Chapter VI: Doctor Latham

The sun was several hours high the following morning when Kingdon Cole jumped out of bed and, from force of habit, turned toward his bathroom. A glance into the mirror on the white-tiled wall made him start.

A man, even though he have nerves of steel and a constitution hard as armor, can’t pass through a siege of intense mental torture without showing traces of it. The nerve-racking agony, which Cole had undergone while lying on the cot, had left marks which seven hours of sound sleep had not removed. There was a suspicion of pallor beneath the bronze of his face. The usual brightness of his eyes was dimmed by a smoldering flicker which hinted at a long glimpse into infernal horrors. His face was drawn, and there were telltale lines and furrows. A twenty-four-hour growth of beard did not improve his appearance.

“Nerves a bit on edge,” he told himself, turning away from the mirror. “Look as if I hadn’t slept a wink in a week. My landlady would tell me I need a doctor, but a shower and a shave will make me as chipper as a colt.”

Whistling, he stepped into the tub and turned on the water. A few minutes of wriggling and writhing under the icy shower would remove all signs of his adventure. He thrilled to the first cold splash, and then Cole drew back from beneath the shower. His lips twisted slowly.

“Guess I’ll try a doctor instead,” he decided. “I’m really in pretty bad shape. Nervous symptoms are not to be trifled with. I’ll see what Doctor Dickson Latham has to say about my condition.”

Reluctantly he turned off the cold current and resigned himself to a lukewarm bath that did not refresh him in the least. Not too graciously, for habit becomes an exalted thing with men who live alone, he also decided to forgo his regular morning shave. It was best, he whimsically reflected, that Doctor Latham should see him at his worst. He dressed with less than his usual care, took in the bottle of milk and the newspaper that were always left at his door, and, before starting to prepare his own simple breakfast, poured out a saucerful of milk for “Toots.”

Toots was a white-and-yellow cat who had slipped into his rooms one morning and made herself at home. Cole hadn’t had a word to say about the arrangement. He had been helpless before Toots’ firmness, and the cat had made herself a fixture in his establishment. With a languid indifference and an occasional feline shrug she permitted herself to be waited on by Cole, who at times wondered whether the cat was patronizing him. When Toots selected his softest pillow to sleep on and sunned herself on his writing desk beside the window Cole felt that the sanctity of his bachelor existence was being violated, but the cat’s blandly tyrannizing ways left him without a word of protest.

After breakfast he called up Doctor Latham’s office and made an appointment for half past two. Then he sat down with his newspaper and pipe, the latter a smelly affair with a bowl shaped into the resemblance of a monkey’s face. It was an odd conceit, and it had been given him in lieu of his fee by an impecunious client. Only once had Cole had words with his landlady, and that was when the well-intentioned woman had undertaken to scrape out the bowl of his favorite pipe with a potato peeler. Cole smoked a weird mixture, compounded by himself of several domestic brands and spiced with a dash of perique. The strong concoction was a stimulant to mental effort, but at first he had hesitated to smoke such pungent stuff in the presence of the dainty Toots. The cat had not seemed to mind, however.

He turned the pages of his newspaper, but found nothing that interested him. At length he threw the paper aside and refilled his pipe. Toots was sprawled out on the unfinished manuscript of an article on criminal tendencies which he was preparing for a psychological review. He gave the cat a reproachful glance, but said nothing. There were times when Toots seemed to go too far.

He looked out into the warm sunlight that bathed Gramercy Park, but his thoughts were flitting in and out of a maze of rooms on the top floor of a skyscraper, located somewhere in the financial center. His recollections of the previous night were a queer medley of horror and mystery, of things that were terribly vivid and others that were dim and disconnected like a dream. Now, as he sat in the sunlight, leisurely smoking his pipe, he tried to picture the mystic circle in the dimly lighted room. He could not quite focus his mental vision on the scene; it was too shadowy and unreal. The seven masked faces melted into a blur, then faded away completely. It was no use trying to guess who those seven men were, or what their amazing conduct might mean. Perhaps his interview with Doctor Latham would suggest a solution to the mystery.

The idea of approaching the doctor in the rôle of a patient had been something of an inspiration, but he had made no plans beyond that. The mock consultation would give him a chance to take the physician’s mental and physical measure and see what manner of man he was. Cole was a good judge of faces and a keen observer of human nature. To him the slightest gesture and the most casually spoken word had a meaning all their own. His first aim was to find out whether Latham was the kind of man who might commit such an atrocious crime as the operation on Malcolm Reeves; after that he would let his actions be guided by developments.

Before starting for his appointment he thought it might be well to gather a few facts about the physician. He consulted his copy of “Who’s Who.” Dickson Latham was a specialist in nervous disorders, a graduate of several universities, a member of several learned societies, and his claim to distinction rested on his having written a number of treatises on cerebral surgery. The last fact seemed significant to Cole. He closed the book, gave Toots another mildly reproachful look, and went out to lunch.

A few minutes before half past two he rang the doorbell of the old brownstone house in the Sixties, just east of Fifth Avenue, in which Doctor Latham resided and had his office. A young woman in the reception room handed him a magazine six months old and asked him to wait. Cole sat down and glanced about him out of the tail of an eye, while he pretended to look at the pictures in the periodical. It was a commonplace room, stuffily crowded with upholstered furniture. Two bookcases were filled with ponderous volumes in drab bindings. It was the typical reception room of a fairly thriving physician who derives most of his patronage from the neurotic and dyspeptic individuals of the upper middle class.

After a brief wait Cole was facing the physician across a mahogany desk in the inner office.

“What seems to be the matter?” asked Doctor Latham in a brisk, cheerful voice.

“Nerves,” said Cole, making a lugubrious face. “No appetite. Can’t sleep nights. Always tired and out of sorts.”

“Well, well, that’s too bad. You do look a bit run down, Mr. Stone. Let me see your tongue.”

“Stone” was the name Cole had given over the telephone. It had seemed an unnecessary precaution, since Kingdon Cole was known to only a few people. His name seldom if ever appeared in connection with his work as a criminal investigator, but Cole always practiced discretion to a fault.

While Doctor Latham looked at his tongue and felt his pulse Cole studied the physician closely, without appearing to do so. His first glance gave him a deep respect for the skill with which the surgeon of the night before had been made up. Doctor Latham was an inch or so taller, also a trifle thinner, and his black beard had the vitalic sheen that is not easily imitated; otherwise the resemblance was quite impressive.

“Let me test your heart,” said the doctor, reaching for his stethoscope.

Cole bared his chest. He was already beginning to suspect that he was chasing a fool’s errand. Doctor Latham did not seem capable of deliberate wrongdoing, to say nothing of a fiendish crime. In vain Cole searched his face for the faintest trace of duplicity. The physician had the perennial optimism and the bristling cheerfulness that, in cases of nervous disorders, are far more efficacious than pills and extracts. The very tone of his voice, together with his hearty laugh, acted as a stimulant on jaded nerves.

“There isn’t anything the matter with you, Mr. Stone,” he declared when the examination was finished. “I can give you a tonic if you wish, but a couple of days’ rest will do you more good.”

Cole buttoned up his shirt and replaced his collar. He felt certain now that his visit to the doctor’s office had been in vain. Latham’s kindly smile would have disarmed any suspicions remaining in his mind. It was a charming smile, a flash of white teeth against a setting of black beard, and it gave the final magnetic touch to a compelling personality.

Cole chided himself for wasting valuable time, but he wished to make doubly sure before leaving the office. He wondered what would be the effect on the doctor if he should suddenly mention the name of Malcolm Reeves. None at all, very likely, he told himself; yet he felt an itching desire to make the test.

He took out his pocketbook and looked questioningly at the doctor, meanwhile wondering how he might mention Reeves’ name in a casual, and yet sufficiently abrupt, manner to make the test conclusive.

“Sit down, Mr. Stone,” said Doctor Latham, waving him to a chair. “You interest me. What is your profession?”

“Author,” said Cole, recalling that he had two volumes on criminology to his credit.

“Ah! And what do you write?”

“Trifling things,” said Cole modestly. “You probably never saw any of them. Such frivolous reading matter wouldn’t interest you.”

“I read very little. The medical journals and a glance at the newspapers are about all I find time for. Do you know, Mr. Stone, that you puzzle me considerably?”

“Indeed!” said Cole absently, still wondering how he might precipitate Malcolm Reeves’ name into the conversation.

Doctor Latham smiled genially. A question kept teasing Cole’s mind. What would be the effect on that beaming countenance if he should suddenly speak Malcolm Reeves’ name? Probably none whatever, he once more told himself; but the thought continued to tantalize him.

“There is a type of neurasthenic that is known to every medical practitioner,” the doctor went on. “Their symptoms are quite well defined. Their ailments are mostly imaginary. On the slightest pretext they will run to a physician with a long tale of woe. The physician in most instances, gives them a little sympathetic advice, a harmless tablet made up of sugar and dough, and pockets his fee. There’s nothing else to do. If told that their troubles exist only in their imagination they get offended and run to another doctor. Personally I don’t care for that kind of patients. Now, Mr. Stone, you don’t belong to that type. You are not a neurasthenic, far from it. I wish I had your nerves.”

Cole regarded him with a questioning look.

Doctor Latham laughed pleasantly. “You’re in perfect condition, Mr. Stone. Perhaps you have smoked too much, or taken too much strong coffee in the last few days, resulting in one or two sleepless nights, but there is nothing else the matter with you. Ordinarily you would have shaken off the effects with a cold shower, or a hike in the country. I dare say you haven’t consulted a physician more than two or three times since you grew up. Under the circumstances I am somewhat curious to know why you came to me.”

Cole gave him a sharp glance, but the affably smiling face instantly quieted the misgivings which the doctor’s statement had aroused.

“What I don’t see,” Latham went on, “is why you went to a doctor at all, and why to me in particular. We never saw each other until to-day. I don’t flatter myself by thinking that you knew me by reputation. People who have no regular physician usually go to some one recommended to them by friends. They don’t like to consult a doctor who is an utter stranger to them. Perhaps among my patients there is a friend of yours who mentioned me to you?”

“That’s it exactly,” said Cole, thrilling inwardly as he saw his chance to pitch Reeves’ name into the conversation. “Only the other day I was complaining to a friend of not feeling well, and he suggested I go to you. His name——”

“Ah,” asked Doctor Latham, speaking in very soft tones. “I wonder if you are referring to Malcolm Reeves?”

For a moment Cole looked as if he had received a blow between the eyes. He gathered himself in an instant, but not before the doctor had noticed his surprise. The physician was still smiling, but now the smile was different. It was frosty and pale. “I see I guessed right,” he murmured.

“Is Reeves one of your patients?” Cole managed to ask.

The doctor leaned back in the chair, crossed his long legs, and gazed toward the ceiling. Cole became conscious of a distinct chill in the air, and he felt irritated at himself for having stumbled into the same trap he had set for the physician. Doctor Latham, he was beginning to perceive, was a man whose mental thrust was as quick and sure as his own.

“Frankness is an excellent policy, Mr. Stone,” observed the physician coldly. “We shall make better progress if you will put all your cards on the table. You did not come here to consult me about your health. May I ask why you are honoring me with this visit?”

“You have not yet answered my own question,” observed Cole, quickly rallying to the verbal fencing match. “Is Reeves a patient of yours?”

The doctor lowered his gaze. His piercing eyes searched Cole’s face. A faint flash of white teeth showed between the bearded lips.

“I believe that question has a point to it,” he observed. “You ought to know, Mr. Stone, that a physician never discusses his patients. It is a very good rule, especially in the present instance. It affords me a good excuse for not answering your question.”

“Then you admit you found the question embarrassing?”

“A discreet man never admits anything, Mr. Stone. I may point out, however, that questions are never embarrassing, although answers sometimes are. I believe Wilde says something to that effect in one of his plays.”

“Then you positively decline to answer?”

“In order to spare us mutual embarrassment, yes. You see, Mr. Stone, there are circumstances in which a truthful answer may convey an erroneous impression. Now, won’t you tell me to what I owe the honor of this visit?”

“Is that a candid question, Doctor Latham?”

“By no means, my friend. I knew the answer before I spoke the question. I was merely curious to see whether you would reply truthfully.”

Cole smiled. It was evident that Doctor Latham was a past master in the art of dueling with words. The man’s frankness amazed him. In admitting that he knew the purpose of Cole’s visit he had also admitted that he knew something about Malcolm Reeves’ condition. But he had turned his phrases so adroitly that nothing of a tangible nature could be fastened on him.

“Will you tell me how you knew, doctor?”

“Through a process of elimination. I knew at first glance that your concern over your physical condition was only a subterfuge. That narrowed the range of speculation down considerably. In fact, it left only one possible theory in regard to the object of your visit.”

“Why only one? Isn’t it conceivable, for instance, that I came here to see if your office contains anything worth stealing?”

Doctor Latham shook his head. “You don’t look the part, Mr. Stone.”

“Well, suppose I am an officer of the law and came here to see if you are prescribing illegal amounts of intoxicating liquor or habit-forming drugs?”

“You didn’t go about it the right way.”

“Couldn’t I be a long-lost friend or relative?”

“I haven’t either. You came here for one specific purpose, Mr. Stone, and I know what that purpose is.”

Cole regarded him narrowly. “Knowledge sometimes implies guilt,” he remarked in casual tones.

“But not always. You think that, because I know the object of your visit, I have guilty knowledge of a certain matter that you are interested in. That’s a very loose inference, Mr. Stone.”

Cole thought for a few moments. The other’s indirect frankness amazed him, yet Doctor Latham was entirely too slippery to permit himself to be pinned down to hard facts.

“Each of us seems to have come to stalemate,” observed the physician after a pause. “Shall we call the game a draw? Both of us have gained something. You think you have verified a suspicion, while I have learned to be on my guard against a new source of possible danger. Why not leave well enough alone?”

“It’s a good suggestion,” said Cole, smiling. “Thanks for a very interesting half hour, doctor. Good day.” He bowed and moved toward the door, but the doctor’s voice made him turn back.

“Just one moment, Mr. Stone. I think you have forgotten something. My fee is ten dollars. Ah, thank you!”