  “That’s funny,” said Brigid. “The night I was here with Ephie, Georgie had some big set-to with a geezer looked just like that. Remember?”

  “Sorry. I don’t remember anything about that night … except you, of course.”

  She laughed, a real laugh, like a girl. For a moment, she looked quite sweet and innocent. “Ah, g’wan.”

  “Oh, wait a minute,” I said, clapping a hand to my forehead. “Now I remember. Haggens had come over and told Turk someone wanted to see him. It was the, uh, geezer.” I considered this revelation for a moment. “But from what I saw, he hardly looked afraid of Turk.”

  “He was scared that night, I’ll tell you,” said Danielle. “After the old boy left, Georgie was pig-in-clover happy. He said, ‘Just goes to prove, Annalise’—I was goin’ by Annalise then—’you can always find some way to get anyone to do anything. Even big, important snobs.’ I asked what he meant, but he just laughed. ‘Sometimes you give ’em what they want, and sometimes you take it away.’ I never did figure out what he meant.”

  But I knew. What a fool I’d been!

  “I’ve got to go,” I said to them both. “I’m sorry.” I left five dollars on the table and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE ENTIRE WAY TO TWELFTH Street, I yelled at the driver to go faster. Every moment I wasted was another moment that Farnshaw had to remain in that filthy jail.

  I had never felt such a raging anger. Halsted had sat there, never flinching, never changing expression, feeding me one half-truth after another. Except when he fed me total lies, of course.

  Wrong diagnosis? Ha! It had been Halsted all the time. He had butchered Rebecca Lachtmann, not because Turk had given him drugs, but because he had withheld them. An unaccountable gaffe by Turk, but I supposed he had simply assumed that Halsted would never have bungled an operation, no matter how much in need. Or perhaps he merely wanted to watch Halsted cringe and sweat his way through an ordinarily simple procedure, forced to ply his skill without his morphia crutch.

  What must they have thought, after Halsted had perforated that poor girl’s bowel? The great Halsted confronted with a screaming, hemorrhaging woman on a filthy table in an ill-lit room by the docks? From his hand! And Turk standing by, knowing that a daughter of the city’s elite was dying in agony in his den. Would it have been Turk or Halsted who moved first to stifle the screams? Turk, most likely. Halsted probably would have gaped, disbelieving, that such a thing could have happened, that his hand could have betrayed him. But Turk would have taken action, swift and determined action, the only action possible to avoid prison. He would have held the poor, screaming girl down by pinning her left arm just below the shoulder, grabbed for whatever was at hand, one of the unused sheets perhaps, and jammed it over her face. What would Halsted have done then? Would he have fought Turk and tried to save the wretched victim on the table? Or taken a step back and waited as Turk snuffed out her life?

  After Rebecca’s screams had been permanently silenced, Turk would then have made arrangements to dispose of the body—Monique had said that there had been accidents before. Surely, any number of society’s dregs would be more than happy to earn a few coins by burying a body in the woods or an open field, or tossing a weighted body into the harbor. But dregs are what they are. Instead of doing what he was told, whatever hooligan Turk hired must have simply pocketed the money and dumped Rebecca Lachtmann in the streets. She had been found by a passerby, who sought out the police, and thus the body had eventually made its way to the Dead House. No wonder Turk was astonished when the ice chest was ope
ned. He must have felt haunted. And then he needed to find out what had accounted for the similar reaction by the Professor—that was where I had come in. Little did Turk suspect that I would be seeking the same information from him.

  Halsted had certainly poisoned Turk. Whether he had done so to cover up the first crime or simply out of hatred was moot. Halsted had committed two murders. Even then, I might have been able to forgive him—after all, he had been blackmailed into perpetrating a heinous deed and then dealt just desserts to the blackmailer—if not for Farnshaw. Farnshaw had been arrested for Halsted’s crimes. It was appalling and indefensible that the man refused to come forward, knowing that an innocent languished in a prison cell in his place.

  Then there was the Professor. Was one doctor covering up for another, as Borst had surmised, or had the Professor been duped as well? I would soon know.

  Borst’s hypothesis, despite my contempt for him, was a good deal closer to the truth than mine had been. He could not have guessed at Halsted’s identity, but other than that, he had deduced the facts of the case almost precisely. He knew that there were gaps in his formulation and was using Farnshaw as a lever to fill them in. I intended to make that ploy unnecessary. Farnshaw would be out of prison before noon tomorrow.

  When I arrived at the Professor’s house, the lights were on—he often worked long into the night. I pounded on the door and needed wait only a minute or two for the unflappable Mrs. Barlow. Without waiting for her to ask what was wrong, I burst through, demanding to see the Professor immediately. Before she could move to fetch him, Dr. Osler appeared in the doorway. Except for the lack of a coat, he was fully dressed.

  “Hello, Ephraim,” he said, looking me up and down. He could not have failed to notice my distress, but behaved as if the circumstances were completely normal. “What brings you out at such an hour? It is fortunate that I was working on my textbook or you would have found me retired.”

  “Dr. Osler,” I cried, before he could extend the conversation, “Farnshaw is innocent! We must get him out of jail immediately.”

  The Professor nodded slowly, matching my urgency with dispassion. “Ephraim, I thought we were done with this. I feel for Farnshaw as well, but I’m certain that this affair will resolve itself best without our interference.”

  “But you don’t understand, Dr. Osler! Farnshaw is innocent! I have proof.”

  The Professor considered this. “All right, Ephraim, come into the study. Let me hear your proof.”

  We walked through the door into the room in which Halsted had sat just days before. The Professor beckoned me to a chair and then sat down himself. He was not going to be rushed.

  I took a breath, tried to calm myself, and related, in as scientific a tone as I could muster, what I had heard from Monique. I then reminded the Professor of what Halsted had told us earlier and how the two stories must be inconsistent. “Dr. Osler,” I said in conclusion, “Dr. Halsted lied. He did perform an abortion on Rebecca Lachtmann. The abortion went bad because Turk withheld drugs, not because Dr. Halsted had taken them. After Halsted perforated her bowel, Turk suffocated her on the table, and then made arrangements to dispose of the body. Dr. Halsted almost certainly then poisoned Turk to cover the crime.”

  “Your evidence would be persuasive,” the Professor said, “if not for the fact that the fulcrum for this entire theory is the word of a prostitute.”

  “The woman’s profession would surely work against her veracity,” I rejoined, “save for the fact that she has no motive whatever to be untruthful, whereas Dr. Halsted has every motive.”

  “Who can tell what motives these people have?” the Professor retorted. “Frankly, Ephraim, it is difficult for me to think of this as in any way constituting ‘proof.’ You have made a grievous mistake in accusing Dr. Halsted once. It is only because you are young and passionate that he was willing to overlook the insult. I would, if I were you, be extremely hesitant in making the same mistake again.”

  “Dr. Osler,” I began, “does it seem credible to you that Farnshaw would become involved in something so disgusting? There was no reason for him to do so. He certainly was not in need of funds.”

  “True. But even if Farnshaw is innocent, that in no way means that Halsted is guilty.”

  “But if Farnshaw is innocent, how can we let him sit in jail?”

  The Professor shook his head. “We have no way of knowing whether Farnshaw is innocent or guilty. All we know is that a seemingly likeable young man from a very good family has gotten himself involved with some highly disreputable associates. Before we burst into a police station, telling Sergeant Borst his business—behavior, if on the other shoe, we would find quite offensive—I think we must have more to go on than the word of a prostitute….”

  I was about to interrupt, to tell him about the other journal, when the Professor put up his hand. “But I’ll tell you what, Ephraim. I’ll sleep on it. It is far too late to accomplish anything tonight in any case. Come here first thing in the morning. We can resolve this then. That is fair, surely.”

  The Professor sat across from me, thoughtful and reasoned. What he proposed was indeed fair and, as it was unlikely that anything could be achieved before morning, also made complete sense. We should, after all the bungles and false conclusions, move carefully. Yes, it was all very reasonable, except for one small fact.

  At that moment, I knew—knew beyond any doubt—that the Professor was lying. He had been lying from the beginning. There had been no Elise Légér, or if there had been, she bore no physical resemblance to Rebecca Lachtmann. He needed the fabrication to cover his recognition of Rebecca Lachtmann, and he could only have known of Rebecca’s fate from one source.

  I rose stiffly and agreed to follow the course he had suggested. Evidently, however, I did not lie as well as he did. He fixed his eyes upon me in a manner that I had never seen before—not even as he watched Burleigh murder a patient in the operating theater.

  “Don’t do it, Ephraim. Halsted is too important. Thousands of lives—literally thousands—are at stake. It doesn’t matter what he’s done. It matters only what he will do. He will alleviate suffering on a scale comparable to few men in history. If you cut short his life, it will be a crime against the human race.”

  “You talk of thousands of lives, Dr. Osler. What of the one? What of Farnshaw, who will hang although innocent?”

  “Farnshaw will not hang,” he said. “We will get him out of prison, I assure you. It will be only a few days … but in the meantime, we must not sacrifice Halsted.”

  “Then you know Farnshaw is innocent?”

  “I know he is innocent of the deaths of Turk and Rebecca Lachtmann. I assume he is innocent of other wrongdoing.”

  “How do you know?” Although I had heard the words, I could not yet grasp that the man on whom I had modeled my life had just admitted to being an accessory in two deaths.

  “Halsted told me.” He tried to speak evenly, without passion, as if he were dictating statistics in the Dead House, but his voice quavered. “As you have learned, Turk had found that doling out drugs to his victims in the proper quantities could render them helpless when the drug was withheld. Turk was frightened of performing an abortion on someone of Rebecca Lachtmann’s social standing, lest something go amiss … quite an irony, as things turned out. He told Halsted only that the patient was from a prominent family and then forced him to agree to perform the odious chore. Halsted begged Turk to supply him with some of the drug before he operated, but Turk, fearing that once in control, Halsted would change his mind, refused.

  “You have guessed accurately what transpired. Halsted’s hand was shaking from drug deprivation. One of the surgical sounds slipped and perforated the poor girl’s bowel. When she began to scream, Halsted tried to save her, but Turk pushed him aside. He suffocated her lest the noise be heard on the street below. After she was dead, Turk gave Halsted a supply of diacetylmorphine to keep him quiet.

  “Halsted came straight to me after the
abortion, distraught. I was the only person in Philadelphia he could trust. He told me that a hoodlum had forced him to perform an abortion and the girl had died. He described her, but assured me that he never learned her name. His first instinct was to go to the police, but he was afraid. It’s a lot to ask for a man to turn himself in for murder. I told him not to say anything but instead to return to Baltimore. After all, the poor girl could not be brought back to life and it was hardly Halsted’s negligence that had caused her death. I was sorry for the family and that the girl, whoever she was, would not receive a proper burial, but there seemed little alternative since I assumed the body had been disposed of in a location where it would never be found.

  “Then, of course, a woman who precisely matched the description Halsted had given me turned up in the Dead House. I knew instantly. I had met Miss Lachtmann once at a charity function and put a name to the face. Turk knew the wind might be up when he noted my reaction. Then, that night, Halsted took care of matters on his own, although I daresay he would never have done so without Turk’s initiative.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Turk contacted Halsted after his return to Baltimore and demanded that he continue to travel here and perform abortions. I tell you, Ephraim, it made no sense. The last thing Turk should have wanted was Halsted in Philadelphia, where at any time he could bring both of them down. It almost seemed that Turk bore Halsted a personal grudge so deep that it eroded his judgment. I asked Halsted later if he had wronged Turk in some way, but there was nothing.”

  Mary had been correct, then.

  “Halsted did come to Philadelphia, but only to confront Turk. During the altercation Halsted insisted that they speak at his hotel afterward. After Turk took you home, he went to meet Halsted. Halsted pretended to reluctantly agree to Turk’s demands. As you have seen, Halsted does not take alcohol, so Turk was not suspicious when he was the only one drinking the port. When Turk began to feel ill, Halsted got a carriage to take him home.”