by S. T. Joshi
* * * *
What’s that? Yes, yes, I’m coming to that—I’m trying to tell this in a way that will make sense.
Well, by the summer of 1931 Katharine was truly in a state of profound depression. I hardly knew what more to do for her, and even mentioned to her mother the possibility of institutionalizing her—but of course that was inconceivable, it would be too great a blow to the family’s social standing. In any case, Katharine wasn’t insane by any definition that we psycho-analysts recognize.
She had been talking about suicide for weeks—more and more determinedly. It became an obsession with her, and there was one session that was largely taken up with her querying me almost maniacally which method might be the most painless. She didn’t like pain.
And so I gave her that card for the Removal Company.
What? No, the fellow’s name was not Sanderson. He told me it was Kratzner. Just wait a moment—let me tell this my own way.
In 1927—years before I ever treated Katharine Vance—I was at a psychiatric conference in Mamaroneck, New York. I have no idea why it was there—but I’ll admit the furnishings at the hotel were comfortable. Anyway, I had just participated in a panel discussion on treating clinical depression when this man approached me, introduced himself, and asked to talk with me in private. He looked harmless enough, so I agreed.
What did he look like? Oh, tall, slim, gray-haired, rather haggard but very intelligent-looking face. Does that sound right? Okay. Well, I simply led him to a small conference room that wasn’t being used at the moment, and we sat down. Now of course I can’t remember now exactly what he said, but it went something like this:
“Doctor Grabhorn, I greatly admired your discussion today. It is evident that you have treated many cases of depression—am I right?” His voice was very soft, controlled, well-modulated.
“Yes, indeed. It is my specialty,” I said.
“I wonder,” he said, in a kind of wistful way, “what you do with cases that you find...shall we say, difficult?” He made it sound as if it were a purely theoretical question.
“Almost all cases of depression are difficult, Dr. Kratzner.”
“Yes, no doubt, no doubt....” A strange sort of smile played on his lips. “Perhaps there are cases that are, indeed, hopeless—insoluble?”
“I’m sure there are.” I really didn’t know where this was going. Was he wanting me to treat someone?—perhaps himself?
“What would you do in such a case?” he asked. “Stop treatment?”
“If,” I said, “there seemed no point in continuing sessions with the depressed patient, then I would at least suggest to the patient that we cease. But if the patient wishes to continue, then I would do so. I would think that some kind of treatment is better than none.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” he said again, and trailed off.
Somewhat abruptly—it was the only abrupt move I ever saw him make—he got up and began walking about in a small circle.
“Doctor Grabhorn,” he said, “let me be plain. I offer a distinctive kind of service for certain kinds of patients. Indeed, let us not call them patients at all—the term is so...clinical, no? Let us just say, certain individuals.”
I have to confess that my immediate thought was that he was some kind of quack. “Exactly what service do you offer?” I asked.
“A very delicate one...very delicate. To be blunt, doctor, I assist people in ridding themselves of their unwanted lives.”
I was thunderstruck. Was this some kind of joke?
“What the hell do you mean?” I exploded. “You mean mercy killing? You end the lives of people who are terminally ill?”
“Calm yourself, doctor,” he said, holding up one hand gently. “It is not perhaps what you think. I do not restrict myself only to the terminally ill. I am of the opinion that anyone, in whatever condition of body or mind, who wishes to depart from life should be allowed to do so. Surely you do not believe that persons should be forced to continue an existence they find distasteful?”
“Well, no, of course not—if that’s what they really want to do....” I was still reeling from this man’s bizarre story.
“Please do not misunderstand me,” Kratzner said. “I neither encourage nor discourage people in their actions. I do not, strictly speaking, seek clients, but if a client wishes to come to me and is truly resolved upon his course of action, then I provide assistance. Is that so terrible?”
That bland, emotionless face was bothering me. Was this person a charlatan, a fiend, or in fact a savior? As I sat there irresolute, Kratzner continued:
“I think you might find some reassurance from Doctor—” he mentioned a name—a very prominent name in our field. “He knows my work quite well, and I believe he can provide a reference.”
No, Scintilla, I won’t tell you. I won’t tell you, do you hear? That doctor is still exceptionally well known, and moreover is a close friend of mine; and I will not give him away. It is not any of your affair—you have no business with him.
Anyway, that name certainly gave me food for thought. Kratzner didn’t say much more, but before he left he did hand me a small stack of those business cards—just like the one you have. All he said was:
“In the event that you have a patient who might perhaps benefit from my services....”
And then he left.
Well, I didn’t waste time. I called that doctor friend of mine, and he vouched for Kratzner fully. He said he had visited Kratzner’s “office” in New York and found it entirely above-board, decent, and civilized. Of course, my doctor friend was quite aware that what Kratzner was doing was illegal, but my friend was devoted to individual freedom and felt the state had no business interfering with decisions of that sort. If you’re worried that any large number of people will kill themselves if the means to do so are made easy for them, think again. I’ve known many depressed people who made me wonder how they managed to live another day without resorting to suicide; only a tiny fraction of them would ever do so—and even a smaller fraction of the general public. The love of life—or shall we say the fear of death—is too well ingrained in people. Suicide is simply not an option: the great majority of individuals will continue to drag out their existence no matter how wretched they are.
So perhaps there is a use for that Removal Company.
The point is that it never occurred to me to “recommend” anyone for Kratzner’s services until I treated Katharine Vance and saw, toward the end, how completely despondent she was. She talked about suicide all the time—all the time. Don’t come back with that canard that anyone who talks about suicide won’t do it; that’s too simple-minded a formulation. Anyway, all I did was to suggest that Katharine check out this place; she was under no obligation to make actual use of the service. At all times it would be her decision to make.
What’s that? No, I never saw Kratzner again, and I never went to his “office.” I never even called that number myself—I knew from my friend that Kratzner was in New York, and beyond that I didn’t care much. There’s no reason why I should have. I had never recommended anyone to the Removal Company before, and I never did so again. Not because I had any difficulty, moral or otherwise, with what he was doing, but because no other of my patients seemed suitable for it.
And that’s all I know, Mr. Scintilla. That’s entirely all.
CHAPTER TEN
To my surprise, I found Vance not in the doctor’s lobby—where the receptionist, with apparently not a shred of work to do, had resumed the beautifying of her nails—but outside, pacing on the sidewalk and still fuming. When I appeared, he gave me a look of what some might have thought pure hatred, but very quickly it turned to a kind of mingled eagerness and inquiry.
“What happened?” he snapped. “What did he say? Does he know Sanderson?—does he know where we can reach him?”
“Take it easy, Vance,” I said, as we both climbed into the car. “He’s given me a lot to chew on.”
On the drive back home I t
old him pretty much everything that Grabhorn had said—leaving out the part about Katharine’s affair, and a few other things. I had also asked Grabhorn what had led him to change his name, but he had merely come back with the standard “That’s my affair, not yours,” so there wasn’t much I could do with that.
So what was Grabhorn/Greer’s game, anyway? Was the name change a way to evade the police? From everything I had learned, Sanderson/Kratzner was exceptionally careful about keeping his operation a secret, so Grabhorn didn’t seem to have any compelling reason to take cover, especially in such a cumbersome manner. Changing your name causes all sorts of complications, and it’s not something a person does lightly. Even if he had managed to keep his wealthy clientele—as the pearled and furred lady whose session we had so rudely interrupted seemed to suggest—he had had to uproot himself both from his former home and his place of business, and there must have been a great many other inconveniences.
So what was he running from?
And how much was I to believe his story? All of it, some of it, or none? The parts about Katharine Vance—even the affair—rang true, and fitted with what I had learned from other sources. But that wasn’t the important part: we knew already that she was suicidal, and no one was claiming that Grabhorn or even Sanderson had somehow pressured her into her final act. It was entirely voluntary; our two doctor friends had just paved the way, and—unless you were the police—there was nothing intrinsically wrong with that. So on this point, I still had nothing to go on—nothing that I could consider a “case.”
How about his meeting with Sanderson at that conference? That sounded okay—at any rate, I had no reason to disbelieve it. The real crux centered on three points:
1) Was Grabhorn telling the truth when he said that Katharine Vance was the only person he had ever recommended to the Removal Company?
2) A related point: Did Grabhorn really have no further contact with the Removal Company?
3) Most important of all: Who was this other doctor—a leading figure in his field—who had vouched for Sanderson?
That was something I had to find out. It might—might—be the key to the unraveling of the matter, if there was anything to unravel.
There seemed only one way to get to the bottom of these three puzzles. I would have to pay an uninvited call to Dr. Grabhorn/Greer’s office and do some snooping. There seemed no better time than this evening.
I knew I had to leave Arthur Vance out of it. He was too excitable, and this kind of investigation was better done alone. If by chance I got caught, it was better that only one person get in trouble with the police than two.
I am one of those rare New Yorkers who actually know how to drive a car; it comes in handy in my work. So after dinner I made a point of requesting one of the several cars owned by the Vances, saying that I needed it to pursue some private investigations. Vance himself was surprisingly indifferent on the point, merely throwing me the keys of the Aston Martin we had taken to Grabhorn’s office. I would have preferred something a bit less conspicuous, but I wasn’t planning on having Grabhorn or anyone else see me at my work.
I left around 9 p.m., knowing that I would have to wait until at least after midnight before I could take any action. It was a shame that Grabhorn’s office was also his residence; but on the other hand, a private house is far easier to break into than an office building. The placidly suburban environment was a perfect cover, too: the neighbors would—as suburbanites are—be so unused to burglars that they were not likely to be very vigilant.
So I drove around for several hours—getting the lay of the land, stopping by at an all-night cafe in San Gabriel for coffee and doughnuts, even heading as far as Hollywood to eye the starlets, the whores (hard to tell the difference sometimes), and the gaping tourists. I decided not to press on to Beverly Hills: I’d already had my fill of extravagant luxury at the Vances’.
Half an hour past midnight saw me pull up to about two blocks from Grabhorn’s house. I parked the car on the sidewalk and calmly walked to my destination. Everything was dead quiet—no illumination anywhere except on infrequent street-lights. I had made sure to wear dark clothing.
Grabhorn’s place also seemed entirely dead—not a sound, light, or movement. I assumed that his bedroom was upstairs, and thought it likely that he would be sound asleep. No doubt the receptionist was long gone.
From my memory of the layout, his office was in the back, and there was a window there—rather small and high up, but probably serviceable. I went around back and stood in front of it; it wasn’t latched. Bringing out my crowbar, I lodged it carefully at the bottom pane of the window—freezing a moment when I heard a car drive by, although I saw no headlights—and pried it up. It creaked a bit at first, so I stopped for a moment and, as soon as I could get my fingers under it, continued to push it up slowly.
It was, as I say, a high window—probably five feet from the ground. Its width was scarcely two feet. I’m not the most athletic person imaginable, but I managed to lever myself up to the window-ledge, hang there on my stomach while I gained my balance, and then fall clumsily into the room, landing heavily, but without much noise, on the thick couch under the window. So far, so good.
Grabhorn’s file cabinets occupied the entire back wall of the office—there were at least six of them. I didn’t know where to start, and suspected that I might be in for a long evening. Pulling out my flashlight, I shone it on the placards in front of one of the file drawers, but I couldn’t make any sense of it—it was in some kind of private code or system of organization that Grabhorn used.
I pulled the drawer. It didn’t budge.
I gave an almost audible sigh of disgust. How tedious! It was locked. I confess that I’ve never been good at lock-picking, but if I have enough time I can usually manage. I fished my pick out of my pocket and began to work.
Then I heard—or thought I heard—some movement upstairs.
It sounded something like a thud—possibly someone getting up heavily from bed and placing his foot hard on the floor. I first closed the window by which I had come in, then looked quickly around the room. Aside from the door leading out into the lobby, there was only one other door, framed between two immense bookshelves. I went to it and opened it carefully. It was a bathroom. I don’t know why I was surprised, but I was.
I stood entirely still, straining my ears. If the need for concealment arose, this bathroom would do in a pinch. Aside from the large desk, there was scarcely any furniture that would provide much cover, and the room seemed to have no closet.
But I heard no further sound. Possibly Grabhorn merely had to use the bathroom upstairs, although I heard no footsteps walking to and fro.
After several minutes of complete silence I resumed my work. The lock was not easy to pick, or else my skills weren’t quite up to the job. But I kept at it.
Then I heard the explosion.
It could only be one thing—a large-caliber gun going off inside a house. Only that could make the kind of heart-thumping, teeth-chattering noise that I heard. I wheeled around, somehow expecting the gunman to be standing at the door—maybe even expecting to feel the bullet enter my own body. But the gun had clearly gone off upstairs.
Within half a minute of the gunshot, I heard a police siren rapidly approaching the house. This was not good. It was time for me to get out of here.
I pried open the window, levered myself out—even more clumsily than before—and landed heavily on the wet grass outside. For a moment the wind was knocked out of me, but I recovered quickly. Slamming down the window, I bolted for my waiting car.
Reaching there without incident, I heard the police car coming ever closer. It was unmistakably heading for the Grabhorn house. I felt I had to investigate—something queer was going on. So I got in the car and drove the two blocks to the house.
The police car had already pulled up, and the door of the house was open—probably broken down by the officers. Not long afterward at least two other cars wheeled aroun
d the street corner and bore down upon us. Several police officers and what looked like a plainclothes detective stormed out of their vehicles.
By this time I had sidled my car to the kerb of the house opposite Grabhorn’s. I was not entirely sure when I should make my own presence known, if at all. I got out of the car calmly and quietly. One policeman was standing guard outside the house. I approached him.
“Sir, this is a crime scene,” he said, officiously. “Please stay back. You’d better just go home.”
I flashed my badge. “Deputy Sheriff, Westchester County,” was all I said.
The policeman looked puzzled, and that made him let his guard down a bit. I chose that moment to walk into the place.
I saw a man who appeared to be the detective in charge—as much in charge as anyone could be given the circumstances. He glared at me with a kind of outrage until I did my badge routine again. Quick introductions followed; he turned out to have the incredible name of Gulliver Crane.
“Detective Crane, can I ask what has happened?” I said.
He looked at me closely. It was clear he didn’t know what to make of me. “Deputy, may I ask exactly what your business is here?”
I knew, of course, that I had no authority here; this whole matter was entirely under the jurisdiction of the Pasadena police department. It was advisable to be courteous and deferential.
