The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [85]
After the extreme results of these animal tests, Wright decided that the drug was too powerful for practical medical use and no further experimentation was undertaken. Nor were there any recorded attempts to repeat Wright’s experiment or synthesize the drug by other means.
While I could not, of course, be certain that the powder I had tested was diacetylmorphine, I felt confident that this article bore some relation to my discovery. How the German dye maker came to be involved, if in fact I was dealing with the same substance, remained a mystery. Still, there was every chance that when I discovered the explanation, I might also unravel the circumstances of George Turk’s murder.
I remained at the table in the library for some moments, the journal open in front of me, trying to project where all of this might lead, deaf to the world. I did not hear the door open and close behind me, nor the sound of footsteps heading in my direction. I was, therefore, taken completely by surprise when I heard my name being called.
“Carroll, what are you doing in here? I have been looking all over for you.”
My eyes darted about to see the Professor standing over me. “You missed afternoon rounds,” he said.
Before I could make an explanation, he had placed his fingers on the open journal. “What are you looking at?” He leaned over to look. “Why are you interested in Wright’s experiment?” he asked, a chill in his voice to which I was unaccustomed.
“You know it?”
“Certainly,” the Professor replied curtly. “It was more accident than experiment. He boiled up some morphine in anhydrous acetic acid and came up with a morphia derivative that proved to be too potent for medical use. No one, as far as I know, has performed any further research.”
“Yes,” I said. “So it seems.”
“So what is your interest?”
There was no lie that would not sound ridiculous, so I resorted to a half-truth. “Turk had spoken of some intensely powerful morphia derivative.”
“In what context?”
“He had simply stated that, with the predilection to use opiates at every stratum of society, it would only be a matter of time before the drugs were engineered to higher intensity. He said he expected that day to arrive sooner rather than later.”
“Why didn’t you mention it?”
“There seemed no point. Turk spoke of many things that evening and this seemed to be idle musing. But after listening to Sergeant Borst, I became curious. Turk had certainly created that compartment to hold something.”
“And,” asked the Professor, “what have you concluded?”
“This was all I could find.” I gestured to the journal. “Turk must indeed have been merely speculating. He could hardly have based his evidence on a fifteen-year-old article about an obscure experiment that no one seems to have pursued further.”
“Yes,” the Professor agreed. “Hardly.”
I closed the journal and replaced it on the appropriate shelf. I couldn’t determine whether the Professor suspected me of duplicity or was merely unnerved by the prospect of a dogged policeman instigating a scandal on the eve of his greatest triumph. In either case, this was not a fortuitous moment to have him peering over my shoulder.
CHAPTER 18
EARLY IN THE AFTERNOON, I received a note from Abigail Benedict confirming our arrangements for the evening. She asked that I call for her at seven-thirty, as she had reserved us a table at Barker’s.
When I arrived, she swept down the spiral staircase. Abigail was stunning, clad in a high-necked, deep maroon dress with a white lace collar, and, as always, without gloves or jewelry. Her hair was up, the first time I had seen it so, accentuating a neck that was long, thin, and graceful. She smiled as she reached the bottom step, and I moved toward her. I realized she had a scent