The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [47]
“Her parents believe her to be overseas, however?”
“Yes,” said Eakins.
“Why, then, are you seeking my assistance?” I asked, bewildered.
“Rebecca’s problem is of a very personal nature,” Eakins offered. “She did not want her parents to know … her father can be an extremely difficult man….”
“Ephraim has met Jonas,” Miss Benedict interjected somberly.
“So, Dr. Carroll, you know what we mean,” Eakins continued. “Rebecca made elaborate plans to deceive her parents into believing that she was touring Italy when, in fact, she was in the city seeking assistance. But now we have lost touch with her.”
So I was not being asked for medical expertise at all. This was a far more pedestrian errand. “You wish me to make inquiries to see if she is a patient somewhere under another name?”
“That certainly,” replied Eakins. “But also if she has sought treatment through less traditional channels.”
“I am not aware of less traditional channels,” I replied coldly.
“You must help us, Ephraim. Help me,” said Miss Benedict, her voice just above a whisper. “But please do not ask for more information. There are issues of personal intimacy involved.”
I had not come here to be enlisted in an intrigue, especially one initiated by moral weakness. Moreover, I would not know where to begin. Rebecca Lachtmann might be anywhere. She was, in actuality, unlikely to be a patient in any hospital, at least in Philadelphia. Anyone of her description would attract attention no matter what name she used. Yet if I refused to offer assistance, I was certain that I would not see Abigail Benedict again.
“I am not sure how much I can be of help,” I replied, “but I will be pleased to do all that I can. Do you have a sketch?” I glanced about at the walls. “Or a photograph?”
“I have a photograph,” said Eakins. “You will use it discreetly, of course.”
“I understand the nature of your request,” I replied evenly.
Eakins nodded, stood up, and walked across the studio to a large case with many drawers. He pulled open one of the drawers, riffled through the material inside, and extracted a plate. I wondered of what nature the photograph he returned with might be, but Eakins was no fool. The print, although slightly grainy, was of only the head and shoulders of a beautiful young woman with light hair. She was recognizable as the woman in the painting I had viewed at Miss Benedict’s, but only because I had been aware of that fact in advance. More disturbing, however, was another resemblance, one that I had discounted when I had been assured that the subject of the portrait was alive and well in Italy.
I studied the photograph carefully and, though the similitude was strong, there was no way to be positive that this was the woman I had seen in the Dead House. Distrust coincidence, the Professor always said. It would have been foolish to conclude that a cadaver I had glimpsed for a second or two in an ice chest and a photograph or a portrait that had intentionally distorted reality were all of the same person. But neither could I definitively conclude that the three pieces of data were unrelated. Distrust coincidence, perhaps, but do not discount it. I must approach this problem as any other—accept coincidence only as a working hypothesis, and then test that hypothesis until it is disproved. Or not disproved. “Less traditional channels.” Perhaps. It seemed that I might be able to be of some assistance after all.
As Miss Benedict and I reemerged on Mount Vernon Street, the sun was lower in the sky and a coolness had once again set in. The streets remained busy, although most of the families had disappeared, replaced by couples. As we were about to enter the brougham, I observed a mustachioed man in a derby. He was, I was certain, the same man who had been loitering about on our arrival, but he now wore an overcoat and was at the opposite end of the street from where he had been taking the air previously. What’s more, he had been joined by a second man, similarly attired, and they seemed engaged in conversation. When we were seated in the coach, I looked out the window,