The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  She headed for the circular staircase at the far end of the room, motioning for Abigail to follow her. Wearing a slim-fitting nightgown of black satin, she moved like a nymph, supple and quick, as she hurried up the stairs, looking back every few seconds. Abigail’s feet followed unquestioningly, though there was no reason she should trust this dreamy-eyed stranger. Perhaps the girl was on drugs. Perhaps she was luring her into some kind of a trap.

  They reached the top and continued silently down a long hallway. All manner of disturbing sounds—grunts and screams and shouted obscenities—could be heard from behind the line of closed doors. Finally, the girl stopped at one of them, opened it, and peeked inside. She motioned for Abigail to enter ahead of her.

  The interior was dim, lit only by an oil lamp placed on a night table by the bed. The room’s furnishings were surprisingly decent, if in a tawdry sort of way—red velvet curtains with black fringe, a four-poster bed with double-scalloped curtains and a satin coverlet, a mirrored dressing table, an elaborately carved chest of drawers. There was a large gilt-framed painting of naked goddesses romping in the forest and a leopard-skin rug on the floor—where Shaena lay asleep, curled up with her stuffed gray kitten.

  Abigail rushed over, falling to her knees at the little girl’s side. “Shaena!”

  The child opened her eyes. At first, there was no sign of recognition. Then she broke into a smile, throwing her arms around Abigail’s neck. “You found me!”

  Abigail pulled her close. “Yes, I’m here.”

  “You’d better hurry,” said the girl who had been her guide. “Right now it’s quiet up here, but not for long. Some of the men are pretty quick, in and out. We encourage it that way, you know.”

  Abigail scrambled to her feet and lifted Shaena into her arms. The child had lost weight.

  “Thank you so much. But—” She hesitated, suddenly concerned for what might happen to the poor creature when Mama Sally found out Shaena was missing. “Are you going to be in trouble?”

  The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. What difference does it make?”

  “But certainly it makes a difference.”

  “It’s too late now. I’ve already done it. And I’m not sorry,” she said, glancing at Shaena. It was clear that she was drawn to the child. “I grew up here. I know what it’s like. I don’t want that for her.”

  She went to the door, opened it, and checked outside in both directions. Then she turned back to whisper, “I think we can make it. But hurry.”

  Abigail slipped into the hallway, holding Shaena tightly, and the three of them began creeping toward the staircase. They were almost halfway when one of the doors behind them opened, and she heard the sound of voices, a woman’s and a man’s. They seemed to be bickering over something. In a panic, she flattened her back against the wall, knowing it would do no good. Any moment they would be discovered. She was a stranger; there were bound to be questions.

  “Here! The closet,” the girl said, opening another door, narrower than the others, and urging Abigail forward.

  The door closed. She clutched Shaena to her chest, huddling among the long gowns and furs, her senses quickly overwhelmed by the smell of mothballs and sachet, the darkness and the heat. Shaena began to cry. Abigail pressed the child’s face against her bosom to muffle the sound, gently stroking her hair and whispering reassurances.

  The man and woman were coming down the hall, closer now. She could hear their conversation clearly.

  “I’m not saying I don’t like it, but you still owe me.”

  “You know how much this hat is worth? Look at that fancy label on the inside. It comes all the way from Paris, France.” Abigail was immediately struck by the man’s voice. There was something familiar about it.

  “Let me see it again.”

  She could tell they had stopped right outside the closet. But where was the girl? Had she abandoned them?

  “Look, right here. Paris, France. Just like I said.”

  “So I see. Here, let me have it,” the woman said. “Give a look, Stella. What do you think? Does it flatter me? Or maybe it’s too matronly?”

  “Beautiful.” So she was still there! And her name was Stella. “I bet that came from one of those fancy stores—maybe even Bonwit Teller.”

  “You think so? Well—” There was a pause. “All right, you win. But next time, bring me cash. Mama Sally’s taking more than her share these days, and I need the extra. Can’t eat a hat, now can I?” She laughed. “Stella, honey—here, put this back in my room for me, would you? I don’t want Sally getting a look at it. She decides it suits her, that’ll be the last I ever see of it.”

  “Sure, I’ll take it for you.”

  “Come on, let’s go, Shark. I got other customers, you know.”

  Shark! Even in her precarious circumstances, Abigail couldn’t help but find it amusing to think of Shark as one of Mama Sally’s patrons.

  The two descended the stairs, their footsteps fading. Finally the closet door opened. How wonderful it was to breathe again!

  “We’ll have to go down the back stairs instead,” Stella said, nodding in the direction from which they’d just come. “It will be safer.”

  Abigail followed her wordlessly, thinking how narrowly she had missed running into Shark and fearing at any moment someone else might venture into the hall and sound the alarm to Mama Sally. She watched her every step down the stairs, careful to avoid a slip or stumble. It was only when they had reached the bottom and she looked up that she noticed the hat on Stella’s head.

  Blue felt draped with black chiffon, adorned with red silk rosettes and several colorful bird-of-paradise plumes.

  They made it out the door and hurried to the curb. Paddy had done his job; the driver had waited. But after the boy helped Abigail and Shaena into the cab, he mumbled a hasty excuse and took off alone. Abigail wondered if he might be afraid she would hand over Shaena, and he would be left to look after her.

  It was true that the full weight of the responsibility she’d taken on had begun to sink in. This little girl, at least for now, was hers. She would need to feed her, clothe her, shelter her. Certainly there were places she could have dropped off the child, places where Shaena would have been just one more among many poor, abused, and abandoned children. But Abigail knew already she could not bring herself to do such a thing.

  Not today.

  She settled into the seat of the cab, glancing nervously out the window. Apparently no one had seen them leave Mama Sally’s. She was relieved when the driver finally flicked his whip on the horse’s back and they were on their way.

  But it was with a feeling of dread that her thoughts turned to the Parisian hat. It was Mrs. Moser’s, she was sure. She recalled when the woman handed it to her, along with her gloves and parasol, to place in the closet. She had admired it, even made a point of telling her so. There was no way Shark could have gotten his hands on that hat unless he’d stolen it.

  And how would his path ever have crossed that of Mrs. Moser unless Franklin was somehow involved?

  She remembered how he had gone up to his apartment while Mrs. Moser was lying on the table in the operating room, after he’d given her the sedative. Abigail had wondered why he would leave at such a critical moment, what he could be doing that was so urgent. He must have been telephoning someone, Shark or one of his accomplices. He must have been arranging for the horse-drawn hansom cab to come and pick her up, probably the same cab that had transported Paddy when he was chloroformed into unconsciousness, perhaps the same one that had brought them the fresh cadaver—from God knows where. They had taken Mrs. Moser away.

  It had been nine days now. They must have killed her! What else could they have done?

  She buried her face in Shaena’s soft hair, trembling all over.

  “Why are you shaking?” Shaena said in her dear, squeaky little voice.

  Abigail pulled herself together. There was no sense in upsetting the child. “I’m just glad to get away from that pl
ace. And excited that we’re together again.”

  “Me, too! I had the best time ever with you. Even when my face was sore.”

  Then, sticking her thumb in her mouth, she leaned her head against Abigail’s chest and promptly fell asleep.

  She took Shaena to her apartment, bathed her, and settled her into her favorite spot, Abigail’s luxurious feather bed—a gift of sorts from Franklin, though she told herself now that she had always intended to pay him back for it. Then she ran across the hall to ask her kindly neighbor if she could again impose on her to peek in on her little niece until she returned from a few errands.

  She went straight to Franklin’s apartment. Prudence was clearly relieved to see her. She reported that there had been no further vomiting, but now Melilla was coughing.

  “Let me take over, Prudence. I’ll tend to the girls. You must be tired.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I am a bit weary, actually.”

  “Make yourself a cup of tea and relax. Just be sure to leave the door from the stairs unlocked. I may need to go back and forth to the office, for supplies and such.”

  “What do you think is wrong with them?”

  “I’ll know better once I’ve taken their temperatures and listened to their lungs.”

  She patted Prudence on the shoulder and sent her off for a rest. Then she went into the twins’ room and approached the bed where the girls lay sleeping. She lightly placed the back of her hand on Valencia’s forehead; now it, too, felt warm. She touched Melilla and gasped; she was on fire.

  In a panic, she ran downstairs to the operating room, found the stethoscope and a thermometer, and hurried back to the twins’ room. Not wishing to wake them, she decided after all to delay taking their temperatures. Using the stethoscope, however, she was able to listen to Melilla’s lungs, first the left, then the right. Her breathing was somewhat labored, but it seemed the congestion was mainly in the right lung. Next, she listened to her heart; it was beating much faster than it should.

  She checked Valencia as well but found nothing out of the ordinary. The stronger twin seemed to be holding her own.

  Abigail went downstairs again, this time to Franklin’s private office. From his bookcase, she took out a volume on infectious diseases. She was by no means sure of a diagnosis, but it seemed prudent to assume the worst. She looked up the chapter on pneumonia, skimming it in its entirety first; then, sitting at his desk, she began to take notes.

  “Milk punch to stimulate the heart . . . quinine, two grains every four hours in a tablespoon of brandy . . . opium for pain and to calm the cough . . . linseed poultice covered with oiled silk over the affected lung . . .”

  When she was finished, she went back to the operating room and tore apart the medicine cabinet in search of everything she would need. It was all there—except the milk for the punch and silk for the poultice, both easily obtainable from Prudence.

  She put everything into a large bag and then headed for the sickroom. She could hear Melilla coughing as she approached.

  “All right, the doctor is in!” she said as she entered, trying to sound cheerful. The girls were awake now and sitting up in bed.

  “Miss Abby!” Valencia squealed. Melilla tried to speak, but the effort only made her start to cough. She held a napkin to her mouth. When she lowered it, Abigail saw a glob of thick, green mucus.

  She took both their temperatures, still attempting to make light of their condition so as not to worry them. She even joked about how lazy they’d become, lounging around in bed all day—until she saw Melilla’s temperature, and then she sobered quickly. It was 102.

  She got to work, following the instructions she had jotted down about the punch and the medicines and the poultice. Prudence brought her some milk and a piece of silk. She labored for nearly an hour preparing everything and then administering it in the proper doses to Melilla, knowing that Valencia would be affected as well through their shared circulatory system.

  The opium made them both sleepy. As soon as she was sure they’d drifted off, and that nothing further needed to be done for several hours, she tiptoed from the room, shutting the door behind her.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea, Miss Platford? Or something to eat?” Prudence said, coming out of the kitchen.

  “I’m fine, thank you. But could you manage here by yourself for a little while?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am.”

  “Look in on them every fifteen minutes or so, if you don’t mind. I’ll be back in about an hour. There are a couple of things I need to take care of right away.”

  Wearily, Abigail again descended the staircase. Her plan was to see if Mrs. Krueger would look after Shaena overnight. She knew it was a lot to ask of a neighbor, but she suspected the elderly widow wouldn’t mind. Actually, Shaena was the one most likely to object. She loved that big, soft feather bed, and Mrs. Krueger had only a tiny cot in her spare room.

  And there was something else Abigail must do—retrieve the card from the drawer of her night table.

  The one with Detective Baldwin’s number.

  CHAPTER 22

  That night, Melilla’s temperature spiked to 103. There was no sign of Franklin, either in the office or his apartment, for which Abigail was grateful. In the meantime, she went about the business of caring for the twins with a calmness and competence that surprised her. It was a doctor’s work, the kind of work she had always imagined doing.

  She slept barely at all, curled up on one of the tiny beds in the recovery room, up every four hours throughout the night and again at eight o’clock to give Melilla her early morning dose of quinine. Afterward, she went downstairs to her desk, dropping into her chair like a dead weight. She was exhausted, but the worst was yet to come.

  She dreaded picking up the telephone to call Detective Baldwin. But she had a duty to inform him of what she had discovered. Shark had been in possession of Mrs. Moser’s hat, or at least one exactly like it. He must have kidnapped her. And though it was possible he had acted on his own, most likely the trail would lead back to Franklin.

  Thinking about it now, it all made sense. She had wondered what he was doing upstairs while she watched over Mrs. Moser in the operating room. And she’d thought it irresponsible that he didn’t telephone his patient to see how she was feeling. Yet day after day went by; one would have thought that he had completely forgotten about her.

  She remembered, too, the night he stormed into her apartment at three in the morning. Half-drunk and totally distraught, he had rambled on and on, trying to justify himself without ever telling her the reason why. She could never have guessed, not in a million years. She found it all so difficult to believe, even now.

  Even knowing how capable he was of deceit.

  With a prickle of conscience, she realized that she would have to tell Detective Baldwin the whole truth, including her connection to Shark. She would have to admit that she knew about some of his questionable activities, that she had been present for two of his late-night deliveries to the operating room. It was likely the detective would think poorly of her, or worse. But she couldn’t let that stop her. What she had done was ignorant and naïve.

  But it was not murder.

  She pulled the telephone closer, drew a tremulous breath, and lifted the earpiece.

  It was nearly two o’clock that afternoon, and Abigail was sitting at her desk, flipping through one of her medical texts in search of further information on treating pneumonia, when Franklin burst through the door. He whisked past her without a glance, without a word. The next thing she heard was the slamming of his office door.

  She waited a few minutes, anticipating that he would come back out or call for her. He did not.

  Melilla’s temperature had gone down to 102, but she was still dangerously febrile, and her cough did not seem any better. If anything, her breathing was worse. And now Valencia was almost as feverish. As much as Abigail wished to avoid Franklin, it would be sheer arrogance not to ask him to look at the girls. He might be a
criminal—good God, he might even be a murderer—but he was still a doctor.

  Reluctantly, she got up and approached the door to his office. She hesitated, listening. Then she knocked, as firmly as she could. She must not let him sense how vulnerable she felt.

  “What is it?”

  “May I come in?”

  “I suppose.”

  As soon as she entered she could feel the tension, stretched between them like a taut wire.

  “Well, well. Look who’s here! Have you come to gloat? To revel in your victory?”

  Abigail was caught off guard. “Victory?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me!”

  With a stab of fear, it occurred to her that somehow he might have found out about her call to Detective Baldwin. Surely the police wouldn’t have told him! But what if they did . . .

  “You knew I needed the twins,” Franklin continued, still with that needling edge to his voice. “Joe needed them, the Rome Institute needed them. And still you interfered.”

  So that was it! Samuel Storey must have responded to her telegram. She felt a flood of relief, a touch of revenge.

  “Yes, I interfered! And I’m not sorry.”

  Franklin jumped up from his chair, nearly knocking it over in his haste. His palms on the desktop, he leaned toward Abigail with a threatening look.

  “You’re a betrayer! A filthy little betrayer!”

  “There’s no way to justify what happened to Ludwik, and you know it.”

  “I don’t have to justify anything to you!”

  “What about to yourself? They’ve accused Ludwik of all sorts of horrible things, just so they can lock him up and Joe can do as he pleases with the twins. It’s all a lie. I don’t believe a word of what they say.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe. No one asked for your opinion. Ludwik was arrested. He was deemed to be dangerous. It wasn’t my decision or yours. Normally, one leaves such matters to the authorities. But no, you had to stick your perfect little nose into it! You had to stir things up. Your meddling has cost us the twins.”