I helped myself to a bit more of the Armagnac.
“A number of countries are noted for specialists in various fields, including medicine and surgery. King Asazian has had both the desire and financial means to take advantage of such specialists. We have followed him from hospital to hospital from Moscow across the Scandinavian countries, to Vienna, France, England, Brazil. And now New York. At this Long Island clinic is a surgeon, supposed to be the best throat specialist in the world. Naturally, King Asazian selects only top men. Seems he contracted some malignancy of the neck, the vocal cords were affected, and he lost his voice. This is an insufferable handicap to a King whose only influence is through his ability to harangue crowds.”
I waited.
“He’s spent the better part of his roving exile in hospitals. The result of who knows what multiple afflictions. But oddly enough, we never before thought of using a hospital to dispose of him. He’s been confined to this Long Island clinic for over a week. Long enough for us to work out a plan for you. I shall outline it. You may approve, make any changes or elaborations you think fit.”
There were only a few minor changes that occured to me. Generally, it seemed a tight, simple plan. Before I left, Mr. Muruk gave me two envelopes, each of which contained ten thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills, as bribe money. He also said, “We don’t know why our other attempts never worked out, Mr. Weston. Our operatives were either killed, or captured and disposed of, or imprisoned one way or another before we could determine the cause of their failure.”
Failure, for whatever reason, held no interest for me, so I had no comment to offer. Many are called, but few are chosen. My only feeling for those inept predecessors was one of gratitude, for having tossed King Asazian and a hundred grand my way.
It was then ten in the morning. King Asazian was to reach the end of his unnaturally prolonged existence at between eight-fifteen and nine o’clock that night.
I put the fifty thousand away in my safety deposit box on Fifth Avenue and spent four relaxing hours in the Museum of Modern Art. A special showing of massive abstract canvases intrigued me. They covered entire walls and were unframed. Standing there, I felt somewhat uneasy as a result of my immediate understanding of the artists’ meanings. Their hugeness invited the viewer to step into them and become absorbed, carried away, lost in the meandering, endless complexity of space. And the fact that they had no frames further increased this sensation of something without bounds, as if each painting extended onward and outward forever. The artists were, in other words, inviting me to move out into the new space age, finite man shooting away and becoming lost in infinity.
Aside from a certain insecurity, a sort of cool draft on the back of my neck, I was pleasantly reminded of the fact that I would retire the next day. I would have a lifetime ahead of me, and sufficient wealth to spend my days leisurely roaming the world absorbing culture, art, and ideas.
I dined early at a small exclusive restaurant on 46th Street, calf’s liver a la française followed by a bottle of rich Moselle which I lingered over while rehearsing the routine outlined by the repulsive Mr. Muruk.
Visiting hours ended at eight P.M. King Asazian had not been having many visitors. If he happened to tonight, they would be cleared out by eight-fifteen at the latest. There followed an immediate check by nurses and a doctor. That was the regular schedule. I would, at nine o’clock, greet the police officer sitting outside, then go into room 304, where King Asazian waited. It would be at least another hour before another scheduled round from the night nurse. Actually, only a minute or so would be required for me to accomplish that which had so stubbornly defied nature, time and man.
At seven-thirty I went by cab across the river and out the Belt Parkway, off Exit 16 to Sunrise Drive where I got out. It was a clear starry night and cool for the middle of June. I walked a block down King’s Drive under the shade trees and waited on the corner. The ambulance drove up in less than five minutes.
Two attendants in white smocks and white trousers got out and walked up to me. It was an isolated spot, but they stood there for awhile, making sure no silent pedestrian was about.
“Muruk,” I said.
“Balikshar,” the smaller of the attendants said, a bit sullenly, I thought.
“Let’s have the money,” the larger one said crudely.
I handed each of them his envelope. Immediately they began counting and fingering the bills. Then the big one turned with a sudden enthusiasm and smashed his fist into the smaller one’s jaw. The victim fell on the grass, groaning. “Take it easy, for God’s sake,” he said.
“For ten grand you can take a beating,” the big one said.
“But I don’t wanna spend it all on doctor’s bills!”
He was then kicked in the ribs and lifted and smashed repeatedly in the face. He started to scream and then his nose smashed and covered his face and chest with blood. The victim passed out.
“That’s what I wanted,” the larger one said, rubbing his knuckles. “Blood. It’s got to look right.”
“It looks pretty good,” I said as the victim was dragged away into the brush.
The bruiser returned and lit a cigarette and looked at his watch.
“You two friendly with one another?” I asked.
“Old buddies. We’re going to pool our take and buy us a filling station.”
“Such treatment could put quite a strain on friendship,” I said. “And what about the ten grand on him?”
“He snaps out of it, he’ll ache but then he’ll think of the ten grand and feel good. He’s got a place over there to hide the moola until things blow over a little. We figured it was best to separate.”
We walked back to the ambulance which I, together with henchmen, was supposed to have waylaid. I looked back once, a bit concerned about the man I was supposed to have beaten up and left unconscious. The attendant whom I was supposed to force at gun point to drive me to the clinic, opened the rear ambulance doors and told me to get in.
“Change into the doc’s uniform,” he added. “Put on horn-rimmed glasses. Most of the younger docs at our institution wear ’em.”
It was a situation in which I had no repugnance to conformity. I got in, sat on the stretcher bed, changed into white pants, white shoes, a smock that buttoned tightly in a clerical band around my neck. I put on the horn-rimmed glasses. I was not supposed to resemble any regular known staff member. Anyone walking around in a hospital in a doctor’s uniform is automatically assumed to be an absolute authority. No one would dare question it, nor would it occur to anyone to do so. Or so we hoped. Before putting my folded civvies in a paper bag, I took a slim switch-blade knife out and concealed it beneath my belt under my smock. Knives were clean, neat, fast and reliable. I had used them before and Mr. Muruk’s more clinical method might fail.
The attendant handed me a black plastic medical kit after we got into the front seat. There were three syringes ready for use, a loaded fountain pen which I placed in the breast pocket of my smock.
The first hypo, the attendant pointed, out, was for him. Soon as we parked at the clinic I was to let him have it. He handed me the key to the Oldsmobile which he said was the third car from the left as we drove in. After I finished, I was to walk out the rear exit, across the parking lot to the Olds and drive away.
If they questioned the attendant to the point where he got the hypo, he could show them the hypodermic needle puncture, and a subsequent blood test would reveal the stuff I had knocked him out with. He and his friend were, of course, to remain completely innocent throughout.