“There are moral kudos even in the peddling of junk. That’s what you’d like me to believe?”
“I insist you believe it, my boy. You’re intelligent enough to understand, if you’ll open your mind.”
“I’m listening, Gresham, but I’m afraid my mind is closed. Junk peddling is junk peddling.”
“Of course your mind is closed. You’ve been raised in an atmosphere of legalistic bias. During Prohibition, for example, you were told that the manufacture, transportation and sale of liquor was a horrid crime. Then the Eighteenth Amendment was repealed, and suddenly liquor became respectable again. I’ll bet you still can’t take a drink without having guilt feelings about it.”
“Liquor and narcotics are hardly the same thing,” Harry snorted. “There’s no danger of alcoholism unless there are underlying psychological causes. But anyone can become a narcotics addict simply through excessive dosage.”
“All the more reason for recognizing that it’s a medical, not a criminal, problem. And it’s bound to be recognized, Harry. Sooner or later we’ll have the British system here and I’ll be out of business. Meanwhile I’m serving a socially desirable purpose that ought to be served by the government.”
“Man, if ever I heard sophistry...!”
“Not true. There is nothing unsound in my argument; it’s not a rationalization. Admittedly, I’ve made a great deal of money in the commission of acts now considered unlawful, but they’re not unethical acts. It’s our antiquated laws that are wrong, not I.”
Harry Brown looked at his watch. “Would you kindly come to the point, Gresham? I have to get back to my office.”
Kurt Gresham pinched at the pink jowls beneath his small round chin. “Harry, I want you to stop thinking of me in terms of gangsters, pushers, despoilers of teenagers and all that. I’m not a conscienceless corrupter of human beings, believe me. For thirty-five years I’ve been serving the needs of statesmen, writers, artists, actors, architects, judges, businessmen, financiers, society people—”
“God Almighty.”
“I supply only the best, the worthiest; my potential clients are screened by experts; I accept only people of means and discretion; and there are so many, so many...”
Dr. Harrison Brown sat silent.
In the silence, Kurt Gresham selected a long thin cigar from a humidor, lit it carefully, blew aromatic smoke.
In spite of himself, Harry said curiously, “You say you’ve been in this racket — pardon me, humanitarian service — for thirty-five years. How did you get started? What gave you the idea? Mind telling me?”
“Not at all. My father was in the import-export business in a modest way — getting along, not rich, not poor. He died at the age of seventy-nine, and all his adult life he was a heroin addict. Through his international contacts he was able to buy supplies of the drug for his private use: they were brought in for him by a trusted European representative during legitimate business trips. It was because of my father that the idea struck me — what an ideal solution this method would be to the problem of supplying respectable addicts with their necessary drugs — and, of course, how profitable. When my father died and I took over the business, I began to work on my idea — very slowly and carefully. Today I have a small but airtight organization of hand-picked people.”
“Hand-picked, am I?”
“Over a period of thirty-five years I have had to make replacements, of course: employees had died, grown old, retired. You’re old Dr. Welliver’s replacement, I hope — I sincerely hope, Harry. For both our sakes.”
Something in the fat man’s tone made Harry’s scalp prickle. “Does Mrs. Gresham know about all of this?”
“Of course not. Karen is my wife, not a business associate. But to get back to you, Harry. I’ve studied you; I’ve had you most carefully investigated. I know all about you: about your father’s struggle to make you what he couldn’t be; about your compulsive drive for success and wealth — all about you, Harry.”
“My God, how...?”
“My staff is made up of experts — each of whom knows only an essential few of his colleagues, by the way, as you will be my expert in your field, knowing virtually none of the others. I even know of your recent loan...” The fat man opened a drawer of his desk, extracted a rectangle of blue paper and tossed it across to Harry. “Your loan has been paid. That’s the cancelled note. I cannot afford to have any member of my little official family in debt. You see, Harry, just by agreeing to this little conference, you’re ahead thirty thousand dollars.”
Harry stared at the blue rectangle.
“Put it away, Harry,” Gresham said. “Or tear it up.”
Dr. Harrison Brown looked up from the blue paper so tightly held in his hand. “What do you want of me?” he croaked.
“Don’t look at me that way, Harry. I’m not the Devil, and I’m not asking you to sell your soul.”
“What do you want of me?”
“Put that note away, will you?”
Harry stuffed it into a pocket. “What do you want of me, Gresham?”
“Absurdly little, in fact. You’ll continue to build up your practice independently, but to give you freedom from financial worries I’m going to put you on an annual retainer — ostensibly for being my family physician. You’ll be called on no more than five or six times a year for the confidential jobs — they don’t happen often; sometimes a full year’s gone by without the need for a job like the one you did on that woman.”
“So much for so little? That can’t be the whole thing, Gresham—”
“But it is. I’m willing to pay handsomely just to know that I have a doctor I can depend on in an emergency.”
“I’ve got to get to my office,” Harry said, rising. “I have office hours—”
“I’ve already had your office girl called, Harry. You’re delayed. Important case. And it is, isn’t it?”
Harry sank back, staring at him. Gresham puffed on his cigar.
“Now, Harry,” he said briskly, “I want you to understand how this thing works because, even though you’re a minor cog in the machine, even the minor cogs are important to keep the machine running smoothly.
“Gresham and Company, Import and Export, has been in business for seventy years. We’re a firm of excellent reputation, doing a good business in a lawful manner. However, certain key people secretly pick up the narcotics I need in Europe and the Orient; and the other key people deliver it to me together with the legitimate goods we import. We never take chances. We never smuggle in big shipments, for instance, because we don’t have to. We’re in business day in and day out, and so small quantities can be brought in day in and day out; no splurges, no large purchases, nothing that attracts attention; never any trouble in thirty-five years. Is that much clear?”
“Yes.”
Gresham deposited a long ash delicately in a tray. “Distribution and sales naturally pose more dangerous problems. I’ve already indicated that the selection of the client is done by experts. The client must be of the highest moral character and of sound financial background — people who are willing to pay as much for our discretion as for the drugs. As for the actual transactions—”
“Your night-club chain,” Harry exclaimed.
“Exactly.” The millionaire crushed out his cigar and leaned back in his huge baronial chair. “I don’t go west of the Mississippi. My distribution points — drops, if you will — are here in New York, in Philadelphia, in Washington, Miami and in Chicago. In each of these cities, under dummy ownership, I own several small, exclusive clubs. In each club the manager is one of my key people, and it’s the manager who makes the delivery and accepts payment — in cash, naturally. And there you have it, my boy. Oh, I should add what must be obvious — I have a doctor on my payroll in each of the five cities. Is there anything else you would like to know, Harry?”