The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [49]
“Now, we’re looking to see if we paid a Turk, George Turk, who doesn’t work here,” he said, leafing through the pages, quite amused with himself. “Turk.” Then he stopped and a look of amazement crossed his face. “Why, I’ll … here it is.” For McCann, an inconsistency in the records caused him as much consternation as the Professor would experience if he autopsied a cadaver and discovered no heart.
“Let me see,” I said, and McCann swung the ledger around. Listed in the entries for each week was “George Turk, M.D.—$8,” the last being the previous Wednesday. It pleased me, I confess, to learn that I received two dollars more per week, although I suspected the main sources of Turk’s income were such that they would not be listed in the book.
“So, Mr. McCann,” I asked, “how is it that Dr. Turk is being paid eight dollars per week if he does not work here?”
A deflated McCann ran his fingers through his beard, tugging as if in self-reproach. “I don’t know. Someone must have removed his sheet from the file.”
“And there are no duplicates?”
“Never had a need,” he admitted.
“So that means, I take it, that there is no official record of Dr. Turk’s particulars … where he resides, for example?”
McCann shook his head. “None.” He was still perplexed. “I don’t understand how this could have happened. We are so careful. Perhaps it has simply been mislaid.”
“Perhaps,” I replied. “Who adds or removes records?”
“Just me and two assistants,” he replied, gesturing to two middle-aged men wearing eyeshades sitting at desks across the room. “Let me ask.”
McCann engaged in an animated discussion with each of the two and then returned. “No one knows anything about it. They’d have signed for it if they’d taken a record out.”
I thought for a moment. “Mr. McCann, is the office kept locked?”
McCann nodded. “Every night, after we close.”
“Is the office ever empty during the day?”
“Never, except sometimes at lunch.”
I assured McCann that the loss must certainly have been an oversight and the records would surely turn up, then I thanked him for his help, and left. There was nothing further to be gained in this office nor, I was confident, would Turk’s records ever be seen again. Whoever had removed the document had obviously wanted to keep Turk’s personal information from anyone in the hospital, and the most likely person to have that motivation was Turk himself.
At seven-fifteen that evening, I arrived at Barker’s. The man in the striped vest and boater who had seated Turk and me the previous Thursday was once again at his post near the entrance. In my most affable tones, I wished him a good evening and asked if he remembered my visit with that excellent customer, the well-known bon vivant, Mr. George.
The man eyed me with equal parts cynicism, suspicion, and innocence. “We get lots of folks in here, friend. You think I remember everybody?”
“Come, my good man,” I said cheerfully. “You and Mr. George clearly knew each other well. You called him by name.”
“You’re mistaken,” the man said.
“Perhaps you are correct,” I agreed, and then removed a dime from my vest pocket. I had seen from Turk what excellent service could be elicited from some well-placed expenditures.
“What do you want with him?” asked the man.
“I am a friend and coworker,” I replied. “He has been absent from work and I fear he is ill.”
The man held out his hand and I dropped the dime in it. “So,” he asked, “what do you want from me?”
“I was wondering if you knew where his lodgings were.”
The man in the boater emitted a sound very much like a snort. “I thought you said you was his friend. Don’t you know where he lives?”
“If you wish me to be the one answering questions, I would ask for my coin back,” I said.
The man deposited the ten cents in his trousers. “Don’t know,” he said tersely.
“No idea?” In truth, I suspected that for a man