DEADLY
CURE
A NOVEL
LAWRENCE
GOLDSTONE
For Nancy and Lee
DEADLY
CURE
ONE
DAY 1. WEDNESDAY, 9/20—6:30 P.M.
Noah Whitestone shoved his plate aside. The room smelled of charred meat and cooking fat. Mrs. Jensen would never learn not to overcook pork chops. He pushed himself up from his chair, his hands braced on the edge of the table. His feet throbbed inside his shoes. Before he could step away, a thick hand was on his shoulder.
“No, doctor, you sit right down.” Mrs. Jensen slapped a copy of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle on the table.
Noah shook his head slowly. “I’ll read it later. I’ve got to go out.” The Daily Eagle stared back seductively at him from the tabletop. He hadn’t read the paper in two days.
“You haven’t had your coffee,” Mrs. Jensen admonished, her hand not moving from his shoulder. After raising six children, she knew the elements of command. “If you jump up right after dinner, you’ll be the sick one.” She was a pale woman, a widow of sixty, with tiny red veins snaking across her round cheeks like estuaries. “Your patients can wait ten more minutes. How many did you see in the office today?”
“Fifty, I think. No, fifty-two.”
“No wonder,” she said with a sniff. “Tomorrow’s the first day of autumn. Everybody gets sick. Happens every year.”
Was that true? Noah had never noticed. But she was right about the coffee. A few minutes more would do no harm. Gratefully, he settled back into his chair. If he closed his eyes, he would be asleep in moments.
“How many tonight?” Mrs. Jensen asked, after she returned with the coffee. Ribbons of steam rose from the surface. The aroma was strong, acrid. Noah took a sip. Hot. Welcome. Soon the fatigue would begin to abate.
“Only two. But you don’t need to wait. I may sit for a while with each of them.”
She nodded. “Ah.” The evening was generally reserved for patients who could not get out. Many were near death.
Mrs. Jensen cleared the plate and noticed that each of the pork chops had some meat left near the bone. “Was everything all right, doctor?”
“Excellent, Mrs. Jensen, as always.” Noah took another sip and unfolded the newspaper. Reading was so much more pleasant by incandescent light. These rooms were his first that did not use gas or oil. The age of electricity.
Mrs. Jensen cocked her head toward the left lead story. “Terrible about Africa. Looks like war for sure. I can’t understand why those English won’t let the Boers live in peace.”
“If you say so.”
She tapped the index finger of her free hand on the center column. Her knuckles were broad and puckered, like a man’s. “Captain Dreyfus is a free man. He was lucky to get off, if you ask me. All that eyewash about him being falsely accused because he was a Jew. Can’t trust any of them.”
“Jews or the French?” Noah asked with mock innocence.
“You know what I mean, doctor.” Mrs. Jensen brightened as she pointed out the lead on the right. “But at least Admiral Dewey is still on page one.”
As he had been for months, thought Noah. The star attraction in Mr. Hearst’s war.
“Are you still going to watch the naval parade from Miss Maribeth’s yacht?”
“Actually, it’s her father’s.”
“Yes, doctor, I know. Well, are you?”
“If I don’t have any patients.”
“You can miss one day. They say maybe a million people will show up. Even more the next day.”
Preparations for Dewey had been frenetic. The largest naval parade in the nation’s history would take place on Friday, followed by the land parade the next day. A huge arch was being hastily constructed specifically for the event at Madison Square, the end point of a procession that would begin at Grant’s Tomb. All for a man who had become a hero by defeating the hopelessly obsolete Spanish navy and then putting down a rebellion of barefoot Filipino farmers wielding machetes.
“You promised me the day off. You do remember?” Mrs. Jensen had told Noah she intended to arrive at five in the morning so as not to chance missing the opportunity to view the champion of Manila Bay.
“Yes. I remember.”
Mrs. Jensen coughed softly. She always did that before she attempted to elicit a tidbit of gossip. “Miss Maribeth is a lovely girl.”
“Very lovely.”
“Have you two set a date yet?”
“Not since you asked me two days ago, Mrs. Jensen. Sometime in April, probably, when the flowers begin to bloom. Mrs. De Kuyper wants the ceremony outdoors.” So outdoors it will be, he thought.
“Spring weddings are the best.”
“So you’ve said.” Noah decided to reclaim the initiative. “Has your rheumatism been acting up?”
“Much bet—” Mrs. Jensen bit off the rest. He had trapped her again.
“Have you been taking Dr. Jordan’s Elixir after everything I’ve said?”
She busied herself with the silver.
“Mrs. Jensen, if you insist on taking patent medicines against my express orders, I will be forced to dismiss you and find another housekeeper.”
“You wouldn’t do that, Dr. Whitestone,” she mumbled.
“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Noah said forcefully. “How many times have I told you? There is poison in some of those concoctions. I’ve run into arsenic, wood alcohol, and Lord knows what else. Anya Krakowiak died last month from drinking a bottle of Paton’s Vegetable Tonic. It’s 10 percent opium.”
“But I’d never drink a whole bottle. And there’s none of that in Dr. Jordan’s. The advertisement says . . .”
“Advertisements can say whatever they want. And Dr. Jordan, if there is such a person, can put anything he wants in his ‘elixir.’ I checked. There’s alcohol and coca in it.”
“Very well, doctor. I’ll stop right away if you say so.” Flatware balanced across the surface of the plate, she moved hurriedly to the kitchen.
Left in peace, Noah sipped his coffee while he leafed through the paper. He would not dismiss her, of course. Despite her limitations on the stove, she was perfect for his needs: willing to work long, irregular hours; always cheerful; could perform well in an emergency; an excellent housekeeper. And she lived only ten minutes away. Besides, if, as a condition of employment, Noah demanded someone who did not take patent medicines, he might go years doing his own cooking and cleaning. Still, it wouldn’t exactly do for a physician’s housekeeper to poison herself.
Tuneless singing wafted in from the kitchen, punctuated by the clank of dishes against the cast iron sink. The rampant use of patent medicines wasn’t surprising, of course. There was rarely a newspaper page lacking an advertisement, often with testimonials, extolling some supposed miracle cure. Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral, Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, Darby’s Carminative, Godfrey’s Cordial, Dover’s Powder—the list was endless. The hundreds who died each year and thousands more who developed addictions were never mentioned.
Here was one. Noah stopped at the advertisement for Orangeine, The Pocket Physician. On top was a picture of a beautiful young woman. Miss Hope Ross, the copy read, the charming ‘Little Rebel’ from ‘Secret Service’ writes, ‘Orangeine has never failed me and I have given it severe tests.’ The text went on to promise cures for “headache, hay fever, neuralgia, rheumatism, depression, exhaustion, seasickness, grip, etc.” “No reaction,” the ad boasted. “Perfectly harmless.”
“Harmless?” Noah muttered aloud. “Hardly.” The active ingredient in Orangeine was acetanilide. Acetanilide was an industrial chemical, used in dye-making. The substance would reduce fevers, yes, but it was also toxic. It could induce methemoglobinemia, causing the use
r’s skin to turn not orange but blue. As such, it was not difficult to spot devotees of the concoction on the streets, men and women appearing to have just emerged from a deep freeze. The deleterious effects were not merely cosmetic. Excessive use could potentially lead to cardiac failure.
Noah downed the remainder of the coffee and closed the paper. Time to go. Clement Van Meter would be first, poor devil. As Noah stood, there was a knock at the door. Three hard raps in quick succession, and then, when the door did not instantly open, four more. After nine years in practice, he knew precisely what that meant. Not waiting for Mrs. Jensen to reappear, Noah went quickly to respond to the summons himself.
Mildred Anschutz, his neighbor from six houses down, was standing in the doorway. Although sunset had swept a chill through the Heights from across the harbor, she wore neither coat nor gloves. An errant strand of hair had come unpinned and lay curled between her shoulders. A large woman, middle-aged at thirty-six, her chest was heaving. She gave off a strong smell of rosewater.
“Come quickly, doctor. It’s Willard.” She shifted her hand to her midriff, thick as an ox’s under a massive bosom. “He is terribly ill.”
“Stomach pain?”
“Yes. He’s doubled over.”
Willard was her youngest, a rambunctious, perpetually cheerful five-year-old. Ever since he had received a ride on a pumper when he was three, the lad had taken to tearing through the neighborhood dressed in a miniature fireman’s suit, single-handedly extinguishing huge blazes and performing heart-stopping rescues of adults, children, cats, and dogs. Noah had often watched the boy’s cavorting with amusement and envy. Oliver would have been just his age.
He grabbed his bag off the front table, called to Mrs. Jensen that he was leaving, and was out the door. Mrs. Jensen would understand that he was responding to an emergency, although he would never use the word in the presence of a patient or member of a patient’s family. A delicate touch was vital in such situations. One must act swiftly and decisively, but also create a sense of calm. Positive resolution was much more likely when patient, family, and physician kept their wits about them.
“Is it only stomach pain?” Noah asked. “Is there anything else?” He had to slow his pace to allow Mrs. Anschutz to keep up. The streetlights cast angled shadows on her face, rendering her features a grotesque mask.
“He’s agitated. Perspiring dreadfully . . .” Her voice trailed off. Noah assumed there were other symptoms too embarrassing to mention.
“Is he choking?”
“No.”
“And there is nothing else impeding his breathing?”
“No.”
“What has Willard eaten today?”
She shook her head. “He hasn’t been able to eat a thing.”
“Yesterday?”
“Nothing unusual,” she replied. Her fingertips went to her cheek. “I can’t remember.”
“Don’t fret, Mrs. Anschutz,” Noah told her. “It isn’t important.” It was, of course, but he would know what to ask when he saw the boy.
“You must make him well, doctor,” the woman exclaimed with a break in her voice that was not caused by exertion. “Pug will be home soon. He hasn’t seen Willard in almost two years.”
“Pug” was Aldridge Anschutz, Colonel, United States Army. He had been away in the Philippines with Dewey but was due to arrive eight days hence, when the admiral’s flotilla made its triumphant entry into New York Harbor.
“You mustn’t worry, Mrs. Anschutz,” Noah said. “We’ll soon find the trouble. He will be well for his father.”
And so he would. Noah had waited more than a year for this opportunity, since he had taken his rooms on Joralemon Street. The opportunity, although it embarrassed him to admit it, to prove himself.
Mildred Anschutz was neighborhood nobility, niece to Brooklyn’s last mayor, Frederick Wurster. Although Mayor Wurster had lost his official rank twenty-one months before, when Brooklyn had become part of “Greater New York City” on New Year’s Day 1898, he remained a power in area politics. Wurster was rumored to be considering a challenge to Governor Theodore Roosevelt, if “TR” opted to run for re-election instead of trying to wrest the presidency from McKinley. Although both the president and the governor were Republicans, TR had once said, “McKinley has no more backbone than a chocolate éclair.”
From the first, however, Mrs. Anschutz had made little secret that she considered Noah too young, too inexperienced, too . . . unacceptable . . . to treat her or her five children. She, like most of the wealthy and the prominent, preferred Arnold Frias, he of the white mane and booming baritone, on the board of directors of four hospitals with a vast home on Columbia Heights facing the Manhattan skyline. Frias had recently returned from a holiday in Europe with a new International Benz automobile, the first of its kind in Brooklyn. The richer he got, the more appealing he became to the rich, who, by virtue of their position, assumed that wealth reflected talent and skill.
“Here, doctor.” Mildred Anschutz turned into the entrance of her two-story, brick brownstone, a gift from Mayor Wurster to his niece and her family.
When she threw open the door, Noah was hit by a rush of noise. A tall boy, about sixteen with a shock of black hair, was standing halfway down the long center corridor. He was artificially erect, arms at his sides. The boy’s back was to the door, and he was yelling at someone in the far room. “Sally, get upstairs and help your brother! Mother said!”
A blur in a blue dress shot across the hall. “I won’t!” a girl’s voice replied, shrill and indignant. “He’s disgusting.”
“He’s sick,” yelled the boy.
“You take care of him,” the girl retorted. “Or get Hilda.”
“Not me!” shouted yet another female from an unknown quarter. “I was with him before and he soiled the bed. When does Molly get back? She can do it.”
“It’s Molly’s day off, featherhead,” yelled the first girl. “Get Annie.”
“Annie is a cook, not a maid,” retorted the second.
“One of you get up there and take care of Willard,” the boy snapped, a colonel’s son trying to assume command. But siblings were not privates.
“The doctor will take of care of Willard,” intoned Mrs. Anschutz. Her voice was clear and powerful, and the noise ceased instantly. The boy turned. Aldridge, the oldest. Two abashed girls, one about twelve, the other several years younger, appeared in the hall. From the far end, another boy appeared. Daniel, eight.
Aldridge pulled himself up even straighter. His skin was pale, almost white, and his eyes deep brown. “Mother, I was attempting—”
“Not now, Aldridge. I will speak with all of you later.” She turned to Noah and motioned toward the stairs. Noah moved quickly toward the second floor, passing a series of photographs of a thick, powerful-looking man in uniform standing in front of a variety of exotic backdrops. In each, be there a pyramid or pagoda, Pug Anschutz stared straight ahead, as if preparing to bark an order to whomever might be viewing the image. Mrs. Anschutz followed up the stairs, forced to grasp the banister and haul herself up to avoid losing momentum.
Noah formulated a list of tentative hypotheses as he climbed. Toxic reaction was most likely. While food poisoning remained the most likely possibility, animal or insect bite could not be ruled out. Even snakes were not unknown in Brooklyn. If a toxin was not responsible, appendicitis needed to be investigated, as did a bacillus infection.
When they reached the landing, Mrs. Anschutz, wagged her fingers in the general direction of a door to the left. “There,” she panted.
In three quick steps, Noah was across the hall. The moment he saw Willard Anschutz, he knew his initial hypotheses had almost certainly been incorrect. The boy did not suffer from appendicitis. Nor food poisoning. Rather than a moaning, prostrate figure lying in pain on the bed, unable to rise, he saw a boy with a mop of black hair—a smaller version of his eldest brother—dressed only in a nightshirt, bent forward, moving from one side of the room to the
other, more like a rabid animal than a child. His skin was so pale as to be almost translucent. Drenched in perspiration, the boy was experiencing tremors, mostly of the lower extremities, his tiny feet kicking out, as if to ward off unseen demons. A rancid odor permeated the room.
Willard turned toward the open door, eyes wide, tormented, but seemed to look through Noah rather than at him. Suddenly, he pitched forward on his knees, wailing and grabbing at his stomach. He leaned down until his forehead touched the floor.
Noah moved quickly to the boy, going to his knees as well. He held Willard’s shoulder with his left hand, firmly but without pressure, and stroked the boy’s sodden hair with his right. Perspiration dripped off the boy’s nightshirt to the floor. Willard also exhibited extreme goose flesh and a runny nose. At Noah’s touch, the boy began to quiver, but a moment later his agony seemed to abate. Willard straightened and turned to look over his shoulder, for the first time seeming to realize a stranger was in his room. His eyes, dark and brown, were watery, his pupils dilated.
Noah was stunned. The symptoms seemed classic. But in this house? With a boy of five? An Anschutz boy of five?
“Hello, Willard,” he said softly. “Can you talk to me?” At the door, Mildred Anschutz stood horror-struck, hands to her mouth.
“I’m cold,” the child replied.
“We’ll soon fix that.” Noah tried to warm Willard with his arms. His shirt sleeves were instantly soaked through. “Where is your pain?”
“Everywhere . . .”
“Anywhere special?”
Willard began to reach for his stomach when, suddenly, a new torment overtook him. He shook off Noah’s arms and leapt to his feet. “Mommy,” he yelled, and ran to the door.
“He’s going to the water closet,” Mrs. Anschutz said with anguish. “I must help him.”
Mother and son dashed out of the room. Noah followed. He reached the door, just as Mrs. Anschutz was swinging it shut. “I must see the product,” he told her.
Her mouth dropped open. “You may not! How dare you? Dr. Frias would never think to violate a patient’s privacy so heinously.”
Deadly Cure Page 1
