It was 2.10 when Dr. Erik Öhman, a thin leather briefcase under his arm, arrived. His pugilistic face was alive with good cheer, but at once sobered when he found his friend in bed, marked by recent combat.
The moment that Saralee had departed with Öhman’s overcoat, the Swede pulled a chair up to the bed, studied Garrett’s bruised profile, and clucked with concern. He scratched his short cropped reddish hair with stubby fingers.
‘Uhhh-Dr. Garrett, my good friend, what has happened to you? Did you fall down some stairs-or bump into a door?’
‘I was slugged by that drunken bastard Farelli,’ said Garrett with vehemence.
Öhman seemed confused. ‘He actually hit you?’
‘Not once, but several times. And he kicked me when I was down.’
‘But Dr. Garrett, this is-uhhh-shocking, shocking!’
‘Absolutely the truth. Last night, Saralee and I had dinner at Ragnar Hammarlund’s-all the winners were there-and Farelli, of course. He was drinking, and so was I, and I’ll admit I was sore as hell at him. I just couldn’t get it out of my mind how he, knowing you were a friend of mine, put one over on me by using you and your good work for a publicity stunt. So, at one point, I decided to tell him that you and I knew what he was up to, and we didn’t think he was being ethical. Well, we went outside, to talk privately in the garden, and one thing led to another, and he blurted out something insulting-I forget what-and I made some kind of innocent movement to warn him-maybe I waggled my finger under his nose-something like that-and without any chance for preparation on my part, he became violent-’
‘He gave you that black eye?’
‘Yes. Just out of nowhere-socked me in the stomach and then a couple of times in the face. I was off balance, not ready, and I tripped and went down. And then he kicked me. I would have killed him, I swear, only someone overheard us, saw us, and intervened.’
‘Anyone who can do you harm?’ asked Öhman, worried.
‘No, not at all. It was one of the other winners-Craig, the writer. He stopped Farelli from kicking me, and he kept me from fighting back.’
‘Just as well. It might have become uglier.’ He shook his head. ‘This-uhhh-this Farelli, I knew he was a bad one, after you told me the truth, but I could not have imagined he would resort to such a performance.’
Garrett touched his discoloured eye. ‘He is a man without morals, capable of anything.’
‘I see that,’ agreed Öhman. It grieved him to find his generous American mentor prone on his bed, so brutally victimized, and he became pensive. ‘Dr. Garrett, what will you do about this Farelli?’
Garrett shrugged helplessly. ‘I no longer know how to cope with him. I suppose you can say I am the martyr to my civilized Christian training. Men like you and me are taught to behave ourselves with dignity and forbearance-and, suddenly, when we are confronted with a barbarian who behaves like a pit viper, we are lost. I confess my failure-I do not know how to contend with this beast-this dangerous-’
‘Dr. Garrett-’
There was something about Erik Öhman’s expression, so set and avenging, that made Garrett halt his tirade in mid-sentence.
‘-I have a way for you to contend with Carlo Farelli,’ said Öhman.
Öhman’s statement, uttered like a sentence of doom from a bewigged justice on the bench, alerted Garrett’s senses. He waited. Was there hope?
‘Uhhh-at first-I was not sure if I should come to you with this.’ He had brought his thin leather briefcase to his lap. ‘It seemed to me too inconclusive. Yet, if it could be proved, your case would be won in a single stroke. You would not only silence Farelli, you would destroy him. He would vanish from the earth.’
Garrett sat up straight eyes burning fanatically. ‘What is it?’
‘I will explain. Uhhh-after our meeting at the Caroline Institute-after you had convinced me that Farelli was taking credit for sharing a discovery that was not his but yours-and now even attempting to steal your credit too-I decided too-uhhh-casually-uhhh-look into Farelli. If nothing more, at least to try to understand such a man being in medicine. As you know, as I explained at our meeting, the Royal Swedish Academy of Science appoints expert investigators to look into the cause of each candidate-I and another investigated you-and two of my colleagues at the Caroline-they had investigated Farelli. These studies are thorough. I had told you how, back as far as the turn of the century, our committee sent two men to St. Petersburg to-uhhh-see what they could see about Pavlov. To be confidential with you, our medical investigators-they not only verify a discovery and determine its importance, but-and this must remain in this room-they report on the-uhhh-character, responsible character, of the discoverer. Well, Dr. Garrett, such an investigation was made of Carlo Farelli.’
All through this recital, excitement had mounted within Garrett. He could not be mistaken. Something of vital importance was coming. ‘You-you said on the phone you had something important. Is it about Farelli? Did you find out something about that dirty-?’
‘Yes.’
Garrett could not modulate his voice. ‘What did you find? Tell me-I’ve got to know!’
Öhman had slowly drawn the zipper back and opened his briefcase. He fingered through it, and removed two thin sheets of typescript.
‘As you no doubt know,’ said Öhman, ‘Farelli’s background is-uhhh-colourful.’
‘I don’t know, except what’s been in the papers.’ And then, he asked urgently, ‘What do you mean-colourful?’
Öhman tapped the typescript. ‘It is here. This is not the original investigation report. But one of the men who took part-an old friend and former schoolmate-a cardiac specialist like us-he told me from memory what he had found, and I took notes, and then I typed it myself. Of course, it might be possible to see the original report-through my friend-or someone. It is filed away, but I am sure it would be no different from what I have in hand. My friend has the memory of a bull elephant.’ Öhman examined the top sheet in his lap, and then looked up. ‘You know, of course, that in the last days of 1941, when Mussolini had already declared war on Russia and the United States, Dr. Farelli was placed under arrest by OVRA, the Fascist Secret Police?’
‘I don’t know the details,’ said Garrett. ‘He bragged to me once that he was in prison during the war.’
‘Yes, that has been verified,’ said Öhman. ‘It must be admitted, on his behalf, that he has a long record as an anti-Fascist. Even as a student in medical school, Farelli opposed Mussolini’s adventure against Haile Selassie in Africa. When the Second World War came, Farelli, along with several other young doctors, signed an open letter published in Il Popolo di Roma opposing it. Late in 1941, the OVRA learned, through an informer, that Farelli had acted as a physician giving comfort to Il Duce’s underground enemies. At once, the carabinieri came and confined him to the Regina Coeli prison in Rome.’
‘What are you trying to do, make him out a hero?’ said Garrett bitterly. ‘We were the heroes, if you want it that way. You were at least neutral and gave help to refugees, and I was in the landing on Iwo Jima-but, whatever you say, Farelli was an Italian-’
Öhman saw how troubled his friend was and forgave him his lack of objectivity. ‘I am only quoting our neutral report,’ said Öhman. ‘But, Dr. Garrett, I am leading up to something-of importance, as I promised you.’ He rattled the papers in his hand. ‘As I was saying, Farelli was confined to the Regina Coeli prison in Rome, and later, according to our records, he was shipped to another prison, near Parma, an old castle where political agitators were kept and sometimes shot. So far, all well and to the good for Farelli. But then our Academy investigator-the friend of whom I speak-found a mystifying, inexplicable piece of information.’