The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [82]
“So, Doc,” he said. “What now?”
“Just as we agreed,” I replied. “I give Borst the key. I tell him how I found it, inform him that when he was drunk Turk had mentioned Wharf Lane, and then let the good sergeant do the rest.”
“Seems a shame,” said Haggens.
“The powder? We had to leave it there, Haggens. You cannot expect me to involve myself in illicit activity.”
“You kept the book, though,” he pointed out.
“Only to protect the innocent,” I rejoined.
“Yeah, Doc. I see. A public service.” There was not much that got past Haggens.
“In any event,” I said, “we both got what we wanted.”
“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “I suppose.” I stood to go and Haggens got out of his chair as well. “Ya won’ forget what we talked about, will ya, Doc?” Haggens tapped his chest. “You were gonna …”
“Yes, of course,” I replied. “I’ll be back later in the week.” It seemed I was not yet completely free of him.
“Thanks. Like you said … we’re chums now.”
As I left The Fatted Calf, I nodded at Mike, who was back on duty. He once again favored me with a nod and even said, “Night, Doc.” It was comforting to be on Mike’s good side, although I had little doubt that he would, without compunction, snap my neck like a carrot if Haggens so instructed him.
Although it seemed that it had been hours since I arrived, it was actually not yet eight-thirty. That gave me ample time to stop at the Fifth Street police station on my way home. When I arrived, I was told that Sergeant Borst had left for the day, which disappointed me not in the least. I wrote him a note detailing my discovery in one of Turk’s books of a key that I had reason to believe was to his lair, which I had just remembered that he had mentioned was on Wharf Lane. I wished the sergeant good luck in his endeavors, and left both key and note in an envelope for him to open in the morning.
CHAPTER 17
I WAS QUICKLY DISABUSED OF any notion that the notebook would provide an epiphany. When I looked more closely, I saw that Turk had coded the entries, and though I did study them for a time, hoping that he had simply used abbreviations or some other transparent method of disguising the data, the cipher remained incomprehensible.
Remembering an admonition in an Edgar Allan Poe story that the best place to hide something is where everyone can see it, I placed the notebook on my bookshelves among some octavos. I left a note for Mrs. Mooney, asking that she order some material on cryptography from the lending library, but even if I could make nothing of the code, the journal might provide solid secondary evidence. The contents could prove illuminating if other information came to light that gave some indication of records that Turk had obviously thought so important as to require coded entries.
I also needed to preempt Borst. The sergeant was sure to pay a return visit to the hospital, so I told the Professor first thing the next morning of my discovery of a key cut into the cover of one of Turk’s books—I neglected to say which one—and that I had turned it over to the police.
The Professor frowned deeply at the news. “The last thing we need at this moment is scandal,” he grumbled, but added firmly, “but of course you did the right thing.” He shook his head. “Turk seems to be more trouble dead than he was when alive. I was saddened at Turk’s death, as you know, but now I am merely angry.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “It was easy up until now to see him as compelled by circumstance, but it seems that his malevolence was far more profound.”
As we proceeded with rounds, the Professor was uncharacteristically tense and somber. He snapped at Simpson when she failed to check a patient’s chart, did not make sport of Farnshaw, and was even subdued in the children’s ward. His disquiet, I was certain, was not due merely to the general inconvenience that revelations of Turk’s activities might cause, but