Kill as Directed (8 page)

“I never asked.”

“Well, then ask. You don't have to pump me about her. But if you're worried about the old man, don't.”

Harry lit a cigarette, carefully. “Tony. Would you say Kurt could be … dangerous?”

The black eyes looked curious. “Dangerous?”

“Well, I'm … going with Karen.” What a stupid, callow way to say it. Especially since he had not meant that at all.

“I told you, Harry, he's permissive. Yes, if you crossed him I think he'd be dangerous. But a little adultery … I think he thinks she's entitled. Wide open, no. Discreet, yes. He knows she'll always come home to Big Daddy.”

Harry inhaled cigarette smoke. “Where does he go?”

“What?”

“Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday evening. For a couple of hours. Without fail.”

“With fail. If he's out of town, he doesn't go.”

“But where?”

“Business.”

“Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday—even Sunday?”

“
His
business.”

“But you're his lawyer—”

“That's right. Not his partner.”

“You never asked?”

“Why should I ask?”

“How'd you meet him originally, Tony?”

“As a client.”

“Ten years ago?”

“Ten years ago, as a client.”

Harry drank coffee. He rubbed out his cigarette. “You're a criminal lawyer.”

“That I am.”

“Is Gresham a criminal?”

Tony's white teeth flashed in a smile. “That's a phony syllogism, pal. I'm a criminal lawyer. I have clients. Therefore, all my clients are criminals. Nonsense.” Now Tony lit a cigarette. “As a matter of fact, I did meet him through one of my criminal-type clients. The guy was a broker who'd got into trouble with the SEC. They prosecuted, and I got him off. Gresham had done business with this guy, and he admired the job I did. So he retained me on certain civil matters, and that's how I became his lawyer—on civil matters, pal, not criminal. It's a pleasure to hear you talk, even if all you're doing is asking questions. Anything else, Mr. District Attorney?”

“I am sorry,” said Harry.

“Sorry? For what?”

“For pushing.”

“Push any time, bud. It's good finding out you're alive.”

“You wish something?” said the waiter.

“Plenty,” said Dr. Harrison Brown. “But I don't think I can get it here.”

“We'll settle,” smiled Tony Mitchell, “for another pot of espresso.”

SEVEN

On Tuesday there were five patients. It was a hot day; summer had come early to New York, and he was thankful for the quiet, expensive air conditioning of his office. Between patients he sat with his ankles crossed and wondered what his receptionist thought about her employer's “practice.” At twelve-thirty, Dr. Stone telephoned to apologize and request postponement of their meeting to seven
P.M.
Harry readily agreed; only when he had hung up did he remember his appointment with Karen for eight o'clock. He decided that he would tell the good doctor he had to make a house call at eight. He remembered, guiltily, Peter Gross's admonition to “listen” to Dr. Stone. Hell, he thought, I can listen fast. He wondered what Dr. Stone could possibly want to talk to him about, and shrugged.

Promptly at two o'clock he left his office, telling his receptionist that he could not possibly be back before four-thirty. “If anybody calls,” he said, “don't make any appointment before half-past four.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she said.

What a farce, he thought.

He went out, to nowhere.

He had lunch of roast beef, spinach and potatoes at the Automat. Tony Mitchell wouldn't be caught dead in the Automat. The hell with Tony Mitchell.

Afterward, he walked over to his bank and cashed a check for two hundred dollars. He could never predict how much an evening with Karen would cost him; she was an expensive date. Then he strolled to Central Park and sat on a bench in the sun and thought about Kurt Gresham and Karen and Tony Mitchell. And himself.

What had he learned last night about his pal Tony? What actually had he hoped to learn? Two things: whether Mitchell knew of Gresham's narcotics business; and, if so, was he party to any of it? Dr. Brown laughed, in the sun, on the bench. Lies beget lies: he was now even lying to himself. There had been a much more important question in his mind last night: was there, or had there ever been, anything between Tony and Karen?

And what had he learned? Nothing.

Perhaps because there was nothing to learn.

It was quite possible that in ten years Tony had learned nothing of Gresham's real business, if, as he claimed, he had been handling ordinary civil matters arising out of Gresham's legitimate import-export business. On the other hand, Gresham's narcotics organization, with its complex of trusted key people, would certainly have to include lawyers. Was Tony one of them? If so, his coming to the rescue—introducing his old friend Dr. Brown to the Greshams, and everything that followed—made Mitchell Gresham's recruiter. That meant that Tony knew the whole story of his involvement with Gresham and was deliberately playing dumb.

So Mitchell wasn't involved, or he was involved. There was no way of telling.

Harry Brown sighed.

Tony and Karen?

Tony said he had known her for three years, which meant since before her marriage to Gresham … had met her
while she was managing a night club in Philadelphia
.

Karen had never mentioned that. Now that Dr. Harrison Brown came to think of it, his ladylove had never mentioned a word about her background.

A night club in Philadelphia! Where Kurt Gresham owned several clubs! And then, not long afterward, Gresham married her.

Coincidence? Dr. Brown squirmed and perspired on his bench in Central Park.

It was possible. It was even likely, unless a man were a fool. It was likely, considering subsequent events, that the Philadelphia night club Karen had been managing was a night club owned by Kurt Gresham. And if that were so …

Dr. Brown got up from the bench and began to walk fast in the hot sunshine. It was as if he were trying to escape from the logic of his own thoughts. But there was no escape. Gresham had told him that the managers of his night clubs were key pieces in the machinery of his narcotics trade. So Karen must have been one of them. First as an employee, then as Gresham's wife—why, she must know as much about Gresham's dope operation as the old man did! Was that why she had said to him on Sunday night, “You're in terrible trouble, Harry. I know that, too. I love you?”

He could feel the sweat coursing down his legs. Tonight. Tonight he would …

Dr. Alfred McGee Stone came promptly at seven. “I want to apologize again …” Dr. Stone began.

“Please, Doctor, it's all right,” Harry said as he led the way to his consultation room. “If anyone should apologize, it's I. I find I have an important consultation at a patient's home at eight o'clock; I'll have to leave at seven-thirty. It's only just come up, or I'd have called you.”

“Then I'll be brief,” Dr. Stone said. “This is only an exploratory talk, anyway.” He patted his sunburned bald head with a handkerchief, settled his rimless glasses high on the bridge of his nose, and smiled. “I believe you know of my connection with Taugus Institute?”

“Of course, Doctor. You're the director.”

“Do you know anything about the Institute?”

“Not much.”

“It's a private charitable institution, well endowed. The original grant of land, buildings and equipment came as a bequest from Anders Johnson when he died; Anders Johnson, Senior, the multimillionaire. We receive periodic grants from others, private individuals as well as foundations. We have the most advanced equipment and our staff is superlative. We have a large staff in permanent residence—physicians, surgeons and nurses besides the usual institutional help—and then there are those who contribute their services part time. The grounds are beautiful, the food is excellent, and there's a special residential area of lovely cottages for the permanent staff. So much for the over-all layout, Dr. Brown.”

Dr. Brown glanced furtively at the clock on the wall.

“Our charities are for the middle-income groups exclusively.”

“Beg pardon?” Harry said.

“Not for the poor, not for the rich.”

“For the middle income?
Charities
?”

Dr. Stone smiled. “A poor word. Our services, then. You, as a doctor, know very well that those who suffer most financially in the event of serious illness are people of middle income. The indigent can get the best treatment from the most skilled physicians without charge at the public hospitals. The rich, of course, can afford to pay for the most protracted illness. But for the middle-income group serious illness is usually a disaster. That's what the Taugus Institute is geared to prevent. It's the first institution of its kind, the first to provide unlimited services without charge beyond a reasonable—I might say nominal—fee, paid by the patient on acceptance.”

“But,” Harry said, “‘middle income' is a pretty elastic term. What criteria do you use in your selections, Dr. Stone?”

“The family physician makes an application to Institute for the patient, and our investigators go to work. The type and degree of illness are balanced against the savings and income of the family; and upon the report of our investigators, we accept or reject. And now, if you please, Dr. Brown,
my
first question. Are you in sympathy with the project? I may as well warn you that we have been called everything from proponents of socialized medicine to outright Communists—which, by the way, old Anders Johnson foresaw, to his considerable amusement. He was one of the world's most rugged individualists. How do you feel about it?”

Harry said slowly, “Suppose I were to say I'm sympathetic to the idea. Let me be blunt, Doctor. What's the point?”

Dr. Stone looked at him keenly. “Do you know who our chief of surgery is?”

“Dr. Lewis Blanchette. Dr. Gross told me.”

“Gross has talked to you?” exclaimed Dr. Stone.

“He called me to say I was to listen to you.”

“The old devil.” Stone laughed. “Born manipulator. Well, Lewis Blanchette wants a permanent assistant-in-residence, to work directly under him. A young man. I don't have to tell you what that would mean professionally.”

“Yes?” Harry Brown said.

“Blanchette and Gross have been lifelong friends. It seems that Peter Gross has recommended you to Blanchette for the post. How does it strike you? By the way, you'd have till the first of the year to get your affairs in order. Well, Doctor?”

“I'll think about it,” Harry said.

Dr. Stone's lips tightened. He pushed his glasses excitedly up on his nose. “Are you rejecting the offer just like that? Out of hand?”

“I said I'd think about it, Dr. Stone. I didn't say I'm turning it down.”

“Doctor, I've been an administrator for a long time now. I can recognize a turndown when I hear it. I think, in all justice to yourself, you ought to listen to the terms, the conditions, a quick rundown of the pros and cons.”

“Of course, Doctor.” Harry glanced at the clock again. Dr. Stone noticed, and his tone took on an edge.

“First, pro. A young surgeon, working in close daily contact with Dr. Lewis Blanchette, would receive the finest training in the world. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Not only training, but reputation. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Now the cons. First, if you're acceptable to Dr. Blanchette, you'll be bound by contract.”

“For how long?”

“Seven years. At the end of seven years you may leave. We would hope you would not, that you'd stay on. However, the choice would be yours, Dr. Brown.”

“After seven years,” said Dr. Brown. “And at what salary, Dr. Stone?”

“Well, you must remember we're financed very largely by endowments,” the bald doctor said rather quickly. “Ten thousand a year.”

Harry suppressed a wry smile. A fine way to get rich.

“That is, to start,” Dr. Stone went on. “There'd be annual increases—you'd be making fifteen thousand at the end of the seven years. But it wouldn't cost you anything for rent or food—you'd have one of the cottages, and if you married you'd be given larger quarters. And, of course, fringe benefits—six weeks' vacation, pension plan, sick leave and all the rest of it. Oh, and I'd like to add one thing more, Dr. Brown.”

Smooth operator, Harry thought. “Yes, Doctor?” he asked politely.

“We would hope, as I said, that you'd remain with us. But if you didn't, let me point out that seven years at the Institute, working with Lewis Blanchette, would make you. If it's money you're interested in—” smooth and perceptive, Harry thought; or else old Gross has armed him, “you'd be a rich man in short order. Blanchette's associate for seven years would have the most widely known and respected reputation, and I don't have to tell you what a lucrative field surgery is for a top man. Sorry if I sound crass, but as long as I am giving you the picture … No offense, Dr. Brown?”

“No offense,” said Dr. Brown with a straight face.

Seven years … By that time, he thought, he would be close to forty.

Who in hell needs it when you're old? I want it
now
. Seven years tied down by contract. For ten thousand a year to a maximum of fifteen. With “benefits.” He felt like saying, Dr. Stone, right now I have from one patient—
one
patient—a retainer of twenty-five thousand dollars a year. I'm launched, I'm on my way. By the time I'm forty I'll have it all, all!

Or will I? thought Dr. Harrison Brown. Maybe I'll be in jail. Or dead …

He passed a hand over his forehad.