Kill as Directed

Six

He called her from his apartment at eleven o’clock; from his office at twelve o’clock; and at two; and at four. Each time he was told that she was not at home, and each time he left a message for her to call back.

It had been, for him, a busy day. Six patients, all routine office calls, no house calls. He had not left his office; he had even sent out for his lunch.

Now at a quarter past four the phone shrilled and he seized it. But it was not Karen Gresham. It was, incredibly, a familiar booming baritone.

“Harry? Peter Gross.”

“Dr. Gross!”

“How are you, Harry?”

“Never mind how I am.” Suddenly he felt ashamed. “How are you?”

“Busy, busy. Working hard?”

“Not too.”

“Doing what?”

“Practicing medicine.”

“G.P.?”

“G.P.”

“That’s a goddam shame. I’ve got nothing against the G.P., only you fiddling around with general practice is like Isaac Stern getting a job playing in a Hungarian cabaret. Are you getting rich, Harry?”

“No, Doctor.”

“So you don’t even have that excuse. Has Alf Stone talked with you yet?”

“He’s dropping in tomorrow.”

“Well, you listen to him, Harry. I believe it’s important for you. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember Lewis Blanchette?”

“Of course.” Dr. Lewis Blanchette, before his retirement, had been one of the most famous surgeons in the United States, a giant of surgical techniques.

“Do you know what’s happened to Lewis?”

“Last I heard, he’d retired.”

“From private practice only. He’s a mere sixty. In his prime. You know what he’s doing now, Harry?”

“No, sir.”

“He’s chief of surgery at Taugus Institute.” There was a pause and then Dr. Peter Gross said, “I want you to listen carefully to Alfred Stone, Harry. As a favor to yourself.” Dr. Gross characteristically hung up without a goodbye.

Dr. Harrison Brown leaned back in his new-smelling leather swivel-chair. The office was dim and cool with shadows, the sunlight diffused and diminished against the drawn blinds. Dr. Peter Gross knew him well and fondly. He remembered their long evenings at Gross’s home on campus, talking about his ambitions, his needs. Gross had urged upon him a career in surgery. “You have the nerves, Harry, the hands...” But to become a surgeon took long years of apprenticeship. He did not have the time; he wanted to get rich quick; it was a need, a sickness. Harry had been honest with the old man and Gross had been wrathfully patient and understanding; they had parted with affection.

The phone rang again.

“Harry?” Karen. At last.

“I’ve been calling you—”

“I know. But I’ve been with Kurt all day. I’m with him now. Sneaked off to call.”

“I want to see you.”

“And I want to see you.”

“Tonight?”

“Impossible.”

“Then when?”

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’s going to Philadelphia for a couple of days. I’ll be free to spend as much time with you as you like.”

“How about as much time as you like?”

“Harry, what’s the matter?”

“I’m in trouble. Don’t you remember telling me?”

“Oh.” Quietly she said, “I didn’t realize you were referring to that. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“What time? Where?”

“Pick me up at home at eight o’clock. Bring the car.”

“All right.”

“I can’t talk any more now, darling.”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Okay.”

She hung up.

He heard the outside buzzer. His receptionist announced a patient through the intercom. It was a woman, a repeater, a hypochondriac who was developing a dependence on him. He took a long time with her, soothing, reassuring, prescribing a placebo. After that, there were no patients, no calls, no anything. His receptionist went off and his part-time evening girl came on, and she did her nails while he read medical journals until seven. At seven-ten, while he was washing up — the girl was already gone — he heard the buzzer. Wiping his hands on the way, he opened the door to Tony Mitchell.

“Hi, buddy-boy,” said Tony. “Figured you’d still be around. Had to see a client up in this neighborhood. Hungry?”

“I could do with a bite.”

“Always the enthusiast. My God, Harry, don’t you ever smile?”

“When there’s something to smile about.”

“Finish your ablutions.” He strolled after Harry, tall and elegant in slim-trousered, thin-striped brown tropical worsted and a brown leghorn with a rakish ribbon. Tanned, smooth-shaven, clean-jawed, clear-eyed, he looked like a model for Esquire.

Dr. Harrison Brown looked his friend over as he got into his jacket. “You’re pretty well satisfied with life, aren’t you, Tony?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve got everything I want—”

Dr. Brown said abruptly, “Let’s start with some cocktails.”

Over martinis at a jammed bar in a posh little bistro off Fifth Avenue, Tony Mitchell said, “How about eating Italian?”

“I don’t care.”

“I know a little place—”

“You know all the little places.”

“Picking on me today, baby? Getting even for yesterday?”

Harry frowned. “Yesterday?”

“Last night. Lynne Maxwell.”

“Cut,” Harry said.

“For the time being. We’ll pick it up later.”

“Where’s your little place?”

“Down your neck of the woods. A jewel of a joint.”

The place was in an old Village brownstone. They walked down four steps and through a long corridor, and into a big quiet room. It was plain, well-lighted, uncrowded, uncluttered, with large tables and booths, and plenty of leg-room. The food was North Italian, not too hot, delicious.

“This is good,” Harry said.

“Praise from Harry Brown! Now that’s something.”

“What’s it called?”

“I never saw a name, but we call it Giobbe’s, because Giobbe — Job — owns it. Giobbe’s the little guy with the bushy blond hair who seated us. It’s a family operation. His mother and father and mother-in-law and father-in-law are all in the kitchen. The waiters are either brothers or cousins or uncles. So you want to talk about Lynne Maxwell?”

“No.”

The waiter brought espresso coffee still brewing in the pot. “Let him drip a little-a bit yet,” he said and went away. Tony said, “Would you rather talk about a thirty-thousand dollar loan that’s been paid in full?”

Another waiter came over and removed the plates and brushed the crumbs from the table. There was still wine in the Chianti bottle, and he left the bottle and wine glasses. Harry poured himself some more wine.

Tony said, with no trace of banter, “What in hell’s wrong with you lately?”

“What symptoms have I displayed, Doctor Mitchell?” Harry polished off the contents of his glass and reached for the bottle again.

“You’ve been living in a world of your own. You think a Lynne Maxwell thing disappears into thin air just because you don’t talk about it? A big loan gets itself paid off and you don’t say one damned word. I was co-maker on that loan, baby, remember? The bank notifies me that it’s suddenly all paid up. I’m curious, so I go over for a little chitchat. Seems it was paid in cash, interest and all, and the note picked up. Didn’t you think I’d learn about it?”

“Well...” Harry drank all the wine in the glass. “There was a man, see, who once owed my father a lot of money and never paid up. This man had been in to see me a few times and, well, I told him about the loan and something of my problems. Seems he’d made a pile — anyway, conscience or something made him pay off the note. I should have explained, Tony, but... hell, I’ve been in turmoil...”

Tony Mitchell’s eyes were long and oval-shaped, so black that the pupils merged with the irises. They were opaque and gave off a sheen that told nothing. “What man, Harry?” he asked softly.

“I’d rather not say.”

Tony tapped the top of the espresso pot. The sound of the dripping had stopped. “Check,” he said, and smiled; and then he said, “And the turmoil? Karen?”

Harry did not reply.

Tony poured the steaming brew into their cups. “Okay. With a guy like you especially, I dig that. The guilt, the whole bit. Interrogation closed. You’re a close-mouthed bastard, but just remember I’m a friend. For in case.”

“Pot calling the kettle black.”

“Come again?” Tony’s chin tilted up.

“I’m close-mouthed and you’re loquacious, a real garrulous guy. But what comes out? Nothing.”

“You’re losing me, baby.”

“There’s Karen.”

“So?”

“And there’s Karen’s husband.”

“So?”

“You know them a lot longer than I do.”

“So? So?”

“You know what you’ve told me about them?”

“What?”

“Nothing, that’s what. A lot of nothing, Tony.”

Tony sipped his espresso, frowning. “You worried about the old man?”

“Should I be?” Harry looked straight at him.

“No.” Tony Mitchell returned the look steadily.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a smart old man. Because he’s a smart old man married to a young wife. So he’s permissive. He lets her run. He lets her enjoy. He’ll never interfere unless it gets wide open, a scandal.”

“How do you know?”

“I know the guy.”

“How well?”

“Well.”

“How long, Tony?”

“Ten years.”

“How long do you know her?”

“About three. I met her when she was managing a night club in Philly.”

“Managing a night club?” Harry gripped the cup.

“She never told you?”

“I never asked.”

“Well, then ask. You don’t have to pump me about her. But if you’re worried about the old man, don’t.”

Harry lit a cigarette, carefully. “Tony. Would you say Kurt could be... dangerous?”

The black eyes looked curious. “Dangerous?”

“Well, I’m... going with Karen.” What a stupid, callow way to say it. Especially since he had not meant that at all.

“I told you, Harry, he’s permissive. Yes, if you crossed him I think he’d be dangerous. But a little adultery... I think he thinks she’s entitled. Wide open, no. Discreet, yes. He knows she’ll always come home to Big Daddy.”

Harry inhaled cigarette smoke. “Where does he go?”

“What?”

“Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday evening. For a couple of hours. Without fail.”

“With fail. If he’s out of town, he doesn’t go.”

“But where?”

“Business.”

“Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday — even Sunday?”

“His business.”

“But you’re his lawyer—”

“That’s right. Not his partner.”

“You never asked?”

“Why should I ask?”

“How’d you meet him originally, Tony?”

“As a client.”

“Ten years ago?”

“Ten years ago, as a client.”

Harry drank coffee. He rubbed out his cigarette. “You’re a criminal lawyer.”

“That I am.”

“Is Gresham a criminal?”

Tony’s white teeth flashed in a smile. “That’s a phony syllogism, pal. I’m a criminal lawyer. I have clients. Therefore, all my clients are criminals. Nonsense.” Now Tony lit a cigarette. “As a matter of fact, I did meet him through one of my criminal-type clients. The guy was a broker who’d got into trouble with the SEC. They prosecuted, and I got him off. Gresham had done business with this guy, and he admired the job I did. So he retained me on certain civil matters, and that’s how I became his lawyer — on civil matters, pal, not criminal. It’s a pleasure to hear you talk, even if all you’re doing is asking questions. Anything else, Mr. District Attorney?”

“I am sorry,” said Harry.

“Sorry? For what?”

“For pushing.”

“Push any time, bud. It’s good finding out you’re alive.”

“You wish something?” said the waiter.

“Plenty,” said Dr. Harrison Brown. “But I don’t think I can get it here.”

“We’ll settle,” smiled Tony Mitchell, “for another pot of espresso.”