The Anatomy of Deception

by Lawrence Goldstone

  “Let me see,” I said, and McCann swung the ledger around. Listed in the entries for each week was “George Turk, M.D.—$8,” the last being the previous Wednesday. It pleased me, I confess, to learn that I received two dollars more per week, although I suspected the main sources of Turk’s income were such that they would not be listed in the book.

  “So, Mr. McCann,” I asked, “how is it that Dr. Turk is being paid eight dollars per week if he does not work here?”

  A deflated McCann ran his fingers through his beard, tugging as if in self-reproach. “I don’t know. Someone must have removed his sheet from the file.”

  “And there are no duplicates?”

  “Never had a need,” he admitted.

  “So that means, I take it, that there is no official record of Dr. Turk’s particulars … where he resides, for example?”

  McCann shook his head. “None.” He was still perplexed. “I don’t understand how this could have happened. We are so careful. Perhaps it has simply been mislaid.”

  “Perhaps,” I replied. “Who adds or removes records?”

  “Just me and two assistants,” he replied, gesturing to two middle-aged men wearing eyeshades sitting at desks across the room. “Let me ask.”

  McCann engaged in an animated discussion with each of the two and then returned. “No one knows anything about it. They’d have signed for it if they’d taken a record out.”

  I thought for a moment. “Mr. McCann, is the office kept locked?”

  McCann nodded. “Every night, after we close.”

  “Is the office ever empty during the day?”

  “Never, except sometimes at lunch.”

  I assured McCann that the loss must certainly have been an oversight and the records would surely turn up, then I thanked him for his help, and left. There was nothing further to be gained in this office nor, I was confident, would Turk’s records ever be seen again. Whoever had removed the document had obviously wanted to keep Turk’s personal information from anyone in the hospital, and the most likely person to have that motivation was Turk himself.

  At seven-fifteen that evening, I arrived at Barker’s. The man in the striped vest and boater who had seated Turk and me the previous Thursday was once again at his post near the entrance. In my most affable tones, I wished him a good evening and asked if he remembered my visit with that excellent customer, the well-known bon vivant, Mr. George.

  The man eyed me with equal parts cynicism, suspicion, and innocence. “We get lots of folks in here, friend. You think I remember everybody?”

  “Come, my good man,” I said cheerfully. “You and Mr. George clearly knew each other well. You called him by name.”

  “You’re mistaken,” the man said.

  “Perhaps you are correct,” I agreed, and then removed a dime from my vest pocket. I had seen from Turk what excellent service could be elicited from some well-placed expenditures.

  “What do you want with him?” asked the man.

  “I am a friend and coworker,” I replied. “He has been absent from work and I fear he is ill.”

  The man held out his hand and I dropped the dime in it. “So,” he asked, “what do you want from me?”

  “I was wondering if you knew where his lodgings were.”

  The man in the boater emitted a sound very much like a snort. “I thought you said you was his friend. Don’t you know where he lives?”

  “If you wish me to be the one answering questions, I would ask for my coin back,” I said.

  The man deposited the ten cents in his trousers. “Don’t know,” he said tersely.

  “No idea?” In truth, I suspected that for a man as reclusive as Turk, Barker’s would be a dead end, but I was forced to make the attempt.

  “None.”

  I then asked the man how often Turk patronized the establishment, who he generally dined with, and if he seemed to have any acquaintances among the staff. I learned only that Turk ate at Barker’s at least once per week, either alone or in the company of women, and that he did not seem to have had any intercourse with employees beyond general banter.

  Perhaps I might succeed in establishing a link between Turk and Rebecca Lachtmann without speaking to Turk at all. I removed the photograph that Eakins had given me from my jacket. “Is this one of the women he dined with?”

  The man looked at the photograph carefully with what seemed to be surprise. “No,” he said. “One this pretty, I’d remember. Mr. George went in for the … well, more obvious, if you know what I mean.”

  I did indeed. I thanked him, left, and made for the Front Street Theater. It was still early, so I had no doubts that if Monique and Suzette had arrived, I would find them unengaged.

  I had little trouble gaining entrance backstage, this time paying only five cents and, for no additional cost, was told by the grizzled sentinel at the stage door that the dancers all shared a single dressing room. I walked down a darkened, musty corridor to the room he had indicated and knocked on the door.

  “Who’s that?” yelled a voice from inside. “Open the damn door and come in.”

  I continued to stand in the hall, certain that the woman who had called out assumed another woman was outside. After a few moments, when no one came to the door, I knocked once more, this time loudly announcing that a man was waiting.

  “I don’t care if you’re a horse,” a voice yelled back. “I’m not getting up.”

  Having no choice in the matter, I tentatively opened the door, although not sufficiently to allow me to see inside. “Is Monique or Suzette here?” I called.

  I heard another voice, distinctly Monique’s. “It’s Ephie,” she said happily.

  A second later, the door swung upon. Standing before me was a tall woman with red hair, wearing a thin silken robe that hung open, revealing the undergarments beneath it. The woman I gazed upon bore almost no resemblance to the lithe, sexual dancer I remembered from the other evening save for her eyes, which shone the same striking green as before. Her skin was pocked and puffy, and there were lines visible around her eyes and mouth. Mostly, however, she wore an air of decrepitude, as if she were a ramshackle tenement that might collapse in a strong gust of wind.

  Monique seemed oblivious to the distaste I felt looking upon her, and reached out and threw her arms about my neck, her breasts pressing against me. She began to kiss me, but I pushed her away with disgust, astounded that this woman had been the object of sexual fantasies just days before.

  I required information, however, so I could not simply turn and leave. “I’m sorry,” I said to her. “I’m not in the habit of behaving in such a fashion in public.”

  Monique turned about and addressed the others in the room. “Ephie here is a shy one,” she trilled. “I think that just makes him cuter, don’t you think so, girls?”

  There were six of them, including Suzette, all in approximately the same stage of undress. One of the women, hard-looking with straw-colored hair, had her breasts exposed, but she made no move to cover herself. Instead, she stared intently in my direction in a kind of dare. The effect was more repugnant than arousing.

  “I need to speak with you,” I said to Monique, backing into the hall. “It is a matter of some urgency.”

  Monique had enough experience with men to sense lost ardor, and her expression instantly went cold. She pulled her robe shut and stepped into the hall. “What is it?” she demanded.

  “I need to find George.”

  “Why ask me?”

  “Because you know him well … well enough to come along the other night.”

  “What do you want with Georgie?”

  “I think he may be ill. Have you seen him?”

  “Ill, is it? Sure it isn’t about money?”

  “Certainly not,” I replied with umbrage.

  Monique found my indignation amusing. “We’re not usually in the habit of discussing our acquaintances, but just for you, I’ll tell you that we ain’t seen Georgie since last Thursday, when he was wi
th you.”

  “I will need to see him at his lodgings then.”

  “What’s this really about?” she asked.

  I tried a different tack, injecting a note of bluff. “I think he is in some trouble of which he is not aware. I need to alert him as soon as possible.”

  “Alert him?” she said. “You mean you want to help Georgie and you want me to help you help him? You and me … just a couple of Good Samaritans?”

  Whatever else she was, this woman was in no way stupid. “No. Not Good Samaritans. But he surely may be in some trouble, and he needs to speak with me as much as I need to speak with him. Do you know where I might find him?”

  Monique mulled this over. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Nothing,” I said with finality. “But if I do not get in touch with him and he finds out that you withheld his whereabouts, I believe he will be none too pleased. In that case, I think you will have the opportunity to ask the same question of him.”

  Monique nodded. “Well, well, you’re sure a surprise … Ephraim.”

  “Why? Because I did not allow you to ruin me?”

  “Ruin you?” she sneered. “Ha! That’s a laugh. That’s what you men always think. You got it backward. It ain’t women like me who ruin you, it’s men like you that ruined me.”

  “Whatever you say,” I replied. “Are you going to tell me where George resides or not?”

  “I don’t know,” she said sourly. “Suzette might.” She ducked back into the dressing room and emerged a minute or two later. “She’s never been to his place either, but she said one night she heard him tell a coachman to take him to the Barchester Hotel.”

  “One last thing,” I asked. “George’s ‘getting rid of’ services … were they well known around town?” Perhaps it was he who had disposed of the body.

  “No more than they had to be, I expect, although anyone interested enough could find out. And lots of us girls were plenty interested.”

  Abortion! Not disposal. Not drugs or venereal disease. Detestable! If this was true, Turk was a more monstrous character than anyone had suspected. None of this was demonstrably connected to either the cadaver or to Rebecca Lachtmann, of course. If only we had performed that autopsy.

  “Thank you,” I said to her, endeavoring not to give anything away.

  Monique and I stood for a moment, looking at one another. The woman before me had ceased to be either the object of desire of the previous Thursday or the object of contempt of a few minutes before. Instead, I saw her for what she truly was—a pitiful creature, forced to scratch out subsistence plying the scant resources Providence had granted her, and even they were fast becoming exhausted. Five years from now, perhaps a good deal sooner, they would have deserted her entirely and her life would turn increasingly bleak. I realized that one of my greatest achievements since leaving Ohio, the most important product of all my study and self-betterment, had been to procure the means to a comfortable, even prosperous, middle age.

  Monique seemed to sense the honesty between us as well. She smiled ruefully and said, “It’s all right, Ephie. You take care. Be careful of Georgie. He’s a bad one to cross.” She patted me on the cheek. “And remember, if you ever get tired of society women, pop on down here.”

  “I will,” I promised, although we both knew that we would never see each other again.

  I arrived at the Barchester Hotel at about nine-fifteen. It was on East Cumberland Street, about one half mile northeast of Temple University, in a neighborhood that was neither seedy nor prosperous, prominent nor notorious. The hotel’s anonymity seemed ideally suited to a man who wished to keep even the most fundamental details of his life hidden.

  I entered the small lobby and strode across an aging black and white tile floor. The clerk, an indifferent, scowling lout, awaited me, arms braced on the front desk, aware that I was not there to take a room. I asked for George Turk and described him, lest he used an alias even here, but the clerk claimed that no one of that name or description was registered. When I attempted to pursue my inquiries, he shrugged and turned away.

  I had succeeded first with bribery, and then with bluff. This man, I thought, would be far more susceptible to the latter. “Before I go, sir,” I said, “I will simply inform you that I am a doctor. I am attempting to locate Mr. Turk on an extremely grave matter involving a prominent family in this city. If death results from my inability to contact him, the police are certain to become involved and they may reasonably be expected to take a dim view of anyone who impeded my inquiries.”

  The clerk turned about. He stood gazing at me with rodentlike eyes, his expression stolid. I feared my gambit had failed, but then he asked, “Prominent family? Which prominent family?”

  “I am not at liberty to say, and you’d best hope that you do not have cause to find out.”

  The clerk’s forehead wrinkled and I could see that the turn in the conversation was taxing his limited reason. “Turk’s in trouble then?” he asked. Hearing him use the name told me that I was getting closer.

  “Not as yet, but he will be if I cannot locate him quickly. I might add that I believe he will be none too pleased to learn that you prevented me from contacting him. As I suspect you know, he is a dangerous man.”

  I had no specific evidence, of course, that Turk was dangerous, short of Monique’s assertion, but when the clerk began to nod involuntarily, I knew that she had not been speaking idly.

  “He doesn’t stay here,” the clerk said, “but I take messages and deliver them to his rooms. Nothing out of sorts, mind you, but Mr. Turk is a man who likes his privacy.”

  “You are paid for this service, of course,” I said.

  “He ain’t my kin,” the clerk replied, by way of explanation.

  “And where do you take the messages?” I asked. When the clerk hesitated, I slammed the flat of my hand upon the counter. “Hurry up, man, or no one will have any privacy to value, least of all you.”

  “All right,” he grunted. “Mr. Turk has rooms on Bodine Street … that’s three blocks east of here and two north, just this side of the railroad tracks. He rents from a Mrs. Fasanti. She’s a widow. It’s not a rooming house proper, but this way Turk figures no one will come looking there.”

  “Thank you.” I nodded curtly. “I do not believe I need to tell you that if word of this gets out, it will go badly for you.”

  “Don’t worry, Doc,” said the man with a vinegary smile. “I’m not about to go bragging about talking to you.”

  I followed the clerk’s directions and in ten minutes found myself in front of Mrs. Fasanti’s, a brick-fronted row house that was scarcely more impressive than Mrs. Mooney’s. I was surprised that Turk’s lodgings, even in this part of town, were not more generously appointed.

  I walked up the steps and knocked on an aging wooden door, upon which the varnish had raised up and begun to peel. It swung open almost instantly to reveal a haggard woman with graying hair, thick glasses, and an expression that showed both suspicion and fear. She did not offer a greeting or ask what was my purpose in calling, but stood silently, waiting for me to speak.

  “I am looking for George Turk,” I told her.

  “Who are you?” the woman replied coldly.

  “My name is Carroll. I am a doctor and a friend of Turk’s and I need to see him. Is he in?”

  “Friend?” she said, suddenly excited. “A doctor? Come on, then. Quick. He’s up here.” She beckoned me inside, gesturing with urgency, and then turned and led me to a flight of stairs. “He’s in a mighty bad way, Doctor,” she said over her shoulder, “but George didn’t let me call no one.”

  We reached the second-floor landing and, as we turned left and walked down a narrow hall, I was hit by a distinctive acrid odor. “How long has he been ill?” I asked.

  “Three days,” she told me. “It’s been hell.”

  The smell got stronger as we neared the end of the hall. She had placed a rolled towel on the floor in front of the door to Turk’s room
s in an attempt to keep the odor from permeating the rest of the house. As soon as the woman opened the door, the stench hit me.

  As accustomed as I was to dealing with the sick and the terminally ill, at the sight of Turk lying motionless on his bed, I recoiled. In four days, he had aged decades. His eyes were vacant; his skin hung on a shrunken body. His mouth drooped open, and he seemed insensible, with breathing extremely labored. His appearance, coupled with the overpowering odor of diarrhea, made diagnosis simple—here were the classic symptoms of cholera.

  I spun on Mrs. Fasanti. “Why is this man not in a hospital?”

  She shook her head quickly, looking terrified. “Do you think I wanted to keep him here … cleaning up and emptying chamber pots? He wouldn’t let me call no doctors. He told me they was gonna kill him.”

  “Kill him? Who? The doctors? Whatever are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know,” she insisted. “But he wouldn’t let me call no doctor. He wouldn’t let me tell nobody.”

  “But he paid you well,” I said harshly.

  “Of course,” she answered. “Do you think I was gonna do this for free? I was scared of catching it myself, but he told me as long as I got rid of everything and kept my hands clean, that I’d be all right.”

  “And you believed him?”

  She stared at me hard. “Well, he is a doctor hisself, isn’t he?”

  At that, I heard a sound and turned to the bed. Turk was calling, “Carroll,” but in a voice so soft and grating that I could hardly recognize my own name. I went to the bed and could see he was trying to speak, but his tongue was swollen and his lips cracked and peeling from advanced dehydration. Without warning, his arm flashed out and I felt a clawlike grip on my wrist. “Carroll,” he groaned once, but as he tried to form another word, he stiffened and then fell back to the pillow. I knew at once that he was dead.

  CHAPTER 9

  EVERY SUSPECTED CASE OF CHOLERA had to be reported, so after confirming the lack of pulse or breathing and covering poor Turk’s face, I had no choice but to inform the police.