Deadly Cure

by Lawrence Goldstone

  The stigmata on his forehead, however, only about three inches long, was far less prominent with the sutures gone and his entire face exposed. The stage paint would certainly mask it from all but close view and equalize the tones on his face.

  Noah found himself unwilling to leave the lavatory. He felt exposed, vulnerable. A castle with shattered walls. After a few moments, however, he straightened his clothes and forced himself to step out into Mrs. Jensen’s parlor. Instead of astonishment, or even fright, both women were quite effervescent.

  “Why, Dr. Whitestone, you look ten years younger. And very handsome. Don’t you agree, Miriam?”

  “I do indeed, Madeline.” Madeline? Where had that come from? Noah was uncertain if he had even known his housekeeper’s Christian name.

  Mrs. Jensen demanded they eat. Miriam insisted on helping. “I’d love to see how you do it,” she said, straight-faced.

  After the two had disappeared into the kitchen, Noah went to the telephone, mounted on the wall in the foyer. Although he did not expect the call he was about to make to be the subject of police eavesdropping—they were, he was certain, unaware of the recipient’s role in the case—he nonetheless wished to disguise his purpose.

  He gave the number to the operator at the exchange and waited. A few minutes later, a familiar voice at the other end was saying hello.

  “This is H. Bryce Onderdonk, Dr. Herold,” Noah said quickly, before Herold could greet him. “I’m certain you remember our meeting.”

  “Ond—oh yes, of course, Mr. Onderdonk, how could I forget? To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “I was hoping to elicit a small favor.”

  “Have I ever denied you?”

  “You mentioned when we spoke that, after your days in the coroner’s office, you struck up a friendship. Do you remember?”

  “I struck up many friendships.”

  “This one was of particular import insofar as it was with the head of a sister agency. This friend has gone on, I believe, to even greater triumphs.”

  “I believe I now know to whom you refer.”

  “I want to meet with him. Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? You must have lost your reason, Wh—Mr. Onderdonk. Dewey’s flotilla sails up the Hudson on Friday. I’ll wager . . . my friend . . . hasn’t slept in days. You expect him to stop what he’s doing to see us?”

  “That is precisely what I expect. I have some fascinating material to show him. I have sent you a parcel. You will be quite interested as well. Now, of course, if you don’t think you can . . .”

  “I can. But how will we meet, Mr. Onderdonk? I cannot wait to greet you again in person.”

  “I’ll place another call to you tomorrow, doctor. Will 10 A.M. give you sufficient time?”

  “I believe so. Until then, Mr. Onderdonk. I count the hours.” With that, Herold rang off.

  THIRTY-ONE

  DAY 8. WEDNESDAY, 9/27—7 A.M.

  Noah slept in the spare room, while Miriam shared a bed with Mrs. Jensen. He awoke early, before seven, but his housekeeper was already awake and puttering about. More than that, a denim shirt and pants along with a dark wool jacket and cap lay across the chair, with a pair of workingman’s boots underneath. On the dresser sat three jars, in which Noah assumed was the stage paint. Jake Siegel at Heinemann’s, an early riser this day by design or demand, was apparently another in Mrs. Jensen’s extended circle of friends.

  She had purchased a copy of the Daily Eagle as well. The newspaper had become Noah’s personal bulletin, so he looked through it before dressing. Today, two items were of particular interest.

  The first occupied the entire front page, under the headline DEWEY ARRIVES AHEAD OF TIME: THE FLAGSHIP OLYMPIA NOW AT ANCHOR INSIDE SANDY HOOK. The Olympia, with the admiral remaining aboard, would, for the moment, remain anchored at the south end of Raritan Bay, twenty miles from Tompkinsville, Staten Island, where the fleet was to dock until Friday’s procession up the Hudson. Once the fleet docked, Pug Anschutz would certainly commandeer a small vessel to head for home. And revenge on the doctor whom he believed murdered his son. That left Noah two days, perhaps only one.

  The other item was on page 2. SUSPECT IN BOMBING BECOMES VICTIM OF REVENGE KILLING. RADICALS KILL ONE OF THEIR OWN IN POWER WAR. The details were straightforward. Aleksandr Cviec, twenty, was found dead of multiple knife wounds in an alley off West Forty-Sixth Street. Pinned to his shirt was a note, soaked with his blood, on which the figure of a red clenched fist had been drawn. The fist was well-known as the symbol of the Free Workers Party, the anarchists. The newspaper went on to note that Cviec, a communist, had insinuated himself into the staff of New Visions, the anarchist weekly. Then, taking advantage of their trust, he planted the explosives that resulted in Monday’s spectacular bombing. Ten had been left dead, including the magazine’s founder, Mauritz Herzberg. Herzberg’s friends had apparently learned of Cviec’s treachery before the authorities and taken matters into their own hands. The murderer or murderers currently remained at large, but the police promised an intense investigation to apprehend the culprits.

  Even if Noah hadn’t stumbled on him in the station house, McCluskey would never have allowed the boy to roam free. Sasha had signed his own death warrant the moment he agreed to place the explosives in the New Visions offices.

  Noah slipped into his workingman’s garb. The clothes fit him poorly, which was ideal. The stage paint turned out to be quite easy to apply and, with a moist cloth, blended invisibly with his skin. When he was done, Noah did not recognize himself.

  At breakfast, he learned that Miriam had her own plans for the day. In the Jewish religion, it seemed, a funeral must take place within forty-eight hours. Mauritz Herzberg’s was at two o’clock. All the arrangements had been made in advance—to Mauritz Herzberg, the prospect of sudden death was a constant companion. The service was at Congregation Bnai Jacob Anshe Brzezan on Rivington Street, a tenement, as the congregation lacked funds to build a synagogue. Herzberg would then be buried at Beth Olam Cemetery on Cypress Hills Street in Brooklyn. As if they were not already in sufficient peril, Miriam announced that she intended to be present.

  Both Noah and Mrs. Jensen did their best to dissuade her. McCluskey’s men were certain to be near, and for the Red Lady, he would be able to recruit as many of his fellow coppers as he wanted. Once Miriam was in custody, it would be a small matter to dispose of her as they had Sasha or Turner McKee. And Noah had no doubt that Miriam would suffer some terrible indignities before she was killed.

  But Miriam would not be moved, not by the threat of rape, not by the threat of death. “I will be at my father’s funeral. Whether or not McCluskey can do anything about it remains to be seen.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Noah said.

  Miriam shook her head. “You do your errands, Noah. I’ll do mine.”

  Her position was clearly not open to negotiation, so at ten precisely, Noah placed his telephone call. “This is Onderdonk,” he said when Herold lifted the earpiece.

  “City Hall. One hour.” With that, the line went dead.

  When he arrived, he spotted Herold immediately, standing in the center of City Hall Plaza, perusing the passersby. His gaze swept past Noah more than once without a spark of recognition. Noah was relieved. A disguise, after all, cannot be trusted until it actually fools someone.

  He continued to walk Herold’s way, and Herold continued to pay him no mind. Finally, unable to resist, Noah ambled past, jostling the pathologist as he went by.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Herold barked angrily. “I believe you should pay more heed to where you walk.”

  Noah turned back. “What a disagreeable fellow. And why are you lolling here? Are we going inside or aren’t we?”

  Herold froze and then squinted, as if trying to detect a blood particle on a piece of cloth. “Whitestone? By George, it is Whitestone. I never would have recognized you. Why on earth did you do yourself up as a laborer?”

  “Better a live
laborer than a murdered physician. Come, Herold, I’ll fill you in on our way inside.”

  Herold told the copper at the entrance who he was and that he was expected. The guard eyed Noah with curiosity, but after he checked his log book, he summoned a page.

  The page led them to a meeting room on the second floor on the other side of the building from Mayor Van Wyck’s office. He knocked and was told by a man inside to enter. The page opened the door and held it, allowing Herold and Noah to pass through.

  “All right, Herold. What can I do for you gentlemen with old Bulldog Dewey sitting out in the harbor like Neptune, waiting for all of us to pay him homage and kiss his trident?”

  Noah had seen innumerable drawings of TR and even a number of photographs. He had read descriptions of the bluff manner, high-pitched voice, and, of course, the famed crocodilian grin. The badlands of South Dakota. San Juan Hill. Scaling Mont Blanc. All part of the TR legend. As superintendent of the Board of Police Commissioners, a post he held for only two years before moving on to an appointment as assistant secretary of the navy, TR had established a reputation as a corruption buster that far eclipsed that of Frederick Wurster. All in all, a man who would be as content ramming down a door as turning the handle and walking through.

  The man himself proved quite different. Distortion slipped away, and what was left of this Cheshire cat was not a grin but bearing. Theodore Roosevelt wore wealth and privilege the way other men wore a watch chain. He exuded a patrician’s ease with power. His enunciation was precise, and his voice was nowhere near as tinny as the newspapers indicated.

  Roosevelt also bore little visual similarity to the caricatures. Except for rather small eyes, which were obscured by the pince-nez perched on his nose, his features were regular and pleasing. He was actually quite handsome. The walrus mustache of San Juan Hill was trimmed to the top of his upper lip. He was tall, just under six feet, with the thick chest for which he was famous and short brown hair.

  “You do not share in the current mania of Dewey worship, governor?” asked Herold. Traces of a grin wrinkled the corners of the pathologist’s mouth, which TR acknowledged with a nod.

  “Herold,” said the governor, “Dewey is the most ambitious man I have ever known. And I have known myself. And his crust. He has been grousing to all his commanders that I was not there to greet him when he arrived. According to the admiral, I was supposed to be docked off Sandy Hook waiting to yell ‘Huzzah’ as he came into view. It has slipped his mind entirely that it was on my recommendation that he received this fortuitous appointment. The public may genuflect, but anyone who knows pea soup about warfare is aware that the great Dewey’s miraculous feat could have been equally achieved by a talented Annapolis midshipman. The Spanish have not had an effective navy since the armada. In fact, I suspect they were using some of the same ships.”

  TR grinned. He did actually smile with his teeth clamped together. The effect was not one of ludicrousness, but rather of a man enjoying a joke more than anyone else in the room. “Of course, the reason I could not meet Dewey was because I had a previous engagement with you gentlemen. Now, perhaps you will begin by telling me . . . Dr. Whitestone is it not . . . like the village in Flushing . . . I’ve sailed there often from my home in Oyster Bay . . . why you appear more to be the man to repair a broken steam pipe than a broken leg.”

  Noah recounted the events of the previous week. Throughout the rendition, TR paid full attention, his gaze never wavering. That his eyes were small made them seem even more penetrating. Noah wondered if TR’s focus was as acute as it appeared, or if the stare was a politician’s ploy, cultivated to flatter and deceive.

  When Noah was done, TR stroked his mustache with his right index finger. His hands were thick and powerful. “A vast web of corruption in our pharmaceutical industry,” he said finally. “Fascinating. You have done a fine job, Dr. Whitestone, although I cannot say I approve of your bedfellows. Herold excepted, of course. Nonetheless, we must stamp out corruption wherever it is found.”

  TR paced across the room and back again. “But scandal casts a broad net. Generally too broad. We must take care not to sweep into the same basket those firms that do business fairly and honorably. The mere garnering of profit is not a crime. Only doing so by deceit, felony, or chicanery.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly, governor,” Noah replied. “But we cannot allow children to be poisoned.”

  TR’s eyes turned into beads behind the lenses. “I do not need to be lectured on the protection of children, Dr. Whitestone.”

  “Of course not, governor. I simply meant—”

  Herold cleared his throat. “Do you not believe Heroin is a poison, governor?”

  TR rolled on his fingertips the green tablet that Herold had given him. “I have no reason to doubt your research, Herold. You know the esteem in which I hold your work. But I am not a chemist or a toxicologist. At this point, you have no solid evidence to conclusively prove that the research this Dreser fellow performed was faulty. The testimonials that Smith and the others obtained were not necessarily bought. They may have been legitimate expressions of praise for a product that achieved the results its manufacturer promised it would. Your evidence is persuasive that this drug, Heroin, should be more rigorously tested, but how can I intercede officially when all I have been given is anecdote?

  “As to the Anschutz boy, neither you nor Dr. Whitestone can say for certain that this unfortunate lad was even given this drug. His mother denies it. The doctor denies it. I’ve heard of this Frias. Prominent man. Good reputation . . . for a Democrat. The woman in Newark . . . even if she was in my jurisdiction . . . will not, I am sad to say, be terribly credible as a witness. Nor, I fear, will the Polish woman. You gentlemen have done a superb job in building the beginnings of a case, but you have brought me nothing on which I can yet act. Even this tablet cannot be definitively traced back to this German company.” He handed the pill back to Herold, who accepted it with surprise. “No, gentlemen. I’m in your debt for the risks you have taken to protect the innocent and vulnerable among us, but much of what you have so far obtained seems more to me like trawling than precision. But, by all means, continue your investigation. The moment you obtain even a grain of hard evidence, you need only to contact my office.”

  Herold began to protest, but TR silenced him. “I have not yet finished. Corrupt police, on the other hand, is a matter I can and will do something about. I didn’t spend two years supervising the department to see it fall back into corruption. McCluskey, you say? I will see that this man and his cronies are investigated thoroughly, and not by his chums either. The commissioner himself will handle it.”

  “Thank you, governor,” Noah replied, trying to sound grateful. Leaving McCluskey on the loose, investigation or no, would achieve nothing.

  “Nonsense. I will send a messenger to police headquarters the moment we are done here.”

  TR coughed and, even though he carried a watch, glanced to the clock on the mantel.

  “Thank you, governor,” Noah said, taking Herold by the arm. “We are supremely appreciative that you would see us in such a hectic week.”

  “Think nothing of it, Dr. Whitestone. I repeat . . . the moment you obtain evidence on which I can act, I want to see you. I will leave instructions with my secretary that your calls are always to be put through.”

  “We are grateful.”

  “Once I get this McCluskey off the street,” TR said as they were leaving, “you might choose to leave those clothes at home.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  DAY 8. WEDNESDAY, 9/27—10:30 A.M.

  For the first time since Noah had met him, Herold had lost his effervescence. “Ambition . . . I would not have believed it.”

  Noah placed a hand on the pathologist’s shoulder. “He was right to be skeptical. Why should he take on faith what we say and dismiss the findings of a seemingly reputable researcher in Germany?”

  “No, Whitestone. The TR I knew, the man who was determined to sweep
out the corruption in the police department by bull force, would have seized on what we presented to him. This man . . . the one we just met . . . has his eye on Washington. His greatest concern is that Dewey has similar aspirations.”

  “Still, Herold, if we can hand him some solid evidence . . . material whose publication he thinks will grease his path to the presidency . . . he may well yet make a valuable ally.”

  Herold perked up. “Yes, he might at that. My, but you have turned quite pragmatic, Whitestone.”

  “By necessity.”

  “Very well. Let’s find him something he can’t dismiss. I think I know where to look next.”

  “As do I,” Noah said. “Forty Wall Street. And it’s less than a mile from here.”

  But Noah’s destination was not the First Mercantile Bank but rather a cafeteria favored by working men and clerical employees. Through the front window he saw, waiting at a table, someone dressed incongruously for the surroundings, shifting uncomfortably, glancing frequently at the entryway.

  He moved inside, walked toward the rear, then sat suddenly at her table.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this ta—my God! Noah.”

  “Hello, Maribeth.”

  “Why in the world . . .”

  “It’s my new mode. What do you think?”

  “I think I might prefer different clothes, but I’m pleased to see you out from behind the shrubbery.”

  “That’s what everyone seems to think.”