The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [120]
He shook his head miserably. “No. I had no idea, Carroll. I was as stunned as anyone when Turk’s true nature was revealed. It was as I told you. Turk seemed most amiable, introducing me to everyone—including a number of ladies who I suspected were not of strict virtue. But there was nothing else. I’m certain.”
Turk had chosen the perfect lamb.
Farnshaw and I sat in silence, bumping along in an indeterminate direction in semidarkness. Street noises penetrated the gloom, emphasizing that, on the other side of the walls, people were moving about, engaged in their daily routines. And they were free. There seemed little else I could say. I could only hope that my presence provided some comfort.
After what seemed hours, but was likely not more than twenty or thirty minutes, the wagon stopped. There was a clamor outside and soon I heard a key rattling in the padlock on the door. When the door itself swung open, I was nearly blinded by the profusion of light that flooded into the wagon. A policeman ordered us out. He grabbed each of us roughly by the upper arm. Once we were standing on the pavement, the policeman ignored me, but retained his grip on Farnshaw.
We were in front of the Fifth Street station house, although it took a few moments in the glare to determine that it was the same building I had visited the night I had left the Wharf Lane key for Borst. Farnshaw moved in misery toward the building. As I followed, Borst was at my shoulder.
“Enjoy the trip?”
I didn’t wish to make matters worse for poor Farnshaw, but the blatant sadism of the man finally overwhelmed me. “You are a bastard,” I growled, looking him in the eye.
Instead of taking umbrage, Borst merely smiled. “I am that, Doc. I am that. But just remember: Any time you wish to help your friend in there, all you have to do is to distract my interest. A little truth should do the trick.”
“And what if there is no truth to tell?” I retorted. “Have you thought of that? I know you think that I have the secrets of the crime at my fingertips, but what if you are wrong?”
The policeman shrugged. “Then, if you don’t know nothing else, I’ll just have to figure that I got the right guy.”
“Even if you send the wrong man to the gallows?”
“Won’t be the first time,” the sergeant said placidly. “Now, Doc. Want to come inside?”
But I wasn’t finished yet. “Jonas Lachtmann put you up to this, didn’t he? He called you to that fancy home of his to tell you that he had found the body of his daughter and that he knew that Turk had an accomplice in her murder and that you had better make an arrest quickly. I notice that Farnshaw has not been arrested for performing abortions, just for poisoning Turk. The part about Miss Lachtmann will be kept out of all this, won’t it? How did he convince you? Threats? Or did he take a more friendly approach?”
Borst never stopped smiling, but he spoke to me through clenched teeth. “Next time you say anything like that, your friend Farnshaw’s gonna have company. Nobody tells me what to do, not Jonas Lachtmann or anyone else. The reason his daughter’s being kept out of this is ‘cause of respect to a grieving family. I’d do that for anybody. Now you wanna come inside or not?”
I did, of course, so I said no more and let Borst lead me into the station. The ferocity of his denial, however, convinced me that I was correct: Jonas Lachtmann had pressed him for an arrest and so he had made one. It also meant that it would be that much more difficult to force him to admit that he had made a mistake—assuming that I could succeed at all in mustering the evidence with which to confront him.
The tumult inside surrounding the big arrest had begun. Borst was obviously quite popular with his fellows, many coming up and clapping him on the back, congratulating him on such an impressive display of police work. More than once, I heard the word “promotion.” A few of the policemen