“Thank you for the marital advice, McCluskey. The breadth of your acumen stuns me.”
“I’m assuming that’s a compliment, doc.” Almost as soon as the policeman left, Alan walked through the door carrying a suit of clothes over one arm. He was alone.
“My fair sister isn’t certain that she wants to see you,” Alan said, preempting the question. “She has entrusted me to assure her that you’re no threat to die.”
“Why doesn’t she want to see me?”
“You have to ask?”
“But, Alan, she told me to see Miriam. That I should be sure. That she could abide anything but dishonesty.”
“And you believed her? My word, old man, I don’t know much about women, but even I wouldn’t have fallen for that.” Alan handed over the clothes. “Your housekeeper sends her love.”
“Her love?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Please, Alan, go fetch Maribeth. I must speak with her.”
A few minutes later, Noah was dressed and Maribeth was at the door. She stayed beyond the threshold for a moment, then walked stiffly into the room. Her eye went to the sutures on Noah’s forehead. She started toward him, but then pulled back.
“Alan tells me that you are in no danger. I’m very pleased.”
Noah moved across and took her by the arms. “You must trust me, Maribeth. I love you and want to marry you. You asked me to be certain and I am.”
“But now I’m not. Competing against a living woman turned out not to be as simple as I imagined.”
“You’re not competing against anyone, Maribeth.”
“Alan told me you saved her life.”
“Would you have been convinced if I had let her die?”
“Of course not. You know what I mean.”
“No. I’m not certain I do.”
“Do you intend to see her again?”
Yes, Noah thought, that was the question. “Only to help solve the puzzle,” he said. “I’m very close. The reporter was right. They’re murdering children.”
“Who?”
“German pharmaceutical makers. Martin Smith. And Frias. I can’t stop now. But the moment I’ve got my proof, I’ll never see Miriam Herzberg again. I swear to you.”
“But will you never think of her again?”
Noah moved forward and put his hands on either side of Maribeth’s face. She pulled against him for a moment, then placed a gloved forefinger near the sutures. “Does it hurt very much?”
“No. I’ve taken a wonder drug. The Bayer Company seems to have produced an endless supply of miracles.”
“Well, then, I’ll hope for one more.”
He leaned in and kissed her. Suddenly, he wanted her terribly.
“Alan has something for you,” she said.
“What is it? He didn’t say anything.”
“He was waiting to see . . .”
“I understand. I’ll be downstairs soon.”
“I’ll be waiting.” As Maribeth turned to leave, she added, “She’s in room 224.”
TWENTY-FOUR
DAY 6. MONDAY, 9/25—5:30 P.M.
Hello, Noah.”
Miriam had been placed in a room with three other patients, all post-traumatic, none of whom had been in the explosion. A woman with severe facial contusions and a fractured left orbital, a result of a beating by her husband, was asleep, sedated. A prostitute, no more than fifteen, had been treated for a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Another young woman, recovering from a mastectomy, lay staring at the ceiling, biting her lip, tears running down the sides of her face. Noah had wiped her cheeks and tried to speak with her, but the woman had refused to acknowledge him. Noah had also encountered two policemen in the hall on the way to her room.
“How are you feeling, Miriam?” he asked when he returned to her bed. “You are looking well.” She was, surprisingly. The pallor was gone, and her face had regained crispness. Her eyes were sharp and focused. He took her pulse. Strong and regular.
“What did they do for you other than the transfusions?”
“Saline solution. That’s what the doctor said. And some tablets for pain.”
“Blue?”
Miriam nodded. Aspirin was fast becoming the analgesic of choice.
“All quite right. If you continue to take liquids and nourishment, you should be able to leave tomorrow or the next day.”
“And go where?”
“Home. I’m certain there is no shortage of friends to care for you.”
“Papa is murdered, Noah. If I go home, I suspect I will be as well.”
“I’m terribly sorry about your father, Miriam.” She was correct, of course. If a rival faction had planted the bomb, as McCluskey thought, none of her acquaintances could be trusted. “But I can assure you at least he didn’t suffer.”
Miriam glared at him. What had he said?
“Papa suffered his entire life. He suffered for himself. He suffered for my mother. He suffered for people he did not even know. But mostly, he suffered for me. It is only scant consolation, I’m afraid, that he did not suffer as he died.”
“I’m sorry.” He could think of nothing else to say.
“Papa was a great man, you know, despite anything the coppers say. He was kind, compassionate, and gentle. The most intelligent man I ever knew, but the wisest as well. And, despite what you may think, he understood that violence would simply breed violence.”
“Even in Chicago?” The words were out before Noah could stop them.
“The Haymarket? Where did you hear that? McCluskey? It’s a lie. Papa was in Chicago before the riot, yes, but to try to stop the violence. He had been in war. He told me, ‘No man should die by the hand of another.’ He had terrible arguments with Spies. He said riots would only bring repression, not freedom. Spies responded by threatening Papa with a revolver. Afterward, the Chicago coppers tried to involve him, but everyone they questioned insisted Papa had nothing to do with it. Except Spies. Spies swore the riot was Papa’s idea. That he had written the incendiary pamphlets. The coppers wanted Papa, but they weren’t about to legitimize Spies by using him as a prosecution witness. So they had to let him go. The coppers have been after him for thirteen years. I suppose they finally decided if they had no cause to arrest him, all that was left was to murder him.”
“But the police didn’t murder your father, Miriam.”
“Of course they did.”
“No. I saw who did it.”
Miriam pushed herself up in bed, then winced. “You saw?”
Noah told her of Sasha’s hurried exit.
“I can’t believe it. Father rescued him. Took him in. Sasha was living in the streets. If it was anyone but you who told me . . .”
“McCluskey told me that Sasha was a communist and that the communists hated your father. Is he right?”
Miriam heaved a sigh. “As much as I hate McCluskey, it’s possible. The communists do . . . did . . . hate Papa. He refused to ascribe to violent revolution. Sasha could have been planted in our office, I suppose. Now that I think about how we met him . . .”
“How?”
“He was always on the street in the same place. In front of a clothier on Broadway. He didn’t beg per se, but was always available for odd jobs. For some reason, or so we thought, he took a liking to Papa. Papa didn’t trust him right off but eventually began to give him errands to run or messages to deliver. He was fearless, eager . . . too eager, I suppose . . . and very bright. Eventually, Papa gave him a job.” She began to breathe more rapidly and lost color.
“You need rest now, Miriam. I’ll try and return tonight. Certainly tomorrow morning. Then we can discuss your living arrangements. You’re safe enough here for now.” He ventured a smile. “And please, Miriam. The doctors and nurses are not revolutionaries. Just do what they tell you.”
As Noah turned to leave, Miriam reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. Her grip was still strong. “Papa always took care of me,” she said. “You’ll have to t
ake care of me now.”
“Of course.”
Alan and Maribeth were waiting for him in the lobby.
“How is she?” Maribeth asked evenly.
“My Jewess?”
“How is Miss Herzberg?”
“She’s doing remarkably well. She appears to have the constitution of a horse.”
“Perfect, then, for a man with the temperament of a mule.”
Alan placed his hand on his sister’s arm. “Has she been told about her father?”
“She didn’t need to be told.”
“The police say he was a murderer.”
“He was nothing of the sort. He was a philosophy professor and a war hero. He cared for others. You would have liked him, Alan.”
“One can like a man but not what he stands for.”
“I believe he stood for the same things you do. In any event, Maribeth said there was something you wanted to tell me.”
“Show you, actually. Feel up to a trip to the hospital?”
“I’m in a hospital.”
“My hospital. Assuming Dr. Dollars isn’t about.”
Noah turned to Maribeth. “Can you trust me a little longer?”
“I don’t trust you now.” But then she waggled her fingers at him. “Go. Find out what’s killing those children. It will infuriate my parents and Jamie.”
TWENTY-FIVE
DAY 6. MONDAY, 9/25—6:15 P.M.
Alan led Noah to a bed in the children’s ward, about halfway down the corridor on the left. In it lay a girl of about ten, pretty and slight, with flaxen braids. At the side of the bed sat her mother, a larger, older, beaten-down version of the girl. The girl was sleeping, although Noah could tell instantly that she had been sedated.
“This is Magda Szysarska,” Alan said, indicating the mother. “And this is her daughter Wanda. They are from Canarsie. Mrs. Szysarska is a cleaning woman. She and Wanda live alone. Her husband ran off two years ago. She speaks almost no English. When we first saw Wanda, she was exhibiting all the symptoms of morphia deprivation. Her mother brought Wanda all the way here by carriage about seven hours ago.”
“Why did she do that?”
“You’ll see.” Alan motioned to a nurse who was tending a bed at the far end of the ward. “Rutya speaks Polish,” he explained to Noah as the woman hurried over. When she arrived, Alan said, “Tell Mrs. Szysarska to repeat what she told me before.”
The nurse said something unintelligible to the woman in the chair. Noah could not even get the gist; Polish seemed nothing like German. Mrs. Szysarska looked quizzically to Alan. She had just told the story. When the pediatrician indicated she should do so again, the woman let loose with a torrent.
The nurse nodded throughout the rendition. When the girl’s mother had finished, she gestured with a backhanded flick of her wrist for the nurse to relate the account to the doctors.
Rutya, the nurse, spoke in a thick Slavic accent. “Mrs. Szysarska say Wanda get sick ’bout four days ’go. Bad cough. Dry. ’Stead of free clinic, she go to local doctor. Molk. Dr. Molk very ’cessful. Big house. Two nurses. But Mrs. Szysarska know cough very dangerous and want to make sure Wanda get right treatment.
“Dr. Molk see Wanda and right away get very friendly. Mrs. Szysarska surprised. Dr. Molk usually charge two dollars for visit an’ poor people don’ come. But Dr. Molk say he know Mrs. Szysarska can’t pay. Then he say he got jus’ the thing to help Wanda.”
“What was it?” Noah asked. He looked to the Polish woman at the bedside. She was staring back at him and nodding, as if they were part of an unspoken conspiracy.
“Pill,” said the nurse. “Secret pill, doctor say. Very new. Mrs. Szysarska can’t tell no one. Dr. Molk say he come by in two days to check on Wanda. Mrs. Szysarska can’ believe. No doctor in America ever come to her house before.”
“And did he?”
“Ja. Wanda had got better by then. Cough stopped. But after doctor examine her, he’s not happy ’bout something. Asks how many pills Wanda took. Mrs. Szysarska says she got to give more pills ’cause they stop working sooner. Dr. Molk get upset and tell Mrs. Szysarska to give back rest of pills, ’cause they won’t work no more.”
Tilson, in Newark, had demanded the pills back only after the poor Ryan girl had died.
“After Dr. Molk leave, Wanda get sicker. But different. Stomach this time. Diarrhea, cramp, heavy perspiration. So Mrs. Szysarska bring Wanda here.”
“Why here?” Noah asked again. “Why not a hospital nearer her home?”
“Mrs. Szysarska don’t want to go anywhere that Dr. Molk might come. She say Dr. Molk turning Wanda into dope fiend.”
“How would she know that?”
Magda Szysarska looked up at Noah. “In . . . Poland . . . my . . . father . . . doctor.”
“When Wanda arrived here,” Alan said, “her symptoms were as acute as you described in the Anschutz boy. And, Noah, if it will help set your mind at rest, I also administered laudanum to deal with the immediate problem. Now that I know with what I am dealing, I intend to wean Wanda off her craving slowly.”
Noah turned to the nurse. “What color were these pills?”
Rutya wrinkled her forehead. For a moment, she thought she had misunderstood the question. Then she turned to Magda Szysarska and uttered a short phrase. Mrs. Szysarska replied with a one-word answer.
“Green,” the nurse said.
“If we only had one of those pills,” Noah said to Alan.
Noah felt a tap on his arm. He turned to see Magda Szysarska looking up at him from her chair, a thin smile on her face. The woman reached into the pocket of her dress. When she opened her hand, it contained two green pills. Mrs. Szysarska placed them in Noah’s hand. Then she said something to the nurse.
“She say she learn from her father which doctors to trust and which not.”
Noah did not need to wait for Justin Herold. He went quickly to the laboratory in the hospital basement, withdrew Herold’s text, and prepared the reagents. This time, he used only a few grains and performed all four tests. Each was positive. The green tablets that had sickened Wanda Szysarska, killed Sinead Ryan, and likely killed Willard Anschutz were a morphiate. Acetylized morphine almost certainly.
He returned to Alan’s office and handed him the tablet he had used for the test. “Alan, could you seal this in an envelope and engage a messenger for me?” Noah gave him Justin Herold’s address. On one of his cards, Noah wrote, “The sedative for coughs,” and asked Alan to place it with the tablet. Herold could perform the tests to confirm the composition of the tablet, although Noah had no doubt of what he would find.
Heroin. The new wonder drug. Safe. Tested. Without risk. The drug with which Arnold Frias had murdered Willard Anschutz.
TWENTY-SIX
DAY 6. MONDAY, 9/25—7:30 P.M.
Mrs. Jensen’s hands were clasped against her bosom. “Oh, doctor. I’m so pleased you’re home. I was so worried.” Her body tilted ever so slightly his way, as if she had wished to embrace him but was restraining herself.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jensen. I would very much appreciate a cup of tea.”
Noah lowered himself into the parlor chair, put his feet up, and closed his eyes. He opened them to the sound of a knock at the front door. The clock on the mantel told him he had slept for an hour.
He started to get up, but Mrs. Jensen popped out and gestured for him to remain seated. Noah heard the door open and then conversation. He couldn’t make out what was said, but it did not sound as if Mrs. Jensen had extended a warm greeting to whomever had come calling.
“Hello, doc. How are you feeling?”
Noah pushed himself straighter in his chair. “Reasonably well, McCluskey. What are you doing here?”
“Well, doc, if the truth be known, I was worried about you.”
“I’m touched.”
“There you go again, doc. But I mean it. You saved at least four lives today. Even though I got little use for any of the four, I got to admire you for d
oing it.”
“Thank you, McCluskey. But any doctor would have done the same.”
“Not like you did. You kept your head. You made passersby help. You moved fast, doc. If I’m ever in trouble, you’re who I’d want.”
Had he really done all that?
“Also, I brought you something.” McCluskey removed an envelope from his coat. “This ain’t such good news, I’m afraid. We arrested Carl Seitz this afternoon. Know him?”
Noah shook his head.
“Anarchist. One of them we watch closely. Pretty sure he killed at least two, and he’s been known to get involved with explosives himself. After he heard about Mauritz, he took off for the International Workers Party headquarters. Those are the communists. We got him with two pistols, a knife, and four sticks of dynamite under his coat.”
“A rather impressive arsenal.”
“That’s what they do, doc. Sooner you realize it, better off we’ll all be.”
“Perhaps. But what does this have to do with me? It’s no secret that there are violent people among the anarchists. Miriam told me that her father was constantly trying to discourage violence. That it made him unpopular and might even have been the reason he was killed.”
“Don’t know about that, doc. But I do have an idea what prompted Seitz to take off with mayhem on his mind.” McCluskey brandished the envelope. “He had this letter on him. I’m sorry to do this so soon after . . . but I thought you should read it before you get yourself in any deeper.”
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper.
“My dearest comrade,” it read, “if you have been given this, I must be imprisoned or dead. We have spoken often that our struggle does not depend on any one man or woman. In war, my dear Carl, as I know so well, casualties are inevitable. There are always those who do not survive, who can only hope to be remembered with honor. And we are at war, Carl. There are no lines of battle, perhaps, no hill to be taken or fort to be stormed. Our war is not for territory but for the dignity of men, women, and children everywhere. We seek food for the hungry, shelter for the homeless, and equity for the downtrodden. We must root out the pestilence of greed and class distinction. Destroy it wherever it is found. Ruthlessly, viciously, and forever.
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