The Anatomy of Deception (24 page)

“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 to be the dinner hour, a sinister pall lay over the neighborhood. Wharf Lane, according to my host, was only about a five-minute walk, and so I set off, strolling along the Philadelphia docks with Haggens and Mike, whereas the previous day, I had walked the corridors of the Johns Hopkins Hospital with the Professor, William Welch, and Daniel Coit Gilman.

After a few minutes of winding down narrow thoroughfares, we turned off a derelict avenue into a street whose broken stone thoroughfare was scarcely wide enough to accommodate a wagon. Haggens nodded to indicate that we had reached our destination. I had expected a ramshackle series of storefronts, but was unprepared for the hovels and boarded-up windows that graced both sides of Wharf Lane. Not one of the gas lamps was lit, so the street was illuminated only by the indirect light that bounced its way into the narrow track from streetlamps on the larger roads. Turk could not have chosen a more repulsive spot.

Haggens lit his lantern and turned down the wick so that it gave off only sufficient light to allow us to make our way. There was no need to call any more attention to our presence than was necessary. As we began down the lane, Mike lagged a few steps behind, clearly ready to intercept anyone who attempted to surprise us from the rear. Haggens, I was certain, despite his lack of bulk, would be more than a match for anyone sufficiently foolhardy to try a frontal assault. And, although I saw no revolver, I assumed that both were armed. Still, each made it a point not to walk too close to the buildings on either side, a strategy that I immediately emulated.

Wharf Lane was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. More than that, I was, and there is no better word,
proud
to be accepted by these men. They lived by their wits and their courage, without artifice, making no apologies for their behavior, and conducted themselves, once one understood their rules, with an odd sort of integrity. I at last understood why the underworld held such allure for those forced constantly to endure the strictures of polite society.

The task of finding the proper match for Turk’s key seemed at first as if it would be easier than I had thought. Many of the doors to the buildings were boarded up entirely, or had otherwise obviously been out of use for substantially longer than a week or two. By the time we had reached the end of the lane, however, there had been only three locks that were possible and none was the home to Turk’s key. I turned to look back, wondering if we had missed something. Perhaps, I thought with despair, the key was for something different entirely.

“Come on,” said Haggens, “we’ll try the alleys.”

I asked what he meant and he explained that there were alleys that backed the buildings on either side that also provided access. The alley was, if possible, even more sickening. The stench was as bad as in the Dead House and, as soon as we turned in, I heard a soft rumble and then scurrying. Through the haze, I detected movement about halfway down
and, as my eyes adjusted to the scene, I realized with a start that it was human.

“They’re like rats, Doc,” said Haggens. “Don’t worry none. They want less part of us than we do of them.”

The form had disappeared, somehow blending into the architecture and piles of waste. To reach bottom in Haggens’ world was to be reduced to bestiality. Was this what awaited a woman like Monique, I wondered, when her looks abandoned her entirely?

We made our way up the alley, looking for a door that might spell success. About three quarters of the way to the next street, I saw it. It was grimy and the wood was split, but the lock was in decent repair and the ground in front showed signs of recent traffic. I slipped the key into the lock; turned and clicked. Haggens nodded to Mike to remain downstairs, and we stepped inside.

A staircase just ahead looked swept or as if something had been dragged down, as did the rotting planks that passed for floorboards. I exchanged glances with Haggens and we began to climb to the second floor. He let me lead, no doubt in case there was some threat at the top. We came to another door on the landing, this one without a lock since the only access was from the street. Haggens turned up the light just a bit and we stepped through.

There could be no doubt as to the purpose of the room. Heavy drapes hung across the windows and, in the center, stood a long wooden table with a darkened oilcloth laid over it. A pile of clean sheets lay folded on a low table in the near corner. There was a sink on one side of the room, a burner on another table in the corner, and a cabinet mounted on one of the side walls. The doors of the cabinet were open, revealing a set of sounds—metal rods with rounded ends used to explore anatomical cavities—vaginal dilators, and curettes. Gynecology was not my specialty, but it was clear all the same: These were the tools of the abortionist.

A wave of disgust overwhelmed me. It was sin enough that
Turk padded his wallet performing illegal operations, but to require women to come to this disgusting and filthy room in order to have it done was ghastly. Even Haggens, hardened as he was, seemed dumbstruck at the enormity of the crime.

It took me a few moments to recover my wits, but when I did, I immediately undertook to search the room. I had come to this appalling place, after all, not simply to confirm that Turk had been an abortionist, but to try to confirm a link to Rebecca Lachtmann.

I began by a cursory inspection. The instrument case had evidently been a recent addition. The wood was clean with an unmarred finish, and the implements inside had been kept clean and polished. The locking clasp was in good repair, so it was a matter of conjecture why the door was open. It was possible, of course, that someone had been in here before us to search, but I could not imagine who. More likely, I thought, Turk had been forced to leave hurriedly on his last visit here and neglected to lock the cabinet properly.

The table and the oilcloth over it were grim indeed. There was ample staining to indicate that much fluid had passed over it. I could only assume that Turk had laid a clean sheet over this one whenever he performed his revolting procedures. The burner was used for sterilization; nearby, I found a pan in which he had placed the instruments. Other than that, except for some tumbledown chairs, there was nothing, no evidence whatever to lead me to a next step.

Haggens, who had been spooked from the second we entered the room, sensed my frustration and tried to use it as a means of ending the inquiry.

“Ain’t nothing to find, Doc,” he said, a strange warble in his voice. “Let’s go before someone figures out somebody’s up here.”

“Not yet,” I disagreed. “I’m sure there’s something.” I scanned the room once more, convinced that it was simply too bare. Abortion wasn’t Turk’s only illicit trade. Hadn’t Monique said that he would get rid of what you didn’t want,
but also that he would get you what you needed? Haggens had spoken of some new drug. I was certain there should be some evidence of such activity here, but saw nothing. Then I remembered Borst and how I had bungled the search of Turk’s rooms.

“Check the floor, Haggens. There will be a loose board somewhere.” If Turk had used the trick at Mrs. Fasanti’s, where no one knew of his presence, he would certainly secrete contraband here, where the threat of intruders was much more real.

Haggens placed the lantern on the table and we began to check the floorboards. The wood was old pine, with a good deal of rot. Some of the boards pulled up with almost no effort, but nothing was underneath except rodent excreta.

“Come on, Doc,” Haggens cried when the search proved fruitless.

“No!” I said sharply. “Try the walls.”

One wall was wood planking, the others plaster. We moved quickly, trying to find a false front. Finally, I came to the instrument cabinet and grasped the sides. It moved out from the bottom. The cabinet was not attached to the wall, but merely hung on it. I lifted it off, placed it on the floor, and saw what I was after.

A square was cut into the plaster. I jiggled the cutout and removed it easily. Once I had, Haggens’ desire to beat a hasty retreat disappeared.

“Would you look at that,” he exclaimed, and brought the lantern closer.

The opening, which was only about one foot square, masked an alcove at least twice that size. Turk had cut and then reinforced the joists to create a storage area. Inside were five packages of different sizes, each wrapped in oilcloth and tied with string. We removed them and brought them to the table.

Haggens reached to the largest of the five, but I held up my hand to stop him. Our positions had become reversed.
Haggens now deferred to me, a phenomenon attributable to the almost superstitious dread that had come over him at the sight of the stained cloth on the table. As inured to common violence as he was, I ventured that the sight of that oilcloth was the first time he had ever had occasion to imagine abortion in its grisly reality—fetus and placenta wrenched out, with sera gushing forth, as a helpless woman, her legs spread, lay moaning, debased, and miserable.

I was interested in the smallest of the packages and opened it first. Inside was what I had hoped to find: a small notebook, which, on cursory examination, appeared to hold records of Turk’s transactions. I was beginning to know Turk and, from the moment I realized that there were no such documents in his rooms, I expected to find them here. He was far too opportunistic to leave no records at all. The entries were categorized by individual letters, or small combinations, and I would be quite shocked if some of them were not related to his associates or contacts, perhaps even to Halsted himself. And, if I could confirm that what I suspected about the entries was true, I would have proof of the motive for Turk’s murder.

I slipped the notebook into my coat and we opened the other four packages. The first three each held a tin container bearing a stamp identifying it as the property of the Bayer Company of Wuppertal, Germany. There was other writing on the tins, but my knowledge of German was restricted to those terms that had entered medical terminology, so I could not decipher the meaning. One word I did understand was
verboten
—forbidden—and it appeared at the top of each of the tins.

The fifth package contained a revolver, a derringer, and a supply of ammunition for each.

We returned our attention to the tins and, when we opened them, discovered that each contained a white powder encased in two additional layers of oilcloth around a sheath of waxed paper. No moisture or foreign substance would penetrate such
elaborate wrapping. I had taken the precaution of bringing with me a small specimen jar, which I removed from my pocket and filled with the powder.

I whispered to Haggens that we must return the room to precisely the state in which we had found it—so, when the police arrived, there would be no sign of our presence. I was surprised that he acceded so readily in repacking the white powder and returning it to the cutout, but he was so anxious to leave that room that he likely would have agreed to any request. It took only a few minutes to complete the task and, after a quick walk about with Haggens’ lantern, we closed the door behind us. It was not until we had reached the street that Haggens began to regain his usual sinister demeanor.

Even Mike had been affected by the surroundings. “What took you so long?” he wanted to know, glancing up and down the alley with quick jerks of his head, his voice between a challenge and a wail. It was the longest speech I had ever heard from him. Seeing Mike afflicted with nerves caused me to experience a wave of nerves of my own, and I realized that this errand had been far more dangerous, even with my escort, than I had imagined. Without anyone saying another word, we made our way quickly but cautiously up the alley and back to The Fatted Calf.

When we arrived, Haggens told Mike to get a drink at the bar and then led me into his office. He poured us each a glass of “the real stuff,” and this time I did not object. I had not lost my wits during our sojourn but, now that we were safe, I could not stop my hands from shaking. Haggens, once more in his element, grinned when he noticed and poured me a second drink after I quickly quaffed the first.

“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.