The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [66]
“He had a place, sure. Down on Wharf Lane somewhere, I think. Never knew exactly. Didn’t want to know.”
“I’ve never heard of Wharf Lane.”
“No reason you should have. Only one block long and not a block you’d ever wanna be on.”
“One last thing,” I said. I withdrew the picture from my coat and asked Haggens if he had ever seen the woman in the photograph before. Although there were still substantial gaps in the hypothesis, I was now convinced that I would eventually find a link between Turk and Rebecca Lachtmann. I could only hope that the link did not stretch to Dr. Osler. Haggens stared at the picture for an extremely long time.
“I’m not sure. Maybe. Got a name?”
I told him that I did not. Haggens’ brow furrowed as he continued to examine the photograph. “I’m really not sure. Could be though. She got a friend? Tall one with dark hair?”
“Possibly,” I said, feeling my skin prickle. “She might.”
“Maybe. One night. About a month ago. Two like that are unusual in here.”
“Were they alone?”
“Don’t remember no one with ‘em, but I figure there must have been. Two like that alone …”
“Were they with Turk? Or was Turk here that night?”
“Don’t remember. Truly.”
“All right, Haggens,” I said. “Thank you for your help.”
“Why, you’re very welcome.” I rose and turned for the door. “Oh, Doc,” Haggens said, “one more thing. Did you see Mike out front?”
I assured him I had.
“Looks like a pretty rough customer, huh?”
I agreed he did.
“Well,” said Haggens, “he don’t look half as mean as he is. Long as you keep to your deal, old Mike out there’ll help keep a watch on you whenever you’re down here. I get a whiff that you’re going back on it, Mike won’t be your friend no more. Get me?”
I got him. I was about to leave when one final thought occurred to me. “Tell me, Haggens, do you think Mike might remember either of the two women or the little fellow in the bowler?”
He snorted. “Mike don’t know what day it is. He ain’t out there for his memory.”
I spent the carriage ride home pondering whether, when Reverend Powers spoke of Christian conscience, he had allowed for running afoul of the police, investigating abortion and murder, and making bargains with thugs along the way.
When I arrived, Mrs. Mooney had already gone to bed, but I found a small envelope addressed to me on a table in the vestibule. When I opened it, inside was a note written on fine, cream-colored stationery. Dear Dr. Carroll, it read, I need to see you urgently about the matter we discussed. Please make arrangements to call on me tomorrow evening. It was signed, Affectionately, Abigail.
CHAPTER 14
THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN I arrived at the hospital, I learned that little Annie had died during the night.
Death tears at a doctor. Although each of us knows that a certain percentage of our patients will not survive, no physician ever becomes inured. Inevitably, there are some patients who take on an almost symbolic quality, who epitomize the struggle in which we continually engage against fate and inevitability. It is often, as was the case with Annie, those very patients whose survival is least likely who engender the most personal reaction.
When I arrived at the Professor’s office, I had never seen him so despairing.
“She had no hope, of course,” he said as I entered. “Her lungs, I’m sure, were virtually destroyed.” When he looked up, I saw that his eyes were red. “She was sent to work when she was five, did you know that? Running errands in a paint factory. Twelve hours a day. By the time she was eight, she was mixing paint. After she got sick, they threw her out. She lived on the street for more than a year before she was finally put into an orphanage. She had no memory of her parents. She wasn’t even sure how old she was. What a sad, wasted life.”
“It’s a great tragedy,” I agreed. “Her spirit was so light.”
“Yes,” said the Professor, seizing on the term. “It was light, wasn’t it? If we could have saved her, Ephraim, we could have helped her salvage her remaining years. You could see that she was intelligent. She could have