“Rich man? There are thousands of rich men, Kildare, but there’s only one Messenger. Why, he’s the fellow who built the whole observatory at San Jacinto in New Mexico. Millions of dollars to observe the stars…to observe the infernal stars, mind you, when we’re still fighting hand to hand with disease! And now Paul Messenger needs help. I’m not permitted to say one word to you about the case; I can only say that at the present moment Messenger thinks you may be the only man in the world capable of helping him. I say that I can’t talk about the case, but I can talk about your manner of approach to it. Doctor Kildare, you are a fellow with an admirable character for honesty and patience and medical insight; but I beg you to remember that there are also qualities such as tact and gentleness of approach and a willingness to favour the other fellow’s point of view…Hurry along now…Every minute may be important…But try to remember that out of this case the hospital might receive benefactions so important that its ability to serve the world may be doubled. And you yourself may be founding a rich practice for the future.”
He took Kildare as far as the door of his office, holding his arm in a nervous grip. But even when the door was open, he could not let him go for an instant, repeating: “Straightforward honesty is an admirable quality—but when in Rome, remember to do as the Romans—and diplomacy has moved mountains in the past, young man—a light touch may do more than a sledge-hammer stroke…”
CHAPTER FIVE
KILDARE got away at last. He found the Messenger car, driven by a chauffeur with a disdainful manner and a sooty streak of moustache across the upper lip. He took the big automobile swiftly and smoothly through the cross-town traffic and turned up to a Fifth Avenue house. As Kildare got to the pavement, he saw Central Park South rising by lighted stages and towers into the smoke of the autumn evening; the Park itself was lost in a blue fume of twilight as the chauffeur took him to the front door and rang the bell. It was a great door of wrought iron and glass, draped with vaguely translucent curtains inside. A tall old servant opened to Kildare.
“All right, Markham,” said the chauffeur, and this watchword let Kildare enter a hall paved in large black and white marble squares.
“Mr. Messenger expects you in the library, sir,” said the butler, and led the way up a stairway flanked by potted, huge azaleas. The red carpet sponged up all the noise of footfalls except a whispering; a hushed expectancy began to grow in Kildare. Through the upper hall the butler brought him into the library, saying: “Mr. Messenger, your guest, sir,” and then closed the door behind him.
Messenger rose from beside the fire. The glow of it extended over the panels of yellow pine but left under shadow the reds and blues of levant morocco bindings, the ivory of vellum, and the darkening golden brown of pigskin. Two floor lamps clipped out rounds of blue from the rug, yet the room on the whole was left to a restful dusk; and the white hair of Messenger, as he came toward Kildare, seemed to endow him with his own light. He had both a moustache and beard, but clipped as short as though they had to be worn inside a helmet. He was still a huge frame of a man and must have been at one time of tremendous vigour; the last flush of it was in his face, in the bigness of a vein upon his forehead; and the overwhelming boldness of his eyes. He continued to stare into Kildare as he took his hand.
His first words were: “I want you to make a diagnosis without seeing the patient. Can you try that?”
“I can try it,” said Kildare.
“Sit down over here then. Turn your chair a little so that the light gets at your face. When human beings talk they use more than words, and we mustn’t be in the dark to one another…Will you drink?”
“Not now,” said Kildare.
“Are you comfortable and at ease? Is there anything about me or this room that embarrasses you? If so, we’ll talk about other things until you’re at home.”
“There’s no reason why we should waste time,” replied Kildare.
Messenger, watching his guest, nodded slowly.
“I’ve heard that you’re calm, alert, tenacious in your purposes, and absolutely independent. I begin to feel that all these things are true of you,” he remarked. “But I also wish that you were ten years older. I’ve heard a good deal about your discretion, but I know that young tongues are hinged in the middle and wag very easily. I am going to ask for your promise to repeat nothing that you hear from me.”
“Very well,” said Kildare.
Messenger considered this answer for a moment and seemed to find it too casual; but presently he went on: “I’m going to describe two young women for you. They are my reason for calling you in.”
Kildare took out a small notebook and a pen.
“No,” said Messenger. “I want to watch your face. The details will remain in your mind. They are not obscure. The first girl I offer for your consideration is twenty years old. She is a type of modern young outdoor America. She can take her horse over the jumps like a professional. If you’re no better than the average, she’ll outwalk you, outswim you, and give you fifteen and a beating at tennis. Most of the time she wishes for bigger shoulders and narrower hips; as a matter of fact, she almost would prefer to be a man. But she gets on with the lads very well in every way. At a dance she’s as popular as the next one. She knows how to take her liquor and how to leave it. She has a talent for friendship. The boys and the girls are constantly around her night and day. At the same time she manages a close and affectionate life with her family. As the poet says, she likes whatever she sees, and her looks go everywhere. Probably she would be called an extravert. Is the picture clear in your mind? I ought to add that she’s engaged to as fine a fellow as you could find.”
“Yes,” said Kildare. “The picture is clear.”
“Now I offer you a picture of the second girl. Outdoor sports are nothing to her. She wouldn’t cross the street to see an international polo match or watch Vines fight it out with Budge. She doesn’t like to be alone, and yet out of people she gets only a very vague and dreamy pleasure. She goes to all the night clubs; dancing seems to be the one absorbing passion in her life; neither friends nor family are of the slightest interest to her. A good many young girls grow too fond of night life, but this one uses the night places, not as though she were fond of the nonsense that goes on in them, but as though she needed them to kill time, as a person in pain needs a narcotic…Is that enough of a picture?”
“No,” said Kildare, “there are a great many things I’d like to know about the second girl.”
“Ask questions then,” said the big man tersely.
“Do you know about the early life of the second girl? Was it pleasant?”
“Quite. Yes. Quite. But here I’ve thrown out a quantity of information, and what does the diagnostician’s brain say to you about these two girls? Does anything come?”
“It’s very serious,” said Kildare, frowning at his host. “That is to say, it seems serious at the first glance. You yourself have no idea of what may have caused the change?”
“Change? I’ve said nothing about a change,” said Messenger.
“The change of the first girl into the second,” said Kildare, making a small impatient gesture.
“Ah,” said Messenger.
He exhaled a long breath and settled back into his chair. “If you guessed that at the very start,” he declared, “I think before the end that you may go as far as my friends promise. It’s true that I’m talking about only one person—who changed.”
“A daughter?” asked Kildare.
“You might have learned this through other people. What do you know about me, Doctor Kildare?”