Dr. Phibes

by William Goldstein

  Cars—cabriolets, curtained Landaus and sleek Stutzes—had been gliding softly up this roadway all evening to discharge guests. A canopy of brightly colored Chinese lanterns had been erected to spotlight the new arrivals. These, sporting a dazzling variety of animal masks over jewelled gowns and snowy tuxedos, were treated to applause or laughter, depending on the inventiveness of their creations. Lions, tigers, cobras, lizards and bumble bees lined the stairway as a flowing orange sportster zipped up, its three pairs of chromed exhaust pipes throbbing with the power contained in its engine. Its driver, attired only in a black tuxedo, leaped out over the door as the attendant whisked the car down along the driveway.

  The man who now stood tentatively on the cement was youngish and good-looking. He glanced petulantly at the crowd on the staircase, annoyed that they didn’t notice him. Apparently he’d neglected to bring a mask, perhaps thinking he could obtain something suitable at the party. He pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket and lit up. He looked expectantly around, then began walking, his shoulders square and cocky.

  Suddenly, before he’d walked more than a few paces, a long silver-gray saloon car eased open one of its doors and emitted a velvet-hatted and elegantly cloaked figure. The man who glided out of the grey plush interior moved with a dancer’s elasticity. With a genteel flourish, he swept open a package held with gloved hands, and, in a single motion, extended a squat and bizarrely bug-eyed frog’s mask at the walker.

  “For that froggie who would a-wooing go!” The walker beamed. He grabbed the frog mask from the cloaked gentleman and placed it over his own head, much like a crown.

  “Point me to the women, my good man.” The walker clapped his hands with relish, executing a little two-step in anticipation of the night ahead. His amphibian mask gave him a churlish, even ludicrous appearance, highlighted all the more by the elegant black tuxedo draping his tall frame.

  The cloaked gentleman looked at the French-windowed balcony above and put a calming hand on his new-found friend. His features were partly obscured by a contoured, smoked-glass opera mask. He was small but of great presence, his hands shaping the air before him. He turned to look at the Chinese lanterns.

  He was wearing his usual fixed smile—the master of the letter “P,” the man with the strange crystal ballroom, had also come to this event.

  He adjusted the clasp at the base of the frog’s head, then pushed the younger man toward the staircase. His generosity concluded, he pulled a gold-covered walking stick from the car and stood eyeing the festivities above. By now enough guests had arrived to line the staircase with a complete zoo of masked figures.

  Froggie edged his way through the crowd at the base of the staircase, nodding and blinking at a full blouse or a narrow waist. The mask had given him a new freedom and he intended to make the most of it. He stopped to ogle a prize specimen whose heroic proportions welled-up in near nakedness from a leather archer’s costume. But Friar Tuck, who hovered at this female Robin Hood’s elbow, drove the rounder off.

  The man with the frog’s head hopped onto the staircase, but he’d only walked up a few stairs when he grasped the base of the mask as if to loosen it. Gaming relief, he hopped up another half dozen steps only to stop again, this time to clutch at the wooden halter.

  The others looked down on him, their curiosity aroused.

  Froggie climbed a few more stairs, this time staggering noticeably. The other guests appeared to attribute this to the champagne and ignored him when he barged upward in a final burst. Besotted gentlemen were becoming common.

  The man-frog was breathing heavily now, clawing and clutching at the unyielding mask in a futile effort to relieve the tightening compression on his skull. He gasped and stumbled about, smashing at the wood with his fists. He screamed in anger. Then in terror. And screamed once again.

  This time the crowd was attentive. They looked at him with the dumbness people always seem to muster in the face of tragedy. They ogled and leered through disguises now grown obscene.

  The orchestra thrummed a tango. The colored lanterns blinked in the wind. The cypress trees loomed in the darkness below.

  The man with the frog’s mask stumbled, screamed again, his scream disappearing into an awful dying choke. He straightened, then stumbled, falling the length of the staircase.

  When the others got to him, rivulets of blood from his burst skull trickled grotesquely from the frog’s eyes, ears and neck. The man was quite dead.

  The police arrived a few minutes later. By then the driveway was clear and most of the guests had returned to the house. A butler and a gardener guarded the body. The saloon car that had carried the original owner of the frog’s mask was nowhere in sight.

  “Goddamn it, no!” It was not yet nine a.m., an unhappy hour by anybody’s yardstick, a seamy, unpleasant hour on this particular May morning when the thermometer outside Sir John David Crow’s window had already edged past the 85-degree mark. It was an unusually hot morning, portending a day of frayed tempers for Londoners used to better fogbound air.

  “You know better than to ask me for men when we’re spread too thin as it is,” Sir John continued.

  He threw some coffee into a white china cup and gestured for Harry Trout to take some. Trout complied, then renewed his gambit.

  “But don’t you see the significance, sir? Three medical men have died, each under more peculiar circumstances than the others. And in each instance animals were involved.” He sipped his coffee, eyeing his chief furtively over the edge of his cup.

  Sir John David Crow, London-born, Oxford-educated, was 59-years-old and looked every inch the patrician. His bald head was ruddy and polished from a good steam bath after a go at the weights; he’d refused to bow to the day’s heat, choosing instead to wear a pink high-collared shirt and a red tie that added to his floridity. Sir John, as Department Head of the Homicide Division, commanded a force of some 400 officers and men whose job it was to prevent and control crimes and to apprehend the transgressors. Some 3,500 murders, assassinations, criminal conspiracies, kidnappings and other acts of violence were visited on London’s citizenry each year. These crimes and the resulting pain, misery and fear formed the cornerstone of Sir John’s profession.

  The two men had been talking for less than ten minutes. Sir John had been forced to listen to Trout’s much-too-cool dissertation (that was always the way with the young smarty pants). Now Sir John was about to lose his temper and looked like the very devil for it.

  “It’s too consistent, sir, too damned consistent; if you could let me have liberty for a week, we would put it all together. . . .”

  “A week! You’ve had three bloody days, ran poor Schenley’s legs off all over the bloody city, and what’ve you got to show? I’ll tell you what: a goddamn menagerie—frogs, bats, bees; next you’ll be telling me somebody’s slipped an asp into some old lady’s tea cakes!”

  “But there’s a link, Sir John. A few more days and I can show it to you. After all, they were all professional men.” Trout reached for more coffee but was cut short by Crow’s bellowing.

  “Doctors die every day without our making martyrs out of them. If you want a plot, I suggest you read Aesop’s Fables. That should whet your ample imagination, Mr. Trout.”

  Trout collected himself and exited as quietly as possible under the circumstances. Just as he was about to shut the door, Sir John fired a parting blast. “Remember, your weekly report is due Friday at noon. And leave that damned zoo out of it! If you’re on to something, I’ll thank you to stay with the facts.”

  Trout was still smarting when he walked back into his office. It was a small but scrupulously clean place with high wooden walls, two filing cabinets and a large map of Greater London on the wall opposite his desk. Tom Schenley, his collar wilted from the heat, sat in a cane chair beside Harry Trout’s desk.

  “You look like you’ve been through the mill, if I must say so myself,” said Schenley.

  “Mr. Schenley, during my short time in this
department, I’ve experienced the vicissitudes of obscure cases with little or no clues, of reticent witnesses, fashion plate barristers and brilliant criminals. I’ve had to answer to friends, family and a juristic system that seems, sometimes, to offer more succor to the perpetrators of crimes than to their victims. I’ve further endured the scorn of so-called public opinion, but I have not yet, sir, grown accustomed to being shouted at, denigrated, debased, yes, outright verbally abused. And I do not now appreciate it particularly from one whose station and education warrants a more seemly attitude.” Trout gave full vent to his ire.

  “You mean the old man handed it to you?” Schenley asked.

  “He is not an old man but rather a remodeled, iron-seated, rock-visaged, crease-browed, irascible, florid, ungentlemanly, callous, short-visioned, intemperate martinet. And I wish the man would hear me because it needs to be put into the record!” Trout slammed into his seat, threw his feet upon the desk and stared hard at the map opposite. Schenley leaned forward, his arms on the desk. “I take it he has reservations about the case, sir?”

  “He told me to go read Aesop’s Fables,” Trout spat.

  Schenley stifled a laugh. “That doesn’t sound hopeful, sir.”

  “That’s a euphemism. And the pattern’s as clear as the skin on top of his head.” Trout glared at the map again.

  Schenley attempted to comfort him.

  “Like my dear wife says: ‘Tomorrow will be better.’ Besides it’s too damn hot today to do much of anything.”

  Now Trout looked at Schenley coldly. “If it’s not done today, we can forget it. He wants it wrapped up by the weekend. What’ve you got so far?” He nodded at some manila folders on his desk.

  “Not too much, sir.” Schenley began thumbing through the folders as he talked. “Each was a medical man of considerable standing. Dunwoody, for example, was an anesthesiologist, published a few papers, served on advisory boards and had a pretty good practice to boot. Thornton, that chap up north, did a lot of work with the blood vessels. Came down here a lot as consultant.”

  “What was it that put Thornton away?” Trout shot out.

  “Bees. Somebody dumped a hive into his bath. Hargreaves, the one at the party, was a cut-up. Three wives, each divorced after a year. Social register. Fast cars. Boating. Horses. And women coming out of his ears. But Hargreaves was nobody’s fool: top drawer all the way. On the staff of three leading hospitals. Even attended seminars on the continent and in America.” Schenley blinked his eyes in conclusion. Then he went on. “But they all had something in common.”

  “If you tell me each died of violent causes, I’ll shove you out the window, you bloody hypocrite,” Trout growled.

  “No, sir. All were professionals. Each man an individual and a gentleman in his own way.” Schenley toyed with his words.

  “Come on out with it,” Trout demanded.

  “Vesalius,” Schenley offered.

  Trout blinked, then grunted: “Vesalius!? What the hell are you talking about? Vesalius was a 16th-century anatomist!”

  “And a 20th-century London specialist,” Schenley added.

  “In God’s name, does the man have an address, a place where we can call on him?” Trout was excited.

  Schenley was cool: “We’ll be talking with the man in one hour. I’ve already made an appointment. He’s busy but he will see us.”

  “Busy, hell! He’ll see us now or I’ll subpoena the bloody bastard.”

  Trout jumped up and grabbed his coat.

  Schenley followed. “On what grounds, sir?”

  Trout pulled him out the door. “On the grounds that it suits the crown. Now let’s get to him before he changes his mind!”

  They dashed out of the room, Trout hatless but with composure fully restored. Schenley grabbed his files and followed Harry Trout who’d already raced halfway down the hall.

  Chapter 5

  THE Wabash Cannonball roared down the rails at full throttle, white steam hissing in authoritative jets, steel tires clashing, its locomotive blazing across the landscape.

  The overnight express thrashed through a grade crossing on its way to Louisville. The string of freight trains had changed this small crossing into a transcontinental exchange: the packed carriers zipped past, shooting grain, coke, truck parts, sulphuric acid, ball bearings and Finger Lakes wine to mid-American distribution points.

  The Wabash calaboose sped on; red lights flashed their warning and the crossing gates lifted.

  “Dr. Vesalius!” The voice that called seemed to be coming from afar.

  Up ahead the Broadway Limited streaked around a curve, diesel churning. Its twelve sleek cobalt-colored cars glinted against the slag hillsides. Each car was emblazoned with a name—Coshohocktin Valley, Susquehanna, Allegheny, City of Vincennes—the brass Dame plates running the length of its side. To the rear, the sculptured windows of the salon car spelled out the importance of this fast train.

  Both trains sounded warning whistles as they headed for an intersection—the Broadway Limited rushing west to Chicago, the Wabash freight highballing south. The express snaked behind some low hills, doubling, then trebling the reverberations of its wheels. Just beyond the bills the freight droned closer: collision course!

  Imperceptibly, a switch enervated the track ribbon. A razor-edged segment slid to the left on oiled bearings, activating another pair of rails, another route. Seconds later the freight was angling off onto a small upgrade. Its caboose clattered over a bridge just as the Broadway Limited’s diesel passed beneath.

  “Well done, Dr. Vesalius,” approved the distant voice.

  The man on the floor grunted. He checked a stopwatch, made a notation in his manual and looked up.

  “Steam is still better than the diesels,” he said. “There’s nothing rolling today that can beat the mallet.” He squinted up from his work, then returned to his notebooks. He wrote with an accountant’s hand, the webbed pages attesting to the care and precision he put into his work.

  “I hear they’re putting electric locomotives onto the Simplon Orient.”

  Vesalius scowled: “Rubbish. Those tin cans could never make it through the Vosges, let alone the Carpathians.” Then he looked up. “Say, who the hell are you anyway?”

  “Schenley, sir. I called you earlier. And this is Detective Inspector Trout.”

  Trout was preoccupied with the trains. “Why Tom, I didn’t know you had it in you. You must tell me more about it sometime.” He bent to adjust a mobile crane.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, I insist that no one else touch the equipment. It’s built to precise scale, you will note, and is quite finely adjusted.” Vesalius bristled and watched carefully as Trout pulled his hand away from the crane. He clambered up from the floor as he spoke. Standing erect, he showed a strikingly boyish figure for his fifty-eight years. His large eyes were unkind, even predatory, behind steel-rimmed glasses. His face was long and weathered, matching his lean angular frame. His brown curly hair was just beginning to show some gray streaks. Although it was past ten in the evening, he still wore a black business tie neatly pinned by a single pearl to a slate-grey-and-white striped shirt. Over this he’d selected a linen-belted jacket of the kind karate experts effect. Perfectly creased glen plaid trousers and freshly polished wing-tip oxfords completed Dr. Vesalius’ dress.

  His living room, in which the three men stood, completed Harry Trout’s impression of Henri Vesalius. It was a large, pure-white room, its floor packed with a fabulous array of railroad hobbyist’s equipment. A white leather Aames chair rested on one side of a thin glass table whose etched squares held a futuristic chess set. The chess play showed white to hold a decided advantage. Two prints, both by Piet Mondrian, enlivened the wall opposite.

  Trout was impressed and found himself wishing the doctor would offer him a seat.

  “Of course,” Vesalius said, “you’ve come on business?”

  He stared at his two visitors owlishly. He was cool and almost reserved, a manner fashioned fr
om decades of being visited upon by professionals and laymen from all walks of life who sought him out for specific advice on an insurmountable variety of health problems. For Dr. Vesalius was widely and highly regarded as an authority on internal medicine, a distinction he’d fully earned in his practice.

  “I thought you’d be of assistance to us, Doctor.”

  “Come to the point, Inspector, would you?”

  Trout’s difficult day began to wear thin: “Three men, all belonging to the medical profession, have died during the past week. More than coincidence seems to be at work; your interest could provide important assistance.”

  Vesalius cut him short: “I’m not much interested in the medical profession any more, Inspector.” He looked about. “After awhile, other factors come into play.”

  Patience completely eroded, Trout’s words came clipped and measured: “Do the names Dunwoody, Thornton and Hargreaves mean anything to you?”

  Vesalius blanched. “Of course, we all worked together at one time or another. What are you driving at?”

  “Just this: they’re all dead, each one in a strange, ugly manner. I’ll tell you what we know. And then I’ll leave it up to you to decide if you can help us.”

  Vesalius was finally impressed. He flicked the “off” switch in the remote control unit he held in his hand, stopping the rail traffic at his feet. Then he sat, mandarin-like, on a stack of bright pillows, motioning Trout and Schenley toward the portable bar at his left.

  While Trout recounted the somber details of a case still in formation, a new segment was about to be added which, if not illuminative as to motive, would certainly stimulate public notice.

  Chelsea then, as now, housed the coming, not-yet-arrived artists who, having been drawn by the big city, found a measure of hospitality and comfort in its worn buildings and well-used shops. Rooms there rented for 18 shillings a week, and included a hotplate, a sink in the closet and at least one grimy window to let in a bit of daylight. The shower down the hall, which yielded hot water for one hour each day, easily balanced out the convenience of the rent. And, if the warmth of one’s quarters was somewhat lacking, the streets abounded in opportunities for meeting a new friend, a contact, or, if the fates were willing that day, even a lover.