The Anatomy of Deception

by Lawrence Goldstone

  A staircase just ahead looked swept or as if something had been dragged down, as did the rotting planks that passed for floorboards. I exchanged glances with Haggens and we began to climb to the second floor. He let me lead, no doubt in case there was some threat at the top. We came to another door on the landing, this one without a lock since the only access was from the street. Haggens turned up the light just a bit and we stepped through.

  There could be no doubt as to the purpose of the room. Heavy drapes hung across the windows and, in the center, stood a long wooden table with a darkened oilcloth laid over it. A pile of clean sheets lay folded on a low table in the near corner. There was a sink on one side of the room, a burner on another table in the corner, and a cabinet mounted on one of the side walls. The doors of the cabinet were open, revealing a set of sounds—metal rods with rounded ends used to explore anatomical cavities—vaginal dilators, and curettes. Gynecology was not my specialty, but it was clear all the same: These were the tools of the abortionist.

  A wave of disgust overwhelmed me. It was sin enough that Turk padded his wallet performing illegal operations, but to require women to come to this disgusting and filthy room in order to have it done was ghastly. Even Haggens, hardened as he was, seemed dumbstruck at the enormity of the crime.

  It took me a few moments to recover my wits, but when I did, I immediately undertook to search the room. I had come to this appalling place, after all, not simply to confirm that Turk had been an abortionist, but to try to confirm a link to Rebecca Lachtmann.

  I began by a cursory inspection. The instrument case had evidently been a recent addition. The wood was clean with an unmarred finish, and the implements inside had been kept clean and polished. The locking clasp was in good repair, so it was a matter of conjecture why the door was open. It was possible, of course, that someone had been in here before us to search, but I could not imagine who. More likely, I thought, Turk had been forced to leave hurriedly on his last visit here and neglected to lock the cabinet properly.

  The table and the oilcloth over it were grim indeed. There was ample staining to indicate that much fluid had passed over it. I could only assume that Turk had laid a clean sheet over this one whenever he performed his revolting procedures. The burner was used for sterilization; nearby, I found a pan in which he had placed the instruments. Other than that, except for some tumbledown chairs, there was nothing, no evidence whatever to lead me to a next step.

  Haggens, who had been spooked from the second we entered the room, sensed my frustration and tried to use it as a means of ending the inquiry.

  “Ain’t nothing to find, Doc,” he said, a strange warble in his voice. “Let’s go before someone figures out somebody’s up here.”

  “Not yet,” I disagreed. “I’m sure there’s something.” I scanned the room once more, convinced that it was simply too bare. Abortion wasn’t Turk’s only illicit trade. Hadn’t Monique said that he would get rid of what you didn’t want, but also that he would get you what you needed? Haggens had spoken of some new drug. I was certain there should be some evidence of such activity here, but saw nothing. Then I remembered Borst and how I had bungled the search of Turk’s rooms.

  “Check the floor, Haggens. There will be a loose board somewhere.” If Turk had used the trick at Mrs. Fasanti’s, where no one knew of his presence, he would certainly secrete contraband here, where the threat of intruders was much more real.

  Haggens placed the lantern on the table and we began to check the floorboards. The wood was old pine, with a good deal of rot. Some of the boards pulled up with almost no effort, but nothing was underneath except rodent excreta.

  “Come on, Doc,” Haggens cried when the search proved fruitless.

  “No!” I said sharply. “Try the walls.”

  One wall was wood planking, the others plaster. We moved quickly, trying to find a false front. Finally, I came to the instrument cabinet and grasped the sides. It moved out from the bottom. The cabinet was not attached to the wall, but merely hung on it. I lifted it off, placed it on the floor, and saw what I was after.

  A square was cut into the plaster. I jiggled the cutout and removed it easily. Once I had, Haggens’ desire to beat a hasty retreat disappeared.

  “Would you look at that,” he exclaimed, and brought the lantern closer.

  The opening, which was only about one foot square, masked an alcove at least twice that size. Turk had cut and then reinforced the joists to create a storage area. Inside were five packages of different sizes, each wrapped in oilcloth and tied with string. We removed them and brought them to the table.

  Haggens reached to the largest of the five, but I held up my hand to stop him. Our positions had become reversed. Haggens now deferred to me, a phenomenon attributable to the almost superstitious dread that had come over him at the sight of the stained cloth on the table. As inured to common violence as he was, I ventured that the sight of that oilcloth was the first time he had ever had occasion to imagine abortion in its grisly reality—fetus and placenta wrenched out, with sera gushing forth, as a helpless woman, her legs spread, lay moaning, debased, and miserable.

  I was interested in the smallest of the packages and opened it first. Inside was what I had hoped to find: a small notebook, which, on cursory examination, appeared to hold records of Turk’s transactions. I was beginning to know Turk and, from the moment I realized that there were no such documents in his rooms, I expected to find them here. He was far too opportunistic to leave no records at all. The entries were categorized by individual letters, or small combinations, and I would be quite shocked if some of them were not related to his associates or contacts, perhaps even to Halsted himself. And, if I could confirm that what I suspected about the entries was true, I would have proof of the motive for Turk’s murder.

  I slipped the notebook into my coat and we opened the other four packages. The first three each held a tin container bearing a stamp identifying it as the property of the Bayer Company of Wuppertal, Germany. There was other writing on the tins, but my knowledge of German was restricted to those terms that had entered medical terminology, so I could not decipher the meaning. One word I did understand was verboten—forbidden—and it appeared at the top of each of the tins.

  The fifth package contained a revolver, a derringer, and a supply of ammunition for each.

  We returned our attention to the tins and, when we opened them, discovered that each contained a white powder encased in two additional layers of oilcloth around a sheath of waxed paper. No moisture or foreign substance would penetrate such elaborate wrapping. I had taken the precaution of bringing with me a small specimen jar, which I removed from my pocket and filled with the powder.

  I whispered to Haggens that we must return the room to precisely the state in which we had found it—so, when the police arrived, there would be no sign of our presence. I was surprised that he acceded so readily in repacking the white powder and returning it to the cutout, but he was so anxious to leave that room that he likely would have agreed to any request. It took only a few minutes to complete the task and, after a quick walk about with Haggens’ lantern, we closed the door behind us. It was not until we had reached the street that Haggens began to regain his usual sinister demeanor.

  Even Mike had been affected by the surroundings. “What took you so long?” he wanted to know, glancing up and down the alley with quick jerks of his head, his voice between a challenge and a wail. It was the longest speech I had ever heard from him. Seeing Mike afflicted with nerves caused me to experience a wave of nerves of my own, and I realized that this errand had been far more dangerous, even with my escort, than I had imagined. Without anyone saying another word, we made our way quickly but cautiously up the alley and back to The Fatted Calf.

  When we arrived, Haggens told Mike to get a drink at the bar and then led me into his office. He poured us each a glass of “the real stuff,” and this time I did not object. I had not lost my wits during our sojourn but, now that we were
safe, I could not stop my hands from shaking. Haggens, once more in his element, grinned when he noticed and poured me a second drink after I quickly quaffed the first.

  “So, Doc,” he said. “What now?”

  “Just as we agreed,” I replied. “I give Borst the key. I tell him how I found it, inform him that when he was drunk Turk had mentioned Wharf Lane, and then let the good sergeant do the rest.”

  “Seems a shame,” said Haggens.

  “The powder? We had to leave it there, Haggens. You cannot expect me to involve myself in illicit activity.”

  “You kept the book, though,” he pointed out.

  “Only to protect the innocent,” I rejoined.

  “Yeah, Doc. I see. A public service.” There was not much that got past Haggens.

  “In any event,” I said, “we both got what we wanted.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “I suppose.” I stood to go and Haggens got out of his chair as well. “Ya won’ forget what we talked about, will ya, Doc?” Haggens tapped his chest. “You were gonna …”

  “Yes, of course,” I replied. “I’ll be back later in the week.” It seemed I was not yet completely free of him.

  “Thanks. Like you said … we’re chums now.”

  As I left The Fatted Calf, I nodded at Mike, who was back on duty. He once again favored me with a nod and even said, “Night, Doc.” It was comforting to be on Mike’s good side, although I had little doubt that he would, without compunction, snap my neck like a carrot if Haggens so instructed him.

  Although it seemed that it had been hours since I arrived, it was actually not yet eight-thirty. That gave me ample time to stop at the Fifth Street police station on my way home. When I arrived, I was told that Sergeant Borst had left for the day, which disappointed me not in the least. I wrote him a note detailing my discovery in one of Turk’s books of a key that I had reason to believe was to his lair, which I had just remembered that he had mentioned was on Wharf Lane. I wished the sergeant good luck in his endeavors, and left both key and note in an envelope for him to open in the morning.

  CHAPTER 17

  I WAS QUICKLY DISABUSED OF any notion that the notebook would provide an epiphany. When I looked more closely, I saw that Turk had coded the entries, and though I did study them for a time, hoping that he had simply used abbreviations or some other transparent method of disguising the data, the cipher remained incomprehensible.

  Remembering an admonition in an Edgar Allan Poe story that the best place to hide something is where everyone can see it, I placed the notebook on my bookshelves among some octavos. I left a note for Mrs. Mooney, asking that she order some material on cryptography from the lending library, but even if I could make nothing of the code, the journal might provide solid secondary evidence. The contents could prove illuminating if other information came to light that gave some indication of records that Turk had obviously thought so important as to require coded entries.

  I also needed to preempt Borst. The sergeant was sure to pay a return visit to the hospital, so I told the Professor first thing the next morning of my discovery of a key cut into the cover of one of Turk’s books—I neglected to say which one—and that I had turned it over to the police.

  The Professor frowned deeply at the news. “The last thing we need at this moment is scandal,” he grumbled, but added firmly, “but of course you did the right thing.” He shook his head. “Turk seems to be more trouble dead than he was when alive. I was saddened at Turk’s death, as you know, but now I am merely angry.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It was easy up until now to see him as compelled by circumstance, but it seems that his malevolence was far more profound.”

  As we proceeded with rounds, the Professor was uncharacteristically tense and somber. He snapped at Simpson when she failed to check a patient’s chart, did not make sport of Farnshaw, and was even subdued in the children’s ward. His disquiet, I was certain, was not due merely to the general inconvenience that revelations of Turk’s activities might cause, but to the more specific prospect that Halsted or even he himself would be sucked into the eddy.

  Late morning, Sergeant Borst finally made his appearance. “Well, Dr. Carroll,” he said, once we adjourned to the Professor’s office, “you were quite a help.”

  I thanked him, although the remark contained obvious sarcasm.

  “Yes, indeed. As a result of your lucky discovery, we now know that Dr. Turk was engaged in some very unpleasant activities.”

  I asked what he had found.

  “Well,” began the sergeant, “Wharf Lane is about the worst part of town there is … but you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

  I assured him I would not, except by reputation.

  “Your Dr. Turk had gotten himself a room on the second floor of one of the buildings. Not knowing which one, though, we had to go up and down the street and alleys to find the right building.” He looked at me. “I suppose you had the same problem.”

  Did he know? I had to evade the question without specifically denying my visit. “Yes,” I said, looking Borst in the eye, “but luckily Turk had given me a ball of string to make sure I didn’t get lost.”

  “Very clever,” sniffed Borst.

  “So,” said the Professor with irritation, “are you going to tell us what you found or simply continue wasting our time when we have work to do?”

  Borst bounced on his toes, his lips pressed together. The sergeant was used to intimidating with his swagger and, like most bullies, did not take it well when one of his intended victims pushed back at him.

  “All right, Doctor,” he said, and then proceeded to recount in detail the primitive conditions under which Turk performed his abortions. As the policeman described the dirty, stained oilcloth, a look of revulsion passed across the Professor’s face.

  “Disgusting,” he said. “I am ashamed to ever have been associated with such a man.”

  “As well you should be, Doctor,” said Borst. He had said nothing about the cutout in the wall, however, and I wondered if he had found it. I was certainly in no position to ask, however.

  “So,” I inquired instead, “does this discovery help in your investigation?”

  “A good question,” Borst replied. “The answer is yes and no. Yes, because anything we can do to fill in the details of Turk’s life helps, but no, because it doesn’t move us along in figuring out who killed him, or even why.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was hoping to help solve the riddle.”

  Borst eyed me for a moment. “Were you, now? Well, maybe you were.” He continued to stand in the center of the room, rocking back and forth on his toes, but neither the Professor nor I continued the conversation.

  “All right, then,” Borst said finally. “I’ll be back if I have any more questions.” He spun on the balls of his feet and made for the door. He opened it, began to step into the hall, and then turned back. “Oh, yes. I almost forgot. We found a hidden compartment, just like in his rooms.”

  “More money in the floor?” I asked.

  “No. Not in the floor. This time it was in the wall. Behind where he hung his tools.”

  “Instruments,” corrected the Professor reflexively.

  “Instruments,” repeated Borst.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Nothing. It was empty.”

  “Empty?”

  “Yeah. Empty. Surprised me, too. Unless whoever killed Turk cleaned it out after he was dead.” Borst waited for a reaction but, when neither of us provided one, added, “But I’ll give you two this. I don’t think it was either one of you. Can’t imagine gentlemen like yourselves wandering down around on Wharf Lane.” A playful sneer passed across his face. “Had to make sure though, didn’t I?”

  After Borst left, I could not suppress a small smile of my own. This would be the last time that I would romanticize Haggens.

  The Professor misinterpreted my expression. “He is an amusing sort of ruffian, isn’t he? All that bluste
r, bluff, and assumption. Would never do in our business, eh, Carroll?”

  “No. But I do think we should tread softly in his presence, Dr. Osler. He wants very much to prove our involvement, whether true or not.”

  “Yes, quite correct. The mediocre always try to bring down the mighty. Perhaps now that he has come to an impasse, this incident might begin to fade, at least until we are safely in Baltimore.”

  “Perhaps,” I acceded. “Although I suspect Sergeant Borst gets most of his results through tenacity rather than inspiration.”

  “Yes.” The Professor nodded. “It might be well to move up the date of our departure.”

  After I took my leave, I made for the chemical laboratory. Although many analytic techniques—chromatography, crystal tests, and microscopic examination—would be perfected in the coming years, chemical analysis at this point remained in a formative stage, essentially little more than trial and error. In this case, however, I was able to compress the process and make an educated guess. Since I was dealing with what I assumed was a powerful new drug, I would first seek to determine if the substance was from either the morphia or cocaine families. The only reliable test for the former was Frohde’s, published in 1866 in an article, “Zum Nachweis des Morphiums.” Frohde had introduced molybdate in concentrated sulfuric acid into powdered morphine and observed a set of distinctive changes. The powder turned violet on contact, changed to a strong purplish red, which eventually faded to a weaker brown until finally turning green. Molybdate in concentrated sulfuric acid had since been dubbed “Frohde’s reagent.” As it contained a description of the only definitive test for morphia, the article had been translated from the German and was well known to physicians and chemists. I had first used Frohde’s reagent while I was a student in Chicago.

  The lab was empty but still I chose a station at the far end where I might only be casually observed if anyone else arrived. I placed a small amount of the powder that I had taken from Turk’s lair in a test tube and introduced Frohde’s reagent. As soon as the powder struck violet, I knew that I was dealing with a morphiate. The other color changes followed as expected. While a positive result narrowed the question, it did not fully solve the puzzle. There were not, to my knowledge, any morphia derivatives that would rate the praise heaped on this powder by Haggens and his associates, nor had anyone discovered an additive that would render morphia so much more potent.