“Not a patient.”
“Then what?”
Harry did not look at Karen. “A... friend.”
“She must have been a pretty good friend.”
Karen said, “Don’t, Tony.”
“Yes,” said Harry Brown. “She was. Once.”
“All right. How’d she wind up in your apartment?”
Harry Brown filled his lungs and suddenly sat down again. “Once she had a key to my place. It was a long time ago, it was over, I’d forgotten all about it. Then, that night, with an overdose in her, she came to my flat. Who knows why a drug addict does anything? Anyway she must have let herself in, and when I came home I found her there. Dead.”
“What about the key?” the lawyer asked.
“It was in her hand. I took it.”
“Why did you do a damn fool thing like that?”
“Actually I don’t know. I remember feeling sort of numb. We can’t predict, can we, how any of us will react to a totally unfamiliar crisis? I suppose I didn’t want to be involved... intimately involved.”
“But man, her body was there, right there in your apartment! How intimately involved can you get?”
“I did it, it was done.”
“And the police?”
“I simply told them I didn’t know who she was or how she’d got into the apartment. I knew I had nothing to do with it and I knew I could prove that I hadn’t been home...”
The doorbell rang.
Harry sprang to his feet as though released and went to the door with Karen following him, and in the little entrance-foyer she threw her arms around him and clung.
“You’re a liar,” she whispered.
“Karen...” He could feel her body vibrating with passion and anxiety.
“You were lying about Lynne Maxwell. I know.”
“Karen...”
“You’re in terrible trouble, Harry. I know that, too. I love you.”
And then she opened the door for her husband.
Five
Dr. Harrison Brown woke from a night-mare and could not sleep again. He touched the button of the night lamp and saw that it was three o’clock. He snapped off the light, got out of bed, pushed a window up another inch and stood in the darkness looking out. But then he became aware of the sweat-soaked pajamas. He lowered the Venetian blind, tilted it for privacy, put on the light again and went to the bathroom and took a shower.
Ever since that day he had talked with Kurt Gresham in Gresham’s office, he had been clogged with fright — oppressive, a weight interior. But now it was out. It had been a fright of circumstance, of self and conscience, a fright of future, all internaclass="underline" but now it was even worse, because it had to be examined for cause.
And Karen... she had known he was lying about Lynne Maxwell last night. How could she possibly have known? And what had she meant? — “You’re in terrible trouble, Harry. I know that, too.”
With Gresham home, the evening had turned gay. Friends had been telephoned and invited; there had been music and drinks, dancing and games — flirtations; and, of course, no further talk about Lynne Maxwell.
Harry Brown put on fresh pajamas and made coffee and drank it in the living room, chain-smoking all the while.
He had to admire them. They could turn it off and on at will; he could not. They laughed and joked, and played and danced, and flirted and told outrageous stories; but he knew that Tony Mitchell had concealed offense, and perhaps Karen also.
He had simply not been able to take them into his confidence. What could he have said to Karen — his mistress — about Lynne Maxwell? How could he have explained her presence in his apartment? A jealous woman would instantly jump to the false conclusion that Lynne Maxwell had a key to his apartment. At the worst, she would accuse him of a concurrent affair; at best, an old affair coming back to life. So he had hoped against hope that Galivan, in checking his alibi, would not reveal the cause of his inquiry. He had not confided in Tony because Tony was so close to Karen. And after his conversation with Gresham, he could not speak at all, for any reason. From now on, Dr. Harrison Brown saw with bitter clarity, dissembling and dishonesty would be the guidelines of his existence.
Unless he could get out of what he had got himself into.
The thirty thousand dollar note Kurt Gresham had paid off he could — perhaps again with Tony Mitchell’s cosignature — reinstate at the bank, returning the money to Gresham. The twenty-five thousand dollar check he had accepted from the millionaire... there was nothing really wrong with that, Dr. Harry Brown told himself; many wealthy men with chronic illnesses paid their doctors fat annual retainers...
But then he shook his head. It was no good. He wasn’t getting the twenty-five G’s for checking Gresham over regularly and taking prothrombins and fiddling with Dicumerol dosages and quinidine; he was getting it for being a monkey on a string. No, he’d have to give that back, too. Cut loose entirely.
But would Gresham let him go?
At this point Dr. Harry Brown stopped fantasizing. That old, ill, eccentric, highly intelligent purveyor of narcotics to rich and famous addicts could be expected to show the sympathy of a shark. He had let his latest medical puppet in on the secrets of his organization; he would hardly allow the puppet to jerk free. The incident of the dead girl was proof enough of that.
He’s got me hooked, Dr. Harry Brown brooded. As hooked as any of his clients. And if I try to unhook myself, the best I can hope for is a little visit from Mr. Kurt Gresham’s “security people,” the worst, a one-way ticket to the bottom of the East River. Harry Brown had no answers.
Did Tony Mitchell have answers?
Tony Mitchell. Kurt Gresham’s lawyer. Did Tony Mitchell have any idea of the real business of Gresham and Company, Import and Export? Harry Brown doubted that, on the ground that Tony Mitchell was too smart to involve himself in criminal activities. But... was he? Bright, glib, surface-scintillating — how smart was Tony? True, he was a highly successful criminal lawyer with a good reputation; he had a large income, he lived high. But suppose it had been Gresham and Company that put Tony in orbit? Suppose Kurt Gresham had picked up his New York attorney as he had just picked up his New York doctor? It was possible, possible. After all, Tony was a criminal lawyer; wasn’t that significant? The ordinary legal matters of a legitimate business surely called for an ordinary attorney. But the illegitimate matters...
Dr. Harry Brown slumped wretchedly.
Yes, it had developed into a gay party: Gresham, cordial; Tony, jaunty; Karen, charming. They could turn it off and on: only Dr. Harrison Brown had been the morose outsider. And there had been something else — Tony flirting openly with Karen under the round and colorless eyes of the permissive old husband. Harry Brown had felt the prick of jealousy. Was there something between Karen and Tony? Had there ever been? Certainly they made a plausible pair — handsome Tony, beautiful Karen, both clever, sophisticated, debonair, enchanting. Where in hell did Dr. Harry Brown fit in? — Dr. Brown the plodder, the close-mouthed, the deep-think character... the ambitious stooge?
Dr. Brown got up and went to his medicine cabinet. He swallowed a sleeping pill and crawled into bed.
He slept fitfully, with more nightmares.
In a nightmare, he heard her.
“You’re in terrible trouble, Harry. I know that, too. I love you.”
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.