(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  Öhman paused. He saw that Garrett had grown pale. Both men were silent. Only the ticking of Garrett’s travelling clock, on the bedstand, could be heard.

  Öhman sighed. ‘The names of all the doctors participating in these high altitude experiments are known. One of them was Dr. Carlo Farelli.’

  ‘Farelli—’ Even Garrett, who considered his enemy capable of any enormity, did not consider him capable of this. Garrett sat stunned. At last, he found words. ‘You have proof?’

  ‘As I explained—inconclusive proof. I shall read it to you.’ He read from the typescript. ‘ “Report to German Experimental Institute for Aviation Medicine. Attention Dr. Siegfried Ruff. Lieutenant General Dr. Hippke. Subject: Experiment 203 of heart action at high altitudes. Place: Dachau altitude chamber. Test persons: Five criminals, volunteers. Test levels: 30,000 to 70,000 feet. (Results to be forwarded under separate cover.) Test effects: Two casualties. Physicians participating: Dr. A. Brand, Berlin; Dr. I. Gorecki, Warsaw; Dr. S. Brauer, Munich; Dr. J. Stirbey, Bucharest; Dr. C. Farelli, Rome. . . . Signed, Dr. S. Rascher, 3 April, 1944.” ’ Öhman stopped, looked up, and laid the paper aside. ‘There it is.’

  Garrett plucked at his blanket and stared at the opposite wall. ‘Dr. C. Farelli, Rome,’ he intoned, as if reading an epitaph. He shook his head in daze. ‘Incredible. Is there more?’

  ‘That is all. There is nothing else.’

  ‘There can’t be two C. Farellis in Rome, both heart specialists?’

  ‘There were not two. There was only one. Our investigator checked.’

  Suddenly, Garrett turned on Öhman. ‘With that damning evidence, how could you let Farelli share the prize with me?’

  ‘This evidence was weighed by my colleague with all else that was ninety-nine per cent favourable. He felt that this mere mention of Farelli’s name was too little with which to disqualify him. He did not submit it to the Caroline staff of judges.’

  ‘Too little to disqualify him?’ said Garrett sarcastically.

  ‘Farelli’s political record was otherwise good. He had been a prisoner through most of the war. This one blot, my colleague felt—uhhh—he felt Farelli might not have had a part in conducting the tests that day, might have only been a foreign observer.’

  ‘Is that what you think, Dr. Öhman?’

  ‘To be honest with you, I do not know what to think. I can only guess that Farelli may have weakened under long confinement—possibly even punishment—and at last, to buy some freedom, some relief, abandoned his resistance and bent to Mussolini’s will. In short, in those days, Il Duce was doing what he could to hold up his end with Hitler. There is evidence he offered some physicians to co-operate in various endeavours with Hitler’s medical researchers. Farelli was a notable cardiac man, even that far back, and I suppose Mussolini offered him a parole if he would join with other Italian doctors in flying over to Germany and lending a hand in these—these—uhhh—experiments.’

  ‘It’s no excuse,’ said Garrett relentlessly.

  ‘I do not say it is. But it is the only explanation I can find for such hideous behaviour.’

  ‘He should have been hung at Nürnberg with all the rest,’ said Garrett. ‘Instead, your weakling friend suppressed that and gave him the Nobel Prize.’

  For a moment, Öhman felt national pride and tried to defend his colleague. ‘He weighed this—this one indefinite mention—against Farelli’s career before, and in all the years since. He felt Farelli’s contribution to mankind was proved, but the one fragment of evidence of collaboration was unproved That was the decisive factor.’

  Garrett’s emotions had gone through many convolutions. At first, he had been revolted by the information—a description of an act of brutality and cowardice so low and foreign to his pedestrian nature and normal academic background that he had recoiled from the monstrosity and thought that he wanted no part of it. But gradually, as he became used to the evidence, as he again suffered the ache of his chin and stomach, his hatred for the Italian returned. Farelli had humbled him and humiliated him without mercy, in public and in private, the typical behaviour of a man who would have assisted his German medical friends in butchery at Dachau. Here was evidence that the soft Swedes, ever fearful of trouble, had tried to suppress. And so gradually, Garrett’s mind substituted for petty revenge the soul-satisfying and loftier notion of moral indignation and retribution, in the name of all humanity. He had a duty to humanity, to God, to protect the world from this Roman Eichmann. In an hour’s time, from grovelling defeat, he had vaulted, using Öhman’s pole, to a height of power and superiority. With Öhman’s generous revelation, he could wipe Farelli from his life, from the lion’s share of honours, and, at the same time, know saintliness for helping all unsuspecting fellow men.

  He heard his voice. ‘Dr. Öhman, whatever your committee member thinks, I’m not going to stand by—I have too much conscience—and let this war criminal strut around Stockholm like a Caesar. I’m not going to let him sit on the same platform with me at the Ceremony.’

  Öhman scratched his scalp nervously. ‘What are you proposing?’

  For the first time this day, Garrett smiled. ‘I have my ideas.’

  He threw off his blanket, and crawled off the bed, and stood up, a man rejuvenated, hitching and tightening his pyjamas.

  Öhman jumped to his feet. ‘I brought you this, because we are friends. I hoped you would take time to digest this, think about it, and then proceed with utmost care. I hoped, when you returned to America next week, you might bring this up—somehow—with—uhhh—friends in your Pentagon Building, and let them see if they could check further. In that way, you might learn every fact. If Farelli were then proved innocent, you could forget the matter. And if you truly found him guilty, it would become known—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Dr. Garrett—’

  ‘I’m not letting a war criminal escape. I’m not letting condemning information like this die in channels. Now is the time—now, when the whole world is here in Stockholm. Now is the time to make Farelli go on trial, before he makes fools of you and me and all of us.’

  ‘But the Nobel Committee will not support—’

  ‘I don’t need them. I have a better outlet, a far better transmitting agent.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sue Wiley of Consolidated Newspapers. I’m going to lay Farelli’s infamy in her lap tomorrow. You won’t have a part in it, and I won’t. I’ll just give her the tip, and let her run from there, and by tomorrow night—I guarantee you this—the whole world will know, and what I have promised will come true. At the Ceremony, I will sit on the stage by myself, and I alone, will receive the Nobel Prize in physiology and medicine!’

  Night had fallen on the city, and a damp fog laced the frosty polar darkness. It was five past six in the evening when Andrew Craig reached the shrouded waters of Nybroviken, some blocks behind the Grand Hotel. The portier had given him exact directions to the Royal Dramatic Theatre, reminding him it covered an entire block near Strandvägen, on the iced bay of Nybroviken.

  Now, in the fog, Craig was lost, and he waited for help. A Swedish youngster on a bicycle, whistling in the fun of the fog, bundled like a Lapp, approached the corner.

  ‘Young man—’ Craig called out.

  The bicycle slowed.

  ‘—please, where is the Dramatic Theatre?’

  The beet-coloured face was puzzled, and suddenly it beamed. ‘Dramatiska Teatern?’ He jerked his thumb behind him, and held up his forefinger—an improvement on Esperanto—and Craig understood that it was one block away.

  He proceeded slowly, heading blindly into the blackness. His mind returned to—had really never left—the person of Emily Stratman. Her kiss, almost twenty-four hours old, was still on his lips. During the Hammarlund dinner, there had been no way to communicate with her, except with his eyes, nor had more been possible in the communal ride to the hotel afterwards.

  This morning he had overslept, and had found her at lunch with he
r uncle and three Scandinavian physicists and their wives in the Winter Garden. He had joined the party, but there had been no opportunity to go further with Emily. Only afterwards, briefly, as they had all risen from the table, had he been able to ask when he might see her again. She did not know. In the afternoon, a social tea. And this evening, a performance of something or other—a pageant—at Drottningholm. Tomorrow then? She had hesitated, and worried, and he had perceived that she was again afraid, afraid she had gone too far on the Hammarlund terrace, afraid to be alone with him and take up from the last encounter. But he had been so pleading and kind that she had acceded, and almost with enthusiasm finally. Tomorrow she was free for dinner, and so that would be it. He had not seen her since, and he wondered if she and her uncle had reached Drottningholm this evening safely in spite of the fog.

  He found himself before a stone building piled high and stretching upward through the layers of mist. There were indistinct yellow lights, revealing ornate pillars and a statue, two figures, to the left. This was the Royal Dramatic Theatre he was sure, and he hastened up the steps and inside to keep his meeting with Märta Norberg.

  In the lobby, a plump, bandy-legged cleaning woman was pushing a carpet sweeper.

  He removed his hat. ‘Pardon me. Miss Märta Norberg is expecting me.’

  ‘Not inside,’ said the cleaning woman. ‘She finish rehearsal—go upstair with Nils Cronsten.’

  ‘Can you tell me where upstairs?’

  ‘She go to—with young ones—Little Theatre of Royal Training Academy. Fourth number floor.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Craig took off his overcoat, and, carrying it over one arm, began the long climb up the staircase. When he reached the fourth floor, he was winded and overheated.

  A big blonde, with the chubby aspect of an innocent milkmaid, and wearing a skintight red leotard that made her flaring hips and buttocks seem abnormally large, was hurrying down the corridor.

  Craig intercepted her. Was it fröken or fru? ‘Fröken—’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Her accent was clipped West End.

  ‘—where can I find Miss Norberg or Mr. Cronsten?’

  ‘The small theatre down there.’ She pointed.

  He considered the leotard. ‘May I ask—who are you?’

  She dimpled. ‘Viola. Twelfth Night. William Shakespeare. I am overweight, but I am dieting.’

  With that, she hurried away, an Amazon in haste, and Craig enjoyed her as he walked to the theatre and went inside.

  It was, indeed, a small theatre, ninety-eight red plush seats, footlights ablaze, and a fair-sized stage now displaying three performers in costume, a slender Olivia, veiled, a refined and dignified Malvolio, and a jester, all gaudily attired. Accustoming himself to the auditorium, Craig listened. Olivia was addressing the steward, her voice rising and falling: ‘O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail—’ Craig thought of Gunnar Gottling, and tried to listen again.

  ‘Are you Andrew Craig?’

  Craig pivoted in the direction of the inquiry, and saw a stocky, conventional looking gentleman of indeterminate but older years, a parted brown toupee, complacent respected banker’s face, bow tie, pin-striped neat suit, rise from a seat.

  ‘I am Nils Cronston, Miss Norberg’s director. She advised me earlier you were to be expected.’

  They shook hands in the aisle.

  ‘I congratulate you, Mr. Craig, on your Nobel Prize. Indeed, I have admired your novels, and it is a pleasure to have you visit us. Please join me. I will send for Miss Norberg.’

  Craig took the second seat from the aisle, and Cronsten settled beside him, lifting his hand and loudly snapping his fingers. Immediately, a young man with tangled hair and padding beneath the abdomen of his costume leaped from the front row and came racing up the aisle.

  ‘Sir Toby Belch,’ commanded Cronsten with mock severity, ‘an assignment for you.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Cronsten.’

  ‘Go forth on winged feet to Miss Norberg’s dressing-room and summon the star of Sweden. Inform her that her caller from across the sea is present and waiting—the renowned Mr. Andrew Craig.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  The young man was off, like a jack rabbit, and both Cronsten and Craig laughed. ‘Martä rehearsed a few hours late this afternoon,’ said Cronsten, ‘but then she tired of it—not in the mood—and we came up here to watch our future Norbergs. Don’t ever repeat that to her, Mr. Craig. She can imagine no past or future Norbergs, only one, and that one touched with immortality anyway.’

  ‘I guessed it,’ said Craig good-naturedly.

  ‘She finally went to the dressing-room to make some long-distance call.’

  ‘Last night she told me that you were directing her in Adrienne Lecouvreur. It will be exciting news to the theatre world. When will she open?’

  ‘Never,’ said Cronsten. ‘I’ve rehearsed her in four plays these last years, but they never open. At the final moment, she always quits and goes into hiding again—searching for properties, she says, searching for the foolproof hit. She will never find it. You see, Mr. Craig, her malady is historic greatness. When you attain her summit, become not an actress but a legend, when you are so high, you cannot top it again. So you become over-cautious. You must find the perfect vehicle for your perfect talent—there can be no possibility of failure—and, well, it is impossible to arrange such guarantees. So I play her fool—we have our little game of rehearsals. I delude myself over and over—maybe this time, maybe this time—but it will never be. I doubt if she will expose herself on the legitimate stage again. Someday, perhaps—just possibly—another film, but I would not wager on that. And so she goes on playing the enigma, the recluse, the unattainable—and since it is a better role than she will ever find, I suspect she will play it out for the rest of her days.’

  ‘What does she do with her time?’ Craig wanted to know.

  ‘She’s not social if that’s what you mean,’ said Cronsten. ‘She busies herself with herself. When you are Norberg, you don’t need anyone else. She devotes mornings to her appearance and health—she is a faddist, like so many actresses, so there is always something new. She spends afternoons reading properties or rehearsing. She gives evenings over to Hammarlund and his friends. Sometimes she travels incognito. She owns a villa in the hills behind Cannes and keeps an apartment in New York. Most of all, here or anywhere, she intrigues.’

  Craig’s interest was piqued. ‘You say—she intrigues?’

  ‘It is too complicated to explain. When you know her better, you’ll understand.’ He looked off. ‘Here comes our runner with tidings.’

  The young man with tangled hair and stomach padding trotted towards them, and saluted them with the note in his hand. ‘Sir Toby Belch reporting. The Norberg has flown. In her place, she left with Viola a note addressed to Mr. Craig.’

  He handed the folded paper to Craig, waited for dismissal, and was dismissed by Cronsten.

  Craig opened the note:

  DEAR LAUREATE, Rushing off to be home for a call from New York. It is imperative I see you tonight. Can you come to dinner at seven? I will expect you. I am a mile beyond Hammarlund. You need only tell the taxi-driver—NORBERG.

  Craig saw that the director was inquisitive, so he explained. ‘She had to go, but she wants me to dine with her at seven.’

  ‘It’s twenty-five to seven now. I’ll tell you what we can do. Let’s go to my office and have a drink, and then I’ll drive you to Norberg’s.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think of imposing—’

  ‘Not far out of my way, so I will insist.’

  They rose, and Craig followed the director into the corridor, and in a minute they were in Cronsten’s tiny, spotless office, with its dark teak desk and contrasting pale beech-framed chairs, carefully padded with thick foam-rubber cushions.

  Opening a wall cabinet, Cronsten asked, ‘What will it be?’
/>   ‘No fuss. Plain Scotch. Don’t bother about ice.’

  Cronsten poured, and brought the whisky to Craig, who was facing the opposite wall, examining framed photographs of Greta Garbo, Ingrid Bergman, Signe Hasso, Viveca Lindfors, Mai Zetterling, and half a dozen other Swedish actresses, all bearing affectionate autographs to the director. Above these, in solitary splendour, was a portrait of Märta Norberg. Across it was scrawled, ‘To Cronny—from his Trilby.’

  Craig took his drink. ‘You seem to have known them all.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve directed them. They all have three things in common—Sweden, talent, and the Royal Dramatic Training Academy. They are all products of our Socialist-supported school.’

  ‘You’ve got a remarkable record.’

  ‘I’m proud of it. Every summer, we print and circulate a poster. It says, “Kungl. Dramatiska Teaterns Elevskola Prospekt.” It is an invitation to our young ladies, between sixteen and twenty-two, and young men, slightly older, to try out for our state Training Academy. After rejecting certain ones, we usually have over one hundred to judge. They all come to Stockholm, to the little theatre here, in August, and do scenes for us. We have an elimination tournament. There are sixteen in the final round, and of these, we select eight to be trained for the stage.’