“Several people have mentioned your name to me lately,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
We came into the parking lot. His car was a silver Porsche; he stopped beside it and leaned casually against the polished fender. Something about his manner told me I was not invited to do the same. He looked at me for a moment in silence, his eyes flicking over my face, and then he said, “They speak highly of you.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“A man of good judgment and good sense.”
I shrugged. He smiled at me again, then said, “Busy day?”
“Busier than some days.”
“You’re at the Lincoln, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re well thought of there.”
“I try to do a good job.”
“I’m told your work is excellent.”
“Thank you.” His approach was throwing me off; I didn’t see where he was going. I didn’t have to wait long.
“Did you ever think of changing hospitals?”
“What do you mean?”
“There may be other…possibilities. Openings.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed.”
“I’m quite happy where I am.”
“For the present,” he said.
“Yes, for the present.”
“Do you know William Sewall?”
William Sewall was chief pathologist of the Mem. He was sixty-one and would shortly retire. I found myself disappointed in J. D. Randall. The last thing I had expected him to be was obvious.
“Yes, I know Sewall,” I said. “Slightly.”
“He will soon retire—”
“Timothy Stone is second man there, and he’s excellent.”
“I suppose,” Randall said. He stared up at the sky. “I suppose. But many of us are not happy with him.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
He smiled thinly. “It isn’t widely known.”
“And many of you would be happier with me?”
“Many of us,” Randall said carefully, “are looking for a new man. Perhaps someone from the outside, to bring a new viewpoint to the hospital. Change things around a bit; shake things up.”
“Oh?”
“That is our thinking,” Randall said.
“Timothy Stone is a close friend,” I said.
“I don’t see the relevance of that.”
“The relevance,” I said, “is that I wouldn’t screw him.”
“I would never suggest that you do.”
“Really?”
“No,” Randall said.
“Then maybe I’m missing the point,” I said.
He gave his pleasant smile. “Maybe you are.”
“Why don’t you explain?”
He scratched the back of his head reflectively. I could see he was about to change tactics, to try a different approach. He frowned.
“I’m not a pathologist, Dr. Berry,” he said, “but I have some friends who are.”
“Not Tim Stone, I’ll bet.”
“Sometimes I think pathologists work harder than surgeons, harder than anyone. Being a pathologist seems to be a full-time job.”
“That may be right,” I said.
“I’m surprised you have so much free time,” he said.
“Well, you know how it is,” I said. I was beginning to be angry. First the bribe, then the threat. Buy him off or scare him off. But along with my anger, I had a strange curiosity: Randall was not a fool, and I knew he wouldn’t be talking this way to me unless he was afraid of something. I wondered for a moment whether he had done the abortion himself, and then he said, “You have a family?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Been in Boston some time?”
“I can always leave,” I said, “if I find the pathological specimens too distasteful.”
He took that very well. He didn’t move, didn’t shift his weight on the fender of the car. He just looked at me with those gray eyes and said, “I see.”
“Maybe you’d better come right out and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“It’s quite simple,” he said. “I’m concerned about your motives. I can understand the ties of friendship, and I can even see how personal affection can be blinding. I admire your loyalty to Dr. Lee, though I would admire it more if you chose a less reprehensible subject. However, your actions seem to extend beyond loyalty. What are your motives, Dr. Berry?”
“Curiosity, Dr. Randall. Pure curiosity. I want to know why everybody’s out to screw an innocent guy. I want to know why a profession dedicated to the objective examination of facts has chosen to be biased and uninterested.”
He reached into his suit pocket and took out a cigar case. He opened it and withdrew a single slim cigar, clipped off the end, and lit it.
“Let’s be sure,” he said, “that we know what we’re talking about. Dr. Lee is an abortionist. Is that correct?”
“You’re talking,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“Abortion is illegal. Furthermore, like every surgical procedure, it carries with it a finite risk to the patient—even if practiced by a competent person, and not a drunken…”
“Foreigner?” I suggested.
He smiled. “Dr. Lee,” he said, “is an abortionist, operating illegally, and his personal habits are questionable. As a doctor, his ethics are questionable. As a citizen of the state, his actions are punishable in a court of law. That’s what’s on my mind, Dr. Berry. I want to know why you are snooping around, molesting members of my family—”
“I hardly think that’s the word for it.”
“—and making a general nuisance of yourself in this matter when you have better things to do, things for which the Lincoln Hospital pays you a salary. Like every other doctor, you have duties and responsibilities. You are not fulfilling those duties. Instead you are interfering in a family matter, creating a disturbance, and attempting to throw a smoke screen around a reprehensible individual, a man who has violated all the codes of medicine, a man who has chosen to live beyond the limits of the law, to thumb his nose at the dictates of the framework of society—”
“Doctor,” I said. “Looking at this as purely a family matter: What would you have done if your daughter had come to you with the news that she was pregnant? What if she had consulted you instead of going directly to an abortionist? What would you have done?”
“There is no point in mindless conjecture,” he said.
“Surely you have an answer.”
He was turning a bright crimson. The veins in his neck stood out above his starched collar. He pursed his lips, then said, “Is this your intention? To slander my family in the wild hope of helping your so-called friend?”
I shrugged. “It strikes me as a legitimate question,” I said, “and there are several possibilities.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Tokyo, Switzerland, Los Angeles, San Juan. Or perhaps you have a good friend in New York or Washington. That would be much more convenient. And cheaper.”
He turned on his heel and unlocked the door to his car.
“Think about it,” I said. “Think hard about what you would have done for that family name.”
He started the engine and glared at me.
“While you’re at it,” I said, “think about why she didn’t come to you for help.”
“My daughter,” he said, his voice trembling with rage, “my daughter is a wonderful girl. She is sweet and beautiful. She doesn’t have a malicious or dirty thought in her head. How dare you drag her down to your—”
“If she was so sweet and pure,” I said, “how did she get pregnant?”
He slammed the door shut, put the car in gear, and roared off in a cloud of angry blue exhaust.
A paralyzed man will swing a paralyzed arm less than a good arm.
THIRTEEN
WHEN I RETURNED HOME, the house was dark and empty. A note in the kitchen told me that Judith was still over at the Lees with the k
ids. I walked around the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator; I was hungry but restless, unwilling to sit down and make a sandwich. Finally I settled for a glass of milk and some leftover cole slaw, but the silence of the house depressed me. I finished and went over to the Lees; they live just a block away.
From the outside, the Lee house is brick, massive, New England, and old, like all the other houses on the street. It had absolutely no distinguishing characteristics. I had always wondered about the house; it didn’t seem suited to Art.
Inside, things were grim. In the kitchen, Betty sat with a rigid smile on her face as she fed the year-old baby; she looked tired and ragged; normally she was immaculately dressed with an unwilting, indefatigable manner. Judith was with her and Jane, our youngest, was holding on to Judith’s skirt. She had begun that just a few weeks earlier.
From the living room, I heard the sound of the boys playing cops and robbers with cap pistols. With every bang, Betty shuddered. “I wish they’d stop,” she said, “but I haven’t the heart….”
I went into the living room. All the furniture was overturned. From behind an easy chair Johnny, our four-year-old, saw me and waved, then fired his gun. Across the room the two Lee boys were huddled behind the couch. The air was acrid with smoke and the floor littered with rolls of paper caps.
Johnny fired, then called, “I got you.”
“Did not,” said Andy Lee, who was six.
“I did too. You’re dead.”
“I’m not dead,” Andy said and fanned his gun. He was out of caps, though, and made only a clicking noise. He ducked down and said to Henry Lee, “Cover me while I reload.”
“O.K., partner.”
Andy reloaded, but his fingers were slow, and he grew impatient. Halfway through he stopped, aimed his gun, and shouted “Bang! Bang!” Then he continued.
“No fair,” Johnny called, from behind the chair. “You’re dead.”
“So are you,” Henry said. “I just got you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Johnny said and fired three more caps. “You only winged me.”
“Oh, yeah?” Henry said. “Take that.”
The shooting continued. I walked back to the kitchen, where Judith was standing with Betty. Betty said, “How is it?”
I smiled. “They’re arguing over who got whom.”
“What did you find out today?”
“Everything’s going to be all right,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
She gave me a wry smile. Art’s smile. “Yes, Doctor.”
“I’m serious.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said, putting a spoon of apple sauce into the baby’s mouth. It dribbled out over her chin; Betty scooped it up and tried again.
“We just had some bad news,” Judith said.
“Oh?”
“Bradford called. Art’s lawyer. He won’t take the case.”
“Bradford?”
“Yes,” Betty said. “He called half an hour ago.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. Just that he couldn’t take it at this time.”
I lit a cigarette and tried to be calm. “I’d better call him,” I said.
Judith looked at her watch. “It’s five-thirty. He probably won’t be—”
“I’ll try anyway,” I said. I went into Art’s study. Judith came with me. I shut the door, closing off the sounds of gunfire.
Judith said, “What’s really happening?”
I shook my head.
“Bad?”
“It’s too early to say,” I said. I sat down behind Art’s desk and started to call Bradford.
“Are you hungry? Did you get anything to eat?”
“I stopped for a bite,” I said, “on my way over.”
“You look tired.”
“I’m O.K.,” I said. She leaned over the desk and I kissed her cheek.
“By the way,” she said, “Fritz Werner has been calling. He wants to talk to you.”
I might have expected that. Count on Fritz to know everything. Still, he might have something important; he might be very helpful. “I’ll call him later.”
“And before I forget,” she said, “there’s that party tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“We have to,” she said. “It’s George Morris.”
I had forgotten. “All right,” I said. “What time?”
“Six. We can leave early.”
“All right,” I said.
She went back to the kitchen as the secretary answered the phone and said, “Bradford, Wilson and Sturges.”
“Mr. Bradford, please.”
“I’m sorry,” the secretary said. “Mr. Bradford has gone for the day.”
“How can I reach him?”
“Mr. Bradford will be in the office at nine tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t wait that long.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I said. “Just find him for me. This is Dr. Berry calling.” I didn’t know if the name would mean anything, but I suspected it might.
Her tone changed immediately. “Hold the line please, Doctor.”
There was a pause of several seconds while I waited in the mechanical humming silence of the “Hold” button. Being on the “Hold” button is the technological equivalent of purgatory. That was what Art used to say. He hates telephones and never uses them unless he has to.
The secretary came back on. “Mr. Bradford is just leaving, but he will speak to you now.”
“Thank you.”
A mechanical click.
“George Bradford speaking.”
“Mr. Bradford, this is John Berry.”
“Yes, Dr. Berry. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to speak to you about Art Lee.”
“Dr. Berry, I’m just leaving—”
“Your secretary told me. Perhaps we could meet somewhere.”
He hesitated and sighed into the phone. It sounded like a hissing, impatient serpent. “That won’t serve any purpose. I’m afraid my decision is quite firm. The matter is out of my hands.”
“Just a short meeting.”
He paused again. “All right. I’ll meet you at my club in twenty minutes. The Trafalgar. See you then.”
I hung up. The bastard: his club was downtown. I would have to run like hell to make it in time. I straightened my tie and hurried off to my car.
THE TRAFALGAR CLUB is located in a small, dilapidated house on Beacon Street, just down from the Hill. Unlike the professional clubs of larger cities, the Trafalgar is so quiet that few Bostonians even know of its existence.
I had never been there before, but I could have predicted the decor. The rooms were paneled in mahogany; the ceilings were high and dusty; the chairs heavy, padded tan leather, comfortable and wrinkled; the carpets were worn Orientals. In atmosphere, it reflected its members—stiff, aging, and masculine. As I checked my coat, I saw a sign which stated crisply, FEMALE GUESTS MAY BE ENTERTAINED BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 AND 5:30 O’CLOCK ON THURSDAYS ONLY. Bradford met me in the lobby.
He was a short, compact man, impeccably dressed. His black chalk-stripe suit was unwrinkled after a day of work, his shoes gleamed, and his cuffs protruded the proper length beyond his jacket sleeves. He wore a pocket watch on a silver chain, and his Phi Beta Kappa key contrasted nicely with the dark material of his vest. I didn’t have to look him up in Who’s Who to know that he lived someplace like Beverly Farms, that he had attended Harvard College and Harvard Law School, that his wife had gone to Vassar and still wore pleated skirts, cashmere sweaters, and pearls, or that his children attended Groton and Concord. Bradford wore it all, quietly and confidently.
“I’m ready for a drink,” he said as we shook hands. “How about you?”
“Fine.”
The bar was on the second floor, a large room with high windows looking out on Beacon Street and the Commons. It was a subdued room, smelling faintly of cigar smoke. Men spoke in low voices and talked in
small groups. The bartender knew what everyone drank without being told: everyone, that is, except me. We sat in two comfortable chairs by the window and I ordered a vodka Gibson. Bradford just nodded to the bartender. While we waited for the drinks, he said, “I am sure you must be disappointed in my decision, but frankly—”
“I’m not disappointed,” I said, “because I’m not on trial.”
Bradford reached into his pocket, looked at his watch, and put it back.
“No one,” he said crisply, “is on trial at this moment.”
“I disagree. I think a great many people are on trial.”
He rapped the table irritably and frowned across the room at the bartender. The psychiatrists call that displacement.
“And what,” he said, “is that supposed to mean?”
“Everybody in this town is dropping Art Lee as if he had bubonic plague.”
“And you suspect a dark conspiracy?”
“No,” I said. “I’m just surprised.”
“I have a friend,” Bradford said, “who claims that all doctors are essentially naive. You don’t strike me as naive.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“That’s an observation.”
“I try,” I said.
“Well, there’s really no mystery and no conspiracy here. In my case, you must realize that I have many clients, of whom Mr. Lee is just one.”
“Dr. Lee.”
“Quite right. Dr. Lee. He is just one of my clients, and I have obligations to all of them which I discharge as I am best able. It happens that I spoke with the district attorney’s office this afternoon, to determine when Dr. Lee’s case would come up for hearing. It seems that Dr. Lee’s case will conflict with another I have previously accepted. I cannot be in two courtrooms at once. I explained this to Dr. Lee.”
The drinks came. Bradford raised his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
He sipped his drink and looked at the glass. “When I explained my position to him, Dr. Lee accepted it. I also told him that my firm would make every effort to see that he had excellent legal counsel. We have four senior partners, and it is quite likely that one of them will be able to—”