Kill as Directed (7 page)

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?”