The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [91]
“Yes,” I replied. “I know.”
“You have given me hope, Ephraim, or perhaps only a respite. In either case, I am grateful. But I cannot continue to live with uncertainty. I must know the truth. You will find out the truth for me, won’t you?”
I thought of her painting of me. That man would do anything necessary for the woman he loved.
“Of course,” I said.
It was going to be dangerous, I realized, trying to live up to a portrait.
CHAPTER 19
I SKULKED OUT OF THE Benedict house before sunrise, leaving like a thief through a door at the back of the garden. I had not been the first to tread that same path, I knew, but I could not let that concern me. There was no point in going home, so I went directly to the hospital. I succeeded in gaining a few hours’ sleep curled up on a settee in the doctors’ lounge.
When I awoke, I made once more for the library and, using the German-English dictionary and phrase book, I laboriously drafted an inquiry to the Bayer Company. With apologies for my grauenhaft Deutsch—my atrocious German—I asked about their experiments with diacetylmorphine. As a physician, I added, I was extremely interested in the analgesic properties of the substance and would be most interested to learn of the results of any clinical tests. Then I went to the cable office and was informed by a young and eager clerk whose skin still bore marks of a recent eruption of acne vulgaris that a number of relays would be required after the message was sent by transatlantic cable, but should arrive in Germany within a day. Any response would be held for me on a will-call basis.
The clerk then not only insisted on explaining the many ways in which the miracle of modern telegraphy was changing the world, but also on favoring me with a rendition of the tribulations in establishing a worldwide system of communication. Did I know how many times the cable snapped when being lowered into the pitching waters of the ocean? Was I aware of the persistence of Cyrus Field and those other visionaries who refused to abandon the project even though most investors refused to continue their support?
Although I was impatient, lest I be missed at the hospital, the boy’s enthusiasm was infectious. He had as much zeal for the future of electrical communication and magnetics as I did for diagnostics and surgery. A new century would be upon us in just over a decade and, with breathtaking advances in virtually every field of human endeavor, the world did unquestionably belong to the young.
I returned with about fifteen minutes to spare before afternoon rounds. I saw Simpson in the halls, but when I approached her to say hello, she nodded perfunctorily and turned to leave. I inquired if there was anything the matter, but she assured me quietly that there was not, so I joined the others and entered the main ward.
In the second bed, we encountered a newly admitted patient, a nearly comatose male in his twenties, with an exceptional set of symptoms. He had been found lying in the street, mumbling incoherently, and been brought to the hospital by the police. The man showed severe muscle spasticity, and there was a bluish tinge to his lips and fingernails. His breathing was slow, labored, and shallow, his pulse weak, his blood pressure low. The man’s tongue was discolored and his pupils, when we could rouse him sufficiently to open his eyes, were mere dots. He appeared to be severely constipated with a spasmodic gastrointestinal tract.
“Morphia poisoning,” said Corrigan immediately, “but I’ve never seen it so severe.”
“Nor I,” Simpson added. She seemed genuinely puzzled.
When the Professor finished his examination, he noted from the accompanying documents that the man was a denizen of the waterfront district. “Any ideas, Carroll?” he asked pointedly.
I looked at the Professor, trying to determine whether his question was genuine or rhetorical, but he gave no indication of his thinking.
“None,” I said.
“You’re becoming quite a regular,” Haggens grunted as he ushered me into the office later that evening. “Getting