Deadly Cure

by Lawrence Goldstone

  “Are you waiting for someone?”

  The cabbie was younger and more clean-cut than most of his breed. “Not at all, sir. He changed his mind. Please get in.”

  Noah climbed in and gave his destination as Joralemon Street. His tenure as a workman had served him well, but to confront Frias, he needed to clean up and rejoin the higher classes. And he didn’t fear McCluskey, at least for the moment. Miriam had been correct. The copper had already overplayed his hand and was unlikely to now make himself even more conspicuous. Noah grinned to himself. The police, after all, are not above the law.

  The cab slowed almost to a stop. Noah was about to lean out the window to see what was causing the delay when the door flew open. Another man leapt inside. Clean-cut like the driver. Then Noah knew. Military.

  Suddenly his breath was gone. He was heaving forward. A pain in his stomach and chest. Terrible. It shot to his throat. He tried to lift his head. A blow to the back of his neck. He almost retched. Couldn’t see in front of him. A hand, powerful, held his head down. The hansom began to move. He was gasping, breath still spasmodic from the blow to the solar plexus.

  Noah bounced along with the cab for about fifteen minutes, never allowed to straighten up. No one looking in from the street would see him. The cab stopped, and the door was again flung open. The man next to him in the cab pulled his left arm up behind his back. Pain shot through his shoulder. He was hauled out of the hansom, then half dragged, half marched forward. He was pushed through a door that closed behind him. Hands on his shoulders pushed him down into a hard chair.

  A moment later, Noah was in a bare room, about ten by twenty. Gloomy. Heavy drapes masked the windows. He struggled to focus.

  “Good afternoon, doctor. Thank you so much for accepting my invitation.” The voice came from behind him. Noah heard the click of heels on the hard wooden floor, and a moment later, standing over him, was a man of about forty in an army uniform. He wore shiny boots but no cap. He stared down with the same expression that Noah had seen in the photographs that lined the stairway the night Willard died.

  Anschutz.

  The two other men from the hansom walked around to face him. Anschutz glanced to one of them and another chair was brought immediately. The colonel sat in it, facing Noah.

  “Yes, doctor. I’m early. Admiral Dewey himself prevailed on General Merritt to grant me emergency leave. Bereavement leave. My youngest son died, you see.”

  Anschutz waited, but Noah knew better than to respond.

  “Not talkative? Well, that’s all right. I’ll talk for a bit.” Anschutz seemed larger than in the photographs. Denser. His neck was as wide as his head, his jawline straight, not a trace of jowl. His hands were large and muscled, but his fingernails were manicured and perfectly cut. Like TR’s. He sat leaning slightly forward, a forearm resting across his thigh. Casual and comfortable in the promise of violence that fell about him like an aura.

  He ran his eyes up over Noah. “A very nice job of disguise, doctor. Captain Bright and Lieutenant Van Nostrand here would certainly not have recognized you. We leave on Sunday for Washington. If you had simply gone about your business in that outrageous outfit, you might have avoided this meeting. For a time, in any event.” Anschutz paused, drawing out the moment, making no effort to hide his gratification in the torment of another. “Well, doctor, don’t you want to know how we were so fortunate to be able to make your acquaintance?”

  Noah refused to speak.

  “Not curious? I’ll tell you anyway. We couldn’t find you, so we were watching Dr. Herold. When Van Nostrand saw him escort a laborer into City Hall, well . . . we’re only soldiers, not a brainy doctor like you . . . but we’re smart enough to figure that out. They followed you, and you eventually stepped into the cab the lieutenant had borrowed from its driver. Want to know how we found out about Herold?”

  “Frias,” Noah said.

  “Bravo. Yes, Dr. Frias was more than a bit suspicious when a man he’d never met developed an overwhelming desire to speak with him. Herold telephoned his office three times, you know. Far too eager to be innocent. How you persuaded a reputable man like Herold to help you in your fraud is a mystery. Convincing my nincompoop of a wife to allow you to treat my boy was one thing, but Herold seems intelligent.”

  Noah had returned to silence.

  “So now we get to the subject at hand. You. And what is going to happen to you for murdering my son.” Anschutz slowly leveled his index finger at Noah’s chin. “And how long it will take to happen. Bright and Van Nostrand are highly expert. I’d even call them virtuosos. We’ve served together for two years. We would die for one another, and we would kill for one another. They are anxious to begin.” The two men stood by, each without expression.

  Anschutz remained seated, leaning on his arm in studied casualness. The comfort with which he embraced the captor’s role made McCluskey pale by comparison. Everything McKee, Mauritz Herzberg, and even Mrs. Jensen had said about Pug Anschutz was true. He had burned a family alive. He had murdered other helpless Filipinos. He had struck his wife and his children. And he would murder Noah without compunction, hesitation, or fear of consequences. Pug Anschutz killed because snuffing out the life of other human beings gave him pleasure.

  Noah’s heart was pounding. His arm socket throbbed, and his neck and abdomen ached from the blows. Still Anschutz sat, silently waiting. For what? A response? There was no response he had any interest in hearing. Then Noah realized he must speak. Anything. This was an interrogation, entertainment to Anschutz. Theater. A game requiring give and take. A game to which Anschutz had developed a craving every bit as powerful as that of a dope fiend to opiates. If Noah continued to remain mute, Anschutz would use his thugs to force him to play his part in the burlesque.

  But what to say? A torturer will continue his sadistic rituals until his victim confesses. The veracity of the confession is beside the point. Only the act matters. The acknowledgment of self-abasement. With the confession, the victim loses all right to respect and dignity. After the torturer achieves that, the game has ended. The victim is then merely so much detritus and can be dispatched.

  Noah spoke evenly. “Colonel, you have proven yourself precisely what your detractors say you are. A mindless brute.” The colonel’s shoulders stiffened, and he blinked twice in rapid succession. One of his men moved menacingly at Noah, but Anschutz put up his hand. A dull sheen of perspiration had appeared on his forehead.

  “I didn’t kill your son,” Noah went on. “But someone did. Every competent physician to whom I gave the facts of the case has agreed. Poor Willard died of morphia poisoning, but not by my hand. But do you take the time to try to determine the truth? No. You simply decide to make someone suffer. Anyone. You call your wife a nincompoop, but you are more than willing to take her word when it will justify brutality. You are so blinded by your need for vengeance that not only will you commit an injustice by making me the object of your rage, but you will let the person who is responsible walk free.”

  Noah paused. Had he gone too far?

  Anschutz grinned and brought his hands together in mock applause. His bottom teeth were crooked, and the asymmetry was jarring. “Very good, doctor. The counterattack. An excellent response strategy. Fernando Aquino used that very same technique in Luzon. I was so impressed with his resolve that I had his feet cut off. Perhaps I should cut off yours.”

  Perspiration had by then formed on Anschutz’s upper lip. He blinked quickly again. Noah looked more closely and noticed some yellowing of his skin. The remnants of a tropical fever.

  “You think I’m going to kill you right here and now, Dr. Whitestone, don’t you? You believe you are not going to leave this room alive. That is why you employed this silly, what-have-I-got-to-lose gambit.” Anschutz’s skin suddenly seemed to be glowing, making the yellowing more pronounced. “I may kill you here, but I may opt against it. Punishment for murdering my son should be more profound than a quick soldier’s death. So I might . . . m
ight . . . decide to let you leave here a free man. If I do, soon, perhaps very soon, perhaps not, I will find you and end your life. There is no recourse, no reprieve. After Washington, I will be home for one month, and during that month, you will die . . . if I don’t have you killed now, of course. Every moment between now and then, I leave you to ponder your death.

  “I’m a soldier, Dr. Whitestone. Death is my business. And, if I may be so modest, I know my business well. I can assure you that waiting for the inevitable is excruciating. Do you know your Greek parables, doctor? The Sword of Damocles?”

  Anschutz snapped his fingers, a single sharp crack. “Actually, I’ve a better example. Among the Rif tribes of Morocco, there is a fascinating method of dealing with an enemy. The man is strapped facedown to a board, with his head protruding over the edge. The board is placed projecting out over a very deep well. All that keeps the board from toppling into the abyss is a large urn, filled with sand, placed at the prisoner’s feet as a counterweight. But a small hole has been made near the bottom of the urn, allowing the sand to run out. While the prisoner stares into the pit, the women of the tribe sit around him and inform him of the progress of the sand leaking out of the urn. Some tell him not to worry—hours are left before he will plunge to his death. Others advise him to say his prayers—the sand has almost run out. I’m told that by the time the sand has finally leaked out sufficiently to send the prisoner over the side, he has gone mad and is screaming wildly, begging for the women to push him over and end his agony. He falls to his death screaming. As someone who has been forced to deal with many prisoners, I must confess to be in awe over the utter genius of the technique.”

  The perspiration beaded. Anschutz was apparently still febrile. “So, doctor, I cannot strap you to a board, but I feel confident that, when I finally do show myself to commit the act, you will welcome it.” Anschutz made to consider an alternative. “Unless I kill you now.”

  Anschutz licked his lips, then suddenly barked out a single laugh. The sound startled his men, although each barely flinched. Whatever fever he had contracted in the Philippines had gone to his brain. How could his superiors not have known? Or perhaps they did. Perhaps there was more to his leave than bereavement.

  An unhinged Pug Anschutz was even more dangerous than a rational one, but also more vulnerable. Must keep the dialogue going.

  “That will not help you find out why your son died.”

  “I know why my son died.”

  “No, you don’t. I understand how a credulous old fool like Frederick Wurster can be gulled by a gold watch, an International Benz, and a baritone. But you? You, colonel? I didn’t think you would be quite so easy to take in.”

  Anschutz stared at Noah. His pupils had dilated and he squinted to focus.

  “Your son was an experiment, colonel. Willard died in a test that your trusted Dr. Frias was paid to perform . . . of a new drug, a morphiate called Heroin.”

  Anschutz exhaled deeply and quickly drew in another breath. “Marketed by the Bayer Company of Germany. A drug that Dr. Frias prescribed for Willard two weeks before you saw him and which he carefully monitored until Willard had finished the entire prescription three days later.”

  Anschutz continued hyperventilating. “Dr. Frias was quite open with me. He did not feel the need to shave his beard and scurry about like a Chinaman. So, doctor, please tell me . . . how could a medicine that Willard had not taken for two weeks have caused his death? A medicine that the best scientists in Germany pronounced as safe.”

  “But Heroin is not safe. Did Dr. Frias also mention that he is one of the Bayer Company’s largest American stockholders? That he personally invested fifty thousand dollars? And that another investor is your wife’s father and still another is his brother, Frederick Wurster? And that a drug manufacturer named Martin Smith, with whom I saw Dr. Frias in Brooklyn Hospital, is also part of the cabal, as is a doctor named Tilson in New Jersey whose patient . . . a little girl . . . died precisely as Willard did? Did he tell you any of that, colonel?”

  Anschutz didn’t answer. He was staring, but over Noah’s shoulder, his mind seeming to have wandered someplace else. At one point, he seemed to whisper, “My wife?” His gaze again fell on Noah. “My wife?” he asked, making no effort to hide his distaste. “She knew?”

  “What? You mean about the money?”

  “About anything.”

  “I . . . I’m not certain what you’re asking.”

  Anschutz pushed himself to his feet; he had to put his hands to his thighs to do it. His collar was soaked, and his breathing had become more shallow. “All right, doctor. You’ve convinced me.”

  Bright and Van Nostrand glanced at each other. One of them—Noah didn’t know which was which—gave a small confused shrug.

  “You mean I can go?” Noah asked, hoping not to sound incredulous.

  “No, doctor. You’re going to come with me and pay a house call.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  DAY 8. WEDNESDAY, 9/27—2:30 P.M.

  Molly opened the door. When she saw Noah standing with Pug Anschutz, her eyes bugged.

  “I wish to see my wife,” Anschutz barked. Molly opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out. She spun about and ran off up the stairs to do as she had been told.

  Anschutz stepped into his house and Noah followed. Bright and Van Nostrand remained outside, sentinels on either side of the short path that led to the front door. Noah glanced at the photographs lining the wall of the impassive, clear-eyed soldier, more and more distant from the erratic, unstable killer with whom he seemed to have unwittingly struck some sort of bargain.

  Mildred Anschutz appeared at the head of the stairs, even more drawn and haggard than when Noah had made his ill-fated condolence call. Whether the cause was Willard’s death or her husband’s return was uncertain, but like Molly, she seemed panic-stricken to see her husband and Noah together. She slowly descended, then, as directed by her husband, went into the parlor and seated herself on the divan. Pug Anschutz waited until she was settled, then sat next to his wife, but with about a nine-inch gap between them. He sat with forced rigidity, a hand resting on either knee.

  Anschutz addressed his wife while looking straight ahead. “The doctor has something he wishes to say.”

  This was the moment Noah had been hoping for, to finally be able to force Mildred Anschutz to confront her own missteps, but now that it had arrived he was unsure how to proceed. Noah had no doubts that Mildred Anschutz was now in the same peril that he had just avoided and that he had put her there. But she was also the only person who could definitively clear his name.

  “I thought we might finally resolve what happened to Willard.” He addressed himself to the woman on the divan in a tone as gentle as if she were a child.

  At the mention of her son, Mildred Anschutz raised her eyes to Noah, her brow wrinkled in anguish. As she did so, her gaze flicked for a second to Pug.

  “Let’s review,” Noah began. He thought of his own Oliver. “Two weeks before I was summoned, Willard had taken ill and you took him to Dr. Frias. After an examination, Dr. Frias prescribed two new drugs. One was for fever and pain. Those tablets were blue. The other was for cough and general malaise. They were green. Am I correct so far, Mrs. Anschutz?”

  “Of course. You know you are.” She tried to answer him dismissively, but her voice held a quaver.

  “After Willard’s recovery, you noticed his behavior had become strange . . . isn’t that correct, Mrs. Anschutz? He seemed more nervous.”

  “I noticed nothing of the kind. He seemed to me the same as always, as I told you . . . until that last day.”

  “He exhibited no further symptoms? Was in need of neither the green pills nor the blue?”

  “That is what I said.” For the first time, Pug Anschutz glanced briefly to his wife, exhibiting the same rapid blinking as he had with Noah.

  “And Dr. Frias came by to see Willard?”

  “After three days. He said the crisis had pa
ssed, but I should remain vigilant to a relapse.”

  “Vigilant? You?” Anschutz sneered.

  “Yes, Pug,” Mildred replied, drawing herself up. “Someone must remain vigilant with the children. Someone who is with them more than one week in two years.” Noah stiffened. This was a dangerous moment to show backbone.

  Anschutz snorted. “You did your usual fine job.” He turned to Noah. “I married an imbecile, Whitestone. Why is beyond me.”

  “Because my family could help your career. Because you wanted to be a general before you were forty, and you needed a push to get there. I was good enough for that.”

  Anschutz’s jaw clamped shut, and Noah jumped in before the colonel could open his mouth again.

  “Are you certain, Mrs. Anschutz, that Willard wasn’t behaving oddly and you once again consulted Dr. Frias?” Noah was aware that he was speaking too fast, but the words seemed to pour out of their own volition. “That Frias also noticed the changes and gave you an additional supply of the green tablets. And that your supply ran out on the day Willard became ill? And when Dr. Frias wasn’t available, you engaged me?”

  Mildred Anschutz leaned her head at him as if she were peering into a cage at the zoo. “Are you accusing me of lying, Dr. Whitestone? Again implying that I have covered up the circumstances of my child’s . . . death. Of allowing you to be accused when I knew you to be innocent? What sort of person do you think I am?”

  “Perhaps you did not do so intentionally, Mrs. Anschutz.”

  “What? You’re saying I lied without realizing it?”

  The notion did sound half-witted but Noah pressed on. There was little choice. “Are you familiar with the works of Dr. Freud, the Austrian brain specialist, Mrs. Anschutz?”