The Hidden Genes of Professor K: A Medical Mystery Thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3)

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘How is she?’ whispered Lola.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Hanna, her voice quivering with emotion. ‘She’s in a coma.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Let’s go outside and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘I saw it all,’ said Hanna. She handed Lola a glass of water and they sat down on a bench in the empty corridor. ‘The coffin rose, the lid opened and Isis made her usual spectacular somersault entry but …’

  ‘But what?’ prompted Lola.

  ‘She didn’t land on her feet; she kept rolling and almost fell off the stage. And then, she just lay there. We ran over. I was one of the first to get to her. She was unconscious. Boris and I carried her backstage and called the ambulance.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Examinations, specialists, tests and more tests. The doctors haven’t told us much. I suspect they don’t really know anything yet. I called Sir Humphrey and he’s on his way.’

  At least that was good news, thought Lola. Sir Humphrey, a trusted friend, was Isis’ personal physician who had looked after her for many years. He lived in London. ‘What next?’ asked Lola, feeling a little better.

  ‘We are waiting for a briefing.’

  ‘I am so tired,’ said Lola, resting her head against Hanna’s shoulder. ‘Maybe if I just close my eyes, I will fall asleep and it will all go away?’

  ‘I wish,’ said Hanna, tenderly stroking her friend’s flushed cheeks.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘The most difficult thing of all … We wait.’

  Half an hour later, a nurse came and took them to a consulting room on the floor below. Boris and Señora Gonzales came with them. In the darkened room, a group of doctors were looking at X-rays on an illuminated screen. They stopped talking and turned around, the sudden silence adding to the tension in the room.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Lola, squeezing Hanna’s hand.

  ‘I’m Professor Alvarez,’ said a tall, white-haired man, standing next to the screen. ‘I’m an oncologist. I’m afraid I have some bad news …’

  ‘Please tell us,’ said Señora Gonzales, her voice strong and steady. She stepped forward. ‘I am her grandmother.’

  ‘Certainly, Señora,’ said the professor. ‘I can do better than that. I will show you. Please come over here.’ The professor picked up a ruler and pointed to one of the X-rays on the screen. All the X-rays were images of a human skull, but taken from different angles. ‘This grey mass over here is a large tumour. It is pressing down on the brain – here.’ The professor circled the grey blob with the tip of the ruler.

  ‘What do you recommend?’ asked Señora Gonzales, her voice no longer quite so confident and controlled.

  ‘Normally, I would strongly advise we operate at once to remove it, but …’ The professor stopped mid-sentence, collecting his thoughts, the silence in the room deafening. ‘Unfortunately, this tumour is in a very precarious, dare I say hopelessly dangerous, location …’ he continued at last.

  ‘What are you telling us, Professor?’ asked Lola.

  ‘I’ve discussed this at length with my colleagues here … We have formed a view …’ said the professor, a tinge of sadness in his voice he couldn’t hide.

  ‘What view?’ whispered Señora Gonzales.

  ‘We believe it is inoperable …’

  31

  Adrienne Darrieux, a well-known author and Paris socialite, was easy to track down. All the countess had to do was make a few phone calls. In her circles, everyone knew everyone or someone who did. Fortunately, Mademoiselle Darrieux was in Paris, and once she heard who wanted to talk to her, she instantly agreed to a meeting. She suggested they meet at La Closerie des Lilas on the Boulevard du Montparnasse, one of Europe’s most famous historical literary cafes. Apparently, she was a regular there with her own table. Fame by association.

  ‘I have to warn you,’ said the countess, ‘Mademoiselle Darrieux has quite a reputation.’

  ‘Oh? In what way?’ asked Jack. He was watching the diabolical Paris traffic edge past outside and thanked his lucky stars he wasn’t driving.

  ‘She’s a man-eater. And once I mentioned your name …’

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘Oh, I think a man with your experience should be able to handle her.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘She also considers herself somewhat of a literary identity.’

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘Yes, of sorts. She has written a number of very successful biographies. The one on Coco Chanel and Sarah Bernhardt did very well. And it is rumoured she’s writing a book about the Ritz. That’s why she’s agreed to write Madame Petrova’s memoirs.’

  ‘How opportune.’

  ‘And she’s very flamboyant and likes to impress. I’m sure that’s why she chose La Closerie des Lilas.’

  ‘Is that why we are travelling in style?’

  ‘Partly. It’s a lot easier being dropped off than trying to park. Parking in Paris is virtually impossible.’

  ‘And we’ll make a good impression at the same time,’ Jack said, laughing, ‘by arriving in the family limo?’

  ‘That too. Appearances are important. Especially in Paris.’

  The countess had decided to take her late father’s vintage Bentley and let François, the gardener who on rare occasions doubled as chauffeur, drive them to Paris instead of taking her own BMW.

  ‘We are almost there,’ said the countess as the car turned into the busy Boulevard du Montparnasse. Founded in 1808, the ‘Garden of Lilacs’ was once a carriage stop during the French Revolution. Its illustrious clientele included famous painters, writers and composers. Monet, Renoir and Whistler had been regulars and so had Balzac, Chateaubriand, Baudelaire and Oscar Wilde. Toscanini and Gershwin had almost called it home when staying in Paris.

  Mademoiselle Darrieux saw the countess’ car pull up outside and smiled as the chauffeur got out and opened the back door. To have such an important guest meet her at the café for lunch could only enhance her already considerable reputation in the eyes of the other regulars who would be witnessing the occasion. In her circles, being talked about was the oxygen of success; being ignored, social death.

  Over the years, Mademoiselle Darrieux had perfected the art of being noticed. To ignore her was almost impossible. The fact that many laughed behind her back didn’t seem to bother her. A flamboyant dresser in her late fifties – she admitted only to forty-something – she liked to show off her figure and considerable bosom by wearing daring dresses only worn by the reckless or the very brave, twenty or so years younger. She had never married; her relationships never lasted long, and she went through men faster than birthdays. However, her lovers became younger as she got older. Despite all this, she was well liked and respected as a serious and talented writer. Paris society embraced likeable eccentrics, and Mademoiselle Darrieux passed with flying colours – literally.

  ‘That’s her over there,’ said the countess, following the maître d’ to Mademoiselle Darrieux’s table in the busy brasserie.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Jack, suppressing a smile.

  Dressed in a stunning lilac, figure-hugging creation by Valentino and a breathtaking hat that would have turned heads at the Ascot races, Mademoiselle Darrieux gave them her best smile and ordered champagne.

  ‘What a splendid venue,’ said Jack, admiring the classic décor of the beautifully appointed room.

  ‘The lobster tank and the grand piano have only been here since the nineteen nineties, but you will find the names of famous patrons inscribed on little plaques on the tables in the original piano bar,’ said Mademoiselle Darrieux. ‘Hemingway once lived just around the corner and came here often. He wrote about the café in A Moveable Feast.’

  ‘He also mentions it in The Sun Also Rises,’ said Jack casually.

  Mademoiselle Darrieux was impressed. ‘Perhaps one day your name will also appear on one of those plaques,’ she said, patting Jack on the hand.
r />   ‘I doubt it. But you must show me the mirror.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Mademoiselle Darrieux.

  ‘Didn’t Alfred Jarry, who wrote Ubu Roi, once discharge a revolver into a mirror behind a lady here?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ asked the countess, surprised.

  ‘When I’m invited to dine with two charming ladies, I like to know where I’m going. It could be a dangerous place …’ Mademoiselle Darrieux and the countess burst out laughing.

  ‘And didn’t Jarry say to the lady after he fired the shots – fortunately blanks – “Now that the ice has broken, let’s talk”?’ said Jack.

  ‘Exactly! Could this be a subtle cue?’ said Mademoiselle Darrieux.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘No shots, please.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘I understand you want to talk about the Ritz during the war years …’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘May I ask why? What’s your interest?’

  Jack had been expecting the question and was ready for it. ‘I have been retained by a lady to investigate certain family matters …’ said Jack, choosing his words carefully.

  ‘Can you tell me her name?’

  ‘Yes, but I would appreciate it if you could keep this confidential.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Señora Dolores Gonzales. She lives in Mexico now, but she lived at the Ritz once … Madame Petrova and Señora Gonzales were close friends during the war.’

  ‘Now, that is interesting …’ said Mademoiselle Darrieux. ‘I am actually writing a book about the Ritz, but please keep this under your hat.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Jack. The countess nodded, watching the exchange with interest.

  ‘In fact, I’ve recently done some research on Dolores Gonzales and her flamboyant art dealer husband, José. Did you know that José’s father was one of the leaders during the Mexican Revolution? Quite a fanatic. Rumour has it José was interrogated and tortured by the German secret police during a scandal that rocked Paris and deeply affected all who lived at the Ritz at the time.’

  ‘Scandal? What scandal?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ said Mademoiselle Darrieux, surprised. ‘The Scandal of the Crystal Skull. It was the talk of Paris in 1941, just after the occupation began.’

  Jack looked thunderstruck. He reached for his glass and took a sip of champagne to give himself a little time to digest the implications of what he had just heard. ‘Can you tell me about the scandal?’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  ‘Of course. But before I do, you must promise me to come to one of my soirées …’ said Mademoiselle Darrieux, lowering her voice.

  ‘I’m not sure I …’

  ‘Mr Rogan would be delighted,’ said the countess. She gave Jack a good kick in the shins under the table. ‘Wouldn’t you, Jack?’

  ‘Delighted; absolutely,’ said Jack.

  32

  Alexandra knew from experience that the best way to deal with the disturbing events of the past few days was to shut out distractions, resist the urge to speculate and focus on her work. Disciplined by nature and methodical by training, she immersed herself in Professor K’s copious notes as she tried to piece together the cornerstones of his latest, groundbreaking research.

  She attempted to do this by reconstructing his thoughts and ideas, hurriedly jotted down in his tiny, almost illegible handwriting during his final hours. It was obvious that Professor K had worked at a feverish pace, desperately trying to pass on what he had discovered and what he suspected, or hoped, the ultimate outcome might be.

  There were obvious gaps in his reasoning, leaps of faith in some of his conclusions and often, it was impossible to separate facts from speculation. However, in the midst of all this noise, Alexandra was able to follow a golden thread of sound, inspired reasoning that meandered through the often confusing and exasperating maze of ideas. She called it the ‘the trail of genius’, which had set Professor K apart and made him so unique and admired by his peers.

  Alexandra knew that cutting-edge research never moved in a straight line. There were always twists and turns, countless blind alleys, setbacks, intellectual quicksand and most dangerous of all, tempting solutions that more often than not, turned out to be false siren-calls luring the mind into error. Usually this happened with a Fata Morgana of promising answers that, under scrutiny, often turned out to be nothing more than illusion.

  ‘Walking the tightrope of science’ had been one of Professor K’s favourite lines. Alexandra had never forgotten it, but more importantly, she herself had walked that precarious tightrope many times before. She knew exactly what it meant to look down into the abyss, and fall. She also knew what it took to pick yourself up again, climb back to the top, find your balance and continue.

  ‘Doctor Delacroix, there is someone in reception to see you,’ said Akhil Achari.

  Alexandra looked at her assistant standing in the doorway, a puzzled look on her face. ‘Do you know who?’ she asked, suddenly feeling anxious. She certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. Her assistant shook his head. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’ Alexandra put Professor K’s notes back in the safe, took a deep breath to calm herself and walked outside to catch the lift to the ground floor.

  George Papadoulis, a short, portly man with thinning black hair and thick, round glasses in old-fashioned tortoiseshell frames that gave him a somewhat comical, yet endearingly studious look, was waiting for Alexandra in reception.

  ‘Forgive me, Dr Delacroix, for barging in like this to see you, but I saw no other way to get in touch,’ said the little man, extending his hand. George Papadoulis turned out to be Professor K’s accountant. He was also the executor of his Will, and it was in this capacity that he had come to see Alexandra. ‘Could we perhaps go somewhere a little more private?’

  Alexandra ushered her visitor into a small conference room next to reception. Papadoulis took off his glasses and began to polish them with his handkerchief. ‘I am here to carry out Professor K’s last wish,’ he began, speaking quite softly. ‘We had known each for several years and became good friends. He spoke often about you, always with affection, and held you in high regard.’ Papadoulis opened his briefcase, pulled out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and placed it on the table in front of him.

  ‘Professor K came to see me a few days before he died …’ Papadoulis paused, his eyes misting over, ‘and gave me this. He left it to you in his Will.’ Papadoulis pushed the small parcel across the table. Alexandra looked at it and saw her name written across the top in Professor K’s distinctive handwriting. ‘He asked me to hand it to you in person, here at the institute, after you had taken up your new position. That’s why I’m here. He was quite specific about this.’

  ‘Do you know what’s inside?’

  ‘Not really, except for this: he said the contents of this little package had “the power to change the future of medicine and the journey of man”. His very words.’

  Alexandra felt an icy shiver tingle down her spine. ‘Intriguing,’ she said, and looked at the sad little man sitting opposite.

  Papadoulis closed his briefcase and stood up. ‘This concludes my mission,’ he said. ‘It has been a pleasure meeting you, Dr Delacroix. I know whatever Professor K has placed in your care, is in safe hands.’

  Alexandra hurried back to her room, closed the door and put the little parcel on her workbench. She couldn’t get those words, it has the power to change the future of medicine and the journey of man, out of her head. I wonder what’s inside. She reached for a scalpel in her work tray.

  First, she cut the piece of string and then made an incision in the wrapping paper along the sides of the parcel with her typical, surgical precision, careful not to damage anything inside. She used to do the same with Christmas presents, to the great amusement of friends and relatives. Then she folded back the paper.

  On top of two small notebooks and an envelope that had her name written across it wa
s a rectangular piece of what looked like parchment, or soft leather. Her curiosity aroused, Alexandra reached for the strange piece and carefully unfolded it. Fully opened up, the piece was quite long and covered in beautiful illustrations, reminding Alexandra of similar texts she had seen in museums. Aztec, she thought, running her eyes along the vivid illustrations. A head operation; how amazing. How did he come by this, I wonder? Then she reached for the envelope, opened it and began to read the letter.

  Dearest Alexandra

  When you read this, all going well, you’ll most likely be sitting in my chair at the Gordon. I’m sure you’ll find what I’m about to tell you surprising, perhaps even a little confronting, but the truth is the truth and you of all people deserve – no – must know the truth …

  Teary-eyed, and overcome by emotion, Alexandra stopped reading for a moment as she remembered her dear friend and mentor reaching out to her from the great beyond.

  For the next three hours, Alexandra kept reading with an intensity that made her cheeks glow with excitement. Unable to stop, she devoured first the letter with its astonishing revelations, and then the notebooks crammed with data. If only part of what they contained turned out to be scientific fact, then not only would they change the future of medicine, but also the journey of man.

  Apart from her assistant asking her some questions connected with his work, Alexandra was only interrupted once that afternoon, by a phone call on her mobile. It was Jana Gonski letting her know she had just left Sydney airport, was on her way to the apartment and would be cooking dinner for them that evening. Suddenly, this phone call from a complete stranger she had only heard about, but never met, made Alexandra feel no longer so terribly alone.

  33

  Lola and Boris met Sir Humphrey at the Benito Juárez international airport and took him straight to the hospital. As the Elms’ family physician, Sir Humphrey had looked after Isis’ health since his school days at Eton. Lola knew it couldn’t have been easy for a distinguished Harley Street specialist in his seventies like Sir Humphrey, to drop everything, get on a plane and fly to Mexico. Yet that was precisely what he had done, without question or hesitation.