Dr. Phibes

by William Goldstein

  The Times news section had been mercifully brief, the less than three pages devoted to the interminable disarmament conferences, warship tonnage ratios seeming to be the main topic of those conversations. The delegates to the League of Nations meeting in Lausanne, affirming their position against hunger, had decided to organize a committee to study it and subsequently to form a commission to deal with the scourge.

  Properly obscure on page 3 was an in-depth report of the inflationary spiral now taking place in Germany. The writer seemed anxious to conclude that this nation, which had gone down in ignominious military defeat less than a decade earlier, was now about to sustain an equally devastating economic defeat. “Philosophical excesses were at fault,” concluded the reporter; he neglected any mention of the new politics then in process in Central Europe.

  Trout was pleased, if a bit miffed, to find no word of the doctors’ murders. Although he was too professional to dwell overlong on it, the official rebuke he’d received for his “aggressiveness” was fresh enough in his thoughts that he wanted no repetition. He also realized that his plans for advancement within the department required a self-imposed obscurity for the time being. He was properly glad, therefore, that the case, already a week old, had managed to stay out of the papers. Nevertheless, like all men of self-assured brilliance, he was a performer at heart and would have been happier in the limelight.

  But it was Sunday and no time for scruffy concerns such as these. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to find the time had gotten well past three with the sports and library section yet to be read. All that would have to wait. He was hungry now, which thought reminded him it’d been too late yesterday for him to shop before he came home.

  He tried to recall what the kitchen had in store while he fumbled for his slippers under the bed. There was a loaf of pumpernickel in the bread box: probably crusty, but still edible. That would go good with those sausages in the refrigerator. He’d gotten a crock of mustard the week before so there was still some left. A bottle or two of port to wash it down would make it lunch enough.

  He found his shoes and was just tying shut his dressing gown when the telephone rang. The voice was direct, discursive.

  “Inspector Trout? Vesalius here. Can you get over in thirty minutes. I will want to discuss some matters with you.”

  So the ramrod was beginning to bend. Well, let’s set the book first, Trout thought. “Dr. Vesalius, good of you to call. Can what you have keep till tomorrow? It’s Sunday, you know, a day of rest. Why don’t I stop by on my way to the office in the morning?”

  Vesalius was firm. “That won’t do, Mr. Trout. I’m leaving for Durham tomorrow for a few days. It’ll have to be this afternoon.”

  “If you insist. Can we make it in one hour? I haven’t had lunch.”

  “Forty-five minutes. And please be prompt.” The receiver clicked off.

  “Once a bastard, always a bastard,” Harry whistled through his teeth as he kicked off his slippers and reached for a pair of socks.

  Ten minutes later he was racing out the door, raincoat and umbrella tucked under one arm, working briefcase in the other. The sausage and port would have to wait. Whatever it was Vesalius had to say he didn’t think he’d called him out to discuss the weather.

  When Trout got there he wasn’t disappointed. He was ushered in by a young boy aged fourteen or fifteen, whose marked resemblance to his father stamped him with the same reserve, the same driving precision as the older Vesalius. Nevertheless, he was pleasant enough, taking Trout’s now-soaked raincoat while he showed him into the apartment.

  “Hello. You’re Inspector Trout. My father is expecting you, please come this way.” His handshake had a genuine if unexpected warmth.

  Trout looked about, half expecting the senior Vesalius to be squatting amongst his trains. But he was nowhere in sight.

  “Trout—in here,” a voice called.

  He followed the sound of the voice, walking past the trains and down a single stair into the study beyond.

  Vesalius stood opposite, behind a large slab table on which stacks of officious manila folders indicated that he’d indeed been busy. He stood up as Trout entered, looked at him blandly, anchored his fingers together and began speaking in his characteristically dry manner.

  “At your last visit, Inspector, I must confess a preoccupation with other matters, and perhaps, did not give you as much attention as you may have felt requisite. Of course, we needn’t belabor the footnote to these . . . cases, as you call them—that doctors are as likely to die strange deaths as anyone else, perhaps more likely than most. A schoolday friend, and one of the most popular punters our class had, passed away under bizarre circumstances. He contrived to get bitten by one of the experimental animals in a tropical medicine class. Suffice it to say that the animal was a mamba.

  “At first your observations, as you referred to them, simply didn’t jell together enough to make a ‘case’ even though the temptation was at hand. I hadn’t seen Thornton for about three years, and differing schedules kept me from seeing much of Dunwoody and Hargreaves. It was quite comfortable to believe at the time you made your presentation, that these men had, somehow, all become fanciers of pets. Not so far-fetched when you consider the mess the average dog can create.”

  Trout, who’d been reclining in a large, leather, swayback chair during Vesalius’ excursion, was moved to comment by this last vaguery: “I’m sure that even a man of such catholic tastes as yours, Doctor, would be hard pressed to discover the endearing qualities of bats, let alone to keep them loose in great quantities in an apartment”

  Vesalius was unphazed. “For the record, Inspector, animals of all kinds repell me, which fact certainly doesn’t prevent others from exercising their whims. But pets and their masters are not what concerns us here today.”

  “I think not,” Trout agreed.

  “My doubt—reservation would be more descriptive— dissolved at poor Longstreet’s death. I greatly respected his dedication, and saw him rather regularly at the clinico-pathological conferences he organized in the charity wards. His economy kept him apart from the usual round of meetings, luncheons and conferences that afflict the average doctor. He was as poor as a vicar. This meant little to him; he gave his best to that dingy little examination room in Chelsea, serving persons less fortunate. Wesley Longstreet was a man to be admired. His loss will hurt the profession. It certainly has troubled me.”

  Trout nodded, not wanting to disturb him.

  “When I called at your office I told you I was into something which would occupy me for a few days.” He gestured at the manila folders. “These are case files. When you hear what I’ve got to say, I think you will understand why I have called you here.”

  Trout urged him on: “Shoot!”

  Vesalius coughed to clear his throat. “Very well then. Three years ago I retired from my surgical practice for personal reasons, which seemed compelling enough at the time. Since then I’ve limited myself to consultation with an occasional direct participation in a case. The book which I’d set out to do remains unfinished.”

  “We all get bitten at least once.” Trout hardly concealed his amusement at finding a weakness in this otherwise rigid man.

  Vesalius ignored him. “Toward that, I’ve kept a record of every case I’ve served on in the last decade; some twelve hundred in all.” He removed a short stubby German-made cigar from a humidor, lighted it amidst luxurious blue puffs, and resumed, punching the air with his cigar for effect. “As you know, modern surgery is all teamwork, often requiring as many as a dozen people: surgeons, anesthetists, internists, as well as other specialists.” He shuffled through the folders, talking as he scanned their labels: “If we rule out all cases older than five years, the year that poor Dunwoody, our “bat victim” resumed practice in London, there was a total of thirty-seven cases in which I served with any two of the four deceased men. Thirty-seven out of twelve hundred. The cases in which any three of us served is reduced to a scan
t dozen.” He puffed and watched Trout to register his reaction. “And there was only one case—just one—where all of us worked together.”

  He extracted a single folder, handed it across the table to Trout who stood opposite Vesalius now.

  Trout read aloud while he thumbed through the folder: “Victoria Regina Phibes. Born November 27, 1893 . . . married . . . no children . . . diagnosis: metastic carcinoma of the uterus.” Trout looked up. “That’s a rough shake.”

  Vesalius nodded. “As rough as they come,” he said.

  Trout continued. “Recommendation: immediate radical resection.” He turned the page and stopped at the hospital admissions sheet which contained Victoria Phibes’ snapshot. He studied this for a moment, then closed the cover and looked squarely at Vesalius. “She’s very beautiful. What happened?”

  “The operation was routine, if you can call ten hours of dissection, routine. But as is the rule in cases like this, good surgery is seldom enough. There were complications; she died in the recovery room.”

  Trout was not moved. “Did you know her personally, Doctor?”

  Vesalius took the folder from Trout and placed it back in the stack. “Yes, and no. She was a comparatively new patient. I’d seen her a few times at the hospital—casually, not professionally. Then, of course, she was admitted and we operated almost at once.”

  Trout looked at the folder which Vesalius had placed atop one stack. “She would be difficult to forget.”

  “Quite a beautiful young woman. Even in death there was a strange presence about her. I remember being puzzled that she had no visitors while she was in the recovery room.”

  Trout started. “What about the husband?”

  “He was in Switzerland at the time. A Dr. Anton Phibes. We cabled him of course . . .”

  “And?”

  Vesalius looked off. “You know, tragedy has a way of doubling itself. The car he was driving went off the road in the Juras. He was burned to death in the crash.”

  Trout looked up sharply. “You’re sure about that, Doctor?”

  Vesalius sat back in his seat and spoke with minor triumph. “It must seem a tempting theory for you, Inspector, but I recall reading reports of the funeral. Both the husband and his lady were interred at the same time in the family vault outside of London.”

  Trout began to pace, talking with the beat of his walk. “Together in eternal repose; they must’ve been quite fond of each other.”

  Vesalius nodded in agreement. “Like Troilus and Cressida, Abelard and Heloise. It would seem that they were completely devoted.”

  Trout stopped pacing and, gazing at Vesalius, spoke now in an even tone: “We’ve also set the entire surgical teams’ death sentence. Someone, for whatever reason, has damned them everybody listed here—to eternal retribution. And that includes you.” His face darkened. “Had we known about this yesterday, we might’ve been able to save Longstreet’s life.”

  Vesalius was shaken. “Don’t you think I’ve already thought of that? Common decency would have demanded that I speak out. Please know that it matters to me little what you think, Inspector. But I will vouchsafe the fact that this connection we’ve described here was unknown to me as late as today’s breakfast.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you’d been remiss, Doctor.”

  “On the contrary, you were merely stipulating a causability. But enough of this ratiocination. It is to be hoped that the remaining persons involved—that would be Drs. Hedgepeth, Kitaj, Whitcomb and who else— He fumbled— “That’s it, Nurse Allan.”

  Trout interrupted amiably. “You’re forgetting the ninth victim, Doctor.” Vesalius was puzzled. Trout broke the spell: “Yourself, Doctor Vesalius. You served on that team.”

  “Yes, but only as a consultant. I don’t know if I am qualified for the—for the execution. However, I do have a further question for you, Inspector. Eight or nine persons served on that surgical floor. What are your plans to protect the remaining survivors? Although heaven knows from what.”

  Trout brought it to a point, his voice low and solid. “The G’tach.”

  Vesalius picked it right up. “The curse of the pharaohs?”

  Trout prepared to leave. He walked forward to the other room and the far doorway with Vesalius at his elbow. Both men had come face to face with the stark dimension of the case, realizing at once that someone or something was bringing murder into their lives for reasons which were definitely, damnably obscure. The afternoon’s conversation had brought that realization and its chastening effects to them.

  Trout accepted his raincoat and umbrella from Vesalius’ son, and thanking him, waited for the boy to leave before he had a last word with the doctor.

  “It seems clear, Doctor, that someone is using the ancient biblical curses of the G’tach to kill all those involved in Victoria Phibes’ operation. It is a grim, ironic, deadly response but, nevertheless, one which must be reckoned with.”

  Vesalius replied in a near whisper. “But who, Inspector?”

  Trout opened the door. “The husband’s dead. There are no children. The tragedies happened years ago. I’ll ask you, Doctor—who the hell are we looking for?”

  The rain had stopped when Harry Trout reached the pavement and a few stars had broken through the high, patchy clouds. The air had a clean, washed smell made more fragrant by the still damp buds on the young trees. A few rain puddles glistened on the sidewalk and there was very little traffic. A good spring night.

  But Harry Trout wasn’t very interested in spring nights nor clean air. He disliked having his day off ruined and now he was mulling over a case that’d seemed headed in the right direction when he laid it out with Schenley over Scotch and sodas the day before. Now Vesalius had changed all that by shifting from the disdainful professional to the dedicated amateur. But the man’s induction had been unassailable. It had to be acknowledged. If only his logic hadn’t led to a blind alley.

  He stepped off the curb and right into a water puddle. Cursing now, he hurried across the street and jumped into his car. Rather than fight the saucepans at home, he’d grab a beef sandwich somewhere and go right to bed when he got home. Tomorrow was Monday.

  Men had different ways to launch the week than those fortunate enough to be self-accountable for their time. Some made checklists, others reviewed files or plotted on blackboards, still others drank large amounts of coffee, orange juice or whatever they could to counteract the night before. For Harry Trout, a half-hour on the handball court set him right for whatever else that came along the rest of the day.

  To a very few men, and these were either very rich or unemployed, Monday was just one day in the week. These men took in stride this singular day, the week’s inaugural, whose tyranny had enslaved the bulk of the wage-earning population in dulled acceptance and disbelief for generations. These very few men met Mondays on equal terms while most of their colleagues hated or feared this week’s first day.

  Dr. Arthur Hedgepeth belonged to this former group. Born rich and marrying into even greater wealth, Arthur Hedgepeth condescended to enter the profession late in his life, not out of any dedication, but rather of a fear of prolonged ennui. He surprised everyone but himself by gaining entry to the University of Edinburgh’s highly regarded medical school, where he conducted himself in exemplary fashion and graduated with honors. These were awarded grudgingly, and there was no doubt in his and his instructors’ minds that they came as a result of his meritorious performance and for no other eason. Academicians waste little affection on the scions of the very wealthy.

  But the Hedgepeth fortune, if it hindered his acceptance in all but a few circles during his scholastic career, afforded him the luxury of rejecting illusions in favor of practical judgments. He was to use this approach to his subsequent professional course with effect. Characteristically, Hedgepeth chose surgery when the time came to select an internship, because he recognized quite clearly that although innovation in medical research was beyond his reach, distinction in thi
s most “solid” of the medical arts was not. Throughout his long career which had already spanned five decades, Arthur Hedgepeth was to demonstrate the correctness of this choice time and time again.

  In the early years he worked diligently, putting in far more hours than he planned. He took routine cases as well as some not routine, gaining in the course of his practice the honor of his patients and the acknowledgment of his colleagues. He was “a man who knew his business.” This state of affairs suited him fine, fitting in rather well with his own self-assessment that he was a “journeyman surgeon.” When he reached sixty, he permitted himself the one extravagance that comes with age and commensurate wealth. He worked only when he cared to.

  On Mondays, Dr. Hedgepeth did not care to work. Rather, he enjoyed motoring, which he did whenever the weather permitted. For that purpose he purchased a Bentley sedan and had it furnished with all the comforts of a touring car. He would give orders to his chauffeur to bring the car around at six, at which precise time he would embark on an all-day excursion to the Lake District, to Cornwall, to Devon or some other place that caught his fancy. On days when the weather held he would take lunch from a wicker hamper prepared the night before, turning back for home after a two-hour repast at a roadside park.

  On this, the second Monday in May, he was en route to Devensey to visit the site where Duke William first set foot in England with his Norman followers. Benson, his chauffeur of thirty years, was driving up front, his eyes quite intent on the road because of the fog. They had already passed through the London environs and were now negotiating the parklike greenbelt south of the city. It was not quite seven and few cars were on the road.

  Hedgepeth sat in the rear, bundled against the fog’s chill, smoking his breakfast cigar. He looked at the scenery with little interest since the fog was still rather thick.

  Suddenly something on the road up ahead caught his attention.

  “Pull over, Benson,” he said, tapping on the chauffeur’s window.

  A long saloon car was stopped in distress at the side of the pavement. Hedgepeth was distracted by the sight of the young lady who stood, helpless and forlorn, next to the car’s open cowl. “Stop here, Benson, and see what you can do.”