“Why are you still in those clothes?”
Noah looked down at the workingman’s outfit he had yet to take off. “I slept in the chair.”
“Utter foolishness.” Maribeth strode past him into the room. She glanced for a moment at the top of his bureau, then turned her gaze on him.
“Tell me,” she said. “Right now.”
He let the words come out without preamble. “My father is a fraud.” When Maribeth asked what in the world he was talking about, Noah laid out the entire sordid affair.
Maribeth listened without seeming at all shocked. “You’ve yet to speak to your father, I presume. To ask if the story is true.”
“It’s true. Frias had too many details right to have been making it up. My father did suddenly have money to the buy the building when just the year before he had lamented that he couldn’t afford to; he did stop talking to Frias at precisely the moment Frias said; and he did lose patients then as well, although I didn’t know it was as many as five. Turner McKee knew as well. I thought it odd at the time that he asked about my father, but didn’t pursue it.”
“And on the basis of that, you condemn him without a hearing? A man you revere?” Maribeth heaved a sigh. “Perhaps it’s because you elevated him to a state that no one can live up to. I never had that problem, you see. I love my parents . . . I do, actually . . . but the only thing on pedestals in our house are those phony statues my mother pays so much for. I’ve never been forced to confront some appalling, unsuspected bit of scandal because I’d never be surprised. But you weren’t so fortunate. So now, when the unshakable conviction that your father is a saint is shattered, it leads to the equally unshakable conviction that he is a craven murderer. Two endpoints with no middle. And on the word of a man you’ve spent the last week trying to prove is a murderer himself. Can’t you see how absurd that is?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then put on some real clothes and let’s go ask him.”
Noah began to refuse. To sit across from Abel and hear confirmation of Frias’s terrible accusation—of all that had befallen him in the past week, that would be the worst. Still, what choice was there? He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life in his bedroom, as tempting as it felt at the moment.
“Give me ten minutes.”
When they arrived at Adams Street, Noah looked up at the building that until today had only evoked the best of memories, connoted only warmth, honesty, and integrity. Now it bore the stigma of five innocent patients who had died horrible deaths.
The waiting room was full, but instead of getting into his white laboratory coat to assist, Noah would force the patients to wait while he spoke with his father. At least Pierre Gaspard, who diagnosed and treated with same frenetic speed he did everything else, would keep the line from stretching to the street. Abel saw immediately that the subject was not pleasant and beckoned Noah to the office.
Maribeth made to wait, but Abel shook his head. “This concerns you as well, my dear. Especially if you’re considering becoming part of this family.”
So he had guessed.
In the office, Abel settled heavily into his leather chair, while Noah and Maribeth sat across the desk; division by preference rather than by blood.
“Would you mind letting me know precisely what Arnold told you? Or have I already been irrevocably condemned?”
“Of course not, father.” Noah repeated the tale, speaking evenly and without judgment, thereby communicating judgment all the more.
When he had finished, Abel nodded, an incongruous wry smile on his face. “Yes. The basic facts are there. They always are with Arnold. He rarely leaves himself vulnerable to the letter of the truth. Its spirit is something else again.”
“You are not culpable then?”
“That would depend, I suppose, on who was doing the judging. To me, I will never be anything less than fully responsible for the suffering of those poor people.”
“I would prefer to decide for myself.”
Abel barked out a laugh. “Would you? Very well.” He opened a desk drawer and withdrew a bottle of brandy and a shot glass. As he poured, he looked across at his son. “Yes, I’ve had the occasional brandy in the morning. Usually when I’ve been awake all night.” He downed half of what he poured. “What Arnold neglected to mention was that he did not come to Glycosal as an innocent. As with Heroin, he had been to Germany. Whether by coincidence or design, he arrived in Munich just before Schweinert planned to announce the fabrication of the drug. He visited the company and spoke to the directors. Glycosal had not yet undergone human testing. Arnold agreed to undertake the tests in America. Asked to do it. The Schweinert directors jumped at the offer and appointed him their representative. Paid him a handsome retainer. I never did find out how much.
“When Arnold returned, he solicited a number of area physicians. I was one of them. He knew I was strapped for funds, that you had begun medical school and I wanted very much to purchase the building in which I then rented space. He told me that he had reviewed the laboratory results carefully while in Germany and consulted at length with the chemists. He even claimed to have spoken with test subjects. There were, of course, no test subjects, as I found out later. Arnold was, as he is now, in high repute. He would pay me two thousand dollars to participate in a marketing campaign . . . that’s what he called it, a ‘marketing campaign.’ When he offered me such a fortune with his assurances that the drug was safe, I accepted. For that alone—for taking his unverified word—I should be damned.
“I prescribed Glycosal to thirty patients, and at first, the results were promising. One or two reported some gastric distress, but nothing untoward. After two weeks, however, patients began to complain of symptoms more severe. I ceased use of the drug immediately and told Arnold. He appeared stunned. He said no one else had reported similar difficulties.
“At the time, an epidemic of food poisoning was running rampant in Brooklyn. Eventually, it was traced to embalmed meat. There are no better government standards for food than for pharmaceuticals. Arnold hypothesized that my patients had been made ill by the beef and not the drug. In fact, he insisted Glycosal had likely prevented them from becoming even sicker.”
Abel downed the remainder of the brandy. “Once again, I accepted his word. Perhaps I wanted to. Was blinded by the prospect of more money than I usually make in three months. So for two more days, I continued to prescribe Glycosal to my patients. As you know, five of them eventually died.”
“But how could only your patients have become ill?”
“It wasn’t just my patients. Arnold had neglected to tell me that he ceased his own testing even before I spoke to him, that others in his pool had communicated suspicions as well. I’ve never been able to understand why he withheld the information only from me. Perhaps he simply wanted to ruin me.” Abel rubbed his forehead hard with his fingertips. “But whatever his reason, I killed five of my patients.
“Then, to my everlasting shame, I didn’t return the two thousand dollars. I’d already purchased the building, and I would have been ruined, just as Arnold planned. So I kept the blood money. I have loathed myself for it ever since.”
Abel heaved an immense sigh. “In some ways, I’m relieved you found out. I’ve carried the burden of your adulation for too long. Once again, I have no one to blame but myself, but how can anyone resist the awe of their child?”
“Rubbish!” Noah lowered his voice. “You might have been guilty of not plunging yourself into financial devastation as a result of being duped, but no more. Your doctoring was not motivated by greed. You proceeded honorably with your patients. I would have done the same.”
“I disagree.”
Both men turned to Maribeth.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Whitestone, but you were correct. You allowed your judgment to be compromised by the promise of easy money. I’m all too familiar with such occurrences, except in my family there is no subsequent regret.”
Noah began to protest, but Maribeth
would not have it. “You do your father no good, Noah, by excusing behavior he knows is inexcusable. That just continues the burden you’ve already placed on him.”
“Thank you,” Abel said softly. “The burden of five unnecessary deaths is enough.”
“But how could my father have had any way of anticipating the consequences? If he had, he certainly would not have accepted either the money or the assignment.”
“He distrusted Dr. Frias and he ignored his distrust. That same distrust, Noah, that caused you to test the tablet you obtained from Mrs. Anschutz. If you hadn’t, you would be practicing medicine right now, and the boy’s death would be considered simply a mystery that would never be solved.”
“Perhaps. But I can’t be certain whether my actions were motivated by distrust or . . . I suppose jealousy is the right word.”
“Jealous? Of Arnold?” Abel asked.
“Of his success. Of the unquestioned trust people like Mildred Anschutz showed in him. Trust I was convinced was undeserved—that they were impressed more by his trappings than his skill—and I was determined to prove it.”
“But he did prescribe Heroin to the boy. And that’s what certainly killed him.”
“I don’t see how.”
“One day it will all come out. These things always do.”
Maribeth interjected once more. “So what will you do now? Anschutz is dead, and Wurster is letting the matter drop.”
Noah looked across at Abel. “Right now, I think I’d like to stay and help clear some of the backlog in the waiting room. Be a doctor again.”
Maribeth stood. “I’ll be going, then.”
Noah saw patients in one examining room, Abel in the other. Pierre used Noah’s office to consult with patients whose conditions did not require immediate intervention. They worked smoothly and efficiently, and soon the waiting room contingent began to thin out. Noah saw patients complaining of respiratory distress, conjunctivitis, dyspepsia, edema, dizziness, cough, paresthesia, tinnitus, and goiter, all within ninety minutes. Patients ranged in age from twelve to eighty-six; about two-thirds were women. He examined, diagnosed, counseled, and prescribed. In many cases, he merely assuaged fears of a condition worse than that which existed.
He was so happy, he had to remind himself not to whistle.
He had indeed been intensely fortunate, drawn to the brink, then pulled back. He could safely fade into the obscurity that most of the best physicians enjoyed. He could marry a woman he had come to treasure, his infatuation with Miriam Herzberg either overlooked or forgiven.
As for Heroin, what could he actually accomplish? Frias had built his fortress to withstand whatever meager assault Noah could mount. He had recruited a phalanx of doctors and drug purveyors who would override any medical objections, and a sufficient number of the wealthy and influential to ensure that ethical issues would be shunted aside. Eventually, of course, the drug would come to be seen for what it was, but by then Frias would have made his millions and would merely express shock that he had been mislead by his associates in Germany. “Terrible tragedy,” he would lament as he emerged from First Mercantile.
And Willard Anschutz . . . Frias would escape blame for his death as well. Proof of malfeasance would be impossible to establish. Even Noah could not figure out how the Heroin prescription had done the boy in. Jacobi’s notion about that Freud fellow’s theory had turned out to be as moronic as it had first sounded. But it was not the laudanum. Of that Noah was certain, and that was all he had really needed to establish.
His next patient was Millicent Faircloth. Noah chuckled. He adored the Faircloth girls, all four of them. Millicent was the oldest, sixteen. She was tall and gangly with a shock of rust-red hair, skin awash with freckles, a long face, and emerald eyes. None of the sisters was attractive in a classical sense, but each was so vibrant as to appear to be moving when standing still. Millicent had taken into her head to be a writer, and Noah was certain she would succeed. Whenever she saw him, she badgered him to read the works of Edith Wharton, whom she described as “sub-lime.” Noah always promised he would but, in truth, had little interest in reading anything made up.
And what malady would she complain of today? Another streak in the Faircloth family was hypochondria. Millicent had, at various times, insisted she was tubercular, had a brain tumor, or had contracted psittacosis—parrot fever—an ailment whose name she decided was suitably exotic. She always seemed disappointed when Noah told her she was about the healthiest person he knew.
Noah poised himself near the examining table as the door opened, trying to stifle his grin. But walking in, instead of Millicent Faircloth, was Maribeth.
“Alan has disappeared.”
“What?”
“He wasn’t at the hospital. I was told he placed a telephoned call and said he had an emergency and would be delayed. I spoke to the woman in hospital administration who received the message, and she said Alan sounded . . . different. She couldn’t explain it but said it wasn’t the way he generally spoke. I asked if it was simply the sound from the receiver, and she said no, it was more than that. And when the woman asked where the emergency was and how long Alan would delayed, Alan said some emergencies take a long time. Then he hung up the mouthpiece. Alan would never leave his patients without offering an explanation. Something is wrong. I know it.”
Noah remembered Turner McKee, speaking to him through the crack in his tenement door. “It’s McCluskey.”
“I thought you said McCluskey wasn’t a threat anymore.”
“After the cemetery, I thought he wasn’t. But he’s obviously cleaning up loose ends for Frias and his investors. Or maybe just for himself. They’re taking no chances.”
Maribeth went white. “You mean you think Alan is dead?”
Noah thought for a moment. “No. If they’d done away with him, there would have been no call. He would simply have turned up somewhere like Turner McKee. It seems that McCluskey is holding him. For what purpose I don’t know.”
“We’ve got to do something. Try to find him.”
“How? He might be anywhere.”
“Well, I don’t intend to just sit here.”
“There’s always McCluskey himself, I suppose. If we can locate him, he might lead us to Alan. We can start at his precinct, although he’s unlikely to be just lolling about.”
Maribeth held open the door. “Let’s go, then.”
“Let me use the telephone first. We’re going to need some help.”
Five minutes later, Noah left the offices on Adams Street. He glanced back at the building from the window of Maribeth’s hansom. He had the distinct feeling he would not be back here again.
THIRTY-NINE
DAY 9. THURSDAY, 9/28—11:30 A.M.
We can no longer count on Herold.”
“I’m surprised. He didn’t sound like a man who would lose his nerve.”
“He didn’t. But Frias is clever. He contacted Herold, claimed the entire brouhaha was a big misunderstanding and offered to share the research notes from Germany proving Heroin is safe.”
“But Heroin isn’t safe.”
“As Herold will likely find out for himself. But by the time the notes arrive and Herold has a chance to go through them—even assuming they haven’t been altered—Heroin will be a fait accompli. And with Herold unavailable, the chance of enlisting official help through TR is gone as well.”
“So Herold as been gulled. He didn’t sound like the man for that either.”
“He isn’t, not really. Herold’s interest was always in the forensics, the science. He enjoyed the amateur sleuthing, but getting back to the lab will be irresistible, as I suspect Frias understood.” Noah smiled thinking of the indefatigable pathologist. “I’m relieved in a way. At least Herold is not in danger, and that’s one less person to worry about.”
“If we can find Alan, that will be one less still.”
Noah had directed the driver to Lafayette Street. The best people to help them locate McCluskey
—and the most motivated—were the Reds. Noah assumed that even with the offices destroyed, one or another of them, perhaps even Miriam herself, might be poring about to see if any papers or records could be salvaged. Maribeth had eagerly agreed.
“I will at least enjoy watching you squirm with the two of us in the same room.”
“I have no reason to squirm,” Noah replied, lamely even to his hopeful ear. After a snort from Maribeth, he added, “I expect the two of you to get along famously.”
“As do I,” Maribeth said. “Perhaps we’ll decide to dispense with you altogether.”
When they neared Lafayette Street, the forced banter ceased. Ten had died in the offices they were about to visit, and Alan might well be about to be added to the toll.
Two large wagons were parked at the side of the building. Workmen were tossing chunks of wood and plaster from the offices into chutes that ran from the blown-out second-floor windows to the wagon beds. Soon, empty wagons appeared to replace the two being filled.
Noah told Maribeth to wait while he went to check if any of the New Visions staff was about, but she refused. They walked up the flight of stairs in silence. The second-floor hall had been cleared, the glass swept up and temporary joists placed throughout to support the floor above. Noah stood and looked, the sight of disremembered bodies and smell of explosives branded in his memory.
The offices themselves were deserted. Eight workmen were hauling the last remains of New Visions to the chutes at the window opening. The job was almost complete; a few hours of work remained at most before the carpenters, plasterers, and glaziers would undertake the room’s rebirth. The room seemed much larger denuded of furniture, stacks of papers, and scurrying workers.
Noah stood in the doorway for a few moments, surveying what had, just a few days prior, been a hive of youthful idealism guided by a soldier and philosopher. All gone now. It occurred to Noah that he had no idea how to find Miriam. She would have submerged herself somewhere in the vast Red underground and might reemerge anywhere in America or even in Europe.
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