Ellery Queen

Kill As Directed

Cast of Characters

HARRISON BROWN, M.D. — His passion for money taught him that the right office in the right neighborhood makes for meeting the “right” people

TONY MITCHELL, LL.B. — Kurt Gresham’s dapper attorney, a criminal lawyer who was especially “civil” to a client

KURT GRESHAM — Cherubic looking multimillionaire, who was as harmless as a big fat round H-Bomb

KAREN GRESHAM — Kurt’s copper-haired, green-eyed wife, who wouldn’t deal unless she had the whole deck

DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT GALIVAN — The pipe-smoking “fatherly” type, who upset routines with routine investigations

DR. ALFRED MCGEE STONE — Tall, thin director of the Taugus Institute, he “had no fat”

DR. PETER GROSS — Respected pedagogue, he was one of Harrison Brown’s biggest boosters

MRS. BERNICE STONE — Wife of Dr. Stone, a quick-eyed, plump little hen, who “had no lean”

UNCLE JOE — Always ready to do a favor for a friend — for a price

FRANKLIN GREGORY ARCHIBALD SMITH — The mortician who arranged for the disposal of “Uncle Joe’s brother’s ashes”; he knew how to urn a fast buck

MR. O’BRIEN — A giant of a house detective with a broken nose, who found a crowd in a suite for one

One

Shoulders, back, chest and thighs, arms and hands and feet — Dr. Brown was big in all departments. Even his nose was big. Once it had been big and straight. Now it was big and crooked, his football trophy.

Dr. Brown had dark eyes and dark hair. His look was dark, too, a chronic darkness; sullen, quite boyishly sullen. It went with his hair, darkly rumpled from running his big fingers through it in chronic desperation.

Dr. Brown’s friends called him Harry. Dr. Harry (for Harrison) Brown was thirty years old, and he considered himself a failure. Had he been able, like many fellow-healers of his acquaintance, to sock it away in a safe-deposit box, he would have considered himself a success. Yet Dr. Harry (for Harrison) Brown was not a shallow man. He was simply in the grip of a disease that strikes men, shallow or deep, impartially.

Dr. Harry Brown’s passion for money came from a lifetime of not having enough of it. “Not enough” is a relative term; Harry Brown’s not-enough had been relative to a background of exposure to too many too-much people. The friends of his father had been rich, and Harry’s friends had been their sons. Harry had gone to a rich man’s prep school on a scholarship; scholarships did not provide convertibles, charge accounts and fat allowances. At his Ivy League college he had roomed with the sons of the rich and dated the daughters of the rich; on holidays he had been seduced into their homes. He had been fed by their French chefs and served by their English butlers. He had slept on their silk sheets, and under them. He had sat on their antiques, buried his shoes in their rugs, gaped at their art investments, driven their foreign cars, ridden their thoroughbreds, taken the helm of their yachts. He had grown up swallowing daily doses of envy as others swallowed vitamin pills. Envy had sustained him and given him the strength to envy more. Envy had sent him through medical school. Envy had chosen and furnished his office.

But there its efficacy had stopped. Envy seemed powerless to provide him with a practice.

Dr. Harry Brown was intelligent. He knew that a practice, a lucrative New York practice, was merely a matter of time. He was only two years out of his residency. But time meant patience, and patience could not be cultivated in the acid soil of envy. Intelligence did not help; it was an empty watering can.

Dr. Harry Brown sat alone in his office, his spacious office with the private street entrance, in the impressive apartment building on Central Park West; sat alone in the office gleaming with the latest and most expensive medical equipment; sat alone waiting for the telephone call.

It was seven o’clock of a pleasant evening in May. Outside, the city was beginning to wrap itself in the warm dusk. He sat in a dusk of his own; only his desk lamp was on, and he had swiveled its business end toward the wall. He was slumped in his genuine leather swivel-chair, long legs sprawled under the desk, morose, glowering, in a tension sweat.

Who would have believed it? Two years of getting nowhere.

Patients today: two. A kid from the next apartment house with an infected finger; a pregnant teenager who wanted an abortion — this one he had sent packing without even charging a fee. One patient yesterday, a passer-by off the street with something in his eye. None at all the day before. And the day before that, the repeater. Hallelujah. The guy hadn’t yet paid for his first visit two months ago. The dead beats smelled out the new doctors. Even assuming that this character paid, that made the grand total of $30 gross for four days. $7.50 a day. Big deal. The rawest office boy these days would turn that down with a sneer.

Who would have believed it? Two years not merely of getting nowhere, but of sliding downhill. Two years of watching the thirty thousand dollars from his father’s life insurance shrink like ice on a hot tin roof. It was all gone, and a lot besides. He was over his head in debt.

Who would have believed it? Unmarried. No family hanging around his neck. No one to look out for but himself. And he couldn’t do even that.

It wasn’t as if he were an incompetent. He was a good doctor. He had proved that in his residency. But how did you spread the gospel? Maybe I should have set up in Los Angeles, he thought wryly, where some doctors use neon signs and advertise in the newspapers.

It was evident now that he had made a bad mistake in opening an office in New York. The yawpers about the “shortage of doctors” had never tried to make a go of it in Manhattan. Why, there were two other doctors in this very building, established men. Seven, excluding himself, in two short blocks. And this kind of office, in this kind of neighborhood, produced a chain reaction. The address dictated expensive clothes, perfect grooming. The clothes and the address made a glittering new car mandatory. And all for what? To impress whom? The kid with the finger? The transient with the eye? The terrified girl with the illegal belly? The dead beat? And to maintain this empty show he had to live in a hole in Greenwich Village, with hardly enough furnishings for a monk’s cell...

The phone rang.

“Harry?” It was Tony Mitchell, all right.

“Yes,” Dr. Brown said.

“Oh, in one of those moods.”

“What’s the score, Tony?” he asked abruptly.

“Dinner at eight. At the Big Dipper. Reservation in the name of Gresham — they lay out the purple carpet instead of the red when you mention it, and purple’s my favorite color. So put on your best bib and tucker, Harry.”

“How many of us?”

“Three. You, me, delicious Mrs. Gresham.”

“What about Gresham?”

“Did I leave the old boy out? Maybe he’ll come, maybe he won’t. You know Kurt — business before pleasure. Pleased?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dr. Harry Brown said.

“Sure you don’t,” Tony Mitchell chuckled. “Look, son, don’t horse around with little ol’ me. I’m chaperoning tonight, and I know it, and I know you know I know it.”

“Stop it, Tony.”

“Shall I prescribe, Doctor? Four or five vodka martinis and our radiant Karen of Gresh as a chaser. Whoops! That slipped out. Who is the hunter, O Physician, and who the hunted?”

In spite of himself, Harry Brown felt better. “Sounds to me as if you’ve had your four or five already.”

“And so I have, and so I have. Listen, pal, I’ve got to go get pretty. See you at eight.”

The Big Dipper, he thought as he hung up. No less! Leave it to Tony Mitchell. Nothing but the best. Well, Tony could certainly afford it. Many a lawyer in town would have exchanged his entire clientele for Mr. and Mrs. Kurt Gresham.

The Big Dipper... Harry Brown rose. For the past month he had been his own chef, opening cans at home in the Village and heating their contents. It was the only way he could take Karen Gresham out; Karen was used to the best — well, to the most expensive, anyway. Tonight Tony Mitchell would pay, or Kurt Gresham if he showed up. Not that they’d let him, but he couldn’t even go through the motions of reaching for the check. A dinner for four at the Big Dipper, with cocktails and wine and adequate tips to the maître d’ and waiters, would come to almost a hundred and fifty dollars — two weeks’ salary for Dr. Harrison Brown’s yawning day-shift receptionist.

Dr. Harrison Brown shuffled about, flicking on lights. In his gleaming examining-room he opened a cabinet drawer, took out a fifth of whisky, poured himself a shot, gulped it down and, replacing bottle and glass, went into one of the two dressing rooms, the one with the full bathroom. As he stripped, as he stepped under the shower and soaped himself and turned on the needle spray and felt his body come alive, Dr. Harrison Brown thought about Anthony Mitchell, Esquire, Attorney-at-Law... thought about luck, and its quirks. For it had been chance, pure and complex, that had thrown him back into the orbit of that incandescent, hurtling personality.

Law had been Harry Brown’s father’s profession, too — slow, meticulous, painfully honest Simon Brown; old Sime Brown, never in court, a lawbook man, a brilliant brief man, everybody’s counsel on appeal; student, scholar, sickly, toward the last doddering; a man of great learning and greater wisdom and greatest principle. Attorney Simon Brown, widower, without personal ambition, deeply devoted to his only child, his son, deeply committed to encouraging that son to study medicine, to become a successful physician and so to be able to enjoy those things in life which meant so little to him. Or perhaps, as Harry Brown suspected, his father had cultivated a personal indifference toward material satisfactions because he had long ago recognized his incapability of achieving them. But for his son... It explained why he had kept himself impoverished in order to expose his son to the environment of wealth.

Daddy-o, Harry Brown thought bitterly, you played me a dirty trick. Who had said, “Wisdom is folly?” It was the stupidest thing the wise man had ever done.

It was in his father’s office — during a short vacation, while he was still in medical school — that Harry Brown had first met Tony Mitchell. Tony, seven years Harry’s senior, was already a criminal lawyer with a future; he brought his brief work to Simon Brown. He was handsome, zestful, sophisticated, quick-witted, sardonic, gay, an electric personality — all the things that Harry was not.

“Your old man’s a genius, did you know that?” Tony Mitchell had said to Harry Brown in his baritone chuckle. He was reputed to have an extraordinary courtroom voice. “And I take advantage of him, pick his brains.” For one moment young Mitchell had turned serious. “It’s unfair as hell. But... You know what’s wrong with your father, Harry? He’s too damned shy.”

It was an indictment, Simon Brown had remarked dryly later, that would never be drawn against Anthony Mitchell, Esquire.

But Harry had liked him. And, of course, envied him.

They had become friends quickly, gone out together. They made an interesting pair. Where Harry was serious, Tony was ebullient. Where Harry was inarticulate, Tony was glib. Where Harry was quiet, Tony was suave. Where Harry was awkward with women, Tony collected them like moths. They complemented each other, even physically. Harry’s big, bulky, rugged body was the perfect foil for Tony Mitchell’s quicksilver slenderness.

But then Harry had had to go back to school, and Simon Brown died, and the friendship died too, as quickly as it had been born. They drifted apart and soon lost track of each other.

Harry Brown stepped out of the shower and toweled himself viciously. Then he shaved and got into the change of clothing he kept in the bathroom closet. Against tonight’s eventuality he had stored fresh linen, black shoes and socks, a custom-tailored midnight blue suit and a solidly dark blue French silk tie. Knotting the tie before the mirror he asked himself, How do I stand? And how much longer can I keep up the front?

Not long, he knew. He was over his head in the two classic troubles: money trouble and woman trouble.

He had planned everything so conscientiously. The thirty thousand dollars had looked as impregnable a reserve as the gold in Fort Knox. He was interested in two fields, internal medicine and surgery; he had figured that two years of private practice would determine which way he would go. And choosing the “right” neighborhood for his office, the most modern equipment, the slick car, the posh clothes — these had seemed the logical means to his goal, and the devil take the cost.

The devil had taken the cost without providing the anticipated quid pro quo. After two years, nothing had come to a head. The surplus of patients implicit in a shortage of doctors had shunned Dr. Harrison Brown in droves. Patients had materialized, but in insufficient numbers. This week was not typical; he had had far better ones; but, on the average, income and outgo were ludicrously out of balance. He saw, too late, that establishing a lucrative practice was going to take far longer than he had calculated. Time meant money. And his money was running out.

And then, four months ago, a chance encounter in a bar with Anthony Mitchell had breathed life back into his hopes just as they were heaving their last gasp.

One stare, and Tony Mitchell was all over him like Old Grad at the class reunion. “Harry boy! My God, it’s Harry! How are you? Where’ve you been hiding out?”

They had double-dated for weeks, got high together, done the town — having more fun than Harry Brown could remember. Then one night, alone in Mitchell’s apartment, the lawyer had said suddenly, “All right, Harry, it’s time you took your hair down. What gives? Where’s it pressing? You put on a pretty good act, but seeing through acts is standard procedure in the courtroom, and I can spot one a mile away. You in trouble? Do something foolish? Let’s have it.”

So Harrison Brown, M.D., had told Anthony Mitchell, LL.B., all about it. From the beginning to date. His ambitions, his plans, his training, his decisions, his frustrations, his grim prospects. And he told of terror by night and by day; of the first doubts, then the growing fear, then the panic...

“Okay, enough,” Tony Mitchell said crisply. “I want to sleep on this, Harry.”

“You?” Harry had exclaimed. “What can you do?”

“Plenty. Just give me — oh, a couple of days. Can you be at my office Thursday, at noon?”

“Yes—”

“Here’s my card.”

“But, Tony—”

“Look, let me do the worrying. It’s my business to worry about peoples’ troubles. That’s what I get paid for. Only for you it’s on the house. See you Thursday.”

At noon on Thursday, Dr. Brown had presented himself at Attorney Mitchell’s surprisingly businesslike offices on Fifth Avenue. No playboy here. The office girls had clearly been picked for efficiency, not looks; the law clerks were intent on their work. “Sit down, Harry,” Tony Mitchell said in a tone Harry Brown had never heard from him before.

Harry sat down and fumbled for a cigarette, wondering what was coming.

“I’ve considered your problem,” the lawyer said, leaning back in his chair, “and I approve your plan. It’s perfectly sound for its long-range objective. It wouldn’t be for a cluck, but you’re no cluck.”

“How would you know that?” Dr. Harry Brown said. “For all you know, I might be a medical misfit.”

“I’ve looked you up,” said Mitchell quietly, “and you’re not. I’m satisfied that, professionally, you can make it big. The one weakness of your plan was insufficient capitalization. You didn’t realize how long a pull it was going to be.”

“I sure as hell didn’t.”

“The problem gets down to this: To get where you’re going, you need more fuel than you figured. Once you build up enough speed, the fuel question drops out as a factor. Harry, you’re going to have to go to the bank.”

“For what?”

“For a big fat loan.”

Harry Brown laughed. “And what’ll they give it to me on, Tony, my good looks?”

Tony Mitchell grinned back. “If that was your collateral, you couldn’t borrow the down payment on Jack Benny’s Maxwell.” But then he became all business again. “I think another thirty thousand would do it, Harry. If you were careful, it ought to get you over the hump.”

Dr. Harrison Brown suddenly realized that he was still trying to light the cigarette. He lit it, looking at his friend through the smoke. “You know a bank that will lend me thirty thousand dollars without collateral?”

“Sure. Mine.”

“Don’t tell me you own a bank!”

“Not quite,” said Tony, smiling. “What I have in mind is to sign as co-maker. You’ll get it.”

“Now wait a minute, Tony,” Harry protested. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“If I fell flat on my face—”

“You’re not going to fall flat on your face. I consider you a lead-pipe cinch, given enough time. Thirty G’s should do it. Also, I’m going to protect my investment by seeing what I can do to throw some well-heeled patients your way.”

“Let me think about it, Tony.” He tried to control his voice.

“There’s nothing to think about.” Tony Mitchell jumped out of his chair. “Let’s go, Harry.”

“Go? Where?”

“To my bank. They’re waiting for us.”

“Tony—”

“Oh, shut up. What are friends for? On your feet, kid.”

So he had let himself be rushed into it, confused with reborn hope and unutterable gratitude. There had been no trouble about the loan; four months had gone by and nothing had changed, really, except that the condemned man had been granted a reprieve. Oh, there had been some changes, but they had scarcely improved his position. In fact, Harry Brown mused, they had worsened it.

Tony Mitchell had been as good as his word about the “well-heeled” patients. Dr. Brown, on Mitchell’s generous recommendation, found himself the personal physician of the first rich patients of his career, Mr. and Mrs. Kurt Gresham.

Kurt Gresham was a multimillionaire. He owned an import-export company with world-wide outlets and a huge annual income. Gresham’s offices were in the Empire State Building.

The millionaire was a cardiac, chronically overweight from compulsive eating; his medical needs called for frequent examination and adjustment of medication. His doctor was an old man on the verge of retirement; he was transferring his patients gradually to other physicians, and Kurt Gresham’s time had come.

“Tony Mitchell’s told me a lot about you, Dr. Brown,” Gresham had said during their first interview. “And I’ve done some poking around of my own. After all, it’s my heart that’s involved; I don’t want to make a mistake.”

“Why don’t you transfer to a heart specialist?” Harry Brown had asked him abruptly.

The stout millionaire had smiled. “I like that, Doctor. But old Doc Welliver has always said it wasn’t necessary. Now maybe he told me that to hang on to a good thing, but I don’t think so. Anyway, what I’ve learned about you I’m satisfied with. Do you take me on?”

“I’ll answer that question, Mr. Gresham, after I’ve learned about your heart. I’ll want to see Dr. Welliver’s records on you, and I’ll want a day of your time.”

“You name it.” The millionaire had seemed pleased.

He had gone into Gresham’s case with great care. In the end he had decided that there was nothing involved which he could not handle. And, again, the millionaire had seemed pleased.

So their professional relationship had begun well. If only, Harry Brown thought glumly, it had stayed that way!

For there was Mrs. Gresham — the fourth Mrs. Gresham, according to Tony Mitchell. Karen of Gresh, as Tony called her. Delicious Karen...

Delicious Karen was the woman trouble.

Dr. Harrison Brown got to the Big Dipper at ten minutes past eight. Tony and Karen were already there, lapping up martinis, at a table against the banquette. Karen was seated on the banquette, with Tony opposite her.

“Notice that I’ve reserved the place of honor for you,” Tony said, his beautiful teeth laughing-white against his sunlamp-burned skin. “With Cupid sitting across the table beaming.” To the waiter who had moved the table aside to allow Harry to slip in beside Karen, Tony said, “Two vodka martinis for the doctor here, and another round for Mrs. Gresham and me.”

“Where’s Kurt?” Harry said. On the banquette seat, protected by the cloth, Karen’s hand was searching for his.

“Oh, these beetle-brows,” Tony said softly. “You always make the lovelies. Why wasn’t I born with the gene of beetle-brows?”

“Oh, shut up, Tony,” Karen Gresham said. “Kurt’s not coming, Harry. He just called. Tied up at home working on whatever he works on. Disappointed?” She turned her enormous green eyes his way. Below the cloth her hand was brushing his lightly, hungrily.

“Not disappointed, and not not,” Harry said. There it was again, the havoc to his nervous system. On the excuse of reaching for his cigarettes, he withdrew his hand.

“Forgive him the syntax, honey,” Tony Mitchell said. “Doctors get that way from writing prescriptions.”

“I think Harry’s disappointed,” said Karen, smiling. There was the slightest pucker between her brows. “Kurt fascinates him. Doesn’t he, Harry?”

Harry said nothing except, “Your health.” He picked up one of the two cocktail glasses the waiter was setting before him and gulped down half of it.

“That’s a hell of a toast for a would-be successful doctor,” Tony said. “And say what you want about that husband of yours, Karen, he’s a fascinating monster. The most fascinating in my experience, which has dealt with monsters almost exclusively.”

“To Kurt Gresham, Monster De Luxe,” murmured Karen, and she sipped her fresh martini.

“Might’s well order,” said the lawyer; the waiter had his pencil patiently poised. “Duck, that’s it. Duck Aldebaranis — truly out of this world. How about you two?”

“I don’t care,” Karen said.

Harry shrugged.

“Shrimp first? With that crazy sauce? Lovers? I’m speaking!”

“Oh, you order, Tony,” Karen said.

“Yes.” Harry observed her over the rim of his glass. That fascinating old monster certainly had an eye for women. She was exquisite, and when she sat beside her husband he became grotesque; Karen was almost half Kurt Gresham’s age. What hath God bought, he thought bitterly.

Yes, exquisite. The facial bones so delicate, with the fragility of fine china, and something of its translucence. The thoroughbred way in which she held her head, with its swirl of incredible copper hair. The great green wide-apart, innocent, worldly, inscrutable, enchanting eyes. The flesh under that tight green gown with its daring décolleté cut... The gown must have cost his income for months. The emerald necklace making love to her throat was probably worth more than his father’s insurance policy had brought. Yes, old Gresham knew how to pick his women — and how to keep them... For one lightning moment Dr. Harrison Brown thought: Was she what had got into his blood? Or was it what she represented — the symbol of everything he had fiercely yearned for all his life?

They were well served and they ate while Tony Mitchell joked and ragged them. Through it all Harry was conscious only of the heat of her pressing thigh, the caresses of her secretive fingers. They lingered over dessert and coffee and Drambuie, and then, after the table was cleared, they drank more coffee and more Drambuie; and he got a little drunk, and his tongue loosened, and he even laughed several times. And then, at about eleven o’clock, Tony said, “Did you come in your car, Harry?”

“Yes.”

“Then suppose you take the lady home. I’ve got to get a good night’s sleep tonight — I’m due in court in the morning on a tricky case. You don’t mind, do you, Karen? And don’t bother to lie. Waiter?”

They left Tony Mitchell paying the check.

He drove her home and double-parked in the gloom of Park Avenue near the Greshams’ duplex. She threw herself into his arms, kissing, straining, clinging. “I love you, I love you, I love you...”

Harry Brown said nothing. He clutched her and said nothing. What was there to say?

“What are we going to do, darling? What are we going to do?”

He made no answer. He had no answer.

Then she said, “He’s going out of town for the weekend. I’ll see you Friday night and Saturday night and Sunday night. Alone. No one else. Yes? Yes, Harry?”

“Yes.”

“Good night.”

“I’ll take you in.”

“Not tonight, darling. See you Friday. I’ll call you the moment he’s gone.”

He drove downtown, guilt rumbling within him. Was he in love? Was he? He was certainly infatuated. But love... marriage...? She had been honest with him: She had married a rich old man quite simply for his riches — God knew he could understand that! — and she could not face the thought of losing it. Gresham would give her no grounds for divorce; he was mad about her. And if she should provide the grounds, she would get nothing. And yet... I love you, Harry. What are we going to do?

He slid into the parking space before his house on Barrow Street and locked the car.

The dingy lobby was empty. He rode the creaky self-service elevator to the third floor, unlocked his apartment door, locked it behind him, snapped the light switch in the vestibule, threw his hat into the hall closet and went into the living room, fumbling for the switch. He found it and flicked it on and saw the girl.

She was slight and blonde, staring up at him with wide-open eyes from the armchair. She wore a plain black suit, a white blouse, and black patent-leather shoes that glittered in the light. He had never seen her before.

“Hello?” Dr. Harry Brown said with a frown. “Who are you? How did you get into my apartment?”

She did not answer. Just stared up at him.

Then he knew.

He went to her swiftly.

She was dead.

Two

The man in charge reminded him comfortably of his father — an elderly, very tall, grizzled, and slightly stooped man, in clothes that hung as though they were a size too large for him. His gray eyes were clear, compassionate and weary, his voice slow, deep-toned, without urgency. He had introduced himself as Detective Lieutenant Galivan. While the technicians were busy with their apparatus, Galivan talked quietly with him.

“You’re sure you’ve never seen her before, Doctor?”

“Never in my life.”

“Do you have any idea who she might be?”

“Not the slightest.”

“A patient, maybe?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Someone who might have come to your office with a patient?”

“It’s possible, I suppose. All I can tell you is that, to the best of my recollection, I’ve never laid eyes on her before.”

“And you have no idea — no idea at all — what she’s doing in your apartment?”

“It ought to be obvious,” Harry Brown said angrily. “Even to a cop. She’s dead in my apartment.”

“Whoa, Doctor. Take it easy. If you’re telling the truth—”

“Are you doubting me, for God’s sake?”

“—then I can understand your state of mind.” The detective showed his small tobacco-yellowed teeth in a smile. “But please try to understand mine. If you’re telling the truth, as I started to say, this doesn’t make much sense, does it? A woman you never laid eyes on turning up dead in your apartment?”

“No, it doesn’t. But here she is.”

Galivan looked at him. Harry Brown felt as if he were being gone over by a vacuum cleaner. “Your door was locked?”

“Yes! Locked when I left this morning, locked when I got back tonight.”

“And you’ve never given anyone a duplicate key to the lock?”

“I’ve already answered that! Not even the janitor has a key. I installed that lock myself when I took the apartment.”

“Sure is a funny one,” the detective murmured. He took out a pipe and a tobacco pouch and deliberately filled the pipe. Harry Brown waited, seething. Only when he had his pipe going smoothly did Galivan go on. “By the way, the Assistant Medical Examiner says she’s been dead for a number of hours.”

“I know that,” said Harry sarcastically. “I’m a physician, remember?”

“And you say you haven’t been back here all day?”

“That’s right. I left at eleven this morning.”

“She hasn’t been dead nearly that long, so that’s one in your favor, Doc. If you’re telling the truth, that is. You sure you didn’t come back here during the day?”

He fought for control. “I’m sure, yes.”

“I had dinner out with friends.”

“How about this evening?”

“Well, wouldn’t you have had to come back to change your clothes?”

“I did that at my office. Showered, shaved, got into fresh clothing at about seven o’clock.”

“We can check that, Dr. Brown.”

“You do that!”

Galivan smiled again. “Murphy?” A bulky crew-cut young plainclothesman strolled over. “Dr. Brown says he showered, shaved and changed his clothes in his office at seven o’clock this evening. He’s going to give you the key to his office — right, Doctor?”

In silence Harry unhooked the key from his key ring and handed it to Murphy.

“What’s the address?” the plainclothesman asked mildly.

Harry told him.

Murphy nodded and strolled out.

“Young Murphy’s pretty good at that sort of thing, Doc,” Galivan murmured. “I hope you’re telling the truth.” Harry compressed his lips. He was suddenly very tired. “And then,” the detective continued, “you went out to dinner. Where?”

“The Big Dipper. Met my friends there at a little after eight — Anthony Mitchell, he’s a lawyer, and a Mrs. Gresham, a patient of mine whom I know socially through Mr. Mitchell.” He tried to keep his voice at the same level of mere annoyance. They mustn’t suspect about Karen and him; they mustn’t find out. “I dropped Mrs. Gresham off at’ her apartment house on Park Avenue around eleven P.M., then drove on home to find this.”

“You put in the call to us, Doc, how long after you found her?”

“Seconds, my friend, seconds.”

“I see. This Mr. Mitchell and Mrs. Gresham — can I have their addresses?”

“I don’t see why you have to drag my friends into this!”

“Nobody’s dragging anybody into anything, Dr. Brown. It’s just a routine checkout of your story. Their addresses?”

Harry gave him Tony’s address and Karen’s address.

The detective jotted them down, puffing on his pipe. “Oh, by the way, Doctor,” he mumbled as he wrote. “Do much of a business in abortions?”

Harry looked at the man, speechless. Then he burst into laughter.

“There’s something funny in what I said?” Lieutenant Galivan asked slowly, taking the pipe out of his mouth.

“Hilarious! You don’t know how hilarious, Lieutenant. The answer is no. I don’t handle abortions, and I don’t recommend pregnant girls or women to any doctor who does. In fact, I wouldn’t know where to send such a patient if I wanted to.”

Galivan continued to look at him. “Do you know a doctor who would send such a patient to you if he wanted to?”

“Oh, I see what you’re driving at. You think the dead girl...” Harry shrugged. “No, I don’t.”

One of the technicians came up to them and said, “We’re through here, Lieutenant.”

“Any luck, Closkey?”

The man glanced at Harry. “No,” he said, and went away.

“There are no signs of violence on the body, incidentally,” Lieutenant Galivan said to Harry. “Have you any idea, as a doctor, what she died of?”

“I’m going to leave the medical opinions to your Medical Examiner’s office, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, they’ll do an autopsy. I just wondered if you knew. Willing to come downtown with us, by the way?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Sure,” said Galivan, puffing hard. “You can come voluntarily, or I can get legal about it.”

Harry Brown looked at him in absolute incredulity. “Do I understand that you’re detaining me? As a suspect?”

“Suspect? Suspect for what, Doc?”

“How should I know? For murder, I suppose!”

“Oh, you think she was murdered?” Galivan asked.

“Well, wasn’t she?”

“Was she?”

“Oh, hell,” said Harry.

“Look, Dr. Brown,” the detective said. “This could be a rough deal for you all around. Whether you’re telling the truth or lying.” He actually sounded sympathetic. “I’m not going to bull you. I know a doctor can’t afford to get personally mixed up in a police investigation. But I can’t help myself any more than you can. As bad as it might be for you professionally, it’ll be a whole lot worse if you’re withholding information.”

“I’m not withholding information!” exploded Dr. Harrison Brown. “How many times do I have to repeat that? What do you want me to do, tell you I know the girl when I don’t? This is as much a mystery to me as it is to you!”

Surprisingly, Lieutenant Galivan said, “I’m inclined to believe you. Only a nut would dream up a story like this under these circumstances. Of course, it may be that’s what you are, Doc — a nut. We’ll check that out, too. In fact, you’re going to have to be checked from every angle we can think up. Nothing personal, you understand. Let’s go.”

At the precinct station Galivan took him upstairs to a square, bare, shabby room. “Before we go through the formalities, I’m going to leave you alone here to think.”

“Think?” cried Harry. “About what, for heaven’s sake?”

The lieutenant looked thoughtful. “Well, if you’re telling the truth, Doc, some son of a bitch played a real socker of a joke on you. For your own good you’d better start rummaging through your head for some patient, or so-called friend, or anyone else you may know who’d be cockeyed enough, or mean enough, to put you in the middle of a mess like this.”

Galivan went out and closed the door. Dr. Harrison Brown sat down on a hard chair scarred with cigarette burns and scratchwork art.

And he began to think.

He had not thought sixty seconds when he knew it must have been the work of Kurt Gresham.

Two weeks ago his phone had rung at midnight. He had sat up in bed and fumbled for the receiver and Kurt Gresham’s voice had come through, contained, precise, almost prissy: “Harry? Harry, can you get up to your office right away?”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“An emergency. How soon, Harry?”

“Give me thirty minutes.”

Twenty-four minutes later he was in his office and five minutes after that the bell rang and Dr. Brown opened the street door to admit Kurt Gresham and a steel-faced man supporting a woman with a face the color of well-aged cheese.

The woman was fat and tight-lipped; she wore an expensive evening gown, and in her naked shoulder, just under the skin, there was a bullet. It had required hardly more than first aid: a simple probe to extricate the bullet, a clamp, a shot to prevent infection. The steel-faced man had taken the woman away, neither of them having uttered a sound; and then Kurt Gresham had said, “Neat and quick, Harry. I like the way you work.”

“Mr. Gresham—”

“Kurt, Harry,” Gresham had said gently. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“All right — Kurt.” He had had the most curious feeling of entrapment. “You’re going to have to tell me what this is all about.”

“I am?” Gresham had said, just as gently.

“Of course! The woman suffered a gunshot wound. The law says all such wounds have to be reported to the police department by the attending physician.”

“I know what the law says, Harry. You’ll do me a great personal favor if you don’t report it.”

Harry Brown had stared at him. “You can’t be serious. I could have my license revoked.”

“Yes,” the millionaire had smiled, “but that won’t happen. I absolutely guarantee the discretion of everyone involved. Naturally, I don’t expect you to run even the slightest risk without adequate compensation. Will this be of help?”

He laid a check down on Harry’s desk. It was for five hundred dollars.

“No,” Dr. Harry Brown said.

“The woman is not implicated in anything criminal, Harry. She was an innocent bystander—”

“Then she has nothing to worry about,” Harry said abruptly, “and neither have you.”

“Harry, listen, will you? Will you please listen? Let me have my say.”

“Go ahead and have it. But I’m not going to jeopardize my medical license—”

“For a measly five hundred dollars?” The fat man looked hurt. “Harry, have you misjudged me to that extent? This is just a token fee. Listen, I own a large number of night clubs. Does that surprise you? Here in New York. A couple in Washington. Several in Philadelphia, Chicago, Miami. Nobody knows I own these clubs; my ownership is hidden behind a complicated corporate setup. I want it that way, I need it that way. See, I’m not holding anything back.”

Listening to the smooth, precise voice, watching the bland and fleshy face, Harry felt a knotty hardness form in the pit of his stomach. “I don’t like it, Mr. Gresham—”

“Kurt.”

“Kurt. The answer is still no.”

“But why, Harry? Lots of businessmen put surplus funds to work in other enterprises—”

“And hide them?”

“Why not? Why should I complicate my business life by letting it be known that I also own a string of night clubs? Anyway, that’s the way I prefer it.”

“You mean,” said Harry tightly, “because your anonymous sideline produces an occasional gunshot wound?”

“That’s part of it,” Gresham said without hesitation. “Every once in a while somebody gets out of line in a club, in spite of my people’s precautions, has too much to drink, starts a brawl. Not often, Harry. And sometimes that somebody turns out to be packing a gun. So, occasionally, somebody gets hurt and needs medical attention. Night clubs operate under license, the way doctors do; and a shooting or other violence jeopardizes the license. At the least, it makes us subject to investigation. I don’t want my clubs investigated — it might reveal my ownership. And that’s something, as I said, that I want to remain under cover. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep it that way. One of my precautions has been to retain a physician to take care of just such incidents on a strictly confidential basis. Dr. Welliver did it for me for years. Now that he’s retired, I’d like you—”

“No.”

“Dr. Welliver never got into trouble. I can protect you—”

“No.”

Gresham did not seem offended. “Well, let’s drop it for the time being. Of course, it’s been something of a shock to you. It’s my fault, Harry; I should have prepared you. But please remember I’m not asking you to commit any crimes, just to give me your confidential help on the rare occasions—”

“No.”

“I won’t accept that till you’ve had time to think it over, Harry. Let me repeat: You’ll be very well paid—”

“No!”

But he had let Kurt Gresham walk out of his office in the small hours that night, leaving the check for five hundred dollars on the desk. And he had slipped the check into his drawer after Gresham’s departure, not destroying it. And he had not reported the wounded woman, or her two subsequent visits for routine treatment — both late at night, long after hours. And the following week he had unlocked the desk drawer, slipped the check into his pocket and had gone over to his bank and cashed it...

Yes, the mysterious dead girl was connected with Kurt Gresham in some way, with one of his night clubs. It had to be; there was simply no other explanation. But how she had got into his apartment, and for what purpose; and why had Gresham said nothing to him about it in advance — to these questions Dr. Harry Brown had no answer.

He was sure of only one thing: he was in something way over his head — in something deep, dark-and dirty.

The door of the bare precinct-room opened and Detective Lieutenant Galivan came in. “Well, Doctor? Remember anything?”

“Nothing,” Dr. Brown said.

“Your office checked out, by the way. You showered, shaved and changed all right. Here’s your key.” Harry took it. “Oh. What are your office hours?”

“Twelve to two, four to seven. Otherwise, by appointment.”

“Now about the lady,” Galivan said. “We have some interesting facts.”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Unfortunately, we found no purse, so we don’t know her name or where she lives. But the clothes are expensive and her body looks like a beautician’s ad. Recall a woman whose initials are L. M.?”

Harry thought, “One or two patients, maybe. Why, Lieutenant?”

“L. M. was embroidered on her panties. You’ve prescribed narcotics in your practice, haven’t you, Doctor?”

“Naturally.” The sudden question jerked his head up.

“A lot?”

“No more than normal.”

“Kept records?”

“Of course.”

“We’re going to have to check them tonight. We’re also going to go through them for female patients with the initials L. M. Sorry to give you such a rough night, Doc.”

“What’s all this about narcotics?” Harry asked casually. At least he hoped he sounded casual.

“The girl died of an overdose of heroin. She was an addict, a mainliner. Whenever you’re ready, Doc. First we’ll take your formal statement.”

A police stenographer took his statement in the squad room, and then Galivan, young Murphy and two other policemen took him uptown to his office, where his records were closely examined.

“Clean on the narcotics, from the looks of it,” Galivan said.

“Thank you,” Harry said without enthusiasm.

There were three female patients with the initials L. M., all from the previous year. Despite the hour, Galivan telephoned them.

They all answered their phones, very much alive.

“That’s it, Doc,” Galivan said. “It’s out of your hands now and in mine. I’ll keep in touch. Give you a lift home?”

Six days later, exactly at noon, Detective Lieutenant Galivan strolled into Dr. Harrison Brown’s office.

“You’ve identified her,” Harry said.

“Finally,” Galivan answered, sitting down with a slight groan. “Routine turned the trick. Her suit, which looked pretty new, had a Lord & Taylor label. We checked all their charge accounts back two years of women-customers with the initials L. M. No dice, alive or dead and buried. So we had to wade through cash sales slips by the thousands. Police work is so glamorous. And then we made her — Lynne Maxwell, Lynne with an e. Ring a bell, Dr. Brown?”

“Lynne Maxwell.” Harry shook his head. “Not even a tinkle.”

“What a town this is,” said the detective sadly. “Live and die practically next door, and you might just as well have been on the moon.”

“What do you mean, Lieutenant?” Harry asked sharply.

“She was a neighbor of yours. I mean, practically. Lived on Bank Street. Artist. Studio like a movie set.”

“Artist,” frowned Harry. “How come nobody missed her?”

“Well, first, she lived alone. Second, she was very rich, inherited dough. Came from Denver, Colorado. Third, she was unmarried. Fourth, she had no steady guy, kept to herself. One like that can disappear for a long time without raising questions. Twenty-nine years old. Shame, huh?”

“Rotten shame.”

“The few people she knew say she spent money like water, mostly on herself; had a lover once in a while, nothing serious — basically a loner, no real attachments. By the way, not one of her acquaintances could link her to Dr. Harrison Brown. They never heard of Dr. Harrison Brown. That ought to please you, Doc.”

“It doesn’t please me or displease me. I’ve told you the truth about the girl from the start.”

“Don’t get hot, Doc. That’s why I came all the way up here to fill you in.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Harry said mechanically, “but this thing has been bothering the hell out of me. How would you like to come home and find a dead girl you never saw or heard of before in your living room?”

“I wouldn’t like it.”

“I don’t like it, either. I’ve had my lock changed, but if someone was able to get past one lock, a second one won’t protect me. I don’t sleep well.”

“I don’t blame you.” The detective sounded genuinely sorry for him. “So I guess you’ll be glad to hear that we’re keeping this case open.”

Harry stared. “Why, Lieutenant?”

“You.”

“Me?”

Galivan rubbed a knuckle on his chin. “Doctor, I’m Homicide. Now it’s true that this case doesn’t look like a homicide. This Lynne Maxwell killed herself, intentionally or accidentally, by injecting more junk into her body than it could tolerate. She died in her studio, or she died in the street, or maybe she even died in your apartment. If it was her studio or the street, somebody would have to deposit her in your place. Why? Or if she died in your apartment, what was she doing there? How did she get in? And why did she come? See what I mean, Doc?”

“Yes,” Harry said gloomily.

“So — case open instead of closed. Accidental death or suicide, the fact remains that you found her in your apartment, and it’s an unexplained fact. When it’s unexplained, whatever it is, you can’t close the book on it. And brother, it sure is bugging me.”

“You and me both, Lieutenant.”

“Well, that’s about it, Doc.” Galivan rose. “If anything further pops on this, no matter what or when, please let me know right away.”

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

He was in the midst of examining a patient, at one o’clock, when his office girl buzzed him.

“Mr. Gresham is on the line, Doctor. Can you speak to him?”

“Not now,” Harry said. “Tell him I’ll call back.”

“He says it’s important—”

“I’m examining a patient,” he snapped. “I’ll call back.”

Gresham sounded displeased when Harry finally called. “I said it was important, Harry.”

“I don’t take calls in the middle of an examination, Kurt,” said Harry. “What do you want?”

“I want to see you.”

“You do?” said Harry. “That’s a coincidence. I want to see you, too.”

There was a silence. Then he heard Gresham chuckle. “Well. That makes it cosy. So you figured it out, Harry?”

“Figured what out?”

“About Lynne Maxwell?”

It was Harry’s turn to be silent. He felt confused and angry and helpless all at the same time.

Finally he said curtly, “When and where?”

“Three o’clock? My office?” asked the prissy voice.

“I’ll be there.”

Three

Dr. Harry Brown looked him over. Really for the first time.

He was a big man, globular. He had a round ruddy face, soft, white, womanish hair and eyes clear and colorless as sun on ice. The tip of his big nose was round and the little red-lipped mouth was round. He looked guileless, good-natured, almost cherubic. He was about as harmless as a big fat round H-bomb, Dr. Harry Brown thought.

“Harry,” Kurt Gresham began, “I’m going to make a confession to you. Try to win you over. If I fail, no hard feelings. But I warn you now. If you breach my confidence by so much as a word...” The millionaire shook his head; everything shook with it. “I wouldn’t like that at all. Harry. I’m not a man of violence. Quite the contrary. I consider violence the first resort of the stupid. The only times I have indulged in violence were those times when nothing less would serve — the last resort. Do I make myself clear, Harry?”

“Perfectly. You’re threatening to have me murdered if I don’t keep my mouth shut.”

The girlish lips opened out into a little round smile. “Crude, Harry. But I see we understand each other.”

“The hell we do, Gresham. I don’t give a damn about your ‘confession,’ as you put it. I want to know just one thing: why did you have the dead body of that Maxwell girl planted in my apartment?”

Gresham blinked. “You’re really a very clever young man, Harry. However, I’d like, if I may, to develop this in my own time and way—”

“The hell with your time and way! Answer my question!”

The silky white brows drew together sulkily, the colorless round eyes flattened and slitted. For an absurd moment Harry Brown thought of pediatrics and the baskets of fat little baby-faces just before feedings, preparing to cry. But there was nothing infantile in Gresham’s tone; it was hard, greedy, paranoiac. “You have the gall to talk to me that way? Nobody talks to me that way, Doctor. Nobody. Nobody!” The last word was almost a shout. And then the brows drew apart and the eyes and face became round again. “I’m sorry, Harry. You mustn’t make me angry. A bad heart and a bad temper don’t mix, do they?”

“I’m not here as your doctor. What about Lynne Maxwell?”

“Harry, I admire you. You’re rough and tough. I want you on my side.”

“What about Lynne Maxwell?”

“I’ll come to that, Harry. But first I want to talk to you about myself. About you. About our future together.”

“We have no future together, Gresham.”

“How do you know, my boy?”

“What about Lynne Maxwell?”

“Please, Harry. I beg your attention.”

Dr. Harrison Brown sat back in the enveloping armchair and looked past Gresham’s globular head and out through the wide windows at the blank blue sky. They were high up, on the fifty-fifth floor. He wondered dully what was coming.

“Do you know what business I’m in, Harry?”

“Import-export.” He shook a cigarette from a package, dug in a pocket for matches.

“Do you know the chief product I import?”

“Now how would I know that?” He found the matches, tore one from the packet and struck it.

“Heroin.”

Harry’s hand remained in air, the match flickering.

“Light your cigarette, Harry,” said Kurt Gresham, smiling. “You’ll burn your fingers.”

He lit the cigarette, carefully deposited the charred match in a shiny jade ash tray. “Heroin?” he said. My God, he thought, my God.

“You sound shocked,” said the fat man, still smiling.

“How should I sound, Gresham? Amused?” He jumped up.

The millionaire folded his hands comfortably. “You’re so young, Harry. You have so much to learn. No, sit down, please. I want you to hear me out.”

“I’ve heard all I want to hear!”

“Will it hurt you to listen for a few minutes? Please. Sit down.”

“All right.” Harry flung himself down. “But if you think I’m going to tie myself up to a dope racketeer—! I know what narcotics addiction does to the human body. And I have some idea of how you slugs work. Giving out free samples to high school kids through your pushers, getting them hooked, then pushing them into a life of crime to get the money for their daily fixes—”

“Oh, my, Dr. Brown, you do know a lot, don’t you?” said Kurt Gresham, the whole globe shaking silently. “You know it all. Shall I tell you something, Dr. Brown? You don’t know anything. Not about me, anyway. Not about my kind of narcotics operation.”

“And what kind would that be?” Harry sneered. “Philanthropic?”

“No,” said the millionaire, “but I perform a social service just the same.”

“Social service!” Harry choked.

“Social service,” said Gresham, nodding. “Have you any idea how many hundreds of thousands of habitual users of narcotics in this country are not high school children who were hooked by unscrupulous pushers and dealers? are not degenerates? are not beatniks out for kicks? are not the dirt of society? My clients are all upright, respectable, useful and, in many cases, distinguished people who, in one way or another — a lot of them through illness — became addicted to drugs, just as you’re addicted to that nicotine you’re inhaling right now. I don’t sell to criminals, Harry. I have no connection with the dope rackets or racketeers. I’m a maverick operation. A specialist, you might say, with a specialized trade.”

“Of all the rationalizations—!”

“Realism, Harry. I’m preventing the proliferation of criminals.”

“By engaging in the criminal dope traffic!”

“No; by providing narcotics rations to those respectable people who need them in order to continue to lead useful, respectable lives. If not for me, they’d have to traffic with the criminal element — buy inferior drugs, drastically cut to produce a bigger volume and profit — become prey to underworld blackmail. If not for me, Harry.”

“Oh, so now the supplying of junk is to be considered an act of benevolence? Is that how you’d like me to think of you? As a humanitarian?”

“In a way. Basically, I am a businessman in a large and profitable business. But I’m no less a humanitarian than the successful publisher who makes a profit selling Bibles.”

“That’s one hell of a comparison!”

“As good as any. Psychiatrists think so, the higher echelon of welfare workers think so, the government of England thinks so.”

“Nothing you can say—”

“In Britain an addict is treated not as a criminal, but as a sick man, which is what he is. He needn’t deal with criminals there, or become a criminal himself in order to satisfy the craving induced by the habit. In Britain the addict may go to a doctor and receive his ration of the drug by prescription, all quite legally. Once our federal authorities and Congress realize that that’s the only way to cope with the problem, my services won’t be needed and the underworld will lose a major source of its income.”

“There are moral kudos even in the peddling of junk. That’s what you’d like me to believe?”

“I insist you believe it, my boy. You’re intelligent enough to understand, if you’ll open your mind.”

“I’m listening, Gresham, but I’m afraid my mind is closed. Junk peddling is junk peddling.”

“Of course your mind is closed. You’ve been raised in an atmosphere of legalistic bias. During Prohibition, for example, you were told that the manufacture, transportation and sale of liquor was a horrid crime. Then the Eighteenth Amendment was repealed, and suddenly liquor became respectable again. I’ll bet you still can’t take a drink without having guilt feelings about it.”

“Liquor and narcotics are hardly the same thing,” Harry snorted. “There’s no danger of alcoholism unless there are underlying psychological causes. But anyone can become a narcotics addict simply through excessive dosage.”

“All the more reason for recognizing that it’s a medical, not a criminal, problem. And it’s bound to be recognized, Harry. Sooner or later we’ll have the British system here and I’ll be out of business. Meanwhile I’m serving a socially desirable purpose that ought to be served by the government.”

“Man, if ever I heard sophistry...!”

“Not true. There is nothing unsound in my argument; it’s not a rationalization. Admittedly, I’ve made a great deal of money in the commission of acts now considered unlawful, but they’re not unethical acts. It’s our antiquated laws that are wrong, not I.”

Harry Brown looked at his watch. “Would you kindly come to the point, Gresham? I have to get back to my office.”

Kurt Gresham pinched at the pink jowls beneath his small round chin. “Harry, I want you to stop thinking of me in terms of gangsters, pushers, despoilers of teenagers and all that. I’m not a conscienceless corrupter of human beings, believe me. For thirty-five years I’ve been serving the needs of statesmen, writers, artists, actors, architects, judges, businessmen, financiers, society people—”

“God Almighty.”

“I supply only the best, the worthiest; my potential clients are screened by experts; I accept only people of means and discretion; and there are so many, so many...”

Dr. Harrison Brown sat silent.

In the silence, Kurt Gresham selected a long thin cigar from a humidor, lit it carefully, blew aromatic smoke.

In spite of himself, Harry said curiously, “You say you’ve been in this racket — pardon me, humanitarian service — for thirty-five years. How did you get started? What gave you the idea? Mind telling me?”

“Not at all. My father was in the import-export business in a modest way — getting along, not rich, not poor. He died at the age of seventy-nine, and all his adult life he was a heroin addict. Through his international contacts he was able to buy supplies of the drug for his private use: they were brought in for him by a trusted European representative during legitimate business trips. It was because of my father that the idea struck me — what an ideal solution this method would be to the problem of supplying respectable addicts with their necessary drugs — and, of course, how profitable. When my father died and I took over the business, I began to work on my idea — very slowly and carefully. Today I have a small but airtight organization of hand-picked people.”

“Hand-picked, am I?”

“Over a period of thirty-five years I have had to make replacements, of course: employees had died, grown old, retired. You’re old Dr. Welliver’s replacement, I hope — I sincerely hope, Harry. For both our sakes.”

Something in the fat man’s tone made Harry’s scalp prickle. “Does Mrs. Gresham know about all of this?”

“Of course not. Karen is my wife, not a business associate. But to get back to you, Harry. I’ve studied you; I’ve had you most carefully investigated. I know all about you: about your father’s struggle to make you what he couldn’t be; about your compulsive drive for success and wealth — all about you, Harry.”

“My God, how...?”

“My staff is made up of experts — each of whom knows only an essential few of his colleagues, by the way, as you will be my expert in your field, knowing virtually none of the others. I even know of your recent loan...” The fat man opened a drawer of his desk, extracted a rectangle of blue paper and tossed it across to Harry. “Your loan has been paid. That’s the cancelled note. I cannot afford to have any member of my little official family in debt. You see, Harry, just by agreeing to this little conference, you’re ahead thirty thousand dollars.”

Harry stared at the blue rectangle.

“Put it away, Harry,” Gresham said. “Or tear it up.”

Dr. Harrison Brown looked up from the blue paper so tightly held in his hand. “What do you want of me?” he croaked.

“Don’t look at me that way, Harry. I’m not the Devil, and I’m not asking you to sell your soul.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Put that note away, will you?”

Harry stuffed it into a pocket. “What do you want of me, Gresham?”

“Absurdly little, in fact. You’ll continue to build up your practice independently, but to give you freedom from financial worries I’m going to put you on an annual retainer — ostensibly for being my family physician. You’ll be called on no more than five or six times a year for the confidential jobs — they don’t happen often; sometimes a full year’s gone by without the need for a job like the one you did on that woman.”

“So much for so little? That can’t be the whole thing, Gresham—”

“But it is. I’m willing to pay handsomely just to know that I have a doctor I can depend on in an emergency.”

“I’ve got to get to my office,” Harry said, rising. “I have office hours—”

“I’ve already had your office girl called, Harry. You’re delayed. Important case. And it is, isn’t it?”

Harry sank back, staring at him. Gresham puffed on his cigar.

“Now, Harry,” he said briskly, “I want you to understand how this thing works because, even though you’re a minor cog in the machine, even the minor cogs are important to keep the machine running smoothly.

“Gresham and Company, Import and Export, has been in business for seventy years. We’re a firm of excellent reputation, doing a good business in a lawful manner. However, certain key people secretly pick up the narcotics I need in Europe and the Orient; and the other key people deliver it to me together with the legitimate goods we import. We never take chances. We never smuggle in big shipments, for instance, because we don’t have to. We’re in business day in and day out, and so small quantities can be brought in day in and day out; no splurges, no large purchases, nothing that attracts attention; never any trouble in thirty-five years. Is that much clear?”

“Yes.”

Gresham deposited a long ash delicately in a tray. “Distribution and sales naturally pose more dangerous problems. I’ve already indicated that the selection of the client is done by experts. The client must be of the highest moral character and of sound financial background — people who are willing to pay as much for our discretion as for the drugs. As for the actual transactions—”

“Your night-club chain,” Harry exclaimed.

“Exactly.” The millionaire crushed out his cigar and leaned back in his huge baronial chair. “I don’t go west of the Mississippi. My distribution points — drops, if you will — are here in New York, in Philadelphia, in Washington, Miami and in Chicago. In each of these cities, under dummy ownership, I own several small, exclusive clubs. In each club the manager is one of my key people, and it’s the manager who makes the delivery and accepts payment — in cash, naturally. And there you have it, my boy. Oh, I should add what must be obvious — I have a doctor on my payroll in each of the five cities. Is there anything else you would like to know, Harry?”

Harry Brown was silent again. Then he mumbled, “That woman with the bullet wound I treated. Who was she, a client?”

“Good heavens, no!” Gresham said; he actually sounded shocked. “We don’t have that kind of client, Harry. She’s an employee. Sometimes there’s violence in our ranks, no matter how careful we are. As I said, it doesn’t happen often. When it does, we take extraordinary measures to keep it within the family, so to speak.”

“And,” asked Harry dryly, “if the little family misunderstanding happens to wind up in a murder, Gresham? What’s your family doctor expected to do with the corpse — grind it up for hamburger?”

“Harry,” said the millionaire in a pained voice. “In the unfortunate event that an individual dies in one of these episodes, we take him off your hands. You have nothing to do with — ah — disposal. Actually, it’s happened only half a dozen times in the last twenty, twenty-five years — and in three different cities, at that. Don’t worry about things of that sort. We have resources and connections that would astonish you. Anything else?”

“Yes,” Harry Brown said grimly. “The matter of—”

“Oh, excuse me,” Gresham said. “I almost forgot your retainer.” He took a check from his desk drawer and reached over to lay it softly before Harry. “For a year in advance, Harry. Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Dr. Harrison Brown stared down at it. He grew very pale. He did not touch the check.

“And you’ll earn more, Doctor. I paid you five hundred dollars when you treated the lady with the bullet nick. That was chicken feed — I didn’t want to startle you. Hereafter, on the rare occasion when you’ll have to treat one of our special patients, you’ll receive a fee of five thousand dollars per patient. Such fees will be in addition to your yearly retainer. And now, what were you going to ask me?”

Harry thought bitterly, You clever bastard. He looked up from the check and said, “Lynne Maxwell. I want an explanation.”

“Oh! Yes, of course, Harry,” said Kurt Gresham, and his round mouth flattened sadly. “Most, most unfortunate thing. I won’t conceal it from you. She was a client. The first case of its kind we’ve ever had. She tried to commit suicide by taking a deliberate overdose. And then, as often happens, regretted it. She phoned the manager of the club where she always made the pickup — and, of course, under the unusual circumstances, he quickly got word to me. I got a couple of my security people to drive over to her apartment. They found her-dead.”

“So you had them plant her body in my place, Gresham,” Harry said wearily.

“I’m so sorry, Harry.” The colorless eyes remained round and without guile. “But I did feel I had to impress you with our — ah — resources. I wanted you to realize that we can go through locked doors and perform miracles with dead bodies — depositing them, for example, where they don’t belong.”

“In other words, I’d better accept your proposal, or you’ll frame me for something nice and ripe.”

“Harry, did I say anything like that? Or imply it? It was simply a demonstration, preliminary to this talk.”

Dr. Harrison Brown rose, picked up the check for twenty-five thousand dollars, stored it in his wallet and put his wallet away. He left Gresham smiling.

Outside, in the warm Fifth Avenue sunshine, Dr. Brown shivered. It was not from fear. It was from self-disgust. He had simply been unable to resist the money.

Four

In time, Dr. Harrison Brown became aware of the compassion of Lieutenant Galivan, or of what he believed to be his compassion. This belief in Galivan’s compassion did not spring from any overt act on the lieutenant’s part; to the contrary. For four weeks and a fraction thereof, nothing appeared in the newspapers about Lynne Maxwell.

To this absence of news about the dead girl Dr. Brown gave much thought. The corpse of a Greenwich Village artist found in an apartment where she did not belong would be sensational news anywhere. Then why wasn’t there one word about it in the papers? Obviously because Galivan had sat on the story. The lieutenant was wise and experienced; the lieutenant was compassionate. God bless the lieutenant, said the doctor silently. He would never again have to hear the name Lynne Maxwell.

But he did hear it again, four weeks and a fraction after the event, on a Sunday night following an afternoon of golf at Taugus in Connecticut.

The Greshams, members of the Taugus Country Club, had put him up for membership and he had been accepted: he could now afford it. He played golf on most Sunday afternoons, and this Sunday afternoon the fourth player was to be Dr. Alfred McGee Stone, another member of the club.

“Stone? I don’t know him,” Harry said.

“He’s dying to meet you,” Kurt Gresham said.

“Why?”

Tony Mitchell said, “Maybe he thinks you’re grist for his mill.”

“What’s his mill?”

“He’s director of the Taugus Institute.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s charity,” Karen Gresham said.

Tony Mitchell said, “Maybe he’s heard of you, Harry. Wants to pluck you from the ranks and institutionalize you.”

“Nonsense,” Karen Gresham said. “These jokers are giving you the business, Harry.”

“No, really,” Kurt Gresham said. “Dr. Stone’s been asking about Harry ever since I mentioned his name.”

Dr. Alfred McGee Stone was tall, wire-thin and bald, with a good sunburn, wolfish teeth, an Arab’s nose and rimless glasses which kept slipping down his beak. He acknowledged his introduction to Harry heartily: his clasp was powerful and a little impatient. The rest had been golf. Dr. Stone played a whale of a game, all in silence.

But at the bar in the clubhouse afterward, they had been alone for a while and Stone said, “Harrison Brown. I’ve heard about you.”

Harry squinted. “From whom?”

“Dr. Peter Alexander Gross. The astonishing Pete Gross. I understand you were one of his wonder kids.”

“Dr. Peter Gross! How is he?”

“As always. Indestructible.”

Dr. Peter Alexander Gross had been his professor of surgery, one of those legendary teachers who inspire worship. Harry had never forgotten their many wonderful nights of talk.

“I love that man,” Harry said simply.

“He thinks a lot of you, Brown.”

“That’s very kind of him.” I wonder, he thought, what Dr. Peter Alexander Gross would think of his wünderkind now... Harry said abruptly, “What’s this all about, Dr. Stone?”

Stone used a bony middle finger to push his glasses up on his bridgeless nose. “Dr. Gross and I have been discussing you...” But just then Kurt Gresham, showered, shaved and pinkly cherubic, came ambling toward them. “Look,” the physician said. “We need a talk, a long talk, and this is neither the time nor the place. I come into New York every Tuesday. May I drop in on you?”

“Of course, Doctor.”

“This Tuesday?”

“Certainly.”

“One o’clock all right? At your office?”

“One o’clock will be fine.”

Then Kurt Gresham was upon them. “Tony and Karen are outside on the patio. Let’s join them, gentlemen.”

“Why wasn’t Mr. Mitchell your fourth, Kurt?” Dr. Stone asked.

“Tony doesn’t play golf, Doctor.”

“Then why is he here?” Dr. Stone seemed puzzled.

“He likes my wife,” chuckled the millionaire, “among other females. And he likes my money, and he and Harry are old friends. Those are three pretty good reasons on a beautiful day, even if he doesn’t like golf. Oh, there they are...”

In the warm yellow sunshine, over a glass-topped table, the four men and Karen Gresham had cocktails.

“See here,” said Dr. Stone suddenly. “Why don’t you all stay up here and make an evening of it as my guests? We’ll have dinner...”

“How sad,” said Gresham. “I can’t, Doctor. I have a business appointment in the city at seven.”

“On a Sunday?” exclaimed Stone.

Karen said, “Always on a Sunday.”

“Well, at least let’s have luncheon,” said Dr. Stone. “The chef extends himself for me. He needs a gallstone operation...”

They were back in the city, at the Gresham apartment, by six o’clock. Kurt Gresham went immediately to change, the others to freshen. They met again in the drawing room at six-thirty, Gresham in business suit and carrying a brief case. “I should be back by nine or ten.” He kissed his wife’s cheek. “Have fun.”

When he was gone, Karen Gresham said, “Now we’ll narrow it down further. You two have fun. I’ll attend to the servants.” She smiled without prejudice, a sweet smile for the doctor, a sweet smile for the lawyer, and left the room.

“Attend to the servants?” said Dr. Harry Brown. “I don’t get it, Tony.”

“Do you have servants, Doctor?” asked Tony Mitchell solemnly.

“No servants, Counselor.”

“So you don’t get it. Servants need attending to.”

“Like how?”

“Like do you know how many servants there are in this palatial dump?”

“I know there’s a cook. And there’s the Filipino houseman.”

“Also m’lady’s personal maid. Also a chambermaid.”

“What attending do they need?”

“Quitting time is seven o’clock.”

“You mean they don’t live in?”

“They don’t live in.”

“But I know some of them have quarters here—”

“They stay over only when there’s a formal dinner or a late party.”

“That’s an odd arrangement.”

“Karen prefers it that way. They make her feel uncomfortable, especially when she’s left alone here with them, as she so often is. You’ve got to remember that Karen wasn’t to the manor born. She’s only been Karen of Gresh for a couple of years. She’s still not used to being married to a fat cat.”

She came back in skintight green slacks and a low-cut green blouse.

She did a pirouette. “Like?” she said.

“Wow,” said Tony Mitchell.

“Thank you, kind sir.” She turned her smile on Harry. “No comment, Doctor?”

“I don’t have Tony’s line.”

“Wouldn’t fit you, kid,” the lawyer grinned. “You’re the deep-think, stern-type character the women go overboard for. They just ride along with me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Karen teased. “There’s something underneath that glossy veneer. What do you think, Harry?”

“I’ve never been able to dig deep enough to find out.”

“Lay off the scalpel,” said Tony.

“But I am inclined to think all that lightness is surface stuff. Underneath—” Harry smiled, “who knows? Whatever it is, our friend the counselor is mighty careful not to let it show.”

“Will you kindly let me off the operating table?” Tony said. “Karen, I’m hungry.”

She kissed each of them lightly on the lips. “Coming up. And while mamma whips up some Canadian bacon and scrambled eggs and gobs of toast, and daddy’s off somewhere making another million, my two beaux can go into the dining room and set the table.”

Later, they had Irish coffee in the drawing room, an inspiration of Tony Mitchell’s.

“Delicious,” said Karen Gresham. “What’s the recipe, Counselor?”

“You start, not surprisingly, with good hot black coffee. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pour the steaming brew into the mug. Sugar to taste, stir well. Add a jigger of Irish whisky, stir likewise. Plop a voluptuous blob of thick whipped cream on top and do not stir at all. Lick and love. So how come you haven’t mentioned Lynne Maxwell to us, Harry?”

Dr. Harrison Brown, sipping through the cool whipped cream, suddenly scalded his throat. He choked and set his cup down and fumbled for his cigarettes.

“How come — what?”

“Baby, I’ve had experts trying to stall me. Hell, it’s more than a month now and we haven’t said a word, waiting for you to open up. There’s a time limit on everything, pal. We’re dying of curiosity.”

“Lynne Maxwell,” said Dr. Harrison Brown, smoking rapidly.

“It’s at least four weeks since that cop came to us. Galivan. Good cop, Galivan. One of the best.”

“Oh, you know him?” Harry said fatuously. Of course they must have been wondering. He had forgotten that Galivan had checked his alibi.

“Sure I know him. We work the same beat, except that we’re on opposite sides of the street.” Mitchell looked at his watch. “It’s ten minutes to nine, buddy. I’m going to keep chattering for another five minutes to ease you up, then, wham! Cross-examination—” The lawyer was scrutinizing Harry with an anxiety that belied his tone. He said quietly, “Of course, Harry, you don’t have to say a damned thing about it if you don’t want to.”

Karen had her knees crossed high, and her huge green eyes were intent over the coffee cup.

“Why haven’t you told us, Harry?” Karen asked.

“Because I didn’t think it was anyone’s business but mine.”

“Surly beggar, isn’t he?” murmured Tony.

“Tony, I didn’t want to drag you and Karen—”

“But you did, Harry, when you told Lieutenant Galivan about being with me and Karen that night. Didn’t you think he was going to check your story out?”

“I know,” said Harry ruefully. “I guess I just wanted to put the whole thing out of my mind. But how did you find out the girl’s name? Did Galivan tell you?”

“Sure he did,” said Tony Mitchell. “Remember, this is my kind of racket. When he asked for a written statement from this lady, this lady was smart enough to insist on consulting her lawyer. Imagine Galivan’s surprise when her lawyer turned out to be the very gent he wanted to question along with her. Said lawyer wouldn’t give his own statement, or authorize a statement from his client, the lady, unless he was informed what it was all about. So the lieutenant, for whom I’ve done a favor or two in my time, told me the story in confidence. Incidentally, Harry, if you’re still worried, you don’t have to be. You cleared all the way — except with us.”

Harry Brown looked from Tony Mitchell to Karen Gresham and back again. Neither was smiling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you were in trouble, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And we’re supposed to be your friends.”

“Yes.”

“And we were involved as your witnesses.”

“Well—”

“Well, what, Harry? I’d have spoken to you immediately, but Karen didn’t think we should pry. She felt you were disturbed about it, that in time you’d come around to talking to us.”

Karen said, “I don’t think, Tony, you should have brought it up.”

“The hell with that,” Mitchell said. “I’m his friend. And a lawyer. Harry, what’s this all about?”

What could he say? What could he tell them but lies?

He felt trapped in his chair, and he stood up awkwardly and began to walk around on stiff legs.

“There’s very little I can add to what Lieutenant Galivan told you, Tony—”

“Did he tell you the cause of death?”

“Overdose of heroin.”

“That’s right. Did you have anything to do with that, Harry?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, was she a patient of yours, or what?”

“Not a patient.”

“Then what?”

Harry did not look at Karen. “A... friend.”

“She must have been a pretty good friend.”

Karen said, “Don’t, Tony.”

“Yes,” said Harry Brown. “She was. Once.”

“All right. How’d she wind up in your apartment?”

Harry Brown filled his lungs and suddenly sat down again. “Once she had a key to my place. It was a long time ago, it was over, I’d forgotten all about it. Then, that night, with an overdose in her, she came to my flat. Who knows why a drug addict does anything? Anyway she must have let herself in, and when I came home I found her there. Dead.”

“What about the key?” the lawyer asked.

“It was in her hand. I took it.”

“Why did you do a damn fool thing like that?”

“Actually I don’t know. I remember feeling sort of numb. We can’t predict, can we, how any of us will react to a totally unfamiliar crisis? I suppose I didn’t want to be involved... intimately involved.”

“But man, her body was there, right there in your apartment! How intimately involved can you get?”

“I did it, it was done.”

“And the police?”

“I simply told them I didn’t know who she was or how she’d got into the apartment. I knew I had nothing to do with it and I knew I could prove that I hadn’t been home...”

The doorbell rang.

Harry sprang to his feet as though released and went to the door with Karen following him, and in the little entrance-foyer she threw her arms around him and clung.

“You’re a liar,” she whispered.

“Karen...” He could feel her body vibrating with passion and anxiety.

“You were lying about Lynne Maxwell. I know.”

“Karen...”

“You’re in terrible trouble, Harry. I know that, too. I love you.”

And then she opened the door for her husband.

Five

Dr. Harrison Brown woke from a night-mare and could not sleep again. He touched the button of the night lamp and saw that it was three o’clock. He snapped off the light, got out of bed, pushed a window up another inch and stood in the darkness looking out. But then he became aware of the sweat-soaked pajamas. He lowered the Venetian blind, tilted it for privacy, put on the light again and went to the bathroom and took a shower.

Ever since that day he had talked with Kurt Gresham in Gresham’s office, he had been clogged with fright — oppressive, a weight interior. But now it was out. It had been a fright of circumstance, of self and conscience, a fright of future, all internal: but now it was even worse, because it had to be examined for cause.

And Karen... she had known he was lying about Lynne Maxwell last night. How could she possibly have known? And what had she meant? — “You’re in terrible trouble, Harry. I know that, too.”

With Gresham home, the evening had turned gay. Friends had been telephoned and invited; there had been music and drinks, dancing and games — flirtations; and, of course, no further talk about Lynne Maxwell.

Harry Brown put on fresh pajamas and made coffee and drank it in the living room, chain-smoking all the while.

He had to admire them. They could turn it off and on at will; he could not. They laughed and joked, and played and danced, and flirted and told outrageous stories; but he knew that Tony Mitchell had concealed offense, and perhaps Karen also.

He had simply not been able to take them into his confidence. What could he have said to Karen — his mistress — about Lynne Maxwell? How could he have explained her presence in his apartment? A jealous woman would instantly jump to the false conclusion that Lynne Maxwell had a key to his apartment. At the worst, she would accuse him of a concurrent affair; at best, an old affair coming back to life. So he had hoped against hope that Galivan, in checking his alibi, would not reveal the cause of his inquiry. He had not confided in Tony because Tony was so close to Karen. And after his conversation with Gresham, he could not speak at all, for any reason. From now on, Dr. Harrison Brown saw with bitter clarity, dissembling and dishonesty would be the guidelines of his existence.

Unless he could get out of what he had got himself into.

The thirty thousand dollar note Kurt Gresham had paid off he could — perhaps again with Tony Mitchell’s cosignature — reinstate at the bank, returning the money to Gresham. The twenty-five thousand dollar check he had accepted from the millionaire... there was nothing really wrong with that, Dr. Harry Brown told himself; many wealthy men with chronic illnesses paid their doctors fat annual retainers...

But then he shook his head. It was no good. He wasn’t getting the twenty-five G’s for checking Gresham over regularly and taking prothrombins and fiddling with Dicumerol dosages and quinidine; he was getting it for being a monkey on a string. No, he’d have to give that back, too. Cut loose entirely.

But would Gresham let him go?

At this point Dr. Harry Brown stopped fantasizing. That old, ill, eccentric, highly intelligent purveyor of narcotics to rich and famous addicts could be expected to show the sympathy of a shark. He had let his latest medical puppet in on the secrets of his organization; he would hardly allow the puppet to jerk free. The incident of the dead girl was proof enough of that.

He’s got me hooked, Dr. Harry Brown brooded. As hooked as any of his clients. And if I try to unhook myself, the best I can hope for is a little visit from Mr. Kurt Gresham’s “security people,” the worst, a one-way ticket to the bottom of the East River. Harry Brown had no answers.

Did Tony Mitchell have answers?

Tony Mitchell. Kurt Gresham’s lawyer. Did Tony Mitchell have any idea of the real business of Gresham and Company, Import and Export? Harry Brown doubted that, on the ground that Tony Mitchell was too smart to involve himself in criminal activities. But... was he? Bright, glib, surface-scintillating — how smart was Tony? True, he was a highly successful criminal lawyer with a good reputation; he had a large income, he lived high. But suppose it had been Gresham and Company that put Tony in orbit? Suppose Kurt Gresham had picked up his New York attorney as he had just picked up his New York doctor? It was possible, possible. After all, Tony was a criminal lawyer; wasn’t that significant? The ordinary legal matters of a legitimate business surely called for an ordinary attorney. But the illegitimate matters...

Dr. Harry Brown slumped wretchedly.

Yes, it had developed into a gay party: Gresham, cordial; Tony, jaunty; Karen, charming. They could turn it off and on: only Dr. Harrison Brown had been the morose outsider. And there had been something else — Tony flirting openly with Karen under the round and colorless eyes of the permissive old husband. Harry Brown had felt the prick of jealousy. Was there something between Karen and Tony? Had there ever been? Certainly they made a plausible pair — handsome Tony, beautiful Karen, both clever, sophisticated, debonair, enchanting. Where in hell did Dr. Harry Brown fit in? — Dr. Brown the plodder, the close-mouthed, the deep-think character... the ambitious stooge?

Dr. Brown got up and went to his medicine cabinet. He swallowed a sleeping pill and crawled into bed.

He slept fitfully, with more nightmares.

In a nightmare, he heard her.

“You’re in terrible trouble, Harry. I know that, too. I love you.”

Six

He called her from his apartment at eleven o’clock; from his office at twelve o’clock; and at two; and at four. Each time he was told that she was not at home, and each time he left a message for her to call back.

It had been, for him, a busy day. Six patients, all routine office calls, no house calls. He had not left his office; he had even sent out for his lunch.

Now at a quarter past four the phone shrilled and he seized it. But it was not Karen Gresham. It was, incredibly, a familiar booming baritone.

“Harry? Peter Gross.”

“Dr. Gross!”

“How are you, Harry?”

“Never mind how I am.” Suddenly he felt ashamed. “How are you?”

“Busy, busy. Working hard?”

“Not too.”

“Doing what?”

“Practicing medicine.”

“G.P.?”

“G.P.”

“That’s a goddam shame. I’ve got nothing against the G.P., only you fiddling around with general practice is like Isaac Stern getting a job playing in a Hungarian cabaret. Are you getting rich, Harry?”

“No, Doctor.”

“So you don’t even have that excuse. Has Alf Stone talked with you yet?”

“He’s dropping in tomorrow.”

“Well, you listen to him, Harry. I believe it’s important for you. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember Lewis Blanchette?”

“Of course.” Dr. Lewis Blanchette, before his retirement, had been one of the most famous surgeons in the United States, a giant of surgical techniques.

“Do you know what’s happened to Lewis?”

“Last I heard, he’d retired.”

“From private practice only. He’s a mere sixty. In his prime. You know what he’s doing now, Harry?”

“No, sir.”

“He’s chief of surgery at Taugus Institute.” There was a pause and then Dr. Peter Gross said, “I want you to listen carefully to Alfred Stone, Harry. As a favor to yourself.” Dr. Gross characteristically hung up without a goodbye.

Dr. Harrison Brown leaned back in his new-smelling leather swivel-chair. The office was dim and cool with shadows, the sunlight diffused and diminished against the drawn blinds. Dr. Peter Gross knew him well and fondly. He remembered their long evenings at Gross’s home on campus, talking about his ambitions, his needs. Gross had urged upon him a career in surgery. “You have the nerves, Harry, the hands...” But to become a surgeon took long years of apprenticeship. He did not have the time; he wanted to get rich quick; it was a need, a sickness. Harry had been honest with the old man and Gross had been wrathfully patient and understanding; they had parted with affection.

The phone rang again.

“Harry?” Karen. At last.

“I’ve been calling you—”

“I know. But I’ve been with Kurt all day. I’m with him now. Sneaked off to call.”

“I want to see you.”

“And I want to see you.”

“Tonight?”

“Impossible.”

“Then when?”

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’s going to Philadelphia for a couple of days. I’ll be free to spend as much time with you as you like.”

“How about as much time as you like?”

“Harry, what’s the matter?”

“I’m in trouble. Don’t you remember telling me?”

“Oh.” Quietly she said, “I didn’t realize you were referring to that. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“What time? Where?”

“Pick me up at home at eight o’clock. Bring the car.”

“All right.”

“I can’t talk any more now, darling.”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Okay.”

She hung up.

He heard the outside buzzer. His receptionist announced a patient through the intercom. It was a woman, a repeater, a hypochondriac who was developing a dependence on him. He took a long time with her, soothing, reassuring, prescribing a placebo. After that, there were no patients, no calls, no anything. His receptionist went off and his part-time evening girl came on, and she did her nails while he read medical journals until seven. At seven-ten, while he was washing up — the girl was already gone — he heard the buzzer. Wiping his hands on the way, he opened the door to Tony Mitchell.

“Hi, buddy-boy,” said Tony. “Figured you’d still be around. Had to see a client up in this neighborhood. Hungry?”

“I could do with a bite.”

“Always the enthusiast. My God, Harry, don’t you ever smile?”

“When there’s something to smile about.”

“Finish your ablutions.” He strolled after Harry, tall and elegant in slim-trousered, thin-striped brown tropical worsted and a brown leghorn with a rakish ribbon. Tanned, smooth-shaven, clean-jawed, clear-eyed, he looked like a model for Esquire.

Dr. Harrison Brown looked his friend over as he got into his jacket. “You’re pretty well satisfied with life, aren’t you, Tony?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve got everything I want—”

Dr. Brown said abruptly, “Let’s start with some cocktails.”

Over martinis at a jammed bar in a posh little bistro off Fifth Avenue, Tony Mitchell said, “How about eating Italian?”

“I don’t care.”

“I know a little place—”

“You know all the little places.”

“Picking on me today, baby? Getting even for yesterday?”

Harry frowned. “Yesterday?”

“Last night. Lynne Maxwell.”

“Cut,” Harry said.

“For the time being. We’ll pick it up later.”

“Where’s your little place?”

“Down your neck of the woods. A jewel of a joint.”

The place was in an old Village brownstone. They walked down four steps and through a long corridor, and into a big quiet room. It was plain, well-lighted, uncrowded, uncluttered, with large tables and booths, and plenty of leg-room. The food was North Italian, not too hot, delicious.

“This is good,” Harry said.

“Praise from Harry Brown! Now that’s something.”

“What’s it called?”

“I never saw a name, but we call it Giobbe’s, because Giobbe — Job — owns it. Giobbe’s the little guy with the bushy blond hair who seated us. It’s a family operation. His mother and father and mother-in-law and father-in-law are all in the kitchen. The waiters are either brothers or cousins or uncles. So you want to talk about Lynne Maxwell?”

“No.”

The waiter brought espresso coffee still brewing in the pot. “Let him drip a little-a bit yet,” he said and went away. Tony said, “Would you rather talk about a thirty-thousand dollar loan that’s been paid in full?”

Another waiter came over and removed the plates and brushed the crumbs from the table. There was still wine in the Chianti bottle, and he left the bottle and wine glasses. Harry poured himself some more wine.

Tony said, with no trace of banter, “What in hell’s wrong with you lately?”

“What symptoms have I displayed, Doctor Mitchell?” Harry polished off the contents of his glass and reached for the bottle again.

“You’ve been living in a world of your own. You think a Lynne Maxwell thing disappears into thin air just because you don’t talk about it? A big loan gets itself paid off and you don’t say one damned word. I was co-maker on that loan, baby, remember? The bank notifies me that it’s suddenly all paid up. I’m curious, so I go over for a little chitchat. Seems it was paid in cash, interest and all, and the note picked up. Didn’t you think I’d learn about it?”

“Well...” Harry drank all the wine in the glass. “There was a man, see, who once owed my father a lot of money and never paid up. This man had been in to see me a few times and, well, I told him about the loan and something of my problems. Seems he’d made a pile — anyway, conscience or something made him pay off the note. I should have explained, Tony, but... hell, I’ve been in turmoil...”

Tony Mitchell’s eyes were long and oval-shaped, so black that the pupils merged with the irises. They were opaque and gave off a sheen that told nothing. “What man, Harry?” he asked softly.

“I’d rather not say.”

Tony tapped the top of the espresso pot. The sound of the dripping had stopped. “Check,” he said, and smiled; and then he said, “And the turmoil? Karen?”

Harry did not reply.

Tony poured the steaming brew into their cups. “Okay. With a guy like you especially, I dig that. The guilt, the whole bit. Interrogation closed. You’re a close-mouthed bastard, but just remember I’m a friend. For in case.”

“Pot calling the kettle black.”

“Come again?” Tony’s chin tilted up.

“I’m close-mouthed and you’re loquacious, a real garrulous guy. But what comes out? Nothing.”

“You’re losing me, baby.”

“There’s Karen.”

“So?”

“And there’s Karen’s husband.”

“So?”

“You know them a lot longer than I do.”

“So? So?”

“You know what you’ve told me about them?”

“What?”

“Nothing, that’s what. A lot of nothing, Tony.”

Tony sipped his espresso, frowning. “You worried about the old man?”

“Should I be?” Harry looked straight at him.

“No.” Tony Mitchell returned the look steadily.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a smart old man. Because he’s a smart old man married to a young wife. So he’s permissive. He lets her run. He lets her enjoy. He’ll never interfere unless it gets wide open, a scandal.”

“How do you know?”

“I know the guy.”

“How well?”

“Well.”

“How long, Tony?”

“Ten years.”

“How long do you know her?”

“About three. I met her when she was managing a night club in Philly.”

“Managing a night club?” Harry gripped the cup.

“She never told you?”

“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.

“Something?” said Dr. Stone.

“Headache,” said Dr. Brown.

“I haven’t let up on you, have I?” Dr. Stone rose, and Dr. Brown rose with him. “May I come again? Some Tuesday when I’m in town?”

“Please do, Doctor.”

“And you’ll give some thought to this?”

“Naturally.”

“I know I threw in a great deal all at once. Talk to Gross. If you wish, I’ll arrange an appointment for you with Blanchette.”

“I’ll think about it, Dr. Stone. And thank you.”

They shook hands, and Harry let him out and locked the door behind him.

He undressed, showered, shaved, put on fresh clothes, locked the office, jumped into his car and drove blindly through the humid streets to Park Avenue. At five minutes after eight he pulled into the curb near the canopy of the Greshams’ apartment building. He was about to turn his keys over to the doorman when he saw her in the lobby. Waiting.

She waved.

He waved.

She came out to him.

Eight

She wore a white linen dress: short sleeveless; white needle-heeled pumps; no stockings; she carried a white linen jacket and a small white purse.

Her long legs and bare arms were the color of warm fresh toast. With her copper hair pulled back in a ponytail, with just a touch of pink on her lips and no other make-up, she looked very young.

The dress was tight, and she tugged at the skirt in getting into his car. He caught a flash of brown thigh and felt his throat thicken and his heart pound and a stirring in his groin. Then she was sitting beside him, close, pulling at the skirt, lips parted.

“Hi.” She had a deep voice, intimate, hardly more than a whisper.

“Hi,” he said. “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Me, too. Where would you like to eat?”

“Not Giobbe’s,” she said.

He looked at her, startled.

She laughed. “Tony phoned me today,” she said.

“Then you know the place.”

“Of course. You know Tony. Always discovering places, and what Tony discovers Tony gives a real workout. Yes, darling, I’ve been to Giobbe’s. I’ve been, and been, and been.”

The car was cruising up Park Avenue. “Where, then?”

“Up and out,” she said. “Up and out and far away, where it’s cool. In the country. I want to eat with you, drink with you, dance with you and sleep with you. I want all night with you tonight. I’m not going back home.”

“Westchester?” he said. “Connecticut?”

“I know what. Jersey. There’s a place — Heavenly Grotto. Hellish name, but a heavenly place. Good music, good décor, good food, good candlelight. Kurt took me there once before we were married. There’s a heavenly motel nearby, too. Kurt and I stayed there in separate cabins. Tonight, one cabin.”

Did she expect him to believe that? “Do you know how to go?” he asked.

“Cross the George Washington Bridge. I’ll direct you from there. God, I’ve been longing for this. It’s so damned hot. The weather’s been beastly.”

“Yes.”

“Cool, where we’re going. Cool and delicious.”

He made a left turn and drove across the park and over to the West Side Highway. Already it was cooler in the breeze coming from the Hudson. They could see the bridge in the distance, thin as a lavaliere displayed in space.

“Miss me?” she said. “Since Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“And before Sunday? Miss being alone with me?”

“Yes.”

“Like my idea?”

“What idea?”

“Heavenly Grotto, and the Golden Cave.”

“Golden Cave?”

“That’s the name of the motel.” She giggled. “Isn’t that the craziest name for a motel?”

“I wish I’d known,” he said.

“Known what?”

“Motel.”

“Look, my laconic lover, you’ll have to stop being cryptic. You wish you’d known what about the motel?”

“That we were going to say overnight.”

“Why?”

“I’d have brought a change of clothing, a bag, something.”

“Oh, now please, Doctor, you’re not preparing, for surgery. This is off the cuff, an impulse, fun! How come you’re so romantic in bed, but with your feet on the ground you’re nowhere? How come?”

“Cut,” he said.

“You won’t be wearing your clothes much, anyway, sweetheart. Mostly they’ll be hanging. We’ll check in first at the Golden Cave, mister and missus, and freshen up; then we’ll go eat and dance and drink and talk; then we’ll go back to the cavelet and hang up our clothes and let ’em hang. Love me, lover?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why my servants don’t sleep in.”

“What?” he said. “What?”

“Servants who sleep in know when the lady of the house sleeps out.”

“Yes,” he said, and he thought: You’ve been married for two years, and you know me for four or five months; with whom were you sleeping out before me, my love? “We’ve got a lot to talk about tonight,” he said.

“You bet,” Karen said cheerfully. She opened her purse and took two cigarettes from a pack and lit both, putting one between his lips.

She moved away from him, snuggled down, stretched her legs, laid her head on the back rest, and half-closed her eyes.

They smoked in silence until they crossed the bridge.

The Golden Cave was gold; all the cabins were gold with white roofs. Harry parked in front of the office and went in and signed the register: Mr. and Mrs. Harrison Brown.

“How long you staying?” asked the clerk. He was a small, neat, sunburned man.

“Overnight.”

“That’ll be thirteen dollars.”

Harry paid.

“Cabin 4, this way, please,” said the man. Outside he said, “Park in front of the cabin. I’ll walk.”

He walked. Harry drove. Karen sat lazily.

In Cabin 4 the sunburned man said, “Anything you want — soft drink, cigarettes, telephone — just ask at the office. Somebody’s there all night. Check-out time is tomorrow morning, eleven o’clock. Here’s your key. Thank you very much. Come again.”

Alone, they freshened up. They did not touch each other. They talked about the beautiful night, the comforts of the spic-and-span cabin.

They drove over to the Heavenly Grotto, which was not a grotto but a two-story stone building with a purple neon sign outside. The candlelit restaurant was a maze of small rooms. The tables were covered with lavender tablecloths; there was a dance floor and a string orchestra and, rimming the room, a balcony with a wrought-iron grille. The place was crowded with well-dressed diners.

The white-jacketed maître d’ immediately said, “There’s more privacy in the booths on the balcony, sir.”

“Balcony,” Harry said. Were they that obvious?

He led them toward the steep wrought-iron stairway. “The captain upstairs will take over. His name is Danny.”

“Thank you,” Harry said.

The stairway was narrow, and Karen preceded him. The maître d’ remained at the foot of the stairs; Harry knew without glancing back that the man was admiring Karen’s legs. And why not? he thought. She has beautiful legs. She’s a beautiful woman. Let him enjoy himself. For him it’s free.

The upstairs captain led them to a booth, lit new candles and left them in the lavender glow. A waiter came with lavender menus. “Drinks first?”

“Gimlet,” Karen said. “Double.”

“Two doubles,” Harry said.

The waiter went away. The music was soft and professional. The place was clean, airy, not noisy. Even before the drink came, Harry felt himself starting to relax. After the drink, he was in complete command.

The waiter came again. “Do you wish to order now?”

“No,” Karen said. She pushed aside the menus. “I’ll have another gimlet.”

“Double again?” said the waiter.

“Double,” Karen said.

Harry nodded.

They drank more slowly this time. Their knees were touching. “All right, Karen, let’s have it,” Harry said.

“What?” Karen said.

“‘You’re in terrible trouble, Harry.’” He mimicked her voice and intonation.

“Oh, that,” she said.

“That,” he said.

“I’ll have to start from way back.”

“Go ahead.”

“Would you rather eat first?”

“There’s plenty of time.”

“Funny. A drink is supposed to stimulate the appetite.”

“Maybe two drinks kills it.”

“How about four?”

“Four?”

“Actually, darling, we’re on our fourth. Doubles.”

“Karen, you’re stalling.”

“You bet I am.”

“Why?”

“Trouble isn’t pleasant. You’re in a lot of it. I’m in trouble, too, but not so much, and anyway, I’m used to it.” She smiled crookedly. “I’ve been stalling for weeks now.”

“Well, you can stop right now. What did you mean, Karen?”

She put down the gimlet and reached for a cigarette. He held a match to it.

“Thanks, darling. Well, it starts with a kid going to college in Los Angeles. Me. Father dead, mother working as a waitress. She was an old woman; it had been a late marriage, I was an only child. Well, I was graduated with a B.A. from U.C.L.A. Now what in hell does a girl do with a Bachelor of Arts degree?”

“Any number of things.”

“All of them piddling.”

“What did you want?”

“Money. Real money, and the sooner the better.”

It was Dr. Harry Brown’s turn to smile crookedly.

“We were always just scraping along. Even as a kid I dreamed of living easy and rich, à la Hollywood pipe dreams. How does a girl with a Bachelor of Arts degree make a pipe dream come true? Get right up there in the big money?”

“She marries it, if she’s pretty enough.”

“Do you think I’m pretty enough?”

“You’re beautiful,” he said bitterly.

“I went where the money was. I’d taken stenography and typing, and I got good secretarial jobs in big outfits, with big people. I kept looking for a rich husband, and I struck out. The loaded ones were either already married or gunshy; they all wanted to sleep with me, but without benefit of clergy. Then my mother died. I chucked the whole secretarial bit and became a dancer.”

“Dancer?”

“A stripper.”

“You?” Harry stared at her. “Wasn’t that a waste?”

“Look, Junior. My high I.Q. and my B.A. degree found no customers. I took inventory and decided I had more negotiable assets — what you lechers call a luscious hunk of stuff. And I was twenty-five by then, and time was awastin’.”

“No love?”

“Pardon?”

“Twenty-five, and you hadn’t fallen in love?”

“I thought so, two or three times. They turned out to be jerks. I can’t stand a jerk. I’ve never been in love.”

“Never?”

“Until you, of course, darling.” She leaned over and smiled and squeezed his hand.

After a moment Harry withdrew his hand to light a cigarette. “So you were twenty-five and you became a stripper.”

“With my equipment it was the easiest way in. There’s a lot of money in knowing how to take your clothes off. It’s an art. In fact, there are schools that teach it.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Dr. Brown. “There’s a lot I don’t know.”

“Well, there are. I had some money saved, and I went to the best school I could find.”

“And you learned how to take your clothes off.”

She laughed. “There’s more to it than that. And if you’re any good, they place you after graduation. I was good and they placed me. I did the whole wheel.”

“Wheel?”

“Los Angeles, San Francisco, Reno, Vegas, New Orleans, Detroit, Chicago, Dallas, Houston, Miami, New York, Philly. The strip circuit. I earned three, four hundred a week, which gave me the kind of clothes I wanted. And I met well-heeled Johns and hooked them for cars, apartments, furs, jewels, bank accounts — while all the time I kept my line out for the one big fish with the ring in his nose. Pardon me if I brag a little, darling. There were few strippers around with my equipment. I’m not talking about merely body — I’m talking about the I.Q. and the degree, too. I was really a rarity in the profession. A gal who could discuss Renaissance painting and the Angry Young Men as well as bump and grind. Oh, I knocked around, and got knocked around — an educated bum, you might say. But I was a lady, and they all knew it.”

She was silent for a while, and Harry beckoned the waiter. “Another round,” he said. “Make these singles. Go on,” he said to Karen.

“I found myself working in a Philadelphia club. A man named Kurt Gresham showed a great interest in me — he was there very often. I didn’t find out he owned the joint till a long time later.” She laughed again. “He was big, the kind of fish I’d dreamed about, a millionaire. He’d obviously gone overboard for the whole woman — the body, the face, the youth; later I found out that he checked out my background, U.C.L.A. the B.A., everything. I played him very cool, darling; he got the stiff arm all the way. And he flipped. Grabbed hook, line and sinker.”

She picked up the fresh gimlet. “My luck had finally turned. But I knew I had to play Kurt carefully, or he’d get away. He got nowhere with me sexually. I hooked him in the head, where he lived.”

Harry sipped his drink very slowly. He did not want to get drunk. Not yet, anyway.

“He was more than twice my age,” Karen murmured, “and three times married — divorced from his first wife; the other two had died. The more he pitched, the more reserved I got. When he was hot, I was cool. The more physical he got, the more intellectual I got. I think it was the brains that finally landed him. He pulled me off the floor and made me assistant manager of the club. I played along; the salary was good; I knew my fish was hooked and having his run. And then he propositioned me.”

“With what?”

She looked at him coolly. “You know damned well with what.”

“I do?”

“Coyness doesn’t become you, you hairy ape. We’re letting our hair down now, my love.”

“We are?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “For our mutual protection.”

Harry finished his drink. He was fighting the happy feeling. “So?” he said.

“Bit by bit, he sounded me out. Oh, I know him now. He’d done all the checking; he knew money was my weakness. I was his pigeon — just as you are, Harry. Of course, I had one advantage you and the other pigeons don’t have. He wanted to use me, as he’s now using you, but he was also in love with me. Finally, he let me in on the whole story, and I was either in or out. Do you know what out means with Kurt, Harry?”

“What?”

“It means you’re dead.” When he did not reply, Karen said, “Where was I?”

“You had the whole story. You were propositioned.”

“He knew — don’t ever underestimate him, Kurt is a genius — he knew with me, just as he knew with you, that I wouldn’t refuse him. I didn’t.”

“You became manager of the club.” He was tearing a cigarette butt to shreds.

“With all the duties appertaining thereto. I state here and now that in the entire illustrious career of Kurt Gresham, I have the unique distinction of having been the only lady-manager of any of his night clubs. My salary was a thousand bucks a week cum bonus. I hadn’t yet gaffed my fish, but I had him banging his snout against the boat. When I got him, it was on my terms.”

“What terms?”

“I’m hungry now, Harry.”

“Oh. A cliff hanger.”

“The next episode will concern you. But you’d better eat first, my love.”

He shrugged and tried to catch the waiter’s eye.

“I want us to eat, and I want us to dance, and I want us to get just a little bit drunk. We’ve got all night.”

Nine

Karen Gresham, back in cabin 4 at the Golden Cave, said to Dr. Harry Brown, “You go ask, my love. I’m parched.”

“Me, I’m also parched, my love.”

“So go ask.”

“Sure,” said Dr. Harry Brown. “What’ve I got to lose?” He was having a little trouble with his final consonants.

He went out of the cabin and weaved to OFFICE. The sunburned man was sitting soberly in an easy chair, reading a newspaper.

“Hi,” said Harry.

“Hi,” said the man.

“Can I buy some booze?” said Harry.

“Booze, Doctor?” He folded the paper and laid it on the arm of the chair, showing yellow dentures.

“Doctor?” said Harry Brown.

“MD plates on the car,” explained the clerk. “You said booze, Doctor?”

“That’s what I said,” said the doctor.

“Booze,” said the clerk, rising, “is located eight miles due north, which is where you’ll find the nearest package store. Which figures to be closed by now.”

“Which is why I’m asking you.”

“Well, I like a snort once in a while, Doctor, so I guess you’d have to figure I have booze, yes.”

“Vodka, maybe?”

“So happens I do have vodka, Doctor.”

“Sell me a bottle.”

“Now you know better’n that, Doctor. That’s illegal.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said the doctor. “As you observed, I am a doctor. Doctor, medicine. I prescribed vodka. For myself. What do you say, friend? How much for a bottle of vodka medicine?”

“Can’t sell without a license, Doctor,” said the clerk, showing pulpy gums. “But I could give you some.”

“Ah.”

“If you buy what goes along with it.”

“Limes?”

“I have better than limes, Doctor. Bottle of Rose’s Lime Juice. Imported from England. I also have ice cubes.”

“Could I buy the bottle of Rose’s Lime Juice and the ice cubes?”

“Sure. That’s legal. But, this time of night, expensive.”

“And would you then donate the bottle of vodka?”

“I have nothing but respect for doctors, Doctor. I’d like you to accept it as a token of my respect.”

“For how much?”

“For thirty bucks.”

“Thirty bucks!”

“They’re top-quality ice cubes, Doctor.”

“Better be,” said the doctor. He produced his wallet, and the sunburned man produced his token of respect.

Her dress was hung away. She was wearing bra and briefs and shoes, and the catch was off the ponytail; her massed hair surrounded her face like a sunset. She took the tray from Harry and said, “You have persuasive ways, don’t you?”

“Thirty bucks,” Harry said. He took off his jacket.

“Even so, he doesn’t know you from Adam. You could be an inspector or something.”

“He saw the New York MD plates.” He ripped off his tie and his shirt. “Do you have a comb?”

She gave him a comb from her handbag. He went to the lavatory and washed with cold water and combed his hair. When he came back, the gimlets were ready. They clinked glasses.

“To us,” Karen smiled. There was excitement in her eyes.

“Us,” he said.

The room was warm. He opened the windows and tilted the blinds, transferred his cigarettes and matches from his jacket to his trousers. Then he sat down with his drink on the shiny plastic-covered armchair. She stretched out on the bed. The squeak made her laugh.

“A squeaky bed in a motel. Am I a pervert, darling? The idea tickles me.” She laughed again, drank thirstily, and then there was no more laughter. “You parked there for the night, O hairy one?”

“I’m waiting for the next episode,” Harry said.

“Where was I?” She made a face.

“You were managing a night club in Philadelphia at a thousand dollars a week, and the big boss was in love with you.”

“Yes, all the way. He wanted to get married.”

“And so you married him and lived happily ever after.”

“Not that fast. We ran into a technical difficulty.”

“What held it up?”

“Money.”

“The root of all evil.”

“Not money per se. Everybody misquotes that proverb. The love of money is the root of all evil. I Timothy-something.”

“So?”

“So Kurt wanted to get married, and I held out. I think at first he was surprised — he thought I’d jump into his arms at the smell of a ring. When he saw I was serious — he’s a really smart old man — he said, ‘All right, let’s talk about a deal.’”

“And you held him up for a bundle.”

“No. I told him the truth. I told him what I wanted out of life — money, ease, status. I told him I didn’t love him, that if I married him it would be because, as his wife, I could have all three. I told him I’d try to be a good wife, but I warned him I liked men. I told him he was old. I told him I’d probably cheat on him. If he’d marry me on those terms, I’d accept.”

“Pardon me,” said Harry, “if I reach for the salt.”

“He lapped it up, darling. You don’t know Kurt. He’s a man who hates to be fooled. He appreciates straight talk. He thought it over, and then he said he understood. He said he wasn’t a jealous man. He said he was old and used-up and had a bum heart; he didn’t expect me to love him. He said he wanted to own me; and in order to own, you have to buy.”

Thinly Harry said, “Was he to get a bill of sale?”

“The marriage certificate.”

“And what were you to get?”

“A hundred thousand dollars in cash.”

“Cheap. Dirt cheap.”

“Don’t get bitchy, lover, you’re not the type. How about stirring up some more sauce?” Karen held out her empty glass. He got up and in silence made new drinks, lit a cigarette for her, put an ash tray beside her on the bed. He lit a cigarette for himself, and went back to his chair. “That was only to be the down payment,” Karen said comfortably. “Petty cash for emergencies. There was more, much more, in the offing. Like millions.”

“Millions?” Harry said, staring at her body.

“Millions.”

“He agreed to turn over millions?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But didn’t you just say...?”

For some reason his tone inflamed her. Her eyes flashed and she cried, “Listen, damn you! Listen, won’t you?”

“Sorry.” Harry smoked his cigarette.

“We continued our business conference. He wanted to buy me, so the terms became the issue. I went back to his being an old man. He could die suddenly and I’d be left with the short end of the stick. He said his will would take care of me. I said a will could be changed. He talked about a widow’s dower rights. I said, ‘And suppose you died broke?’ The more I dickered, the more respect he showed for me. I won’t bore you with all the details. We had a number of talks.”

“And the final deal?”

“Three million dollars in cash was deposited in a bank in escrow. On Kurt’s death the three million becomes mine. The trust is irrevocable except for one condition — if I divorce him. Otherwise, he can’t touch it.”

“Suppose he divorces you?”

“The trust stands. I insisted on that, and he agreed. He wanted to own me in the worst way.”

“He got his wish, didn’t he?” said Harry. “Maybe he’s not as smart as he has everybody thinking. Was Tony Mitchell your lawyer?” he asked suddenly.

Karen stretched in a lazy-cat way, and laughed. “Now don’t be a complete dope, Doctor. Tony Mitchell was his lawyer.”

“And yours?”

“No one remotely connected with Kurt Gresham, I assure you. I was very careful about that. I retained a top attorney and, after the agreement was all drawn up, I secretly double-checked with another top man.”

Harry shook his head. “You’re quite a woman, Karen. So when Kurt dies, you come into three million dollars, do you?”

“Oh, more than that, lover. I’d get the widow’s mighty mite by law, and then, of course, there’d be his will. I don’t know what’s in it, but I could conceivably come into everything.”

“And how much would that be?”

“Oh, fabulous scads,” she said dreamily. “Who knows?” She raised her glass and sipped, and over its brim her green eyes flicked at him like a whip. “But I’d settle for the three million, the way I feel right now.”

A queer little chill ran down Dr. Harrison Brown’s back. “I thought you said you couldn’t get the three million unless he died.”

“That’s right,” said Karen. Then she said softly, “Lover.”

It seemed to Dr. Harrison Brown that the room was baking over an invisible fire.

“What do you mean?” he asked in a croak.

She murmured, “What you’re thinking I mean.”

“You mean... you wish he were dead?”

“I wish he were dead. Yes, Harry. How’s his heart?”

“Pumping,” he said. “Karen.”

“Yes, darling?”

“If you were free... would you marry me?”

“Yes. Yes.”

He was silent. She was silent. They drank. They smoked.

Karen got off the bed and went into the bathroom and he heard her washing. She came back with a wet towel and, wiping his face tenderly, kissed his damp forehead. Then she took his glass and freshened their drinks and went back to the bed. It squeaked. “Now we come to you,” she said.

“Me,” he said. “Yes. What about me?”

“You’re in,” she said. “And you don’t belong. I feel sorry for you.”

“In what?” he said.

“Already you’re afraid to talk, even to me.”

“In what?” he said.

“One word will do the job.”

“Say the word.”

“Heroin.”

“I’m in,” he said. “Is Tony?”

“I don’t know.”

He grinned. “Oh, come on.”

“I tell you I don’t. If Kurt propositioned him, Tony’s in. Otherwise, he’s only Kurt’s lawyer on legitimate stuff.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that once Kurt makes up his mind to proposition you, you’re either in, or you’re dead.” She drank and wiped her face with the towel and hung it around her neck.

“How did you know about me?” Harry grunted.

“I asked Kurt.”

“How come?”

“Lynne Maxwell.”

The name was like a cold shower. But on a cold day. “Yes?” Harry said. His skin was actually pimpling.

“When Tony got Lieutenant Galivan to spill the story, I mean when Galivan was checking your alibi, I immediately recognized the fine Italian-or-whatever-the-hell-it-is hand of my dear husband. You see, I knew Lynne Maxwell.”

“You knew her?” he cried.

“I’m still part of the screening apparatus, darling,” Karen smiled. “Especially valuable now that I move in exalted circles as Mrs. Kurt Gresham of Park Avenue. I did the prospective-client screening on Lynne Maxwell. Undercover Gal, that’s me. When Lynne was found dead in your apartment, I knew Kurt had selected his New York medical replacement for old Doc Welliver. That’s the way my husband works. I asked him, and he told me.”

“And you mean to say that if I’d turned him down—”

“Harry dear, you are sweet. He’d opened up to you, hadn’t he? Could he afford to let you say no and walk out on him? How do you think Kurt’s been able to keep his operation secret for so many years? But I gather that in your case he wasn’t taking much of a chance.”

“I still find it hard to believe,” Harry said. “So damned melodramatic. Or are you pulling my leg?”

“I wish I were.” She sat up on the bed and unhooked her brassiere and flung it away. She walked over to him and stooped over his chair and kissed him. His lips were cold and she slipped onto his lap and drew his head down to her. “He didn’t tell you about his liquidation department, did he? Or maybe he did and you didn’t’ believe him. It’s permanently staffed with experts, and I mean experts. If Kurt decides you’re dangerous, you have the damnedest accident. You slip in the tub and break your neck, or you get a dizzy spell and fall off a subway platform just as the express is coming in, or you’re found in Central Park dead from a mugging, with your cash missing, or you step in front of a truck, or you take an overdose of sleeping pills with the clear evidence that you’re deeply in debt, or... oh, I can’t think of all the ways you can die without the nasty word ‘murder’ coming into it. I can’t, but Kurt’s liquidation department can.” She put her palms on his face and pulled it back from her moist fragrant body and said, “Now I want you to kiss me.”

“I want to talk.”

“We’ve got all night to talk,” she murmured. “We’re finally touching, Harry, finally making contact. It’s... exciting. It’s so exciting. Harry, kiss me. Take me.”

He kissed her. He took her.

Ten

Later, side by side in the darkness, they talked.

“He’d have killed me, would he?” Harry muttered.

“You’re sweet. Violent yourself, capable of violence, but sweet, darling. Harry, get this through your head. Move wrong, talk wrong, smell wrong, and Kurt’s specialists dispose of you. What’s more, you can’t get out. You’re in for the rest of your life.”

“What about Dr. Welliver? He’s getting out, isn’t he?”

“No. He just thinks he is. He’s still under all the old restraints. If he doesn’t know that, he won’t live long enough to realize it. Incidentally, I don’t think he’s half as feeble as he makes out. I think old Doc Welliver has put on an act for some time, maneuvering for retirement.”

“Sick of the whole thing after all these years?”

“You are an innocent, aren’t you? No, because I think he thinks a crack has developed in the operation and he wants to get out from under before the whole thing comes crashing down. And you know what, Harry dearest? I think doc’s got something. And you know another thing, my hairy baby? I think so does Kurt.”

“What do you mean?”

Karen was silent. Then he felt her shoulder, snugged against his, twitch in a shrug. “I’ve gone this far, I may as well go the whole route. Harry, do you have any idea where Kurt goes every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday evening?”

“How the hell should I know? He hasn’t told me much inside stuff. I don’t even know how much of it is true. I’ve caught him in one lie already.”

“What’s that?”

“He told me you’re his wife, period. That you know nothing about the dope operation.”

She laughed. “Four nights a week he goes to the Starhurst.”

“Starhurst? What’s that?”

“A rundown but respectable old hotel at 83rd Street and Columbus. Kurt’s maintained a suite there for many years. On the first floor — he walks up — Suite 101.”

“Suite for what?”

“Business. He never spends more time there than is absolutely necessary. Kurt’s one of those on-the-minute men. He demands absolute punctuality from his visitors.”

“What visitors?”

“Don’t get ahead of me. He gets to his suite at the Starhurst precisely at five minutes to seven, and precisely at seven his visitor arrives.”

“What visitor?”

“The manager of one of Kurt’s clubs — from New York, or Chicago, or Philly, or Washington or Miami. They rotate, never more than one manager an evening. Kurt comes with a brief case, the manager comes with a brief case. Kurt walks up, the manager walks up five minutes later. The stairway is to the right of the hotel entrance, through a short corridor. The desk and elevators are at the rear of the lobby, so the chances are nobody sees either of them go in and up. But even if somebody did — two well-dressed men, carrying respectable brief cases, five minutes apart—”

“What’s the point, Karen?”

She twisted in the dark; she was perspiring again, and her naked shoulder slid against his as if it were greased. “Give me a cigarette, please, darling.”

Harry groped on the night table. He gave her a cigarette, lit a match. She was frowning. She took only a few puffs and handed the cigarette back to him. He extinguished it in the ash tray on the table.

“In Kurt’s brief case is a fresh supply of junk for the manager, put up in retail packets,” Karen said in a mechanical undertone. “In the manager’s brief case is the dope take from his club since his last visit, all cash. The contents of the brief cases are exchanged, facts and figures are gone over, and the manager leaves. Five minutes later Kurt locks up and leaves, too. And that’s it.”

Harry stirred restlessly in the humid darkness. She laid a gentle hand on him, as if to soothe and reassure him.

“Six months ago, for the first time in the history of the operation, one of the Washington managers — a quiet middle-aged little man named Carona, who looks like a filing clerk — failed to show up at the Starhurst for his appointment.”

“Skipped with the take?”

“Nobody Kurt clears for a managerial job ever skips, Harry. No, Carona failed to show because, when his plane touched down in New York, he was arrested by two city detectives.”

“With a brief case full of money?”

“No. The manager never carries the money on him. I don’t know just what the system is — I think it comes on ahead some way and the manager picks it up after he gets off the plane. It wasn’t the money. What bothered Kurt was the fact that Carona was picked up on a twenty-year-old charge.”

“What kind of charge?”

“Felony murder. A policeman was killed during a liquor store heist twenty years ago. Two men were in the holdup. The cop killed one of them; the other killed the cop and got away. The one who got away was Carona.”

“And Kurt took him into the organization with that hanging over his head?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Carona was never linked to the killing — or the heist, for that matter. He was never identified — wasn’t even hauled in for questioning. They simply didn’t know who the killer was. There were no witnesses; the cop and the confederate died instantly. He made a clean getaway.”

“Then how come the New York police pick him up for the crime twenty years later?”

“That’s the bugging question. Carona claims he’s never told anyone about it except Kurt. He told that to his lawyer. All the lawyer’s been able to find out is that the police were suddenly tipped. The only theory that makes sense is that Carona’s wife tipped them. He says he never told her, but he could be lying. Carona’s been playing around with a blonde recently and his wife found out. Anyway, what’s been sticking in Kurt’s craw is that the district attorney was able to ram an indictment through the grand jury. And Carona’s been refused bail. It doesn’t wash. There’s something behind this — and it could create the crack I mentioned.”

“Who’s Carona’s lawyer?” asked Harry. “Tony?”

“My God, no. One of Kurt’s undercover puppets. A real talent. Bobby Trenton.”

He stiffened. “You don’t mean Robert Cope Trenton, the ex-judge?”

“That’s the baby, baby.”

“I don’t believe it,” Harry exclaimed. “Why, Judge Trenton writes books on constitutional law. He has an international reputation.”

“I told you Kurt picks only the best. Don’t ask me how he got Trenton on his payroll — probably framed him for something. Anyway, Bobby says there’s no real case against Carona; he guarantees an acquittal. So — why did they pick Carona up? Why did they phony through an indictment?”

“The crack in the monolith, eh?”

“That’s what Kurt thinks. Somewhere something leaked — maybe in Europe, maybe in the Middle East or in Asia — and Carona’s picked up. Bobby Trenton’s told him it’s a phony, that he has nothing to worry about, that the only reason for the whole thing is to squeeze some information out of him about the operation. It’s been made clear to him that all he has to do is keep his mouth shut, that he’ll be cleared, and there will be a hefty bonus for him when he is. But he’s a dead man. And that’s what Doc Welliver was really worried about — that Carona knows he’s a dead man and might talk.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Kurt’s had his best men out in the field, inspecting, feeling for the crack. He’s going abroad himself in September to mend whatever needs mending. But it’s obvious that Carona is now a real liability. While Judge Trenton holds his hand, Kurt’s arranging for his liquidation. A jail killing takes time — I mean, a killing that looks like an accident, that can’t be traced back to the organization. It’s being arranged, but it takes time.”

“Christ,” said Harry without impiety, sweating in the darkness.

“That’s why I’m telling you, darling. You got in at just the wrong time. If trouble came, I doubt if you could stand up to it. I know you, Harry. You aren’t geared for this kind of thing. If Carona talks before he can be eliminated, the whole operation goes sky-high and they’d have you singing like a canary in no time. Kurt made a bad mistake in picking you. He doesn’t know it yet. We’ve got to pray he never does.”

“Maybe I’m not as weak a sister as you seem to think—”

“Darling,” she said softly, “don’t be angry. You’ve got all the strength a woman could ask for. But not the kind an involvement in a racket calls for. You’re too basically decent and honest. Darling, tell me. How come you allowed yourself to get sucked in?”

“I suffer from the same disease you do,” said Harry in a dull bitterness.

“Money?”

“I’m sick with it.”

She flung her arms around him. “Why the hell did I have to meet you? I was going great. All I could think of was the money — the money I’ve got, the money I’m going to get. Now all I can think of is you, damn you. I love you. I met you too late—”

“Let’s not kid ourselves, Karen. You wouldn’t have let me get to first base as a penniless doctor over his head in debt. And if you were a stripper living on her paychecks, I’d have passed you over. And both of us for the same reason. We’re sick. We’re infected.”

“Let’s not talk any more,” Karen whispered.

They clung in the darkness. It was hot. But not that hot. This was tension sweat. The sweat of fear.

He said savagely, “What happens when he’s dead?”

“Carona? The crack is found and mended, and business goes on as usual.”

“I’m not talking about Carona.”

She pressed against him, hands slipping on the wetness of this body, fingernails biting into his skin. “I wish he were. Dead. Dead. For your release as well as for mine. I’d marry you in a minute. We could be money-sick together, and we’d have three million dollars to cure us. Maybe a whole lot more. Harry, we’d be free, quit and clear and cured... He’s old, used-up, nearing the end, and we’re young and at the beginning. Harry,” she whispered. Her hands slid fiercely along his body. “Harry, we’d have it all — and each other — and no more hiding in lousy motels...”

But then she took her hands away and sighed and turned from him.

She turned from him and he turned from her and they lay on their sides, backs damply touching; they did not talk again until morning, when the motel room was bright with sun. But in the night before sleep — hot, wet, touching, mouth dry, blood thumping — Harry Brown became committed.

Eleven

For days he fought the thought back. As he pushed it down in one area of his brain, it rose in another. It invaded and occupied his work, such as it was. It intruded on his sleep, interfered with his meals, his drinking, even his sex life; he was now frequently impotent when he was with her, and irritable, and the fact that she soothed him, and understood, only seemed to make it worse. He lost weight, there was a tightness about his mouth, his eyes acquired a glitter that appalled him. I’m beginning to look like a psychotic, he told himself. And it is psychotic. Who thinks of murder but a lunatic? How in God’s name did I get into this mess? Caught, lashed, hog-tied in a criminal conspiracy. He, Harry Brown. Harrison Brown, M.D. And thinking thoughts of murder to get out of it!

It’s ridiculous, he thought. It isn’t happening. I’ve got to shake this off. Get out from under. Somehow.

The phone call settled it.

It came on a broiling Monday at one o’clock in the afternoon. Kurt Gresham’s voice curtseyed over the wire: “Harry? How are you, boy?”

“All right,” Harry said.

“Harry, can you come over to the office today?”

“What time, Kurt?” That voice made him sick.

“Two-thirty fit into your schedule?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you so much, Harry.” The snick of Gresham’s connection being broken sounded like something out of an execution.

At two-thirty Dr. Brown was ushered into the presence. The presence was garbed in cool blue, with a startling white tie. The pink globular face was crinkled with pleasure.

“Ah, Harry, right on the dot. That’s good. How are you, boy?”

“All right. What’s more to the point, how are you?”

“I know, you’re going to scold me for not keeping my last two appointments.”

“That’s not very smart, Kurt.”

“I know, I know,” Gresham signed. “Press of business. Small emergencies. But they add up, Harry. I can’t even plan on leaving the city this summer except for weekends. But in September” — he smiled cheerily — “we’ll be going off on a nice long vacation.”

“Oh?” said Harry. Karen hadn’t said anything about going with him. He settled back in his chair. The office was deliciously cool. The view from the fifty-fifth floor was entrancing.

“Harry.”

“Yes? Oh, I beg your pardon.”

“You like beautiful things, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“There’s so much beauty in the world. Unfortunately, a great deal of it is so expensive, eh, my boy?”

“Yes.” What was Gresham driving at?

The millionaire raised the lid of the humidor on his desk.

“Cigar?”

“No, thanks.”

The little round, red-lipped mouth thrust the cigar straight out as the little pudgy pink hand held a lighter to it. Gresham puffed slowly, smiling. Then he took the cigar out between thumb and forefinger.

“Do you have a passport, Harry?”

“No.”

“We’ll arrange that for you.”

Harry blinked. “A passport? What for?”

Holding the cigar between thumb and forefinger, palm exposed, fingers curled daintily, Gresham puffed again. Then he said, “For our vacation, of course.”

Harry almost laughed. “You mean it’s me you’re expecting to go with you?”

The pinkish globe crinkled benignly. “On September first I’m leaving on a trip to Europe and the Far East. I’ll be gone six weeks, possibly two months. With a bad heart, I naturally want my doctor to accompany me. As my doctor you’ll be paid a generous fee; as my guest, all expenses paid. Sound attractive, Harry?”

“And all I have to do is take care of you?”

Gresham chuckled. “There may be another chore or two. We’ll cross that bridge when we build it.”

What now? Harry thought. Am I promoted to be one of his executioners? He’s been working me in slowly from the very first meeting, spinning the web, tightening, closing it. He’s sure of me now; I’m one of his boys.

A perverse impulse made Harry say, “I’m afraid it’s not possible, Kurt.”

“Let’s not play games, Harry.” The pink deepened, the tone soured.

“I’m a doctor, Kurt. I can’t walk out on my patients.”

The cigar was dropped into an ash tray. “You’re a difficult young man, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said innocently, wondering as he said it what he thought he was doing. Why was he baiting Gresham? He knew he could not win. I’m like a kid playing with matches, he thought — I know it’s dangerous, but it excites me.

“Harry, you can be very valuable to me, and I to you. I have big plans for you.” So Big Man was still giving it the soft sell. “So let’s not waste time fencing. Think of me as a father...”

Who, Harry thought, is kidding whom? “What about my patients, Dad?”

That did it. He saw Gresham’s ears take fire while the rest of the fat face became the color of ash and the unpigmented eyes hardened into slag. “I’m giving you plenty of notice, Harry. Doctors can always turn over their patients to other doctors. Make your arrangements.”

“And if I don’t?” I’m trying to commit suicide, Harry thought, that’s it. He had an almost overwhelming desire to get up and go around Gresham’s desk and tip the big chair over and put his foot on the big round face, and grind.

“Harry.” The prissy voice was now guttural, the grayed jowls shaking, the little womanly red mouth puckering. “You cut out this kid stuff, understand? You’d better take the blinders off. You listen to me.”

So Karen was right. “You talk as if I have no choice.”

“You don’t!”

Harry took time out to locate his cigarettes and make a ritual out of lighting one. Then he said quietly, “All right, Kurt, spell it out for me.”

“I’ll do just that, Harry. You’ve been drafted, and your hitch is for life. My life, Harry. No, you have no choice. Go AWOL and you’re a sudden casualty of the war. Indulge in loose talk, and you’ll find yourself up against the wall smoking your last cigarette. But be a good little soldier and do what you’re told, and you’ll get all sorts of citations.”

“Can you translate that from poetry into prose?”

“All right. I want you, I’ve got you, I’ll pay for you. But all the time you’re getting rich you’d better remember one thing: You can’t get out. How is my spelling, Harry?”

Harry was silent. Then he said, “I suppose there’s nothing left for me to do but ask: How rich?”

The ears faded to their normal shell pink, the ashes took on a glow, the slag melted and became Gresham’s eyes again. “Now that’s what I’ve been waiting to hear, Harry! You had me worried for a while. I find myself liking you more and more, I suppose because you stand up on your hind legs and talk back to the old boy... Why, I should think this first year should gross you more than fifty thousand.” He lit another cigar.

“How do you figure that?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you. Just for going abroad with me, Harry, you’re going to earn an extra fee of twenty-five thousand dollars. And that’s only the start. Next year you should make at least a hundred thousand. Your take will keep rising, unless I’m all wrong about you, and I don’t think I am. I have a feeling you’ve got the makings of one of my little upstairs group — my board of directors. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if you became a director in record-quick time. Sound good to you, boy?”

“Very good indeed, Pappy.”

“Then I have another goodie for you to think about,” Kurt Gresham beamed. “The moment you’re voted onto my board of directors, you’re included in my will.”

“Your will?” exclaimed Harry. The surprise in his voice was genuine.

“Ah, that throws you, does it? In our kind of operation I can’t work out a pension plan—” out of the fresh cigar smoke came a fat chuckle — “so I provide a form of social security for my faithful inner circle. My nine board members — you’d make the tenth — are down for half a million dollars apiece when I die. Do you know how much I’m worth, Harry?”

“I have no idea.”

“To tell you the truth, neither do I. Probably a hundred million. A lot depends on the state of the market. Most of it is in blue-chip investments. So it means very little to me to leave my best people half a million apiece. Actually, they’re all better off having me alive — salaries and bonuses are high, Harry, high. It will pay you to make every effort to keep this pumper of mine operating — your earnings over my lifetime will far exceed the half million you could expect on my death. However, it’s comforting to know it will be there when the fountain goes dry — eh, Harry?”

“I... Kurt, I don’t know what to say.”

Gresham kept beaming at him.

You liar, Harry thought. You conscienceless, megalomaniacal liar! You’re building me up to a dirty job, probably murder — dangling carrots in front of my nose while you lead me to the slaughterhouse.

“Then we understand each other, Harry?” Gresham simpered.

“Yes, Kurt.”

“And you’re my doctor?”

“I’m your doctor.”

“All the way?”

“All the way.”

“You’re going on a vacation with me?”

“I am.”

“You’ll be paid in full before we go. Need any money now?”

“No.”

“That’s it, then, boy. I have certain problems, but we’ll discuss those during our trip. Today I enjoyed. You’re a rough one, kid, you forced my hand. You’ll be an asset to Gresham and Company.” The fat man heaved himself out of his chair and came around the desk. Harry rose. “Thank you so much for coming,” Gresham said.

He put an arm around Harry’s shoulder and walked him toward the door.

“Love from Karen,” he said in the same warm affectionate tone.

“Oh?” Harry could not suppress a start. If Kurt Gresham felt it, he gave no sign.

“You’ve been seeing a lot of Karen lately.”

“She’s a charming woman,” Harry said stupidly.

“Look out for Tony.”

Harry stammered, “I... beg pardon?”

“Tony Mitchell.”

“Oh,” said Harry.

“Jealousy is an indecent emotion, Harry. It has no respect for the proprieties. Discretion, my boy, discretion and a decent respect for the opinions of mankind. Especially husbands. Eh?”

Gresham laughed.

Harry laughed.

The short fat arm around him tightened in a hug that for an instant alarmed Harry.

But then Kurt Gresham let him go.

Twelve

One Tuesday afternoon, at five o’clock, Dr. Alfred McGee Stone dropped into the office of Dr. Harrison Brown.

“My wife’s in town, shopping,” said Dr. Stone. “I was wondering if you could join us for dinner.”

“Sure thing, Doctor,” said Dr. Brown.

“Eight o’clock all right?”

“Fine.”

“By the way, if you have any suggestions... My wife is always looking for new places to eat. If there’s some special restaurant you know—”

“How about Giobbe’s? It’s a wonderful Italian place in Greenwich Village...”

Mrs. Stone turned out to be a plump little hen of a woman with bright, quick eyes. She clucked over every dish at Giobbe’s.

“You know, Doctor,” she said to Harry, “I’m here only as Alfred’s excuse. Ordinarily a woman would resent being used that way, but this food is so divine—”

“Bernice.” Dr. Stone tapped his lips with his napkin, rather embarrassed. Then he laughed, “well, it’s true, Doctor. Have you been giving any thought to my proposal?”

“Yes,” Harry said politely.

“No decision yet, I take it.”

“No.”

“Well, there’s plenty of time. When you do come to a decision, though, I hope you’ll call me at once.”

“Naturally, Doctor.”

Dr. Stone began talking about the Taugus Institute. “I will admit,” he said after a while, “that the one possible drawback from your standpoint is the matter of income. I take it you’re an ambitious young fellow. I don’t mean to sound like somebody out of a soap opera, Doctor, but a lot of money and happiness don’t necessarily go together.”

“Happiness?” Harry said, holding on to his glass of Chianti. “Do you know a happy man, Dr. Stone?”

“A great many of them. Don’t you?”

“He’s too young to be happy,” said Bernice Stone.

“Peter Gross is happy,” said Dr. Alfred Stone. “Lewis Blanchette is happy. I’m happy. I love my wife and children and grandchildren. I like my work. I’m not rich, but I have enough to give my family a decent life, with some left over for books and recordings and golf and taking my wife out to overeat occasionally. What more could a man want?”

Harry was silent.

“Aren’t you happy, Dr. Brown?” asked the plump little woman.

“I suppose not, Mrs. Stone.”

“You join us at the Institute,” Dr. Stone said. “You’re not happy because you’re not satisfying your innermost needs. Are you?”

“I suppose not, Dr. Stone.” He felt like a fool.

“May I call you Harry?” the director of the Taugus Institute asked with a smile.

“Of course,” said Harry.

He was committed. He no longer fought it; it was no longer unreal. He was committed to pit himself against a wily old adversary who had all the weapons on his side.

I have only one advantage, Dr. Harrison Brown thought: the adversary doesn’t know he’s in a fight. To the death. I have no choice — he told me that himself. So I’m locked in the arena, and I’ve got to kill or be killed — be killed slowly. At least he’ll die all at once... The concept of himself in the role of murderer no longer struck him as psychotic. He could look at himself in the mirror again. He could think his plans out without squirming... well, much.

He was sleeping better, working better, loving better.

He did not talk of his plans to Karen. She knew. She had told him about the Starhurst routine in detail. If she did not realize consciously why she had done that, she knew all the same.

He was committed to murdering Kurt Gresham. As the man’s doctor it could be a simple matter. But as the man’s doctor it could also be a dangerous matter. And as the man’s wife’s lover... He stood to gain the widow, the millions, the dream he had dreamed all his life. Gresham’s death must not lead, even in theory, to Dr. Harrison Brown’s door.

So it had to be murder — crass, vulgar, apparently without finesse. Murder as far removed from Dr. Brown as a Chicago alley mugging. Murder not as a crime of passion by an amateur, but as a deliberate underworld assassination. A doctor would obviously use a doctor’s weapon — poison, or an injection, or some pharmacological means deriving from the victim’s coronary. Therefore — sudden death by a gangster’s weapon.

This, then, was the first problem.

The weapon called for was clearly a gun. But he had no gun. To procure one legally was to invite investigation. The question was therefore how to procure one illegally, without a license. It should be an untraceable gun, if possible, its serial number destroyed beyond resurrection — a professional killer’s weapon. Because, clearly, it had to be found near the body to establish the professional nature of the killer.

Where did a physician practicing medicine out of a Central Park West office get hold of such a gun?

Thirteen

On a sticky Friday evening, Tony Mitchell phoned. “How about the weekend, Harry, just you and me? I’ll take the boat and we’ll sail up to Montauk. The Greshams are away for the weekend.”

“I know,” said Harry Brown. “They flew up to some hundred-dollar-a-day joint in Maine.”

“You know everything, don’t you, Doctor?”

“You bet,” said Dr. Brown.

“Pick you up early tomorrow?”

“How early?”

“Six o’clock.”

“Brother, that’s early. Okay, Tony, I’ll be ready.”

Tony Mitchell’s boat was a cabin cruiser, deep-sea, roomy, racy. They fished and swam off Montauk and ate and drank on board, and then in the evening they moored at the hotel pier and checked in to a two-room suite. They showered and napped and changed into dinner clothes and had dinner in the outdoor restaurant and flirted with two tanned girls in billowing dresses. In a night club afterward, they danced and tippled and Tony told jokes and the tanned girls laughed, and they danced and tippled some more, and then Tony and his girl disappeared, and Harry went back to the hotel with his girl, kissed her good night and went up to the suite and undressed and showered again and went to sleep. In the morning he awoke once and peered in to Tony’s room. When he saw that Tony’s bed was undisturbed, Harry went to the bathroom and rinsed his mouth and then got back into bed.

In the afternoon Tony said, “The hell with the boat. Let’s live it up here at the hotel. Swim in the pool, leer at the girls in the bikinis. In July it’s just too damned hot for fishing. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“You know, I miss the Greshams. That old bastard fascinates me. And Karen is lovely.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, we’re back on the one-syllable kick. Hangover?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s eat by the pool.”

By the pool Tony said, “How come you get nut-brown right away? Me, first I get red.”

“I’m swarthy. Say, Tony, how do people kill people?”

“What?”

“How do people kill people?”

“You’re not hung over, Harry, you’re still drunk. Whittle those vittles. You’ll feel better.”

Tony took inventory while they ate at the umbrella table. “Now that’s more like it! Look at that over there — the tall one in the white bathing suit, near the diving board. I think I’ll make it.”

“How do people kill people?” Harry said.

Tony stared at him. “Say, what’s with you today?”

“I was thinking about it last night,” Harry said, smiting. “In the restaurant, in the night club. Looking around at all those people. Wondering how many of them wanted to kill somebody — a wife, a husband, anybody. Did you ever feel like killing somebody, Tony?”

“Sure. You. Right now!”

“No, I mean suppose you did.”

“Did what?”

“Want to kill me. How would you go about it?”

“These are the thoughts you were thinking last night, Dr. Brown?”

“Well, I was a little loaded by the time I got back to the room,” Harry laughed.

“Brother, you must have been! What time did you get back?”

“Early.”

“Aha,” said Tony Mitchell. “Whose room, ours or the little blonde’s?”

“Ours.”

“How was she?”

“I don’t know. I dumped her and hit the hay. Now, come on, Tony, satisfy my curiosity. How would you do it?”

“How would I do what?”

“Kill me. Would you use a gun?”

“Oh, cut it out,” the lawyer groaned. “You’re still carrying a load — up to the gunwales. Better take something for it. My God, that little blonde chick was yours for the asking. Are you sick or something, Harry?”

“Now you sit here like a nice little doctor and wait for your medicine, while I ankle on over to the diving board.” Tony rose and winked. “I shall return with the girl in white. Watch how it’s done, old boy.”

“Where would you get the gun?”

“What gun?”

“The gun to shoot me. I suppose you’d want one that couldn’t be traced. Where would a respectable lawyer get hold of an untraceable gun?”

“Why would I want to shoot you?”

“Any reason. You hate me.”

“Not me, baby. I wouldn’t kill you.”

“Under any circumstances?”

Tony’s dark eyes turned cold. “Under any circumstances, baby. Nothing is worth the risk. Not if you’re sane. Look, Harry, take your alcoholic speculations somewhere else. Maybe this amuses you. It doesn’t me.”

Harry laughed. “The great criminal lawyer refuses to give away a trade secret.”

“What trade secret?”

“Where you’d get a gun.”

“I wouldn’t,” Tony said shortly. Then he laughed, too. “Son, I’m getting you back in shape right now. Waiter?”

A waiter came up. “Yes, sir?”

“Bring my friend here a Bloody Mary. A double. He’s in a bad way.”

“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, and he went away grinning.

Fourteen

He missed Karen. When he phoned on Monday he was told the Greshams were not due back in the city until Wednesday. When he phoned on Wednesday she talked to him almost curtly: she would not be able to see him until Saturday.

On Saturday she called him; and in the hot and dripping evening she came to him at his apartment. She was pale in spite of her long weekend; she was dressed in unrelieved black. She did not kiss him when he opened the door for her.

“Have fun in Maine?” Harry asked.

“We just lounged around and rested. How are you?”

“All right.”

Her great green eyes were in shadow, puckered with tension. “I want a drink, darling.”

“Vodka?”

“Gin and tonic. Lots of gin.”

He went to the kitchen and came back with the drinks in two tall glasses. She was smoking. She rose instantly and came over and took one glass from him. She turned as though to go back to her chair. Then she turned back and said, very quietly, “I’m glad you made up your mind.”

“About what?”

“I saw Tony. He told me about your weekend at Montauk.”

“What about it?”

She licked at the glass, set it down, squeezed her cigarette out in an ash tray.

“You know how Tony runs on. He was telling me about the crazy things people say when they’re drunk. Harry Brown gets stoned and right away starts trying to pump his pal the criminal lawyer about how people kill people — where somebody who wanted to commit a murder would get hold of a gun that couldn’t be traced. Tony said he was glad he was the one you asked — anybody else, he said, might have taken you seriously. Wasn’t that sort of a stupid thing to do, darling — asking so transparently?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said. “It was just babbling.”

She picked up her glass and drank and looked at him over the rim. “Yes, darling,” she murmured.

He drank, too. “Incidentally,” he said, “how come you found the time to see Tony but not me?”

“Because I love you, and Tony is — well, Tony.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Kurt’s been in and out, office and home, unpredictably. I’ve had to keep available. That Carona mess is an emergency, and Kurt is spending most of his time on it. The trip to Maine wasn’t to relax. It was so he could see some people, ostensibly vacationers, about the Carona matter, about a possible inside investigation of Gresham and Company, and about Kurt’s trip to Europe in September. You know you’re going with him?”

“I know,” Harry said. “But you had time to see Tony.”

“Jealous?” she smiled.

“I’ve been aching, Karen. In all the right places.” Harry came to her, leaned over.

“Please, darling, not now.” She lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, let the smoke out in a gush. From behind the smoke she said, “Tony is one of Kurt’s lawyers. He comes with Kurt to the apartment. Kurt gets called away. So Tony and I have a chance to talk for a few minutes. Don’t be silly... You know, Harry, I’m glad. And yet I feel ashamed.”

“What?” Harry said.

“It shouldn’t be you. I’m the one who ought to do it. But I just don’t have that kind of courage.”

He said shortly, “Let’s not talk about it.”

“We’ve got to. If I weren’t such a damn coward...” She finished the gin and tonic. “It isn’t as if I couldn’t arrange to have it done. I’ve met all kinds in my dainty career. But when you buy a thing like that you’re wide open to blackmail. From the frying pan to the fire. Who needs it? Harry...”

“What?”

“You’re his doctor...”

“No,” Harry said. Then he began to walk around the room, silent. Her eyes followed him anxiously. He stopped and turned to face her. “All right, if you insist on discussing it. There must be no possible connection with me. Not a medical method at all. It’s got to look like the exact opposite. A gangland job — what do they call it? — a hit.”

She said in a low voice, “Yes. I hadn’t thought... But I wish—”

“Look, Karen. I believe I’d have to do this even if you weren’t involved: either do it or be a monkey on a string for the rest of my life. I never had a choice. I was pulled in, not knowing what I was getting into, and then it was too late. Stay in or go out feet first. Kurt made that quite clear. The way I figure it, it’s either committing one big crime now and being free, or an indefinite series of little ones working for Kurt, with the threat of death hanging over my head night and day. Stop castigating yourself. I’m fighting for my life — for our lives.”

She reached rather blindly for the glass before she realized that it was empty. She sat there looking into it. “Harry... what do you need?”

“A gun equipped with a silencer. And, of course, cartridges. The gun and silencer with all traceable markings removed beyond even chemical detection. Professional stuff. I want that gun to be found.”

“You shouldn’t have said anything to Tony. You should have come to me in the first place. I can get them for you, Harry.”

“Your connections... I never thought of that.” He saw her turning the empty glass over and over in her hands. He said, “Another drink?”

“Please.”

He kissed her hands and took the glass into the kitchen and came back with a bubbling refill. She drank thirstily as he stood over her. She took the glass from her lips and looked up at him and said, “Go away, darling — over there, where you were... There’ll be no connection with me, either. A long time ago I was the love apple of the eye of a certain big shot in Frisco. In my strip days. He was crazy for me. Want to know what my professional name was then?”

“What?”

“Jackie Jill. Cute? All strippers have cute — or nutty — names. He knew me as Jackie Jill and I knew him as Uncle Joe, period. He couldn’t possibly associate me with Mrs. Kurt Gresham of New York. Don’t laugh, but he’s basically a sentimentalist. He stopped carrying the torch for me ages ago, but he’ll remember Jackie Jill.”

“I don’t like it,” muttered Harry.

She laughed. “If you’re worried about the flame reviving, don’t be. I can reach Uncle Joe, and I’m positive I can arrange to get you what you need. Without danger to either of us. He’d do it as a favor for Jackie Jill, and no questions asked. It’s his way of doing business; he has no interest in what use the material is put to. It’s a matter of demand and supply; as far as Uncle Joe is concerned, the matter ends there. To use your word, Harry — professional.”

“How would you work it?”

“I’ll call him long-distance from a pay phone, as Jackie Jill. I still have his unlisted phone number. Uncle Joe owes me a few favors from way back, and he knows he can depend on my discretion. His interest will end there. Should I do this, Harry?”

“Do it, but be careful.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know yet. I think the Starhurst. That time schedule you told me about — he sticks to it?”

“Meticulously.”

“He comes at five minutes to seven?”

“On the dot.”

“And the visitor at seven?”

“Promptly. Not a minute before or after. He’s drilled that into them so that now it’s second nature.”

“That gives him five minutes alone,” Harry said. “It ought to be enough — it has to be... I think — yes, we’ll work out an alibi for me, just in case I’m questioned or investigated...”

“Harry.”

“Yes?”

“There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

The mixture of distress, defiance and shame in her voice made his head come up sharply. “What’s that?”

“I’ve got to tell you now...”

“What?”

“If anything should go wrong—”

“Yes?”

“I’ll lie. I’ll ditch you. I know me. I’ll leave you high and dry. Holding the bag. I’ll say it was all your idea — that you forced me into it... I told you, darling, I love you, and I do. But I know me, and I’ll look to save my own skin, love or no love. I want you to understand that now, before this goes any further...”

He looked at her across half the room. “You’re a remarkable woman, Karen.”

“I’m a dirty coward.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being honest with me. But don’t worry. Nothing will go wrong.”

“But the police — they’ll press, they’ll squeeze. They have ways...”

“They won’t get the chance.”

“But Harry, think. Now. Before...”

“I’ve thought, Karen,” Dr. Harrison Brown said. “I’m going to kill him because I have to. If it goes wrong, I’ll kill myself.”

On Sunday night the Kurt Greshams threw a party at their Park Avenue apartment. It was a gay party, in formal dress; Mrs. Kurt Gresham was radiant in a stunning Casisini original. The affable host announced to his guests that on September first he was going off to Europe for a couple of months in the company of his new personal physician. “If I were young I’d take my wife, or a sweetheart, or perhaps my wife and a sweetheart. But I’m old, so I have to take my doctor instead. So it goes.”

There was laughter, and applause, and the hostess invited her guests into the glittering dining room for supper and champagne.

“Oh, Harry,” Kurt Gresham said. “Tony has arranged with the Immigration people for your passport. But you have to go down there.”

“Sure,” said Harry.

“Tony will go with you. When there’s red tape there should always be a lawyer.”

“Sure,” said Harry.

Tony Mitchell grinned. “I’ve set up a date for ten A.M. Wednesday, Doctor. That all right with you?”

“Sure,” said Harry.

Fifteen

Monday was the first day of August, and on Monday the first day of August, at ten minutes past two, the phone rang in the office of Dr. Harrison Brown and the operator said, “I have a person-to-person call from San Francisco for Dr. Harrison Brown.” His girl transferred the call, and Dr. Harrison Brown said, “This is Dr. Harrison Brown.”

“One moment, please. Go ahead, please.”

A voice said, “Dr. Harrison Brown?” It was a thick voice, deeply male, with a rasp in it.

“This is Dr. Brown.” He could feel the sweat spring out.

“Hi, Doc. This is Jackie Jill’s uncle, her Uncle Joe. Remember me? You treated me last year when I was in New York. Hiya, Doc.”

A snake of fear crept along the spine of Dr. Harrison Brown. He sat up straight. “Yes?” he said. “Yes?”

“I need a favor, Doc.”

“A favor?” He groped for a tissue, swabbed his forehead.

“My brother Ben died last week. In New York. He was cremated, see—”

“Yes?”

“It says in my brother’s will that he wants his ashes thrown into the ocean, the Atlantic Ocean.”

“I see.”

“I know this is a lot to ask, but I’m gonna be stuck here in Frisco for a long time and I couldn’t think of nobody in New York but you. Suppose you could pick up the package of ashes, the urn, or whatever it is, Doc, and as a special favor carry out my brother’s last wishes? I’d be awful grateful.”

Harry moistened his lips. “Where is it? Where do I pick it up?”

“Well, the funeral parlor is up in Yonkers. You know, where they got the race track, the trotters? It ain’t far from the track. Allerton Avenue. Smith and Smith Funeral Chapel. Ask for the head undertaker, Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith. Would you do this for me, Doc?”

“When? What time?”

“Tomorrow, one o’clock. I called Mr. Smith and I told him you’d probably be coming. After all, I did do you that favor, that time I was in New York, lending you the thousand bucks. Say, come to think of it, I could kill two birds with one stone, like they say. I heard you were doing pretty good now, Doc — could you possibly pay up that thousand you owe me? I mean now?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I ain’t paid Smith and Smith yet for the funeral, and they won’t release my brother’s ashes till they get their money. By a coincidence, it comes to just a thousand bucks. You could pay them for me and pick up the ashes and we’d be all square. Okay, Doc?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“I guess you better make it cash. Can you make it cash?”

“Yes. What name? The deceased, I mean?”

“Oh, my brother. I told you — Benny. Benjamin A. Smith. Common name, huh, Doc? Undertakers named Smith, stiff named Smith. Poor old Ben — he lingered a long time with that cancer. Well! We all set, Doc? You got the name and address?”

“I marked them down.”

“One o’clock tomorrow. Don’t forget to bring the money. And I thank you very much.”

And the wire went dead as Uncle Joe, in San Francisco, hung up.

That afternoon Dr. Harrison Brown called an associate, Dr. Manley Lamper, and arranged for Dr. Lamper to take over his practice during the months of September and October. He also drew up a letter notifying his patients that he would be away for the months of September and October and that his practice would be handled during that period by Dr. Manley Lamper, address and telephone number. He instructed his girl to go through the files and send a copy of the letter to all his patients, and to make a note to refer all calls beginning September first to Dr. Lamper.

The next morning, on his way to the office, he stopped into his bank and came out with a plain envelope containing ten $100 bills.

Sixteen

It was a two-story red brick on a nice street in Yonkers, chiefly residential. There were shade trees over the sidewalks, and neat houses with green lawns, and some stores: a supermarket, a laundry, a beauty parlor, a drugstore, a florist’s, and the funeral parlor. He drove past slowly and backed into a space at the curb a hundred feet away. Before he got out of the car he touched the envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket.

He walked back without haste along the sunny street to the brick building. It had a gray marble front and wide glass doors. He pushed through the doors and found himself in a cool room with a soft gray carpet, a long gray table, gray chairs and benches, and some potted palms. At the far end of the room a blond young man sat at a small gray desk. The blond young man rose at once and came forward. He said softly, “Sir?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith.”

“What name, sir?”

“My name?”

“Please, sir.”

Harry said, “Smith.”

The young man smiled, exhibiting lively white teeth.

“You have an appointment?”

“Yes.”

“Please sit down, won’t you?”

The young man walked sedately to the end of the room... through two glass doors similar to those at the entrance, but narrower. Harry remained standing.

The young man returned in thirty seconds.

“This way, sir.”

Harry followed him through the narrow glass doors and along a windowless corridor to an office also furnished in gray: gray carpet, gray leather armchairs, gray steel desk, gray Venetian blinds tightly closed.

“Come in, sir.” A thin man with a long wrinkled face and sparse black hair rose from behind the steel desk. His hair was obviously a toupee. His rather high voice was, to Harry’s surprise, that of a cultivated man. He wore an expensive black suit and a black tie with a gray pearl stickpin. “All right, Adam.”

The blond young man went out, shutting the door.

“I’m Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith,” the mortician said. “Please sit down — Mr. Smith, did you say?”

“Harry Smith,” said Harry Brown.

The thin man smiled and gestured to the armchair beside the desk.

Harry sat. The tall man sat.

“Common name,” the tall man remarked.

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Well,” said Mr. Smith. “What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?”

“I’m here on an errand.”

“Errand?”

“For Uncle Joe.”

“Joe?”

“Uncle Joe from San Francisco.”

“Oh, yes?” said the thin mortician. He waited.

“I’m to pick up the ashes of Uncle Joe’s brother Benny. Benjamin A. Smith?”

“Oh, yes?” said the mortician again. He still did not move.

“Oh,” said Harry. He took the envelope out of his pocket. “Here’s the money Uncle Joe owes you.”

This time the man moved. He extended a bony hand for the envelope, opened it, took out the bills, and counted them. He returned the money to the envelope, unlocked a drawer of the steel desk, dropped the envelope into the drawer, locked the drawer and pocketed the key. Then he rose.

He said in his high voice, “Wait here, please,” and left the room. He had a long gliding stride that made him look as if he were walking on tiptoe.

Harry sat. The room was cool. He stirred uneasily.

Was it a swindle? Why not? Smith could give him an urn containing ashes, and what could he do about it? Go to the police? The thought made him laugh, and he felt better.

The man returned with an oblong package. It was wrapped in ordinary wrapping paper, seams secured by wide strips of gummed tape, and bound with heavy cord.

“Here it is,” said the mortician. He handed the package to Harry. “I’m to remind you that it’s to be thrown into the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“A good deep place is best for its last resting place. You’ll remember that, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Harry. The hell I will, he thought.

“Well, good luck, Mr. Smith.”

“Thank you,” said Harry.

The tall man shut the door on him immediately.

The blond young man was back at his desk.

“Goodbye, sir.”

“Goodbye,” said Harry.

He pushed through the glass doors into the heat of the street. The package, not heavy, was heavy. He did not hold it by the cord. He held it in the crook of his arm tightly. At the car, he put it carefully into the trunk. He did not dare open it. His clothes were pasted to his body. He removed his jacket, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He got into the car and drove off.

He did not speed. He did not attempt to beat any lights. He kept strictly to the right, gave hand signals on every turn. It took him a long time to get back to his office. He had told his receptionist he would be back by two. It was almost two-thirty before he got there.

The package weighed heavily in the crook of his arm as he let himself in through his street door.

He almost dropped it. There was someone waiting for him in the waiting room.

Not a patient.

Lieutenant Galivan.

Seventeen

“Hi,” said Lieutenant Galivan.

“Hello, there,” said Dr. Brown.

“I was in the neighborhood, figured I’d drop in. Your girl here said you’d be back about two, so I waited. Nice and cool.”

“That’s air conditioning for you.”

“A boon to civilization.”

“Anything for me?” said Dr. Brown to his receptionist. He was trying to squeeze the package into invisibility.

“Yes, Doctor. You have three house calls to make.” She handed him three slips of paper. “And Mr. Murphy will be here at four-fifteen, and Frieda Copeland at four-thirty.”

“Busy all of a sudden,” smiled Dr. Brown. He glanced at the slips. “Any of these emergency?”

“No, Doctor.”

“Will you excuse me a moment, Lieutenant?”

“Sure thing,” said Lieutenant Galivan.

“I’ll be with you shortly.”

“Take your time, Doc.”

Harry closed his consultation room door behind him very softly. He placed the brown package in a cabinet and locked the cabinet. He hung away his jacket; took off his tie, shirt, undershirt. He went into the bathroom and stooped low over the sink and ran cold water on his head. Then he washed his torso and soaped and washed under his arms, dried himself and combed his hair and got into fresh linen and a fresh white jacket. He felt a great need for the jacket. The office jacket made him a doctor. It covered his sins.

He opened the door to the waiting room. “I feel better now, Lieutenant. Come on in.”

The tall, elderly detective ambled into the consultation room.

“Sit down.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” The lieutenant sat down and crossed his legs.

Harry sat down behind his desk. A desk makes all the difference, he thought.

“How’ve you been, Doc?”

“Fine,” said Harry. “Lieutenant, I don’t want to hurry you — certainly not if it’s important—”

“Oh, this won’t take long.”

“It’s just that I have some house calls to make, and my office hours in the afternoon are four to seven—”

“Anything crop up on the Lynne Maxwell thing, Doctor?”

“Nothing, or I’d have called you.”

The lieutenant nodded. “You know, we just came across a funny bit.”

“Oh?”

“We keep poking around when the file isn’t closed. You know that Mrs. Gresham you were with that night in the restaurant, with that lawyer-friend of yours?”

“Yes?” He could feel the sweat spring out of his skin again.

“Well, it turns out Mrs. Gresham knew Lynne Maxwell.”

“She did? I didn’t know that, Lieutenant.”

Galivan brought out his pipe. He did not fill it. He held it cupped in his hands. “Doctor, there’s no suspicion of murder in the Maxwell case. Just that bit about her winding up in your apartment dead, with no apparent explanation.”

“We’ve been all through that.”

“I understand your impatience. Sorry, but this is police talk now.”

“Oh?” He could hear his voice rising.

“Mrs. Gresham is your patient.”

“I told you that. She and her husband.”

“Very attractive woman.”

“I suppose so.”

“Married to an old man.”

He forced coldness back into his voice. “What’s the point, Lieutenant?”

“Doctor, you’re not going to like this question, but I’ve got to ask it. Is Mrs. Gresham anything more to you than a patient?”

He was not prepared for it. It was the last thing he had expected. Did Galivan know? Or was this a shot in the dark? A wrong answer now might come back to haunt him... afterward. He thought desperately.

Was it possible Galivan was having him followed? Possible, but unlikely. He was in the clear for the Maxwell girl’s death; he had had nothing to do with it; he was sure Galivan was convinced of that. He decided it was a safe gamble.

“You mean am I sleeping with her?”

Galivan laughed. “Are you?”

“No. However, we do have more than a doctor-patient relationship, as I think I told you. We’ve become friends as well. Why do you ask, Lieutenant?”

“We figured that if you and Mrs. Gresham were cosying up, you might have given her a key to your apartment. And since she knew Lynne Maxwell, that key might explain how the girl got in.”

“Well, it doesn’t. Because Mrs. Gresham doesn’t have a key to my apartment.” He felt confident now; it was true.

“How about her husband? Ever give him a key?”

“Lord, no. Why would I do that? I told you, Lieutenant — there’s no other key to my apartment.”

Galivan produced a pouch and filled his pipe. He took his time lighting it and puffed slowly. Between puffs he asked, “How long have you known Mrs. Gresham?”

“She’s been a patient of mine for... oh, a few months.”

“Kurt Gresham, too?”

“They came to me at the same time.”

“You didn’t know Mrs. Gresham before that?”

“No.”

“Mr. Gresham, either?”

“That’s right, Lieutenant.”

“How did they happen to come to you, Doctor?”

“I was recommended to them by Tony Mitchell.”

“You’ve known Mitchell a long time?”

“Since I was a kid. He knew my father. My father was a lawyer, too.”

“I know. So the four of you are buddy-buddies.”

“Look, Lieutenant,” said Dr. Brown. “The Greshams have become my most important patients. Kurt Gresham is a cardiac. When his old doctor retired, Mr. Gresham retained me on an annual basis at a very healthy fee. I don’t mind telling you he’s been a godsend to me. I wish I had a dozen patients like him... By the way, on the first of September he’s taking me to Europe with him for a couple months, as his personal physician. Don’t ask me if it’s going to pay me; it will. I’m getting twenty-five thousand dollars for those two months, and all expenses paid, to boot. I’m a young guy just starting out in practice, Lieutenant, and I’ve been pinching myself ever since I met Mr. Gresham. For some obscure reason he’s taken a shine to me, and I’m going to keep the old boy alive if I have to open him up and pump his heart with my bare hands every hour on the hour. Do you blame me? And have I been frank enough for you, Lieutenant? And will there by anything else before I make those house calls?”

Galivan rose. “Thanks, Doctor, I appreciate your frankness. You’ll buzz me if anything — anything at all — crops up on the Lynne Maxwell thing?”

“I most certainly will.”

“Sorry if I’ve held you up.”

“It’s all right, Lieutenant.”

When Galivan was gone, Dr. Harrison Brown sank back into his swivel-chair and put his hands flat on his desk to stop their trembling.

But he felt a sense of triumph. He had Galivan under control, anyway.

There was no time to open the package from Smith and Smith.

Those damn house calls.

He slipped out of his white coat and into his suit jacket and grabbed his bag and ran.

When he got back to his office he found four patients waiting for him. By the time he finished with the four, there were five more in the waiting room. He felt like smashing something at the irony of it.

It was eight o’clock before the office was empty and his evening receptionist had left and he could unlock the cabinet and take out Uncle Joe’s brother’s ashes. He cut the cord and tore off the wrapping paper. It revealed a heavy cardboard box, its cover secured with sealing tape. He ripped it off, holding his breath.

The box was full of wadded plain tissue paper. Nested among the wads were several oilskin-wrapped objects. He opened them.

He had not been swindled.

He was now in possession of a revolver, a silencer and a box of twenty-five cartridges.

The revolver was a new-looking .38 caliber Colt Police Positive Special with a blue finish and a checkered plastic stock. The serial number had been ground off and the ground-off place deeply treated with chemicals. The number was gone beyond resurrection. The silencer looked new, too; it had been similarly treated.

The revolver had been freshly oiled. He checked the cylinder chambers to make sure they were all empty and then tested for alignment. He pulled the hammer back to full cock and tried to turn the cylinder in each direction. Then he snapped the trigger and held it far back without releasing it, again twisting the cylinder in both directions. In neither test was there any play. The revolver was in perfect alignment. He adjusted the silencer to the muzzle; it was a good fit.

He opened the box of cartridges and took out six bullets and loaded the chambers. Then he put out the lights, felt his way to the window, pulled up the Venetian blind, opened the window noiselessly and leaned cautiously out into the darkness for a look. The wall of the building across the tradesmen’s alley was blank; he could see no one. He sighted up at a bright star and squeezed the trigger. There was a slight hiss as the gun went off; the kickback to the palm of his shooting hand felt good.

Harry shut the window, lowered the blind, made sure the vanes were shut; then he made his way back to the light switch and turned the lights back on.

He removed the silencer, put a fresh cartridge in the empty chamber, clicked on the safety lock; one full load was all he would need. He wrapped the revolver and the silencer in their oilskins, wrapped the oilskins in small hand towels, put them into the cabinet, locked the cabinet. He took a surgical scissors and cut the cord into short lengths, cut up the wrapping paper, cut up the rest of the tissue, cut up the cardboard box, cut up the oilskin in which the box of cartridges had been wrapped, then took all the bits and pieces to the apartment incinerator and fed them into the chute. He went back, counted the cartridges remaining in the ammunition box — there were eighteen — replaced the cover on the box and taped it tightly with surgical tape from his wall-dispenser.

Then he changed into his street clothes, put the box of cartridges in his pocket, switched off the lights, locked his office and got into his car.

He drove aimlessly for a while, keeping an eye on his rear-view mirror. When he was satisfied that he was not being tailed, he headed downtown.

He drove all the way to the tip of Manhattan Island.

He drove onto the ferry.

When the ferry was halfway across the bay, he got out of his oar and sauntered around the deck. There were only a few passengers at the rail, hone at the stern.

He planted his elbows on the rail at the stern. The taped box of cartridges was now in his hand.

He looked around. No one.

With a swift underhand flip he tossed the heavy little box well out into the ferry’s wake. He could not even see the splash in the foam.

“Sorry, Benny,” said Harry. “This is as close to the Atlantic as I can come.”

Eighteen

On Wednesday morning he went with Tony Mitchell to Immigration; on Friday he went again; on the following Tuesday he had his passport. On Thursday and Friday he shopped for clothes and luggage. One of his purchases was a pair of snug lightweight gloves. He did not have the gloves sent home; he took them back with him to his office and locked them in the cabinet with the gun and the silencer.

On Saturday he played golf with Gresham, Karen and Dr. Stone; on Saturday night Dr. and Mrs. Stone were hosts of a dinner party consisting of the Greshams, Tony Mitchell, and Harry Brown. It was an expensive dinner at a French restaurant of note. Dr. Stone explained: “In return for the many times Bernice and I have been entertained by the Greshams.”

At one point, between courses, the director of the Taugus Institute called across the table to Harry, “How goes it with the decision, Doctor?”

“I’m still sitting on it,” said the doctor, turning to Bernice Stone in the hope that it would discourage her husband from pursuing the subject.

But it was too late. Kurt Gresham asked with a disarming smile, “Decision, Alfred? What kind of decision would that be? This is my personal physician, you know.”

“Ah,” said Dr. Stone mysteriously. “That’s a secret.”

Harry expected Gresham to question him later; rather to his surprise, Gresham seemed to have forgotten it.

On Sunday night Dr. Brown and Mrs. Gresham dined à deux at Giobbe’s in the Village. It was the first time they had been alone since the Saturday night in his apartment. Harry thought Karen looked thinner, her classic cheeks more hollowed out; but it only emphasized the immensity of her green eyes; she seemed to him utterly beautiful. She was poised, attentive, even gay at times; but he sensed an edginess.

Only once did they talk of the matter most important to them, and it was Harry who brought it up.

“Uncle Joe came through.”

She lit a cigarette. Her fingers trembled. “When?”

“On Monday. He gave me certain directions and I followed them. Everything worked out fine.”

“So you have it.” He could hardly hear her.

“Yes.”

“Now what?”

“The Starhurst.”

“When?”

“I don’t know yet. But it has to be before the first.”

On Tuesday he made a dry run. He left his office promptly at eleven o’clock in the morning. He walked at a normal pace. The loaded revolver was snugged in the waistband of his trousers. The silencer was in the inner pocket of his roomy sports jacket. His feather-light new gloves were in an outside pocket. He walked west to Columbus and up Columbus to the hotel.

Ten minutes flat, the whole thing.

The Starhurst was a tall, thin, rusty-looking building with a revolving-door entrance. He pushed through and into the empty forepart of a long corridor-like lobby covered with worn red carpeting. Far up the lobby he could see a corner of the desk and a bank of elevators and armchairs and sofas and tables with dimly lit lamps. From the entrance he could not see the clerk behind the desk, which meant that the desk clerk could not see him.

The whole place was silent, damp and had a faintly dusty smell.

Directly to the right of the entrance was a short corridor, red-carpeted like the lobby, that ended at a brass-knobbed door. Harry walked down, turned the knob and pushed, and found himself in a cramped vestibule at the foot of a steep flight of stairs. He climbed the stairs: the first door facing the stairway was 101.

Dr. Harrison Brown retraced his steps down the steep flight of stairs and opened the brass-knobbed door, stepped through and walked down the short corridor and turned left into the forepart of the Starhurst lobby and pushed through the revolving door to the street and walked at a normal pace back to his office on Central Park West.

Time from door to door: Exactly ten minutes.

Nineteen

On Thursday Kurt Gresham finally Appeared at the office for a checkup. Both his systolic and diastolic blood pressures were up; his respiration was shallow and his pulse rapid and irregular; his EKG was erratic.

“How do you want it, with sugar or straight?” Harry said in the consultation room afterward.

“I’m not in such good shape, eh?” Kurt Gresham lit a cigar.

“You’re in lousy shape. Have you been taking the digitalis in the morning? Quinidine after breakfast and dinner? Dicumerol in the afternoon? In the dosage prescribed?”

“When I remember.”

“Which, I take it, is practically never. We’d better do another prothrombin. Roll up your sleeve.”

He drew a blood sample and marked the vial for the lab. “You don’t have to tell me you’re not following my orders, Kurt. I’ve seen you eating your head off — all the wrong foods—”

“And drinking too much, too, I suppose.”

“I don’t mind the drinking, it’s the diet. What are you trying to do, induce another heart attack?”

“It’s nerves, Harry. I’ve been under a lot of pressure.”

“You’re a coronary, Kurt. Keep this up and you’ll be just another statistic.”

“That would make a lot of people happy.”

“Would it make you happy?”

“How bad is it?”

“It’s not bad. But it’s not good, either.”

Gresham looked impatient. “What’s the prognosis?”

Harry lit a cigarette, shrugging. “You can go on like this for years; the damage from your last attack is repaired. You’ve got a strong constitution and you seem to thrive on abuse. On the other hand, carrying on as you do, you’re asking for it. It’s likelier than not that, if you keep abusing yourself, one of these days you’ll fall down dead.”

“Is it in the realm of probability?”

“Why tempt fate? I’m involved, too. If you die on me, I lose my best customer.” Harry chuckled, badly.

Kurt Gresham expelled a cloud of cigar smoke. “All right, what do I do?”

“If you take off sixty pounds, and then stick to the diet I gave you — if you stay with the medication — if you don’t let your business” — grimly — “run you ragged, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t live out your natural lifetime.”

“Well,” said the millionaire glumly, “I suppose I’d better start.”

“How about right now?”

Gresham chuckled. “You’re a good doctor, Harry. Too damn good. I’ll start on the vacation. You can watch me like an FBI agent. By the way, we’re going by ship — the ‘United States.’”

“Is it going to be a strenuous trip for you?”

“Strenuous on the nervous system. Now don’t say it — I’ve already decided that, starting next year, I’m going to slow down. Sort of sit back and take the cream off the top. That means delegation of authority, and you’re included in my plans, Harry. Maybe you’ll be retiring from general practice, eh? Be my personal physician, business executive on the side — how does that sound?”

“Not good.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, except that I like practicing medicine.”

“I may offer a proposition you won’t be able to resist.”

“We’ll see,” said Dr. Brown.

Gresham studied his cigar. “All right, we’ll see. Starting September first I’ll be the model patient. I’ll last until then, won’t I?”

Dr. Brown squeezed out his cigarette, smiling back. “This is one business, Kurt, where we can’t guarantee the merchandise.”

“I’ll risk it — what choice do I have?” Gresham laughed. “Oh, Harry. I’m planning a little theater party for Dr. and Mrs. Stone tomorrow night. He really couldn’t afford that check the other night, and anyway, nobody extends himself for Kurt Gresham without being matched. I wish you’d do me a favor. Can you stand in for me as host?”

“Why can’t you do it?” He knew perfectly well where Kurt Gresham would be tomorrow night.

“Business.”

“Always business.”

“From now until we leave I’m going to be on a merry-go-round. As a matter of fact, I’m sorry to have to miss it. I managed to pick up five tickets for Success Story.”

Success Story was the runaway comedy hit of the season. It had opened late in May, and it was sold out for two years in advance.

“How on earth did you get them?” Harry was impressed. Scalpers were charging $50 a ticket for choice seats.

“Money buys anything,” said Kurt Gresham. “Five together, sixth row center, orchestra.”

Not anything, thought Harry. He said, “The Stones and I make three. Who are the other two, Karen and Tony?”

“Yes. I’ve also ordered dinner before the show at Monique’s — a private room. And I’m sending the limousine and my chauffeur up to Taugus for the Stones, by the way, to drive them in and back. Make it seven o’clock at Monique’s for cocktails and a leisurely dinner. Stone has to be back in Taugus early, so you and Karen and Tony can come straight to the apartment after the theater — I should be home by then — and we’ll sit around and have a few drinks and talk. All right, Harry?”

“Sounds fine to me.”

“Then that’s settled.” Gresham rose. “Karen has the tickets. You’ll talk to her about the arrangements.”

Harry talked to her thirty seconds after Kurt Gresham was gone.

“He was just here,” Harry said.

“I know,” said Karen’s voice. It sounded strained. “He told me he was seeing you for a checkup. How is he?”

“I never discuss my patients over the phone,” said Dr. Brown. “Can you come down here, Mrs. Gresham?”

“Yes. When?”

“Right away.”

“Right away,” she said.

Twenty

She sat with hands tightly clasped and knees tightly together, an eyelid twitching, her hair a copper pile, little ears exposed, unadorned. She was wearing a green silk suit over a white blouse, plunging deep. She wore no make-up except lipstick. She looked very young.

“Are you sure?” Harry asked quietly.

“I’m sure,” Karen whispered. “Business as usual tomorrow evening at the Starhurst.”

“Then that’s it. I’ll have a full five minutes? You’re absolutely certain of that?”

“Yes.”

“Six fifty-five to seven?”

“Yes.”

“Two minutes ought to do it.”

He got up from his desk and unlocked the cabinet and slid his hands into the thin gloves and brought out the revolver and the silencer. She followed his movements, fascinated. He unwrapped them and laid them on his desk. “Good old Uncle Joe,” he said dryly. “He sells a mean ash. To the tune of a thousand bucks.”

“Please, Harry, put them away. You... they scare me.”

He rewrapped the gun and the silencer and put them back in the cabinet along with the gloves. He locked the cabinet, pocketed the key, and sat down again at his desk and looked at her.

“Karen.”

“Yes, Harry.”

“You’re not directly involved. Will you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“I know you’re frightened. It’s natural. But you’ve got to get hold of yourself. You’ll have to put on an act. If you don’t think you can go through with it, now is the time to tell me.”

“I can. I will. It’s just—”

“I understand,” he said. “Now listen carefully.”

“Yes, darling.”

“The alibi. Not essential, just insurance. We’re all supposed to meet for dinner in that private room at Monique’s at seven o’clock. Correct?”

“Yes, darling.”

“With Kurt sending the limousine to Taugus to pick up the Stones, they’ll certainly be there early. Correct?”

“Yes. Kurt has trained the chauffeur himself. Just to be sure, I’ll tell him to get the Stones there by six forty-five.”

“And you’ll be sure to be there early, too?”

“Tony’s picking me up. I’ll see to it that we get there before the Stones.”

“Now as for me. I can’t possibly be on time. I have office hours until seven o’clock. Right?”

“Right.”

“I’m seeing to it that I have no office appointments for tomorrow past six o’clock, and I’ll send my evening receptionist home at that time. I’ll dress between six and six-thirty, at the office — my usual procedure when I’m going out. I’ll leave shortly after that, but nobody’s going to know that. Folow so far?”

“Yes.”

“At exactly two minutes to seven, you’ll excuse yourself and go to the phone booth at Monique’s and pretend to call me. Then you’ll rejoin the others and tell the Stones and Tony that I said I was shaving and changing my clothes, that I’d be leaving the office shortly. You’ve got that?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“By twenty past seven — it should be ample time — I’ll have got back to the office from the Starhurst. At twenty past seven you’ll be impatient about me and you’ll ask Dr. Stone to phone me. Tony may offer to do the phoning — if he does, let him; I’d rather it were Stone, but if you slough Tony off it may look queer. Anyway, whichever one does the calling, I’ll be there to take it. I’ll apologize and say I just got finished dressing and was about to leave. I will leave, and I’ll drive right down to Monique’s and join the party. For the rest of the evening, of course, I’ll be covered by events. Questions?”

“Yes.” Karen seemed less nervous now, as if talking about it had calmed her. “Between the time you slip out of the office and the time you get back, there’ll be no one here. Until seven o’clock, anyway, somebody — some passer-by — might try to get into the office to see you professionally. They’ll remember you weren’t here—”

“Before I go to the Starhurst, I’ll turn off the lights in the waiting room, and the street-door light. I’ll leave the light on in my back room. If the point should ever come up — and remember, Karen, this is all precautionary; there’s no reason why I should even be questioned — I’ll merely say I locked up early because of having to shave, shower and change for the evening. That, not wanting to be held up, I just didn’t answer the bell, or didn’t hear it. It’s probably an academic point, anyway. I rarely get transients.”

“Suppose a patient tries to phone you between the time you slip out and the time you get back?”

“I’ll have Dr. Lamper cover for me tomorrow evening; we have a reciprocal arrangement when either of us has an important social thing on. And I’ll instruct my answering service to transfer all professional calls to Lamper’s number beginning at five o’clock. Incidentally, when you pretend to call me at two minutes to seven, remember that it’s my private number you’re supposed to be calling; and when you ask Stone to phone me here at seven-twenty, be sure to give him the private number. That way we don’t get into complications with the answering service. Anything else?”

“The...” she moistened her lips “...gun.”

“I’m going to ditch it and the silencer where the police will find it. That’s the whole point, Karen. All identifying marks have been removed, and it will copper-rivet the professional look of the job. The gloves I’ll shove down the incinerator here when I get back — they may show traces of gun oil or gunpowder, and I can’t risk ‘that. So... that’s it.” He stared at her. “What do you think?”

“I love you,” Karen said.

He rose. “You’d better go home now.”

“I love you, Harry.”

“What time do you phone me?”

“Two minutes to seven. Private number.”

“Stone?”

“Twenty after. Same.”

“I love you,” Harry said.

Twenty-One

The day of the murder dawned to a unity with nature that was almost Greek. Friday was made for violence — scowling skies; dripping heat; windless; almost airless. It took effort to breathe. The weather aroused savagery.

By another irony, it turned out to be a busy day professionally for Dr. Harrison Brown. He was on the run all day, either out on house calls or seeing patients in his office. During his afternoon office hours he began to run behind schedule; only the fact that at the last moment two patients cancelled their appointments made it possible for him to send his evening receptionist home at six o’clock and darken his waiting room. He had called Dr. Lamper and notified his answering service at midday.

He locked the office street door carefully and switched off the outside light over his shingle.

First he downed a shot-glass of Scotch neat. Then he drank some water and put the bottle away. He had promised himself one drink before the event in his office, and two cocktails afterward, at Monique’s, no more.

He went to the dressing room at the rear and set to work. He was conscious of no particular tension or sense of excitement. His whole life hung on the nature and quality of his actions during the next ninety minutes, and he was pleased to find himself without nervousness or fear.

He undressed without haste or wasted motion and showered under warm water which he gradually turned to cold until he gasped. He toweled himself brutally and, naked, shaved without nicking himself. He purposely left the used towels on the floor of the bathroom and his discarded clothes strewn about. He put on fresh linen and a loose charcoal-gray mohair suit and a white shirt and a dark gray tie. It was six-thirty exactly when he slid the revolver into the waistband of his trousers, tucked the oilskin-wrapped silencer into the breast pocket of his jacket, locked the cabinet and made a last tour of the premises and took a last mental inventory.

For the first time he felt a quiver of fear. He had almost forgotten the gloves. He got them and put them in an ouside pocket. Immediately the feeling went away.

He had one last inspiration before he left: he took the receiver of his private phone off the cradle and left it that way. If anyone should try to dial him on the private line before he returned, there would be a busy signal, as if the phone were in use.

He slipped out into the street at twenty-one minutes to seven, leaving himself a cushion.

It was ten minutes to seven when he stepped into the dark tenement hallway directly across the street from the entrance to the Starhurst Hotel.

The taxi let the familiar fat figure out half a block from the Starhurst; probably, Harry Brown thought, an automatic precaution against some cabdriver’s remembering his Friday night destination. Through the dirty glass of the tenement hallway door Harry watched Kurt Gresham, carrying a brief case, go through the revolving door of the Starhurst. He glanced at his watch. It was six minutes to seven.

The millionaire disappeared.

Harry gave him fifty seconds. Then he stepped out into the street and crossed over, going not fast and not slowly. He pushed through the revolving door of the hotel without hesitation and turned right — up the long slot of the lobby there was no one to be seen, or to see — and walked along the short corridor to the brass-knobbed door and turned the knob with his gloved hand. He opened the door and stepped into the little vestibule. He glanced up the stairs; no one. He glanced into the short corridor; no one.

He took the gun from his waistband and the silencer from his pocket, fitted the silencer to the muzzle, and went softly and quickly up the steep stairs. Outside the door of 101 he released the safety of the Colt.

He turned slightly to the right so that the hand with the gun would be away from the door. Then he raised his left hand and rapped, not loudly, not softly, on the worn much-painted panel.

There was the slightest pause, as if the occupant of the room were puzzled.

Then the door opened.

And there stood Kurt Gresham, wide open to eternity.

Dr. Harrison Brown raised his right hand.

The little red mouth in the big round pink face made a little red hole as the colorless eyes went from Harry’s face to the gun with the silencer in Harry’s gloved right hand.

Then Kurt Gresham slowly fell back, and Harry followed, pushing the door gently to behind him with his left hand; the door clicked, and they stood there, eye to eye, in a dreadful silence.

Harry raised the revolver, elbow loose, grip firm.

He saw the jowls shake suddenly. He saw the little bit of pink tongue flick out and back from the dry lips. He saw the colorless eyes take on a jelly-like look.

And he told his trigger finger to squeeze.

And it would not squeeze.

It would not.

It would not.

Kurt Gresham took the gun from him and, grabbing his lapels with one surprisingly strong hand, swung him about and pushed him. He fell back into an overstuffed chair.

Gresham was saying, “Idiot. Fall guy. Sucker. Weak sister,” over and over in a soft vicious voice. And all of a sudden somebody’s fist crashed on the door panel outside and the knob began to turn. As it began to turn, the millionaire darted to the bed and shoved the gun under the pillow and was halfway back to the door when it burst open.

A giant of a man with a broken nose was in the doorway pointing a big black automatic pistol.

Twenty-Two

Through Dr. Harry Brown’s vacant head ran the clear, cold, futile thought, He’s surprised. Whoever the man is, he expected anything but the hotel guest on his feet with an inquiring look and a visitor sitting in an armchair.

“Mr. Curtis,” the giant said. He had a bass voice, rusty-sounding as if from disuse. “Everything all right?”

“All right?” repeated Kurt Gresham. “Why, certainly, Mr. O’Brien. Come in.”

The giant stepped further into the room and the millionaire reached around him and shut the door.

“Why the pistol, Mr. O’Brien?” Gresham said. “Would you mind putting it away? I have a weak heart.”

The giant looked foolish. Harry thought, He’s a wrestler, or an old-time fighter. The broken nose, the impossible spread of shoulder, the stupid little pig-eyes under the lumpy ridges of bone, the gorilla’s jaw...

“Oh, Doctor,” said Kurt Gresham. “This is Mr. O’Brien, the Starhurst’s house detective. My doctor, Dr. Brown.”

“Your doctor?” O’Brien said. He breathed noisily through the broken nose. “Well, how do, Doc.”

Harry nodded.

“What happened, Mr. O’Brien?” the millionaire asked, frowning.

“I dunno,” the house detective growled. “Somebody’s idea of a joke, I guess, Mr. Curtis. I got a call in my office. Some dame talking fast and hysterical-like, said she heard shooting in Suite 101. She hung up before I could ask her who she was or what room she was calling from. I had no time to check.”

“What time did she call?” murmured Gresham.

“Five minutes to seven on the nose — you know, Mr. Curtis, I got that wall clock right facing my desk in my office? — and I guess I made it up here in ninety seconds flat — took me only a few seconds to arrange to stop the elevators and seal off the exits.”

“That was quick work,” the millionaire said. “It makes me feel a lot safer, knowing there’s a man like you on duty around here. I’ll see you won’t regret it, even though it was a hoax of some sort. Let’s say a Christmas present?”

“Thanks, Mr. Curtis,” said the giant bashfully. “It’s a fact that if this’d been a real shooting, the guy would be sewed up tighter than a drum. I’d have got him hands down... Well, excuse the interruption, gents. I got to go get the elevators started again and the boys off the doors.”

There was a rap on the door just as the house detective put his enormous hand on the knob. O’Brien glanced at Gresham, and the millionaire nodded.

“I’m expecting somebody, Mr. O’Brien. It’s all right.”

O’Brien opened the door. A tall conservatively dressed man stood outside. He was carrying a brief case. The man’s eyes flickered at sight of O’Brien.

Harry automatically glanced at his wristwatch. He stared and stared at it. It wasn’t possible. The hands stood precisely at seven o’clock. Only five minutes had passed since he had come through the revolving door downstairs.

“If it’s inconvenient for you, Mr. Curtis...” the man with the brief case said. He had a neutral sort of voice, a voice to forget.

“No, no, come in. Mr. O’Brien is just leaving.” Kurt Gresham waved warmly to the house detective as the giant stepped out of the room, simultaneously giving the tall man a curt nod.

The man stepped in, shutting the door. He held onto the brief case. He glanced without expression at Harry. He said nothing more.

Gresham took the brief case from him and laid it on the bed. He went into the bathroom, came out with a brief case that was the identical twin of the one on the bed, handed it to the tall man.

“That’s all for today, Monte,” the millionaire said in his ordinary precise voice. “We’ll defer the accounting to another time. By the way, this place is finished as of tonight. I’ll let you know the new place and schedule over the weekend.” Gresham opened the door, and smiled. “Pleasant trip.”

The tall man went out without a word.

Twenty-Three

Kurt Gresham locked and latched the door and when he turned around he was still smiling. “Alone at last,” he said.

Harry Brown said nothing.

Gresham heaved off the bed, refilled their glasses looking down at him and Harry did not even look up. Dimly he heard the prissy voice say, “Would you care to wash, Doctor, as we well-bred people like to put it? I don’t have to tell my personal physician what an experience like this does to a man’s bladder. No? Well, mine isn’t as young and vigorous as yours. Excuse me.”

The fat old man went into the bathroom and shut the door.

Harry Brown heard the toilet flush after a while. Then he heard the sound of tap water running. Then the sounds of sloshing and of hearty gargling. This went on for some time.

He heard the sounds and they filled his head to the brim, leaving no space for anything else. Thoughts simply were not there. Vaguely, through the sounds, he knew that a great deal, of great significance, had happened in the past few minutes, but just what it was, what it signified, what position it left him in, he was unable to grasp and retain. It was as if he had been stricken with paralysis — mental and physical. He could not have pulled himself up from the overstuffed chair and gone over to the bed to reclaim the revolver under the pillow and unlock the door and walk out of the room if his life had depended on this simple series of actions. And for all he knew, his life did depend on it.

And he did not care.

The bathroom door opened and Gresham came out pink, dry, combed. He had removed his jacket and tie, his shirt was open at the neck, showing the mattress of gray hair on his chest, and he was carrying a clean towel.

The towel landed on Harry’s lap.

“Use it,” he heard Gresham say. “You’re sweating like a boy on his first date.” He repeated, sharply, “Wipe yourself.”

Harry picked up the towel and wiped his face, his neck, his hands. He folded the towel and laid it neatly on his lap. Gresham, observing him closely, took the towel from his lap and threw it into the bathroom. Then he went to the bed and lifted the pillow and brought out Benny’s lethal ashes and examined it. He shook his head over the silencer, glanced over at Harry, shrugged, opened the brief case on the bed, put Harry’s gun into the brief case, locked the brief case.

Then he came over to Harry and said, “Harry.”

Harry stared up at him.

“Would you care for a drink?”

Harry heard a hoarse voice say, “Yes.” To his surprise, he realized it was his own.

Gresham went into the bathroom again. He came out with a bottle of cognac and two water glasses.

“Twenty years old,” he said. “Private stock.” He half-filled each glass, put one glass into Harry’s hand, went over to the bed, put one pillow on top of the other and lay down. He raised the glass and took a long drink and then he lowered the glass and immediately raised it again. But this time he sipped.

“Harry,” he said. “Drink that brandy.”

Harry came to with a start. He raised the glass and he did not set it down until he had emptied it. Gresham watched him from the bed. A warmth came into Harry’s body, beginning at the toes. It rose through his legs into his torso and then it was in his head; and his head came alive again.

“Ah,” said the old fat man. “I see you’re back in the land of the living, Doctor. I’d like your opinion, Doctor. What do you think of yourself?”

Harry was beginning to think, but not of himself. He was beginning to think of Karen.

“You were the sucker,” piped Kurt Gresham, smiling again. “You were the patsy in the middle. The expendable man. And they couldn’t wait.”

“What?” Harry asked, blinking. “What did you say, Kurt?”

“They couldn’t wait.”

“Who couldn’t wait, Kurt?”

“Don’t you know? You mean you still don’t see it?”

“See what?”

“Harry.”

“See what, Kurt?”

“That you’ve been framed by my wife and her lover?”

Harry stammered, “Lover? But—”

“I mean our friend Anthony Mitchell.”

Why was everything so wrong? “Tony?” Harry muttered.

“Ah, she didn’t tell you about Tony. Or she lied and put on an act about Tony. It’s a damned shame. I mean, so much wasted talent. She’s never realized that she didn’t have to earn her living taking her clothes off. She could have made a fine career for herself as an actress. Oh, yes, Karen and Tony. Would you like me to sketch in the groundwork for you, Doctor? I mean about Tony?”

“About Tony,” Harry repeated.

“Tony’s been with me, intimately with me, for the past ten years. He’s one of my top executives — member of my board of directors. Who do you think suggested you as a replacement for Dr. Welliver here in New York when Welliver had to retire? Your friend Tony Mitchell. It was Tony who placed your name in nomination, and that was when we started our check of your background.”

“Tony,” Harry said again. He groped for his glass, saw it was empty, stared stupidly at it.

“It was Tony who suggested that Karen and I become your patients. It was Tony who thought up the bank loan-cosigner approach, to be followed shortly by my paying off the loan in a lump with the flourish that was to hook you, and did. And it was Tony who must be given the credit for the coup de grâce — getting you into bed with Karen.”

Harry Brown blinked. A soreness suddenly seized the pit of his stomach.

“You’re shocked,” said Karen’s husband, smiling. “You slob, you’re actually shocked!”

He blinked and blinked and blinked. The soreness was spreading, had spread, through his body. One great soreness.

“But if you’re a slob,” Kurt Gresham went on, “I’m an absolute idiot. After all, Harry, you have an excuse — you’ve never lived, you’re a complete innocent, you’re rather stupid. But I’m supposed to be a smart man, a smart experienced man. I thought Tony’s idea to get you involved in an affair with Karen was good sound strategy. I didn’t know that their long-range objective wasn’t you, but me.”

“Your own wife,” Harry shouted. “You told your wife to become my mistress?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t so easy to get her to do it, either. Here, we both need another brandy.” Gresham heaved off the bed, refilled their glasses and lay down again. “Harry, you have that damned adolescent, Sunday-school view of life. Do you think I deluded myself when I married Karen? I’m an ugly old man; she’s a young, beautiful and, as you know, passionate woman. I couldn’t have bought her except as part of a deal; I knew that and accepted it. Money and marriage for her; and for me, the use of her at my pleasure. But I also knew I wasn’t man enough for her — I’m too old and used-up, as she likes to put it. So I gave her the right to sleep around — I knew she’d do it, anyway, — on the sole condition that she be discreet about it. I’ve known of her affair with Tony Mitchell from the day it started, which was before I married her. What I didn’t know was that theirs was no ordinary liaison. I didn’t know they were planning my murder and were waiting for the right weapon to come along. And that was you.”

Harry remembered the brandy. He began to drink it, steadily.

“You were their weapon, Harry. You’d kill me for them, and you’d be caught doing it, and they’d be rid of us both and live happily ever after on my money. How do you like my diagnosis, Doctor?”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” Harry said.

“You’re a bigger imbecile than I figured you. Or you do believe it but won’t admit it to yourself. Or maybe you’re admitting it to yourself but for some amusing reason don’t want to look lower in my eyes than you know you already do.”

Old Kurt Gresham, vast sagging lump-on-the-bed, smiled at young Dr. Harrison Brown. It was not an unkind smile; it was almost a smile of sympathy. The jowls shook pinkishly.

“So let me spell it out for you, Doctor... It was Karen’s idea that you kill me.”

“No.”

“No, no, reflect, my boy. Was it your idea?”

“Yes.”

“No. She planted it in your head. Believe me. I know her. I know how she works... I’ll grant you that the inspiration might not have been hers originally. It smacks of Tony. Well, it doesn’t matter; whichever of them thought of it first, they were in this together. That’s as dead certain as that I’m still breathing. Now then. Karen told you that between five minutes to seven and seven o’clock on Friday nights I’m in this room at the Starhurst, alone. Correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“And she even got the gun and silencer for you?”

He was silent.

“Oh, gallant. And so typical. And this was all worked out to the last iota, Harry, wasn’t it? undoubtedly on a split-second time schedule? My death to occur during the five minutes before my club manager was due to show up? Couldn’t go wrong, could it, Harry? Only it did. And why? Because just after you stepped into this room — just after you raised the gun and theoretically shot me (and how my dear wife miscalculated in her choice of weapon, Harry, or my dear attorney, or both!) — just as I was theoretically falling dead at your feet... what happened? O’Brien of the hotel security staff barges in and — still theoretically — catches you with your antiseptic pants down, Doctor. So, if you’d had the guts to carry the plan out, you’d have been caught, wouldn’t you? My dear innocent, that must be clear even to you.”

Harry Brown closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the monster, the bloated embodiment of his conscience and ineptitude; but he could not shut his ears to its voice.

“Now O’Brien got a phone call in his office just in time to make arrangements to convert the hotel into a trap and race up here to catch you in the act. Who do you think made that phone call, Doctor? At five minutes to seven?”

At five minutes to seven he had just pushed through the revolving door downstairs, less than a minute after Gresham...

“A woman made that call, O’Brien said,” the prissy voice went on. “A ‘hysterical’ woman who had heard a gun go off in Suite 101 that hadn’t gone off at all. So she knew a gun was scheduled to go off. She knew you were going to be standing in that room pumping lead into me. What woman knew that, Harry? Give me a name — any other name but my wife’s. Can you?”

But he could not, he could not.

“And why should Karen phone the house detective of the Starhurst — putting on another act, of course, hysteria — why should she get him to roar into this room at just the time you were supposedly shooting me? Wouldn’t you say that her timing — deliberately premature to give O’Brien the opportunity to get up here at the moment of the murder — wouldn’t you say it was contrived to catch you committing it, Harry?”

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

“Maybe they figured you’d panic and run, Harry, and O’Brien would put a bullet in you — that would wrap it up neatly... both of us dead, the victim and his killer. Or, that when you saw O’Brien, you’d stick the gun in your mouth and save O’Brien the trouble, with the same satisfying result. And if you weren’t shot running, or if you didn’t shoot yourself... tell me, Harry, would you have dragged Karen into it? Could you have dragged Karen into it? If I know my wife, you’ll find she’s managed to leave herself completely uninvolved—”

Yes... All she had to do was not go through the motions of placing that two-minutes-to-seven phone call, was not to ask Dr. Stone to phone at twenty minutes past seven... then she was in the clear, in the clear.

“—and she’d have got away with it. How do you feel, Doctor?”

Harry licked his lips. Was it possible... was it possible that somehow, in some way, by some miracle, Karen was not responsible for this? That it had been Tony Mitchell all along...? But this straw bent and broke even as he grasped it. The only way Tony Mitchell could have known what was scheduled for tonight would have been through Karen’s telling him.

“I see you feel properly rotten, as rotten as only a fine clean-living young man could feel when he sees himself as others see him... a fool, an object of contempt, about as important to his beloved as a soiled handkerchief. And you’d like to find a hole somewhere, wouldn’t you, and crawl into it and lick your wounded little ego? You’d like to be out of the whole thing — Karen, Tony, the organization, me? Even me? Especially me? Harry?”

“Yes.” It came out stiff and dry.

“Maybe that can be arranged,” Kurt Gresham said. “You know, Harry, I liked you from the start. Just made a mistake about your guts. Well, this isn’t the time or place to discuss you. Right now we have work to do.”

He was trying hard, very hard, to follow the sense of the old man’s words. Gresham got off the bed and went to the closet and came back with one of his impossibly long, green Havana cigars. Harry watched him strike a match, puff critically, nod approval.

“We’re in an interesting situation now, Harry my boy,” the millionaire murmured. “Let’s put ourselves in the shoes of my wife and my clever lawyer. By now I’m dead and you’re killed, or alive but in custody. Of course you’re not able to show up at Monique’s for dinner, or to go to the theater with them and the Stones afterward. How do they explain your nonappearance? Very simply: doctors are notoriously unreliable socially. An emergency, no doubt — Dr. Stone and his wife will certainly understand that. You didn’t even have time to phone. These conscientious young doctors, tch, ten, and so on.” He took the cigar out of his mouth and frowned at it. “All right, then. Karen and Tony and the Stones finish their dinner and go to the theater. My chauffeur then drives the Stones home to Taugus, as Dr. Stone had requested. Leaving Karen and Tony alone for the first time this evening. Where do they go, Harry?”

“To your apartment.”

“Home sweet home — correct, Harry. He takes her home at once. Because I’m dead and you’ve murdered me, and the police must have been trying to reach the widow, are likely waiting for her there. Yes, they go right to the apartment, bracing themselves for the act they’ve undoubtedly rehearsed and — but what’s this?” The fat old man cried delightedly, “No police! No sign of police! No message! No anything. What’s their reaction, Harry?”

Harry said, “They’re puzzled. Then they get nervous. Maybe scared.”

“You’re certainly coming back to life, Harry,” said Kurt Gresham with pleasure. “Yes, they’re puzzled, then nervous, then very nervous, then scared to death. And what will they do, Harry, when they get puzzled and nervous and scared to death?” His teeth clamped down viciously on the cigar. “They’ll talk, that’s what they’ll do! They’ll talk it over.”

He still doesn’t think I’m convinced, Harry thought. Or maybe he’s not as sure of his theory as he’s made out to be.

“They’ll talk it over, Harry,” said Kurt Gresham, “and we’ll be there, you and I — we’ll be there to listen.”

Twenty-Four

Gresham called the desk and ordered a pile of sandwiches and a pot of coffee. The fat man ate with a sort of abstracted relish. Harry could not eat. He drank, however. Not coffee. A great deal more brandy.

At half-past ten Gresham took his brief case and they left the Starhurst. In the taxi he said, “We’ll go in through the tradesmen’s entrance at the rear and walk up. I don’t want the doorman or the elevator men to see us.”

Harry nodded dreamily. He was floating on brandy.

“We’ll set up our listening post in the blue guest room.”

“Blue guest room,” Harry said. In all this madness it sounded perfectly logical.

The millionaire unlocked his apartment door and they went into the black foyer at eleven minutes to eleven, by Harry’s watch. It was an old watch, a gift from his father, with a black face and pale green luminous hands. He was still focusing on the watch in the dark when Kurt Gresham snapped on the foyer light.

“Hurry it up.” The old man trundled ahead of Harry to the blue guest room and led him to a chair near the door. “You sit here.”

Harry sat. He fumbled for a cigarette. Gresham seemed able to see in the dark. “Don’t smoke,” he said sharply. “And don’t make a sound when they come in. Breathe with your mouth open.”

He trotted out of the room. A moment later the foyer light went off. A moment after that Harry heard him come back into the bedroom.

“You all right, Harry?” the prissy voice said. Harry restrained an impulse to giggle. It was like a séance he had once attended, with voices coming out of the air.

“I’m all right.”

He heard the slight scrape of another chair and a wheezy grunt as Gresham took up his position just inside the doorway, within reach of the guest room light switch; heard the creak of the chair springs, the thump of Gresham’s brief case being set down on the floor.

Then they sat there, in the darkness, silent. Harry dozed, chin-to-chest, mouth open.

Twice he came to with a start and glanced at his watch.

They heard the key in the lock. Harry sat up quickly, peering. It was twenty minutes to midnight.

The apartment door opened and closed and then they saw the glow in the hallway from the lights in the living room. They could hear faintly, but clearly.

“Something’s wrong,” Tony Mitchell’s voice said.

There were sounds from the bar, ice cubes tinkling in glasses, gurgling from a bottle.

“I can use this right now,” Karen Gresham’s voice said.

There was a pause. Then: “Radically wrong,” Tony Mitchell said. “There should be cops, respectfully stuck away in the rear of the lobby. But nothing. I say to the doorman, ‘How are you tonight, John?’ and he says, ‘Fine, thank you, sir.’ No excitement, no message, no knowing looks — nothing. And the elevator operator grins and scrapes as if it were the day before Christmas.”

“What do you think, Tony?” It was interesting to hear her voice. It was really a different voice — unknown to him. He was sure that if he could see her she would look different, too — equally a stranger. And wasn’t she? Wasn’t she?

“Either our medical pigeon contracted a severe case of chilled tootsies and ran out on the whole deal—”

“Not little Lord Fauntleroy,” said Karen. “His not to reason why. He’s one of nature’s noblemen, didn’t you know that?”

“—or, what’s far likelier, he loused it up and the old wolf beat him to the punch. That would explain why, if Harry didn’t go through with it, Big Daddy’s not home to greet us. He’s probably talking to his meat department right now, arranging to have our boy cut up, packaged and disposed of. That takes time, baby. And we’d better face it — if that’s the way it went, you and I are in one hell of a spot.”

Karen began to curse. She cursed her beloved Harry in a low, steady, unemotional way that made him writhe with shame. He could not hear Kurt Gresham’s breathing at all.

“Shut up, will you?” snapped Tony Mitchell. “I have to think this out. And fast, because that old man is sudden death.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Karen said viciously.

“The point is that even while the surgical saws are separating Harry into his component parts, old Kurt must be asking himself: How did Harry know about the Starhurst?”

“And also who called that house detective up?” Karen actually sounded frightened. “Tony, do you suppose he’ll realize—?”

“One thing at a time, will you?”

Harry could hear Tony Mitchell’s agitated steps. Beside him Kurt Gresham stirred; there was the slightest creak of the chair springs. It stopped instantly.

“We’ve got to anticipate Kurt’s thinking,” Tony said. The steps had stopped. “All right: How could Harry have known? We don’t have time to give it the finesse it needs — we’re going to have to play it by ear — but I have an idea.”

“Pour me another drink.”

There was the sound of more gurgling; then Tony Mitchell said, “Like this. You blew it, but inadvertently. The kid had confided in you that he’d been recruited by the old man. You had asked him where Kurt made the deal with him, at Kurt’s office in the Empire State Building or at his suite at the Starhurst. Slip of the tongue. Natural? So like the kid knew about the Starhurst, and like he worked his own points from there. Dig?”

Karen said slowly, “It might work, at that.”

“You knew nothing about it, our Dr. Brown had never dropped one word to you; but now, after the event, putting little things together, you realize that Harry must have had second thoughts or an attack of cold feet; that he wanted out and knew Kurt wouldn’t let him out; that he must have realized he could escape by only one route — Kurt’s murder. You can say he must even have thought you’d marry him afterward. Anyway, Harry tried, and the gutless wonder fouled it up... From there we play it by ear.”

Karen was quiet. After a while she said, “Pretty good. You are a smart operator, lover.”

“Not so smart,” Tony Mitchell muttered. “You’ll have to put on a good act.”

“You’re the only man I know smarter than that lump of pork fat I’m married to. And you’re a lot prettier. Come here to me...”

There was a long, long pause. The only sounds were the sounds of love-making, fierce and abandoned. And here we are, Harry thought, listening in — the cuckold and the cuckold, the legal one and the illegal one. He was quite sober now.

“No,” said Tony suddenly. “No, Karen, not now.”

“Damn you,” Karen laughed. “What you do to me...” There was a slight, laughing scuffle. “Darling. What’s the matter?”

“What about the little lump?” Tony Mitchell growled.

“What little lump?”

“Harry.”

“Harry?” The total contempt in her voice made Harry Brown shiver. “Lump is right. He was a panting, ridiculous lump. Strong as a bull, which made it even worse — strong, sincere, panting like an animal. The only way I was able to take him was to shut my eyes and pretend he was you. Give me a refill, darling. I need a lot of fortification if I’m going to fool Big Daddy when he comes waddling through that door...”

Harry found himself on his feet, aware with detached surprise that growling sounds were grumbling in his throat. But a hand closed on his wrist, and a hiss like a snake’s tickled his ear: “You stay right where you are!”

And then the hand was snatched from his wrist, and the shapeless silhouette of Kurt Gresham blocked out the faint glow in the doorway, and then it moved away, and Harry heard nothing, nothing at all, until the next eternity. And then what he heard was the muffled cough of a gun. And another.

And two thumps.

And silence.

He ran down the hall to the living room and he skidded to a stop in the archway.

“Hold it, Harry,” said the old fat man. The revolver with the silencer was pointed in Harry’s direction. Then the old fat man said, but not to Harry, “Scum. Scum.”

Two glasses, unbroken, lay on the thick-piled rug in the middle of spreading stains. Near one of them sprawled Karen Gresham, her body a glittery twist in its silver-sequinned décolleté gown. Blood Was gushing from her neck. Near the other sprawled Tony Mitchell, dinner jacket rumpled. Blood was gushing from his mouth.

“Don’t move, Harry,” said the old fat man. He walked over to his wife and carefully put another bullet into her head. Then he walked over to his lawyer and carefully put another bullet into his head. Mitchell’s eyes remained open. Karen’s eyes were no longer there.

Gresham’s pendulous cheeks were the color of well-hung beef fat, and they quivered as he spoke.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” he said, “my security people will take care of this. There won’t be a trace on the rug. And I’m not even here, remember?”

Something was wrong with Gresham’s statement, but for the moment Harry could not pin point the mistake.

“As for disposal, tomorrow my lawyer is going to take my wife out on his boat; a good way out to sea they’ll get into the dinghy and do some fishing; they’re going to capsize and drown, and none of the three bodies will ever be recovered. You know those sharks off Montauk Point.”

Harry started to say something, his tongue stuck, and then he got the word out. “Three?” he said.

“Didn’t I tell you, Harry? You went fishing with them.”

“That’s why you asked me to come here with you.” And now Harry realized that he had known it all along.

“Of course, Harry. Shooting you in the hotel would have necessitated a complicated disposal operation. It’s simpler from here. I’ve saved two bullets for you.” The old man moved closer; the revolver was coming up, slowly.

“But why, Kurt? Because I tried to kill you?” He was surprised at the clarity in his head, the lack of fear in his body.

“Because you failed to kill me,” said the old man. “You chickened out, Harry. I can’t have a weak sister working for me. And you know too much to be allowed to live. Especially now that you’ve witnessed me commit two murders with my own hands.”

Harry measured the distance between them. He had played football in college and he knew how far he could spring for a tackle. He tensed his leg and thigh muscles.

And now, although Kurt Gresham was smiling with his little womanish mouth, his colorless eyes flashed the glare of impersonal ferocity that Harry had never seen except in the eyes of wild animals.

“That’s the way it has to be, Harry. It’s going to be a bitter blow to the old man. Out fishing, the dinghy overturned, the bodies never found, and poor old Kurt Gresham is bereft, in one foul blow of fate, of the three most important people in his life — his wife, his lawyer, his doctor. Goodbye Har—”

He leaped high and out and hard and even as he struck he knew he had no target; he struck nothing; there was no resistance; the bulk was beneath him but it had not collapsed’ as a result of his strike. As he recovered his balance and looked down on Kurt Gresham, he knew that the third death, which had been Kurt Gresham’s dream, would be as unrealized as the dreams of the other two in that silent room.

Gresham’s globe of a face was not pink but yellow-green. His left arm was rigid, clamped in cramp. There were bubbles, at the corners of his mouth. The lips were cyanosed and tight back against the teeth, the mouth a fixed gape. The animal eyes were rolled far up to the lids. Dr. Harrison Brown made the clinical diagnosis automatically: coronary occlusion.

Without conscious thought, in conditioned reflex, Dr. Brown pried open the mouth, depressed the tongue, placed his own mouth on the mouth of Kurt Gresham and breathed into it. He pulled back so that the lungs could express the air he had forced into them, put his mouth back on Gresham’s mouth, blew the air from his lungs into Gresham’s lungs — kept up the prescribed ritual, in, out, breathe, away...

The lips beneath his twitched, grew salty, pulled together, had wetness.

Dr. Brown drew back.

For a moment there was intelligence in the staring pucker of the eyes. The blue upper lip writhed back. Teeth showed in a mockery of a smile.

He slapped the cheeks sharply.

“Kurt,” he said. “Kurt!”

A whisper drowned in phlegm produced a word.

“Human...”

He rubbed the wrists. Rubbed and rubbed.

“Human... funny...” Very faint.

“What? What?”

Now, quite clearly, through the blue lips past the leathery tongue: “Forgive... love... no... fun...”

The eyes rolled up, became slits of white.

The body jerked.

The body was still.

Dr. Brown locked his lips on the lips again, blowing with all his power, but the mouth was stiff, the tongue a nuisance, the lungs empty bags.

Dr. Brown pushed up from his knees, staggered and straightened, went past the two bloody things on the floor to the telephone and dialed police headquarters.

Twenty-Five

Dr. Brown in the blue guest room, well-lighted now, door closed, vis-à-vis elderly Lieutenant Galivan, who looked like his father. Dr. Brown sipping Kurt Gresham’s private-stock cognac, smoking a parade of cigarettes in defiance of the coronary statistics. Telling his story from the beginning.

And Lieutenant Galivan, who looked as if nothing in this world or the next could surprise him, looking surprised.

Somebody knocked on the door and Galivan said patiently, “Come in.” A beef-shouldered man came in. “We’re through, Lieutenant,” he said. “M.E.’s signed the order, the meat wagon’s here. All right to take them down?”

“No,” said Galivan.

“No?” echoed the big detective.

“There are federal angles to this thing, Sergeant.”

“Federal? And here we were, figuring it the usual: old husband, young wife, young lover.”

“Let’s leave it like that for now,” Galivan said in his slow, tired voice. “Remember. For the papers, nothing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get rid of the technical people. Everybody. Just you and Jimmy Ryan stay. And keep the meat wagon on tap. But on a side street, off the Avenue.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Send Sidney over to get the District Attorney. The D.A.’s an early-to-bedder, but he’ll want to be in on this. Have you ever met Max Crantz, our D.A., Doctor?”

“No,” said the doctor.

“Hell of a nice guy. A straight-shooter. Okay, that’s it, Sergeant.”

The detective went out, closing the door. Galivan sucked on his pipe, looking at Harry through the smoke. “Well, we’ve come a long way from the Lynne Maxwell business, haven’t we? There’s nothing else, is there?”

“I’ve told you everything.”

“You sure got yourself messed up.”

“That, Lieutenant,” said Dr. Brown, “I did indeed.”

Galivan puffed. “Damn this pipe. Oh, that funeral-parlor setup, I’ll put the Yonkers police on that. And San Francisco on Uncle Joe. I think you’ll find others who’ll appreciate the by-products of this thing, too. Like the Federal Bureau. I take it you intend to cooperate?”

“All the way.”

“If there’s anything I can do for you, Doctor, I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, but I’m not looking for any favors, Lieutenant. I got myself into this mess, and I’ll get myself out of it, or pay the price.”

“No favors,” said Galivan. “But to be instrumental in cracking an operation like this narcotics setup — don’t sell yourself short, Doctor. You’re going to have a lot of law-enforcement people grateful to you. Including Max Crantz.”

Galivan’s pipe was making dying sounds. He made a face and got up and went to the extension phone. He dialed the operator and said, “I’d like to talk to Mr. Christopher Hammond, please. At the New York offices of the FBI.”

Twenty-Six

Dr. Harrison Brown at his office on Monday crept around like a zombie. He had hoped to lose himself in work, but it was a slow day: four patients in the early afternoon, two house calls, then nothing. He had read all the morning papers; there had been no word of the three deaths in the Gresham apartment. The FBI and the Narcotics men had sat on the story, hard.

At four o’clock he sent his girl out for the afternoon papers. Now there were headlines. Millionaire industrialist slays wife and lover and dies of heart attack. But there was no mention of narcotics, and there was no mention of Dr. Harrison Brown. There were pictures — of Kurt Gresham, of Karen Gresham, of Tony Mitchell.

At four-thirty his receptionist announced Lieutenant Galivan.

Dr. Harrison Brown leaped on him. “Lieutenant. Here, sit down. Tell me what’s been happening. Nobody’s come near me since that all-night session Friday night with the District Attorney and the Federal people. Not a word in the papers or on radio or TV about me—”

“And there won’t be, either,” said Galivan. He eased his long body into the chair beside Harry’s desk. He looked tired.

“There... won’t be?” Harry sat down suddenly.

“It’s all over, Doctor. Those FBI boys... Lieutenant Galivan shook his head in admiration. “It’s a beautiful thing to watch the way they work in an operation that requires absolute secrecy until the split second they’re ready to spring. On Saturday they and foreign authorities were quietly opening bank vaults on court orders in a dozen and a half cities here and abroad. CIA code specialists were put to work on the records, and by Sunday afternoon the whole Gresham machine was stripped down to its vital parts and each part analyzed — without a single member of the ring knowing what was hanging over their heads. Then — wham! — the strike. All at once. No warning. Timed to the minute. Last night, ten o’clock our time. New York, Washington, Philadelphia, Chicago, Miami, London, Paris, Zurich, Rome, Berlin, Lisbon, Madrid, Belgrade, Athens, Ankara, Cairo, Hong Kong, Tokyo. The Gresham empire. Took thirty-five years to build up, one night to destroy. Thanks to you.”

“They arrested them all?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Every last one. It turns out that besides Gresham’s board of directors he had twenty-nine regional big shots, and, of course, the usual gang of middlemen, minor executives and just plain cogs in the machinery. The big boys are already here in the Federal Building or in custody in the countries where they were picked up, and they’re all singing like nightingales and trying to make deals. The small fry are doing the same thing. The evidence is overwhelming — Gresham’s empire is smashed, all right. From here on in it’s just mop-up. And you’re out of it.”

“I don’t understand...”

The lieutenant crossed bony knees. He took out his pipe, packed and lit it, and puffed; and then he smiled around the stem.

“There was a conference at noon today, downtown — Chris Hammond of the FBI, District Attorney Crantz, a Treasury agent, a member of the Attorney General’s staff from Washington, and some other interested officials — and I sat in. Do you know what the subject of the conference was?”

“What?”

“You, Doctor. And a decision was reached by the group that I think surprised every individual there. The subject was what to do with you, and the decision was: Nothing.”

Harry said hoarsely, “You mean I’m not going to be arrested, prosecuted...?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” puffed Galivan. “You won’t even have to appear as a witness at any of the hearings or trials afterward — they’ve got an embarrassment of evidence as it is.”

“But why, Lieutenant?” cried Harry Brown. “After all the things I’ve done?—”

“Well, what have you done, Doctor?”

The question startled him. “Why, I joined a criminal organization—”

“Under deception and duress.”

“I treated a woman with a bullet wound and didn’t report it to the police—”

“There’s no evidence of that, Doctor, except your confession. You know a confession requires corroborating evidence.”

“But... I accepted a huge retainer to do similar jobs for Gresham in his New York territory—”

“Again there’s only your confession,” smiled the lieutenant. “And you didn’t get to do any other jobs, did you? And you were treating Gresham as his personal physician for a chronic illness.”

“But...” He was bewildered. “I bought a gun and a silencer illegally. I tried to kill a man with it—”

“And didn’t, Doctor, when all you had to do was squeeze the trigger.” Galivan held up his pipe hand. “Don’t say it. It’s all been thoroughly gone into, Doctor. A strict adherence to the law would call for your arrest or detention for appearance before the grand jury, but the men in that office today weren’t in a legalistic mood. The fact remains that, in view of what you’ve contributed to the upholding of the law, in view of your total cooperation and frankness where your own acts have been concerned, those men feel you’re entitled to a quid pro quo.”

“And I have a feeling,” Harry mumbled, “that one man at that conference had a lot to do with the decision.”

Galivan colored slightly. “Not a lot, Doctor. Nobody influences men like Christopher Hammond and Max Crantz against their better judgments. Hammond has a brother around your age; incidentally, he’s a doctor, too, at the beginning of what looks like a fine career. The D.A. has two sons in their late twenties. These men understand a lot more than the techniques of law enforcement. They know you stepped out of line, but they also know you pulled back in time. A man who can and will do that deserves a break. They’re not going to crucify you, and I go along with them a hundred percent.”

Harry sat numbly.

“You’re not going to be needed, as I said, and your name will never be mentioned. You’ll be a name in the no-touch files, no more. Unless, of course, you should get into more trouble. In that case, the roof would fall in on you. That’s not a threat, Dr. Brown,” Lieutenant Galivan said quietly, “it’s a fact. But I don’t think that’s going to happen. I hope not, anyway. It would make a lot of us look awfully bad. And now, Doctor,” he said, leaning over to knock out his pipe in the ash tray, “I’ve got to get back to my job.” He rose and looked down at the man behind the desk keenly. “I’m not going to say good luck. A man makes his own luck, good or bad. But I think you’ve learned that by now.”

And he was gone.

Harry Brown sat in his consultation room with his head deeply sunk in the well of his shoulders and his surgeon’s hands folded at his waistline. He could not have said what he was feeling. All he knew was that under the foggy turbulence within him lay a quietness, a peace, he could not remember ever having experienced.

He looked around his office — at the expensive furniture; at the impressive rows of medical books that constituted the practitioner’s showcase, meant for display, not reference; at all the sham symbols of success. He felt the luxurious material of his trousers, stared down at the high polish on his shoes, at the $75 Tiffany ash tray on his desk.

And at the empty chair where a patient should have been sitting.

A man makes his own luck — luck? life! — good or bad.

After a while he groped for his wallet, located a card, pulled the telephone to him and dialed the number on the card.

“Dr. Stone, please. Dr. Harrison Brown calling.”

“One minute, Doctor.”

Alfred Stone’s voice leaped into his ear. “Doctor! I wondered when I was going to hear from you. That awful thing about the Greshams — you’ve heard about it, I suppose...”

“Yes,” said Harry Brown. “Dr. Stone, is the job at the Institute still open?”

“Of course.”

“I want it.”

“I’m delighted.”

“You may not be when you hear my story.”

“Story?” repeated Dr. Stone, mystified. “What kind of story?”

“Well,” said Dr. Harrison Brown, “some people might call it a kind of failure story. I think it’s a success story, but I’d rather you judged for yourselves. Dr. Stone, can you arrange a meeting with Peter Gross and Dr. Blanchette?”

Content

Ellery Queen
Kill As Directed

Cast of Characters

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six