The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [51]
“I will need to see him at his lodgings then.”
“What’s this really about?” she asked.
I tried a different tack, injecting a note of bluff. “I think he is in some trouble of which he is not aware. I need to alert him as soon as possible.”
“Alert him?” she said. “You mean you want to help Georgie and you want me to help you help him? You and me … just a couple of Good Samaritans?”
Whatever else she was, this woman was in no way stupid. “No. Not Good Samaritans. But he surely may be in some trouble, and he needs to speak with me as much as I need to speak with him. Do you know where I might find him?”
Monique mulled this over. “What’s in it for me?”
“Nothing,” I said with finality. “But if I do not get in touch with him and he finds out that you withheld his whereabouts, I believe he will be none too pleased. In that case, I think you will have the opportunity to ask the same question of him.”
Monique nodded. “Well, well, you’re sure a surprise … Ephraim.”
“Why? Because I did not allow you to ruin me?”
“Ruin you?” she sneered. “Ha! That’s a laugh. That’s what you men always think. You got it backward. It ain’t women like me who ruin you, it’s men like you that ruined me.”
“Whatever you say,” I replied. “Are you going to tell me where George resides or not?”
“I don’t know,” she said sourly. “Suzette might.” She ducked back into the dressing room and emerged a minute or two later. “She’s never been to his place either, but she said one night she heard him tell a coachman to take him to the Barchester Hotel.”
“One last thing,” I asked. “George’s ‘getting rid of’ services … were they well known around town?” Perhaps it was he who had disposed of the body.
“No more than they had to be, I expect, although anyone interested enough could find out. And lots of us girls were plenty interested.”
Abortion! Not disposal. Not drugs or venereal disease. Detestable! If this was true, Turk was a more monstrous character than anyone had suspected. None of this was demonstrably connected to either the cadaver or to Rebecca Lachtmann, of course. If only we had performed that autopsy.
“Thank you,” I said to her, endeavoring not to give anything away.
Monique and I stood for a moment, looking at one another. The woman before me had ceased to be either the object of desire of the previous Thursday or the object of contempt of a few minutes before. Instead, I saw her for what she truly was—a pitiful creature, forced to scratch out subsistence plying the scant resources Providence had granted her, and even they were fast becoming exhausted. Five years from now, perhaps a good deal sooner, they would have deserted her entirely and her life would turn increasingly bleak. I realized that one of my greatest achievements since leaving Ohio, the most important product of all my study and self-betterment, had been to procure the means to a comfortable, even prosperous, middle age.
Monique seemed to sense the honesty between us as well. She smiled ruefully and said, “It’s all right, Ephie. You take care. Be careful of Georgie. He’s a bad one to cross.” She patted me on the cheek. “And remember, if you ever get tired of society women, pop on down here.”
“I will,” I promised, although we both knew that we would never see each other again.
I arrived at the Barchester Hotel at about nine-fifteen. It was on East Cumberland Street, about one half mile northeast of Temple University, in a neighborhood that was neither seedy nor prosperous, prominent nor notorious. The hotel’s anonymity seemed ideally suited to a man who wished to keep even the most fundamental details of his life hidden.
I entered the small lobby and strode across an aging black and white tile floor. The clerk, an indifferent, scowling lout, awaited me, arms braced on the front desk, aware that I was not there to take a room. I asked for George Turk and described him, lest he used an alias even here, but