The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [78]
“Wharf Lane.”
The grin vanished. “Turk’s place? You found it?”
“Not exactly.” I related the finding of the key. I made a point of mentioning where Turk had hidden it, deciding that Haggens would appreciate the irony.
“Plado?” he asked. “Some old Greek?” Haggens shook his head at the wonder of it all. “But how do you know what door the key fits?”
“I don’t,” I replied. “But I believe you said that Wharf Lane is only one block long. Turk certainly did not do his business out of a storefront, so I assume the key must fit a door that leads somewhere else. There can’t be too many possibilities—upper floors or back rooms. I thought I would just try all the locks, until I found the correct one.”
“Oh, you did, did you? Just kinda mosey down Wharf Lane tryin’ locks. People down there don’t take kindly to strangers sticking keys in their doors.”
“And thus, Mike,” I said. “If he is all you say he is, of course.”
Haggens stroked his chin for a moment, then nodded. “And what if you find something?”
“I would have to see what the something is, but I could then inform the authorities according to the terms of our bargain. There would be no need to mention you at all. After all, I found the key in a book.”
Haggens glowered. “You sayin’ I can’t read?”
“Of course not,” I replied without apology. “But the circumstances under which I came across the key have nothing whatever to do with you, and there would be no reason for Borst to suspect that I had not found out about Wharf Lane through devices of my own … from Monique, for example.”
Haggens’ smile returned. “Okay, Doc. No offense taken.”
“Can I have Mike, then?” I asked.
“Sure,” Haggens replied. “I think I might toodle along with you as well.”
“You? Why?” Haggens’ presence had not been in my plans and definitely added a layer of menace. If what we found in Turk’s den turned out to be a threat to him, Haggens could simply instruct Mike to make certain I was never seen again.
Haggens rose. His attendance, it seemed, was not to be negotiable. “What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?”
“Frankly, no. Should I?”
“You wound me,” he said. He took a step for the door and then stopped. “Oh, yeah. One other thing.”
“Yes?”
“We’re chums, right?”
“To the end,” I replied.
“Thought so. Well, since I’m doing all this for you, I thought maybe you might do something for me?”
“And what might that be?”
Haggens heaved a sigh. I braced myself for whatever conspiracy he was about to try and involve me in. He glanced about and, even though we were alone in the room, lowered his voice and said, “I been having some trouble breathing, Doc. Especially lying down. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I can’t breathe hardly at all. Then I get dizzy when I stand up. What do you think it is?”
A medical question! It should not have been a surprise. No doctor can go anywhere without fielding inquiries, often from complete strangers, whether on breathing, or itches, or pains, or bathroom habits.
“Did you ever have rheumatic fever?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Haggens replied, “when I was a kid. Do you know what I got?”
“I can’t be sure without an examination. At the least, I would have to listen to your heart.”
Haggens started to unbutton his vest.
“No, no,” I said. “I can’t do it now. I need my stethoscope. Are you willing to come to the hospital?”
Haggens cocked his head as if I had suggested he turn himself in to the police.
“All right,” I said, realizing that I had just bought myself insurance. “I’ll come back later this week. No one will know. That is the way you want it, I assume.”
Haggens nodded. “Just so, Doc.” He rebuttoned his vest and reached for his coat. “Well, let’s go see what Turk was into.” He removed a kerosene lantern from a shelf and bade me to follow him out.
I had arrived at The Fatted Calf during last light. As we left, the streets were fully in the dark and, although it was still early enough