Dr. Phibes

by William Goldstein

  Now he pored over the blue-bound memorandum on his desk while Harry Trout waited beyond its clean-swept expanse. Sir John scowled then started to intone:

  “Thornton . . . Dunwoody . . . Hargreaves . . . Longstreet . . . Hedgepeth.” He pushed the report back onto the blotter then glowered at Trout. “I should have been apprised earlier.”

  “I did notify you, sir, in my report of May 10.”

  “In which you presented me with a gaggle of gibberish about dripping vampires and a murderous bee swarm. Do you realize what you’ve got here, Trout?”

  “Sir!”

  “Five of this city’s leading physicians have died under questionable circumstances within a fortnight. The medical societies can’t help but take notice; that is, if they haven’t already. And you know what comes after that, don’t you?”

  “I’ve kept the press from getting involved.”

  “But for how long, Mr. Trout?” Crow thundered. “Doctors are more clannish than gypsies. An attack on one is viewed like an assault on motherhood. I don’t propose to belabor the seriousness of the situation, but if and when the press does get hold of it. . . .”

  “We’ll have a disaster on our hands.”

  “Where the hell do you think we are at this moment?” Sir John picked up the report once more and threw it across at Trout. “A menagerie for a murder weapon and a motive right out of the de Medicis. If we don’t handle this with kid gloves, the inquiry will go right onto the House floor. The whole thing is a political time bomb, d’you know that? And the last thing this department needs, Mr. Trout, is politics!”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “You understand! Well, what the hell are you doing about it? If your theory’s correct, you’ve got a bunch of built-in victims.” Sir John fumbled through the report again, stopping at a page. “Whitcomb . . . that nurse, Allan . . . and a Doctor Kitaj.” He slurred the name, pronouncing it phonetically. “Are you on these people?”

  “We’re making contact, sir. Schenley’s working up the details in my office.”

  “And what’re you doing in here? There’s a madman out there and I want him brought in NOW!”

  “Yes, sir.” Trout saluted, exhibiting an unaccustomed display of obedience. He was painfully aware of his still precarious position with his chief. He removed the offending memorandum from Sir John’s view and without pausing for further instructions, backed away from the green expanse. He made good his exit while Crow still glowered beyond the hurricane lamp at the far end of the room.

  Tom Schenley was busy at the blackboard when Trout got back to his office. He’d blocked the board with a matrix and was plotting the addresses and work habits of the remaining probable victims.

  “We’ll have to lay it on them now, Tom,” Trout said as he came in. “The old man is a bit upset. Sounded as if we’ll pull the shades of hell down about the department if we don’t get this thing solved in time.”

  Schenley kept writing his figures. “I thought he wasn’t interested in this case, sir.”

  “I think he’s afraid. He’s worried the doctors will get on his back and we’ll have the politicos nosing about. Definitely doesn’t want the press into it.”

  “You can hardly blame him for that. But he can’t say he wasn’t presented with the facts . . .”

  “No. But if he read half the material that crossed his desk, he’d never do anything else. What’ve you got here?”

  Schenley turned back to the board and pointed at the columns of names and figures as he talked. “Five of the nine members of the surgical team that worked on the wife of Anton Phibes are dead. They’ve succumbed at the rate of one every other day for the past ten days, starting with Dr. Thornton’s death on the sixth of May. Of the four remaining persons—and we’ll start with the lady—the nurse Merill Allan is at Middlesex Hospital where she also resides; Henri Vesalius is at the Burgoyne Model Works in East Ham where he purchases supplies for his collection on the third Thursday of each month.”

  “A punctilious man, that.” Trout nodded. “Please go on, Tom, don’t let me disturb you.”

  “Thank you, sir. Dana Whitcomb is another matter. He, perhaps the least‘dedicated’ of the lot, has a lot of free time on his hands. In a bit of cursory checking, we’ve found him to possess entree to at least half a dozen young ladies’ apartments. And, if I may paraphrase the medieval wit, he seems not to go there for medical consultation.”

  “But where is he now, Tom? Six-to-one is not the most favorable of odds.”

  “Your question is quite appropriate. With our stringent manpower allotment, we’ve had to rely on irregular sources for much of this information. And we will continue to do unless the illustrious Sir John grants some new favors.” He paused, then continued. “Dr. Whitcomb is currently localized at 186 Uxbridge Road, where he is probably cavorting with that apartment’s occupant, a lissome maid from Denmark who had visited our Lothario not two weeks ago seeking employment.”

  “He moves fast.”

  “You would too if you could see the young lady. She is a dish!”

  “Decorum, Tom, decorum. A detective never intrudes. Now what about our fourth candidate?”

  “Mark Kitaj is a tremendously capable young surgeon who works more than one might expect; he regularly puts in a half-day on Wednesday either in the clinics or in surgery.”

  “Sounds dedicated.”

  “‘Aggressive’ is the better word for it.”

  “I presume he works the other days of the week too.”

  “Diligently. He’s built a paying practice and conducted several outstanding surgical demonstrations during the five years he’s been out of medical school. He’s a bachelor, young, good-looking, with a reputation as yet unsullied by personal enmities.”

  “And where is he on Wednesday afternoons?”

  “We don’t quite know yet. He leaves the hospital regularly about the noon mark but the car he drives is a bit too fast: he’s simply lost us these past two Wednesdays.”

  Trout was disturbed. “Well, I suggest we find out.” He reached for the telephone. “Where does he work?”

  “Guy’s Hospital.”

  Trout called the switchboard. “Susan, be a dear and get me Guy’s Hospital. . . . Hello. My name’s Trout. Detective Inspector Trout of the London Municipal Police Force. We’re trying to locate Dr. Mark Kitaj of your staff . . . Yes, I understand he’s gone for the day.” He grimaced at Schenley . . . “but can you tell me his whereabouts . . . No, there’s no problem, but the man may be in some danger . . . A private office . . . Thank you, I’ll call that directly.”

  Trout hung up and immediately dialed again. “Yes, Susan, it’s me. Get me ECkley 415 . . . Hello, is this Dr. Kitaj’s office? This is Inspector Trout, London Police . . . No, nothing’s wrong but we’d appreciate it if you could tell us where we could reach Dr. Kitaj . . . I see . . . yes . . . he’s at Northolt Aerodrome . . . Thank you, miss.”

  Schenley was a bit surprised. “Northolt; now what would he be doing out at the aerodrome?”

  “That’s what I want you to find out, Tom. The girl in his office seemed alarmed. Get out there as fast as you can. And I’m going to see Vesalius.”

  Chapter 13

  TOM Schenley negotiated the fifteen kilometers out Western Avenue to Northolt Aerodrome in just under fifteen minutes at full siren. Even then he was late. A small one-engine trainer was easing on to the strip on the far side of the field. Schenley could tell by the plane’s stiff movements that the pilot was new. Two biplanes were ahead of him, revving up to take off. Schenley turned the siren full up and jammed his foot to the floor; the police limo jolted into full throttle on the bumpy approach road.

  Northolt had been a training field during the war and still had a drab, efficient look. A cluster of low utility buildings huddled around four hangers which, in their camouflage stripes, rose like displaced hills out of the straw fields. A thin concrete “X” marked the utility of the place, the gray concrete streaked with rubb
er and oil from years of heavy use. The first biplane completed its approach and started to lumber down one of the runways, its wheels bumping the ground until it finally pulled up its nose. The second made its turn on to the strip as Schenley turned the corner of the long barbed-wire fencing and entered the aerodrome.

  He could see the trainer in better detail now. The pilot was racing the engine and testing the ailerons and rudder. Twin plumes of blue-black smoke trailed out of its exhaust and the 300 horsepower engine was putting up such a racket that Schenley knew the pilot, seated in his open cockpit and caught by the full backdraft of noise, couldn’t possibly hear his siren. Very quickly he shot the limo off the approach road over the open field in an effort to cut the trainer off. The limo bounced and shuddered as Schenley pushed it across the rough stretch of mown straw and dirt clods, its doors and springs shaking with the strain. He was approaching one of the concrete strips head-on when he caught the image of the first biplane at the edge of his vision to the right. He swerved and just barely managed to loop under the plane’s landing carriage as it groaned overhead. That maneuver cost him the race, for when he next caught sight of the trainer the attendant was pulling the chock blocks away from the wheels. At that point Schenley was a half mile away.

  Kitaj was totally absorbed in his machine. He completed his control check, took the signal from the attendant and pulled back on the throttle. The motor felt good, awfully good, better, in fact, than when he had old Cunningham in the cockpit with him. The power was all his now and he intended to use it full measure. He scarcely noticed the small black limo as he pulled back on the stick and pointed into the midafternoon sun. He wondered why the fool had his siren on.

  At a point three miles away from Northolt as the crow flies, a sleek saloon car glided softly along a curving back-road. Its heavy grace was incongruous against the green hillsides as it crept with the tense compression of a tiger along a roadbed meant for wagons and little else. Its hood, which gleamed in high polish under the sun, bore the distinctive letter “P” in gilt germanic block print.

  The car moved around an S-turn and nudged softly off the road, pulling to a stop without the sound of brakes or, for that matter, without any sound at all. A young woman clad in a gray chauffeur’s uniform piped in black leather got out and walked smartly back to the leather-strapped trunk. She was the same beauty who’d graced the ballroom of the mansion on Maldine Square a few days earlier. She looked disquietingly natural in this setting as she busied herself with the trunk. A few quick turns and she had the top open, taking out first a tripod, then a long brass telescope. These she placed expertly at the edge of a small roadside apron which dropped sharply downward to the valley below. Then she fetched a white stool from the trunk and set it at the base of the telescope in studied ritual. Finishing with that she returned to the car and tapped on the curtained rear compartment.

  The valley that stretched out behind her was several miles wide. Alternate squares of green and gold noted the farms which led up to the low hills on either side. The only odd structure in the entire valley, other than a few hamlets, was the distinctive “X” of Northolt Aerodrome. This glistened like alien steel bands in the middle distance. Above, providing the only sound of the hour, were a few planes flying at the 10,000 foot level.

  The saloon car’s rear door opened against this distant buzz. Dr. Phibes, resplendent in a pure white hooded robe of pontifical length emerged with a flourish and strolled grandly to the telescope. A brass amulet dangled at his waist and his eyes were shielded by a pair of bleak smoked sunglasses. He took up his position at the tripod, a master of the situation.

  Mark Kitaj made a few passes over the aerodrome and then set out on his flight plan. The schedule called for him to fly northwest over the Chiltern Hills to Oxford, thence south to Southampton on the coast and from there to return diagonally to Northolt, a distance of about 250 kilometers. Immediately as he reached cruising altitude the constraint of his nine months’ preparation left him. It seemed as if the plane knew precisely what to do, that he belonged in the cockpit and that he could go anywhere and do anything he wanted to do. It was a novel, completely unexpected freedom that consumed him instantly. He thought nothing of his career, less of the social treadmill that had begun to impose itself on him. Audrey, gorgeous Audrey whose milky softness less than an hour ago had surrounded him, passed out of his thought like a day star. Only the sky was left, and the sun racing across the land.

  He flipped out of his second pass and began the long straight run up the valley. As he pulled out of the bank, he felt a slight nip at his leg, followed right after by a sharper one. He looked down and saw a dull gray-brown shape dart into the floorboards below the instrument panel. A rat!

  That was all he needed! Suppose the bugger bit into the control wiring or, worse still, got into the engine? Should he turn back? Mark hesitated for a bit then, thinking better of it, decided to stay on course up the valley. He leaned back as he pulled the plane up to cruising altitude.

  At that moment he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. He turned to find himself staring straight into the coal-red eyes of a fat, evil-looking wharf rat. The beast, absolutely fearless, was prepared to dig his teeth into Mark’s shoulder a second time when Mark swatted him out of the cockpit to fall to a proper death nearly two miles below.

  Kitaj was furious; he would have to speak to the Aerodrome master about the facilities. But at least the problem of his unwanted visitor was settled. He checked his instruments and was dismayed to find himself ten degrees off course. He put the trainer into a long left bank to correct the reading, gradually easing out of it as he got back on course. With that he noticed a spot of blood on his shoulder. The bugger had bitten clean through his leather flying jacket, and the cut would need attention when he got back. But he couldn’t worry about it now, he still had some flying to do if he was to make Southampton by 4:30. And it was at least an hour for the final leg back to Northolt.

  Suddenly he felt a grinding, scraping kind of noise beneath the flooring, the metal vibrating under his feet. He listened hard for a moment and, hearing no more, turned his attention again to the controls. With that the floorboards beneath his seat burst out, emitting a stream of oversize rats larger than the first. Grizzled and foul, they averaged two kilos if they weighed a gram. Even then they were lean, their ribs showing taut through splotchy fur. A heavy odor roiled up out of the floor with them, thick and fetid like a musky slaughterhouse. Then Kitaj saw the cause of the stench: flecks of fresh blood sprinkled their whiskers and mouths!

  He counted six, eight, then a dozen of the beasts, and still the terrible grinding didn’t stop. The floorboards wheezed with awful animation and the plane seemed to shake under its unaccustomed load. Kitaj spotted the reason for the disturbance: three of the beasts were jammed between his foot and the controls. In trying to kick them loose he’d been bumping the stick, causing the plane to move in a rocking motion. Very cool now, he recognized his danger; at the same time he grew furious at the senselessness of his predicament.

  He had to do something, and do it quickly. He couldn’t return to the aerodrome, and he couldn’t continue the flight with a cockpit full of rats. He’d have to get rid of them by any means. He tore the straps open on the tool kit under the control panel, grabbed a long wrench and began battering the rats away from his legs. He couldn’t hit them squarely for fear of damaging the controls, so he had to catch them with glancing blows. They squealed as metal thudded into flesh, then spun crazily with the blow’s impact.

  He managed to dispatch several in that way, sending the rest surging up under the controls. But as he bent to scoop up the last of his victims, it snapped out of its stupor long enough to bite him ferociously in the ball of his thumb. Kitaj moaned in pain, his glove filling with throbbing blood. Dizzy with agony he was quite unprepared for what happened next.

  A thick blur shot across the floor and in a second a heavy shape, larger and more ghostlike than the others had attached itself
to his wrist. He felt it gnawing, tearing at his leather glove, shredding it with teeth sharp enough to slit through metal. In the same blinding instant Kitaj felt the animal’s teeth stab deep into his wrist, slicing through outer skin layers, through tendon and vein down to bone. His hand exploded in a violent quiver of pain, then went dull. The full dimension of this new crisis now came home to him: the rat had severed the ulnar nerve with the first bite. His hand was useless!

  He looked down and could see the animal bite again and again at his hand which had dropped at a bad angle from his forearm. His glove was torn and here and there bits of bloodied flesh and bone protruded from the shredded leather. He tried to lift it away from the relentless teeth but the pain in the torn nerve ends of his wrist was excruciating. Just before he blacked out, he could see the animal still feeding on his dead hand.

  He was awakened by a sharp stabbing sensation at his cheek. Without clearing his vision he swiped in the direction of the pain, focusing his eyes in time to see another rat go hurtling over the edge of the cockpit. Miraculously the small plane was still flying evenly, although it had entered a slight roll when he removed his good hand from the controls. There was no question now: he’d have to get back to Northolt. He jerked on the stick to right the plane before making his turn. He had to fight the controls to keep the plane from flipping over, all the while trying to pick up his dead arm to staunch the steady seep of blood into the dark pool on the floor. He was afraid of passing out again.

  He’d just gotten the trainer’s nose pointed away from the sun, and had spotted Northolt’s hangers in the distance when he heard the scratching, this time sharper and more ominous than before, well up from the deep compartments. A cold surge of fear throttled him at these new grindings, and he had to force himself to concentrate on the controls. Other than his hand, which would need attention, he was in reasonably good shape except for a few scratches on his leg and face. He knew he could get the plane down safely; that left the question of reaching the aerodrome before he blacked out again.