Kill as Directed

Twenty-Six

Dr. Harrison Brown at his office on Monday crept around like a zombie. He had hoped to lose himself in work, but it was a slow day: four patients in the early afternoon, two house calls, then nothing. He had read all the morning papers; there had been no word of the three deaths in the Gresham apartment. The FBI and the Narcotics men had sat on the story, hard.

At four o’clock he sent his girl out for the afternoon papers. Now there were headlines. Millionaire industrialist slays wife and lover and dies of heart attack. But there was no mention of narcotics, and there was no mention of Dr. Harrison Brown. There were pictures — of Kurt Gresham, of Karen Gresham, of Tony Mitchell.

At four-thirty his receptionist announced Lieutenant Galivan.

Dr. Harrison Brown leaped on him. “Lieutenant. Here, sit down. Tell me what’s been happening. Nobody’s come near me since that all-night session Friday night with the District Attorney and the Federal people. Not a word in the papers or on radio or TV about me—”

“And there won’t be, either,” said Galivan. He eased his long body into the chair beside Harry’s desk. He looked tired.

“There... won’t be?” Harry sat down suddenly.

“It’s all over, Doctor. Those FBI boys... Lieutenant Galivan shook his head in admiration. “It’s a beautiful thing to watch the way they work in an operation that requires absolute secrecy until the split second they’re ready to spring. On Saturday they and foreign authorities were quietly opening bank vaults on court orders in a dozen and a half cities here and abroad. CIA code specialists were put to work on the records, and by Sunday afternoon the whole Gresham machine was stripped down to its vital parts and each part analyzed — without a single member of the ring knowing what was hanging over their heads. Then — wham! — the strike. All at once. No warning. Timed to the minute. Last night, ten o’clock our time. New York, Washington, Philadelphia, Chicago, Miami, London, Paris, Zurich, Rome, Berlin, Lisbon, Madrid, Belgrade, Athens, Ankara, Cairo, Hong Kong, Tokyo. The Gresham empire. Took thirty-five years to build up, one night to destroy. Thanks to you.”

“They arrested them all?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Every last one. It turns out that besides Gresham’s board of directors he had twenty-nine regional big shots, and, of course, the usual gang of middlemen, minor executives and just plain cogs in the machinery. The big boys are already here in the Federal Building or in custody in the countries where they were picked up, and they’re all singing like nightingales and trying to make deals. The small fry are doing the same thing. The evidence is overwhelming — Gresham’s empire is smashed, all right. From here on in it’s just mop-up. And you’re out of it.”

“I don’t understand...”

The lieutenant crossed bony knees. He took out his pipe, packed and lit it, and puffed; and then he smiled around the stem.

“There was a conference at noon today, downtown — Chris Hammond of the FBI, District Attorney Crantz, a Treasury agent, a member of the Attorney General’s staff from Washington, and some other interested officials — and I sat in. Do you know what the subject of the conference was?”

“What?”

“You, Doctor. And a decision was reached by the group that I think surprised every individual there. The subject was what to do with you, and the decision was: Nothing.”

Harry said hoarsely, “You mean I’m not going to be arrested, prosecuted...?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” puffed Galivan. “You won’t even have to appear as a witness at any of the hearings or trials afterward — they’ve got an embarrassment of evidence as it is.”

“But why, Lieutenant?” cried Harry Brown. “After all the things I’ve done?—”

“Well, what have you done, Doctor?”

The question startled him. “Why, I joined a criminal organization—”

“Under deception and duress.”

“I treated a woman with a bullet wound and didn’t report it to the police—”

“There’s no evidence of that, Doctor, except your confession. You know a confession requires corroborating evidence.”

“But... I accepted a huge retainer to do similar jobs for Gresham in his New York territory—”

“Again there’s only your confession,” smiled the lieutenant. “And you didn’t get to do any other jobs, did you? And you were treating Gresham as his personal physician for a chronic illness.”

“But...” He was bewildered. “I bought a gun and a silencer illegally. I tried to kill a man with it—”

“And didn’t, Doctor, when all you had to do was squeeze the trigger.” Galivan held up his pipe hand. “Don’t say it. It’s all been thoroughly gone into, Doctor. A strict adherence to the law would call for your arrest or detention for appearance before the grand jury, but the men in that office today weren’t in a legalistic mood. The fact remains that, in view of what you’ve contributed to the upholding of the law, in view of your total cooperation and frankness where your own acts have been concerned, those men feel you’re entitled to a quid pro quo.”

“And I have a feeling,” Harry mumbled, “that one man at that conference had a lot to do with the decision.”

Galivan colored slightly. “Not a lot, Doctor. Nobody influences men like Christopher Hammond and Max Crantz against their better judgments. Hammond has a brother around your age; incidentally, he’s a doctor, too, at the beginning of what looks like a fine career. The D.A. has two sons in their late twenties. These men understand a lot more than the techniques of law enforcement. They know you stepped out of line, but they also know you pulled back in time. A man who can and will do that deserves a break. They’re not going to crucify you, and I go along with them a hundred percent.”

Harry sat numbly.

“You’re not going to be needed, as I said, and your name will never be mentioned. You’ll be a name in the no-touch files, no more. Unless, of course, you should get into more trouble. In that case, the roof would fall in on you. That’s not a threat, Dr. Brown,” Lieutenant Galivan said quietly, “it’s a fact. But I don’t think that’s going to happen. I hope not, anyway. It would make a lot of us look awfully bad. And now, Doctor,” he said, leaning over to knock out his pipe in the ash tray, “I’ve got to get back to my job.” He rose and looked down at the man behind the desk keenly. “I’m not going to say good luck. A man makes his own luck, good or bad. But I think you’ve learned that by now.”

And he was gone.

Harry Brown sat in his consultation room with his head deeply sunk in the well of his shoulders and his surgeon’s hands folded at his waistline. He could not have said what he was feeling. All he knew was that under the foggy turbulence within him lay a quietness, a peace, he could not remember ever having experienced.

He looked around his office — at the expensive furniture; at the impressive rows of medical books that constituted the practitioner’s showcase, meant for display, not reference; at all the sham symbols of success. He felt the luxurious material of his trousers, stared down at the high polish on his shoes, at the $75 Tiffany ash tray on his desk.

And at the empty chair where a patient should have been sitting.

A man makes his own luck — luck? life! — good or bad.

After a while he groped for his wallet, located a card, pulled the telephone to him and dialed the number on the card.

“Dr. Stone, please. Dr. Harrison Brown calling.”

“One minute, Doctor.”

Alfred Stone’s voice leaped into his ear. “Doctor! I wondered when I was going to hear from you. That awful thing about the Greshams — you’ve heard about it, I suppose...”

“Yes,” said Harry Brown. “Dr. Stone, is the job at the Institute still open?”

“Of course.”

“I want it.”

“I’m delighted.”

“You may not be when you hear my story.”

“Story?” repeated Dr. Stone, mystified. “What kind of story?”

“Well,” said Dr. Harrison Brown, “some people might call it a kind of failure story. I think it’s a success story, but I’d rather you judged for yourselves. Dr. Stone, can you arrange a meeting with Peter Gross and Dr. Blanchette?”