The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [52]
I had succeeded first with bribery, and then with bluff. This man, I thought, would be far more susceptible to the latter. “Before I go, sir,” I said, “I will simply inform you that I am a doctor. I am attempting to locate Mr. Turk on an extremely grave matter involving a prominent family in this city. If death results from my inability to contact him, the police are certain to become involved and they may reasonably be expected to take a dim view of anyone who impeded my inquiries.”
The clerk turned about. He stood gazing at me with rodentlike eyes, his expression stolid. I feared my gambit had failed, but then he asked, “Prominent family? Which prominent family?”
“I am not at liberty to say, and you’d best hope that you do not have cause to find out.”
The clerk’s forehead wrinkled and I could see that the turn in the conversation was taxing his limited reason. “Turk’s in trouble then?” he asked. Hearing him use the name told me that I was getting closer.
“Not as yet, but he will be if I cannot locate him quickly. I might add that I believe he will be none too pleased to learn that you prevented me from contacting him. As I suspect you know, he is a dangerous man.”
I had no specific evidence, of course, that Turk was dangerous, short of Monique’s assertion, but when the clerk began to nod involuntarily, I knew that she had not been speaking idly.
“He doesn’t stay here,” the clerk said, “but I take messages and deliver them to his rooms. Nothing out of sorts, mind you, but Mr. Turk is a man who likes his privacy.”
“You are paid for this service, of course,” I said.
“He ain’t my kin,” the clerk replied, by way of explanation.
“And where do you take the messages?” I asked. When the clerk hesitated, I slammed the flat of my hand upon the counter. “Hurry up, man, or no one will have any privacy to value, least of all you.”
“All right,” he grunted. “Mr. Turk has rooms on Bodine Street … that’s three blocks east of here and two north, just this side of the railroad tracks. He rents from a Mrs. Fasanti. She’s a widow. It’s not a rooming house proper, but this way Turk figures no one will come looking there.”
“Thank you.” I nodded curtly. “I do not believe I need to tell you that if word of this gets out, it will go badly for you.”
“Don’t worry, Doc,” said the man with a vinegary smile. “I’m not about to go bragging about talking to you.”
I followed the clerk’s directions and in ten minutes found myself in front of Mrs. Fasanti’s, a brick-fronted row house that was scarcely more impressive than Mrs. Mooney’s. I was surprised that Turk’s lodgings, even in this part of town, were not more generously appointed.
I walked up the steps and knocked on an aging wooden door, upon which the varnish had raised up and begun to peel. It swung open almost instantly to reveal a haggard woman with graying hair, thick glasses, and an expression that showed both suspicion and fear. She did not offer a greeting or ask what was my purpose in calling, but stood silently, waiting for me to speak.
“I am looking for George Turk,” I told her.
“Who are you?” the woman replied coldly.
“My name is Carroll. I am a doctor and a friend of Turk’s and I need to see him. Is he in?”
“Friend?” she said, suddenly excited. “A doctor? Come on, then. Quick. He’s up here.” She beckoned me inside, gesturing with urgency, and then turned and led me to a flight of stairs. “He’s in a mighty bad way, Doctor,” she said over her shoulder, “but George didn’t let me call no one.”
We reached the second-floor landing and, as we turned left and walked down a narrow hall, I was hit by a distinctive acrid odor. “How long has he been ill?” I asked.
“Three days,” she told me. “It’s been hell.”
The smell got stronger as we neared the end of the hall. She had placed a rolled towel on the floor in front of the door to Turk’s rooms in an attempt to keep the odor from permeating the rest of the house. As soon as the woman opened