“How bad do you think it is?” Boyce asked, sitting up and putting on his shirt.
“Hard to say,” answered Redman non-committally. He made a few more notations, then put his pen aside and looked up openly at his patient. “How’s business, Boyce?” he asked. “You under any particular pressures, have any financial problems, anything like that?”
“No, of course not,” Boyce said. “I keep my business in perfect order. Why do you ask?”
Redman leaned back and lighted a cigarette. “An ulcer,” he explained, “is a breakdown of tissues, either of the skin itself or of the mucous membranes. It can stem from a variety of causes. The most common, ulcers are surface ulcers, such as coldsores. Then there are the internal types: gastric, peptic, duodenal and ordinary stomach ulcers. You probably have one of those four. All of them are normally caused by the action of acid gastric juices and nervous tension. It was nervous tension I had in mind when I asked if you had any unusual business worries.”
“I see,” said Boyce. “You think my nerves are causing all this?”
“Probably,” Redman admitted. He paused in thought for a moment, then said, “Boyce, I’m your doctor. I’m also Jean’s doctor. But more than that, I’m a friend. In both capacities, anything you tell me will be held in strictest confidence.”
“What are you getting at, Phil?” Boyce asked, smiling.
“Are you and Jean having domestic problems?”
Boyce forced a wider smile. “Certainly not!” he lied easily. “What ever gave you that idea?”
Dr. Redman shrugged. “It’s usually one or the other; either business or personal. I only want to help you, Boyce. I want to help you to help yourself. About seventy five per cent of curing an internal ulcer is up to the patient.”
“You just give the orders, Phil,” Boyce told him. “I’ll do whatever you say. Forget about what caused it.”
“All right,” Redman said, sighing heavily. He handed Boyce a printed sheet of paper. “For the time being follow this diet. Avoid alcoholic beverages and coffee. You might cut down on your smoking, too. But above all, Boyce, you’ve got to keep as calm as possible. No stress, no strain, no worry. An ulcer is like a volcano. When it reaches a certain degree of irritation, it’ll explode. We don’t want that.”
“I’ll watch myself, Phil,” Boyce assured him.
On his way out, Boyce noticed that Redman had a new receptionist. She was blonde and trim, very neat. He smiled engagingly as he passed her desk. As he expected, she smiled back. Young, he thought. He filed her away in his mind as a future possibility.
On the Monday morning after his visit to the doctor, Boyce called at the office of Ashton Graham, a wealthy broker who was planning to retire the following month. Graham intended to move to his villa in Nice and spend his declining years in the warm French sun. Before leaving, he wanted to dispose of several apartment buildings he owned on Park Avenue. The properties had a combined market value of over one million dollars.
For more than a week Boyce had been preparing to solicit the listing. He had arranged an appointment through a mutual friend. Then, brimming over with the Boyce Harper charm, he moved in for the kill.
“This certainly is a pleasure for me, Mr. Graham,” he said, smiling widely as he shook hands with the broker. “I’ve admired your firm in general — and you in particular — for quite a long time.”
“Well, thank you very much,” said Graham, obviously pleased.
“I think it’s the prestige your firm has that sets it apart from the other brokerage houses,” Boyce went on. “I’ve always said there’s no substitute for prestige. And I’ve often wondered why Graham and Company had so much, while the other firms seemed to lack it. But now that I’ve met you personally, I think my question has been answered. It’s quite obvious now where that prestige came from.”
“Well,” said Graham, expanding a little as he soaked in the flattery, “I have tried to make my business just a little better than the rest. If I’ve been successful, it’s because I’ve prided myself on keeping the name of Graham and Company right up there on the top.”
“Pride,” Boyce said thoughtfully. “As always, it goes hand in hand with prestige.” He let his expression melt into a half-sad smile. “The business world is going to miss you, sir,” he added quietly.
“Well, we all have to quit sometime,” the broker replied in a melancholy voice. He fell silent for a moment, sighing reminiscently, then braced his shoulders and said, “But — right now we’re both still in business, so let’s get down to it. You wanted to discuss listing my buildings, I believe.”
“Yes, sir,” said Boyce, opening his briefcase. “I’ve drawn up a summary and outline of the services I can offer you, Mr. Graham. We have full advertising facilities and—”
Boyce was interrupted by Graham’s secretary entering the office. “Excuse me, Mr. Graham, but there’s a call for you. The party said it was urgent.” Graham nodded and picked up the phone. “Alton Graham speaking.” He listened quietly for a moment, then looked at Boyce with a frown. “What?” he said. “Is this some kind of joke?” Again he was silent, listening. Finally he said stiffly. “Yes, I’ll be happy to give him your message,” and hung up.
Alton Graham fixed Boyce Harper with a cold stare. “That was for you, Mr. Harper. It was a man. He said to tell you that you’d better stay away from his wife if you knew what was good for you.”
Wife! Boyce Harper thought frantically. Which one was he talking about? Then he suddenly recalled where he was and felt a warm flush creep into his face.
“Must be some practical joker, Mr. Graham,” he said nervously, forcing a smile.
“Possibly,” conceded Alton Graham, “but joke or not, it was in rather poor taste. Business is business, Mr. Harper.”
“Yes, I know, sir, but—”
“But nothing, Mr. Harper. I have the name of Graham and Company to protect. I’m sure you understand.”
Boyce’s shoulders sagged. He understood, all right. “I don’t suppose you’d care to have me leave this summary—?”
“I’m afraid not.” Alton Graham buzzed for his secretary. “Good day, Mr. Harper.”
Boyce fumbled with the papers and managed to get them back into his briefcase. He left Alton Graham’s office, still blushing. In the elevator, his stomach began to burn from the fresh acid being generated by his taut nerves. He dreaded going back to his car. He knew when he got there he would find a flat tire.
He was right. Right as rain.
“Now you listen to me, Boyce,” Dr. Redman said in an irritated voice, “you may be a couple of years older than me, and you may be a big shot businessman and all that, but I am your doctor and what I’m telling you is for your own good. I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself. I don’t know what your mental problem is but I do know what your physical problem is. It’s an ulcer and it’s a bad one!”
“You’re sure?” said Boyce.
“Positive. I’ve got all the results of your fluoroscopy and I’ve seen the X-rays on you. You’ve got a full-grown duodenal ulcer and it’s getting healthier every minute. And do you know why it’s getting healthier? Because you’re feeding it alcohol and caffein and nicotine and stomach acid. There’s a monster growing down there and you aren’t even trying to stop it!”
“I am trying, Phil,” Boyce said weakly.
“No, you’re not,” Redman accused. “Jean has told me how you’ve been drinking lately.”
Boyce’s mouth tightened. “You’ve got no right discussing this with Jean,” he said shortly.