“I’ve looked you up,” said Mitchell quietly, “and you’re not. I’m satisfied that, professionally, you can make it big. The one weakness of your plan was insufficient capitalization. You didn’t realize how long a pull it was going to be.”
“I sure as hell didn’t.”
“The problem gets down to this: To get where you’re going, you need more fuel than you figured. Once you build up enough speed, the fuel question drops out as a factor. Harry, you’re going to have to go to the bank.”
“For what?”
“For a big fat loan.”
Harry Brown laughed. “And what’ll they give it to me on, Tony, my good looks?”
Tony Mitchell grinned back. “If that was your collateral, you couldn’t borrow the down payment on Jack Benny’s Maxwell.” But then he became all business again. “I think another thirty thousand would do it, Harry. If you were careful, it ought to get you over the hump.”
Dr. Harrison Brown suddenly realized that he was still trying to light the cigarette. He lit it, looking at his friend through the smoke. “You know a bank that will lend me thirty thousand dollars without collateral?”
“Sure. Mine.”
“Don’t tell me you own a bank!”
“Not quite,” said Tony, smiling. “What I have in mind is to sign as co-maker. You’ll get it.”
“Now wait a minute, Tony,” Harry protested. “I couldn’t let you do that.”
“Why not?”
“If I fell flat on my face—”
“You’re not going to fall flat on your face. I consider you a lead-pipe cinch, given enough time. Thirty G’s should do it. Also, I’m going to protect my investment by seeing what I can do to throw some well-heeled patients your way.”
“Let me think about it, Tony.” He tried to control his voice.
“There’s nothing to think about.” Tony Mitchell jumped out of his chair. “Let’s go, Harry.”
“Go? Where?”
“To my bank. They’re waiting for us.”
“Tony—”
“Oh, shut up. What are friends for? On your feet, kid.”
So he had let himself be rushed into it, confused with reborn hope and unutterable gratitude. There had been no trouble about the loan; four months had gone by and nothing had changed, really, except that the condemned man had been granted a reprieve. Oh, there had been some changes, but they had scarcely improved his position. In fact, Harry Brown mused, they had worsened it.
Tony Mitchell had been as good as his word about the “well-heeled” patients. Dr. Brown, on Mitchell’s generous recommendation, found himself the personal physician of the first rich patients of his career, Mr. and Mrs. Kurt Gresham.
Kurt Gresham was a multimillionaire. He owned an import-export company with world-wide outlets and a huge annual income. Gresham’s offices were in the Empire State Building.
The millionaire was a cardiac, chronically overweight from compulsive eating; his medical needs called for frequent examination and adjustment of medication. His doctor was an old man on the verge of retirement; he was transferring his patients gradually to other physicians, and Kurt Gresham’s time had come.
“Tony Mitchell’s told me a lot about you, Dr. Brown,” Gresham had said during their first interview. “And I’ve done some poking around of my own. After all, it’s my heart that’s involved; I don’t want to make a mistake.”
“Why don’t you transfer to a heart specialist?” Harry Brown had asked him abruptly.
The stout millionaire had smiled. “I like that, Doctor. But old Doc Welliver has always said it wasn’t necessary. Now maybe he told me that to hang on to a good thing, but I don’t think so. Anyway, what I’ve learned about you I’m satisfied with. Do you take me on?”
“I’ll answer that question, Mr. Gresham, after I’ve learned about your heart. I’ll want to see Dr. Welliver’s records on you, and I’ll want a day of your time.”
“You name it.” The millionaire had seemed pleased.
He had gone into Gresham’s case with great care. In the end he had decided that there was nothing involved which he could not handle. And, again, the millionaire had seemed pleased.
So their professional relationship had begun well. If only, Harry Brown thought glumly, it had stayed that way!
For there was Mrs. Gresham — the fourth Mrs. Gresham, according to Tony Mitchell. Karen of Gresh, as Tony called her. Delicious Karen...
Delicious Karen was the woman trouble.
Dr. Harrison Brown got to the Big Dipper at ten minutes past eight. Tony and Karen were already there, lapping up martinis, at a table against the banquette. Karen was seated on the banquette, with Tony opposite her.
“Notice that I’ve reserved the place of honor for you,” Tony said, his beautiful teeth laughing-white against his sunlamp-burned skin. “With Cupid sitting across the table beaming.” To the waiter who had moved the table aside to allow Harry to slip in beside Karen, Tony said, “Two vodka martinis for the doctor here, and another round for Mrs. Gresham and me.”
“Where’s Kurt?” Harry said. On the banquette seat, protected by the cloth, Karen’s hand was searching for his.
“Oh, these beetle-brows,” Tony said softly. “You always make the lovelies. Why wasn’t I born with the gene of beetle-brows?”
“Oh, shut up, Tony,” Karen Gresham said. “Kurt’s not coming, Harry. He just called. Tied up at home working on whatever he works on. Disappointed?” She turned her enormous green eyes his way. Below the cloth her hand was brushing his lightly, hungrily.
“Not disappointed, and not not,” Harry said. There it was again, the havoc to his nervous system. On the excuse of reaching for his cigarettes, he withdrew his hand.
“Forgive him the syntax, honey,” Tony Mitchell said. “Doctors get that way from writing prescriptions.”
“I think Harry’s disappointed,” said Karen, smiling. There was the slightest pucker between her brows. “Kurt fascinates him. Doesn’t he, Harry?”
Harry said nothing except, “Your health.” He picked up one of the two cocktail glasses the waiter was setting before him and gulped down half of it.
“That’s a hell of a toast for a would-be successful doctor,” Tony said. “And say what you want about that husband of yours, Karen, he’s a fascinating monster. The most fascinating in my experience, which has dealt with monsters almost exclusively.”
“To Kurt Gresham, Monster De Luxe,” murmured Karen, and she sipped her fresh martini.
“Might’s well order,” said the lawyer; the waiter had his pencil patiently poised. “Duck, that’s it. Duck Aldebaranis — truly out of this world. How about you two?”
“I don’t care,” Karen said.
Harry shrugged.
“Shrimp first? With that crazy sauce? Lovers? I’m speaking!”
“Oh, you order, Tony,” Karen said.
“Yes.” Harry observed her over the rim of his glass. That fascinating old monster certainly had an eye for women. She was exquisite, and when she sat beside her husband he became grotesque; Karen was almost half Kurt Gresham’s age. What hath God bought, he thought bitterly.
Yes, exquisite. The facial bones so delicate, with the fragility of fine china, and something of its translucence. The thoroughbred way in which she held her head, with its swirl of incredible copper hair. The great green wide-apart, innocent, worldly, inscrutable, enchanting eyes. The flesh under that tight green gown with its daring décolleté cut... The gown must have cost his income for months. The emerald necklace making love to her throat was probably worth more than his father’s insurance policy had brought. Yes, old Gresham knew how to pick his women — and how to keep them... For one lightning moment Dr. Harrison Brown thought: Was she what had got into his blood? Or was it what she represented — the symbol of everything he had fiercely yearned for all his life?