“Then the testing had to be fraudulent,” McKee exclaimed. “This Dreser knew he was dealing with a product made from morphine. How could he have missed that it created tolerance?”
“Tolerance in adults takes a good deal longer to evolve than in children. With morphine, it might take weeks. Even with the increased potency of Heroin, Dreser might well have given the drug to test subjects, noted it was efficacious, and then discontinued usage before they developed a craving. Or he and researchers are continuing to take it without awareness that they are developing a tolerance.
“After the laboratory phase, Dreser presented the drug to the Congress of German Naturalists and Physicians. He told his audience that Heroin was ten times more effective in suppressing coughs than codeine—which, as you may know, is also a morphiate—but was only one-tenth as toxic. Most of all, he insisted Heroin, given in prescribed doses, was completely safe.
“This year, Bayer will produce a ton of Heroin. They will send the product around the world, but fully half of the production will come to the United States. America has restrictive patents, but almost no safety standards for pharmaceuticals. That combination means that nowhere in the world will Heroin be more profitable. Drug companies will simply purchase the substance from Bayer and fabricate it any way they wish.
“Turner tracked down some examples of the manner in which the drug will be sold in the United States. For example, the Martin H. Smith Company . . . that’s the firm that had the appointment on Stone Street . . . intends to market an elixir called Glyco-Heroin. Heroin mixed with glycerin, which likely will improve the taste. To ensure that the drug is widely prescribed, Smith has followed the widespread practice of purchasing testimonials that will run in medical journals throughout the nation. Here’s an editorial for the Southern Practitioner.
“‘Of all the remedies and drugs in our experience, which would tend to ameliorate and suppress cough, we find in Glyco-heroin an agent that to all appearances is a remedy par excellence.’
“A doctor named Levian in the Buffalo Medical Journal will say the following: ‘The combination that makes up the Glyco-heroin should appeal to anyone who is treating patients afflicted with pulmonary and laryngeal diseases. The composition of Glyco-heroin is in our opinion quite a happy one. It is an excellent stimulating expectorant without producing nausea. A teaspoonful of this preparation, I found to be a definite dose, the effects of which lasted for three to four hours. Two weeks’ trial on six patients convinced me of its utility.’”
“Do these men have no shame?” McKee asked. “They are willing to abet the deaths of children?”
“You don’t understand, Mr. McKee,” Noah told him. “It is more a case of turning a blind eye than of open malfeasance. These doctors know they are being asked to endorse a product—paid to endorse a product—so, like the Bayer chemists, they simply see the positive results and nothing else.” Noah tapped the pile of papers. “Here is the worst of the lot. Arthur B. Smith of Springfield, Ohio. He will write this for the Texas Medical Journal: ‘Recently, my attention was called to a preparation composed of a solution of Heroin in glycerin, combined with expectorants, called Glyco-Heroin (Smith). Each teaspoonful of this preparation contains one-sixteenth grain of Heroin by accurate dosage. It is of agreeable flavor, therefore easy to administer to children, for whom the dose can be easily reduced with any liquid, or by actual measurement. It possesses many advantages not shown by any other preparation I have used, and has none of their disagreeable features.’
“He includes five case studies. Three are for children. Of a sixteen-year-old with severe bronchitis, he says, ‘Prescribed Glyco-Heroin (Smith) one teaspoonful every two hours, decreased to every three hours. After a few doses were taken there was a decided improvement, the respirations were slower and deeper, the expectoration freer, and the temperature normal. In a few days, the patient was practically well and able to return to school. No medicine except Glyco-Heroin (Smith) was given, and the results from its use were excellent.’
“Then he cited a six-year-old boy. ‘Capillary bronchitis with pains over chest, cough, and difficult expectoration. Glyco-Heroin (Smith) administered 15 drops every three hours. After taking a few doses the condition was much improved, and a speedy return to perfect health followed.’
“Finally, this Dr. Smith will discuss a girl, only five. ‘Whooping cough. Spasmodic paroxysms of coughing, sometimes being so severe as to cause vomiting. Tenacious mucus was present, requiring great expulsive effect to loosen it. There was little fever, but the patient was much prostrated and weakened by the cough. Glyco-Heroin (Smith) was given in 10-drop doses every two hours with good results. In a few days the condition was much ameliorated, the cough under fair control, expectoration was freer and easier to raise, and convalescence uneventful. The case was discharged cured and there were no unpleasant sequela, the patient at present being in perfect health.’”
“My son uncovered all of this?”
“There is more, Mr. McKee. Much more. Your son was a hero, as Miriam said. He died trying to save the lives . . . and the souls . . . of countless children who would otherwise have been victims of this poison.” Noah removed another sheet of paper. “This says that the Fraser Tablet Company has contracted to produce five million Heroin tablets per year, beginning in three months. They will be marketed as a treatment for asthma. Fraser’s factory is in Brooklyn, on Prospect Hill. They will be sending salesmen throughout the nation to sell Heroin tablets to pharmacies. There is no telling how widely this poison will spread unless someone speaks out.”
Turner McKee Sr. flopped back in his chair, his hands hanging over the armrests. “Horatio Fraser. I know him. Not well, but we served on a committee together. To raise money for a children’s home on Delancey Street. A children’s home. There are no words.”
“This nation is blinded by greed, Mr. McKee.” It was Miriam. “Only through people like your son can we hope to protect those caught in its wake.”
“I never approved of Turner’s politics,” McKee said softly. “Thought he was agitating against his country out of spite. I told him more than once that I could not understand what had made him so . . . angry. He tried to tell me that I did not understand. That injustice was being perpetrated under the guise of freedom of commerce. That America much more resembled a crooked card game than a fair deal. I told him he had been corrupted.” He turned to Miriam. “I hated you and your father for despoiling my son. I was convinced that he had been led astray by seductive arguments and a beautiful woman. I hated you even more when Turner died. I thought his death a waste. Useless. But I see now that not only had Turner made his own decisions, but that his decisions were correct. He was not corrupt at all. I was. A fool. I am proud to own your father’s text, Miss Herzberg.”
“Thank you, Mr. McKee,” Miriam replied. “But how could you be expected to believe tales of injustice that seemed so outlandish?”
“I should have believed my son.” McKee looked at his watch. “I must go to the cemetery now. But I thank you both. Deeply and profoundly. I am forever in your debt. Whatever help I can provide, whatever risk must be borne, for as long as I live, you need only to ask.”
“Thank you, Mr. McKee,” Noah replied. “We will not hesitate to ask if the need arises.”
“You are both welcome at Turner’s service, but I don’t think it would be wise to give away your whereabouts. Neither of you is safe. You both must remain here. I could not live with myself if what befell Turner happened to you. I’m not without influence. I’ll see that this information reaches the proper authorities.”
“You’re very generous,” Noah replied. “But we can’t stay. I wish we could attend the service . . . your son has earned that . . . but there are elements of the problem that require immediate attention. There is no better way to honor his memory than to see that justice is done. If you could supply a pen and paper, I would, if I may, copy some of this material. Then I will return it to same spot on the shelves. If anything s
hould happen to me, or Miss Herzberg, you are then free to use it as you wish. For the moment, however, just keep it safe. I’ll need it in the future.”
McKee considered for a moment trying to dissuade them, but instead stood and put out his hand. “I will leave you then. Godspeed in your endeavors.”
THIRTY
DAY 7. TUESDAY, 9/26—2:30 P.M.
We should have taken his offer, Noah. He has powerful friends.”
Pelham and wealth had been left behind as the cabbie made his way quickly toward Manhattan. “Yes, I know. But even if his friends believed him, I expect they would be of little use. Frias has friends, too. I have someone else in mind.”
“Your fiancée’s family?”
“Hardly. Oscar De Kuyper is much more likely to be an investor than a savior.”
“Who then?”
“I’m not certain you would approve.”
When the carriage reached the center of Morrisania, Noah instructed the driver to pull over at a hostel. Morrisania was a working-class town near the railroad, an immigrant community, where the citizenry and the police were on uneasy terms. The inn was two stories, a frame house, which, like the neighborhood that surrounded it, showed age and wear.
“I want you to place a telephone call to my home,” Noah told Miriam. “Tell Mrs. Jensen that you’re Mrs. Tumulty. Ask if she enjoyed the bottle of wine and the chicken you gave her. Speak quickly so that she doesn’t interrupt and give the game away. Then remind her of the dinner at the Hearns. Tell her, oh, that you heard from Annie O’Rourke that one of the men who was there is stepping out on his wife. You can’t say who over the telephone, but since you and she have a date at her home at six, you’ll tell her then. You’ll need to sound like a gossip. Spice up the conversation as much as you can. Someone will certainly be listening at the telephone exchange to any calls placed to my telephone, so if Mrs. Jensen doesn’t know to play along, you’ve got to tell me. Can you do that?”
Miriam sniffed. “What a question. I am hardly a stranger to conspiracy, Noah.”
The woman at the desk of the inn was of indeterminate age, blond and hugely corpulent. She was pleased to let two strangers use the telephone for, say, twenty-five cents. She initially seemed to be of the opinion that, for her consideration, she should be allowed to stand and listen in, but after a glower from Noah, she retired to the rear, or at least out of eyeshot.
Miriam placed the call. When Mrs. Jensen picked up, she slipped into a perfect brogue. She even managed to age her voice to sound like a fifty-year-old.
“Helloo, Mrs. Jensen,” she began. “This is Mrs. Tumulty . . .” Miriam was perfect. She clucked, cooed, and chortled. At one point, she exclaimed, “Ooooh, you don’t say. No, of course not. You know me, Mrs. J. I won’t tell a soul.”
After a few more minutes, Miriam ended the conversation. The woman, who had doubtless been listening to every word, returned to the desk. Noah thanked her and gave her an additional two bits. Miriam said nothing until they were back in the carriage.
“She understood instantly. There is no possibility that anyone listening in would have known. Your housekeeper is very clever, you know.”
“Sometimes too clever.”
“Not this time. She managed to tell me that the police came by looking for you and that a copper in plain clothes is loitering down the street watching your house.”
“I expected as much. Do you think he’ll follow Mrs. Jensen home?”
“Not if she’s correct and there’s only one. If he leaves, your house will be unguarded. Besides, I expect your Mrs. Jensen will spot a copper right off. She’ll think of some way to signal us.”
“All the same, I’m going have the driver leave us a few blocks away. We’ll be able to see for ourselves before we approach her house.”
The carriage arrived in Brooklyn just before six. As with the woman at the inn, Noah gave the man extra, in this case two dollars. The cabbie scratched his head, unable to figure out why Noah had bargained him down only to give him extra. But a tip carries a message an unsuccessful negotiation does not, and so Noah could be confident that the details of their journey would remain unpublicized. The last thing he would wish was to bring the authorities down on the kind and generous man whom they had visited that afternoon.
Noah and Miriam checked both Mrs. Jensen’s block and the side streets before knocking on her door. She opened it and rushed them inside. She took Noah by the wrist, squeezing so hard that blood flow to his fingers was constrained. “Oh, Dr. Whitestone, I’m so happy to see you. I was so worried. They’re all after you. You’ll be safe here. Stay as long as you like.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jensen,” Noah replied, gently prying her fingers off his arm. She realized what she had been doing and pulled her hand to her chest, like a child caught stealing a piece of candy. “You are a true friend to put yourself at risk on our behalf.”
She waved off the compliment, making little effort to hide how pleased she was to receive it. Her reaction to Miriam was less effusive. “And you must be ‘Mrs. Tumulty.’”
“Yes, Mrs. Jensen. And thank you. I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”
“And I’ve read a good bit about you.” But Mrs. Jensen’s disapproval, be it for Miriam’s politics or for Maribeth, was tempered. A genuine celebrity had just entered her home.
“The newspapers, as I believe I’ve mentioned, Mrs. Jensen, can be unreliable,” Noah pointed out nonetheless.
“And,” Miriam added, never turning her glance Noah’s way, “the notorious Red Lady has no designs on Dr. Whitestone. He saved me from being murdered. When all this is resolved, I have no intention of interfering with his betrothal.” Despite himself, Noah felt a pang of . . . what? Regret? Jealousy?
Mrs. Jensen cocked her head to one side, weighing the elements. Then she smiled. “You both must be hungry and tired. Why don’t you freshen up while I make you some dinner?”
“First, I need some information,” Noah said. “You told Miriam on the telephone a policeman came inquiring about me. What did he look like?”
“Well, he wasn’t very tall, but big in the chest. Like a bricklayer. Dark. Dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin.”
Noah nodded. “I know him. He works for McCluskey. Interesting that a detective from Manhattan had to come to Brooklyn. And that he was alone watching my house. There seems to be only a small group involved. Perhaps just the three. That might work to our advantage.”
“Why does it matter?” Miriam asked. “The other coppers will help him whether they’re in on it or not.”
“It depends on how comfortable McCluskey feels broadcasting details of what he’s doing. We might be able to move about somewhat freely.”
“I’m not sure we can just go parading on the street, Noah.”
“Mrs. Zeeland’s nephew was gunned down by the police for spitting on the sidewalk,” Mrs. Jensen noted.
“John Zeeland was a housebreaker, Mrs. Jensen. He pulled a gun when he was cornered.”
“Oh, doctor, you know what I mean.”
“And besides,” Noah said, “I won’t be as easy to spot as you think.” He fingered his beard. “I’d grown rather fond of this. But I’m told beards make a man look older. Perhaps, Mrs. Jensen, first thing tomorrow, you might go out and purchase me a razor and some shaving soap.”
Mrs. Jensen bubbled. “No need, doctor. I still have Mr. Jensen’s things. Fine straight razor, soap, and even a strop.”
“If you will entertain the Red Lady then, Mrs. Jensen, I will retire to perform my facial transformation.”
“Don’t call her that. And what about your forehead? You look like you’ve just risen from the grave.”
“I can remove the sutures. I’ll cover the wound as best I can with woman’s face powder. I can wear my hat low.”
“I’ve a better idea,” Miriam said. “The Brooklyn Academy of Music is on Montague Street. That’s only about a five-minute walk from here. There is bound to be a theatrical supply house nearby.�
��
“There is,” said Mrs. Jensen. “Heinemann’s. Just down the street from the theater. Jake Siegel runs it. Lives in the back.”
“Then tomorrow we’ll purchase stage paint,” Miriam continued. “While we’re at it, a set of workingman’s clothes would also be a good idea. With you a clean shaven workman and me in this dress, no copper will look at us twice.”
Any man would look at you twice, Noah thought, even in sackcloth. But he held his tongue.
Mrs. Jensen fetched the shaving kit. When she returned, she had regained her funereal look. “Your father came by your rooms earlier. He and your mother are terribly worried. They asked me to telephone them the second I heard of your whereabouts.”
Noah shook his head. “We can’t risk it. The telephone exchange is not to be trusted. Nor can you visit them this evening. Perhaps, however, tomorrow, you can go to the office. Even if a copper is outside, he’ll simply assume you’re a patient. Tell my father that I’m in fine health and will contact him when it is safe to do so.” Then he whispered in her ear the other errand he wanted her to run.
A few moments later, Noah was staring into the glass in Mrs. Jensen’s lavatory. He cut away the sutures, then took a few practice snips with the scissors with which he would trim the beard before shaving off the remainder. He had worn it for nine years. Camouflage.
Removing a beard seemed to take almost as long as growing one. When he was finally finished and washed off the remaining lather, Noah once again appraised himself in the glass. His skin tingled and was pale where the whiskers had been. The face looking back was him, but at the same time unfamiliar. His mouth, full and mirthful as he was growing up, seemed to have grown thinner, tighter. He now had lines that stretched from the sides of his nose down past the corners of his mouth, almost to the jawline. His eyes, he observed, were lined in the corners, with just the beginning of puffiness above and below. He had simply never noticed. All in all, a disconcerting picture of a man aging quickly and not well.
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