Plexus (34 page)

As if divining my oversight, and just to be a bit playful, Cromwell added: Perhaps
you
could tell me something about such matters yourself, Dr. Marx. Or isn't that your field?”

“No, it isn't really,” I said, “though I can tell you this much, however. We
have
cured some cases. It all depends. To explain why would be rather complicated.…”

Here he smiled broadly. “I understand,” he said. “But it's good to know that you think there is some hope.”

“Indeed there is,” I said warmly. “Now in Bucharest at the present time there's a celebrated surgeon who is reputed to have cured ninety per cent of his cases. He has some special treatment of his own which we over here are not yet familiar with. I believe it's an electrical treatment.”

“In Bucharest, you say? That's far away.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed.

“Supposing we have another bottle of Rhine wine?” suggested Cromwell.

“If you insist,” I replied. “I'll have just a wee drop, then I must be going.”

“Do stay,” he begged. “I really enjoy talking with you. You know, sometimes you strike me as more of a literary man than a surgeon.”

“I used to write,” I said. “But that was years ago. In our profession one doesn't have much time for literature.”

“It's like the banking business, isn't it?” said Cromwell.

“Quite.” We smiled good-naturedly at one another.

“But there have been physicians who wrote books, haven't there?” said Cromwell. “I mean novels, plays, and such like.”

“To be sure,” I said, “plenty of them. Schnitzler, Mann, Somerset Maugham.…”

“Don't overlook Elie Faure,” said Cromwell. “Mona here has been telling me a great deal about him. Wrote a history of art, or something like that… wasn't that it?” He looked to Mona for confirmation. “I've never seen his work, of course. I wouldn't know a good painting from a bad one.”

“I'm not so sure of that,” said I. “I think you'd know a spurious one if you saw it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, it's just a hunch. I think you're quick to detect whatever is counterfeit.”

“You're probably crediting me with too much acumen, Dr. Marx. Of course, in our business, one does get accustomed to being on the alert for bad money. But that's really not my department. We have specialists for that sort of thing.”

“Naturally,” I said. “But seriously, Mona
is
right… one day you've got to read Elie Faure. Imagine a man writing a colossal
History of Art
in his spare time! Used to make notes on his cuff while visiting his patients. Now and then he would fly to some far-off place, like Yucatan or Siam or Easter Island. I doubt if any of his neighbors knew that he made such flights. Led a humdrum life, outwardly.
He was an excellent physician. But his passion was art. I can't tell you how much I admire the man.”

“You speak about him exactly like Mona,” said Cromwell. “And you tell me you have no time for other pursuits!”

Here Mona put in her oar. According to her, I was a man of many facets, a man who seemed to have time for everything.

Would he have suspected, for instance, that Dr. Marx was also a skilled musician, an expert at chess, a stamp collector…?

Cromwell here averred that he suspected I was capable of many things I was too modest to reveal. He was convinced, for one thing, that I was a man of great imagination. Quite casually he reminded us that he had noticed my hands the other night. In his humble opinion they revealed much more than the mere ability to wield the scalpel.

Interpreting this remark in her own fashion, Mona at once demanded if he could read palms.

“Not really,” said Cromwell, looking as if abashed. “Enough, perhaps, to tell a criminal from a butcher, a violinist from a pharmacist. Most any one can do that much, even without a knowledge of palmistry.”

At this point I had an impulse to leave.

“Do stay!” begged Cromwell.

“No, really, I must be off,” said I, grasping his hand.

“We'll meet again soon, I hope,” said Cromwell. “Do bring your wife next time. A charming little creature. I took quite a fancy to her.”

“That she is,” said I, reddening to the ears. “Well, good-bye!
And bon voyage!”

To this Cromwell raised his glass over the brim of which I detected a slightly mocking glance of the eyes. At the door I encountered Papa Moskowitz.

“Who is that man at your table?” he asked in a low voice.

“Frankly, I don't know,” I answered. “Better ask Mona.”

“He's not a friend of yours then?”

“That's hard to answer too,” I replied. “Well, good-bye!” and I shook myself loose.

That night I had a very disturbing dream. It started off, as dreams often do, as a pursuit. I was chasing a small thin man down a dark street, towards the river. Behind me was a man chasing me. It was important for me to catch up with the man I was pursuing before the other man got me. The thin little man was none other than Spivak. I had been trailing him all night from place to place, and finally I had him on the run. Who the man behind me was I had no idea. Whoever he was, he had good wind and was fleet of foot. He gave me the uneasy feeling that he could catch up with me whenever he had a mind to. As for Spivak, though I wanted nothing better than to see him drown himself, it was urgent that I collar him first: he had on him some papers which were of vital importance to me.

Just as we were nearing the jetty which projected into the river I caught up with him, collared him firmly, and swung him around. To my utter amazement it wasn't Spivak at all—it was Crazy Sheldon. He didn't seem to recognize me, perhaps because of the darkness. He slid to his knees and begged me not to cut his throat. “
I'm not a Polack!”
I said, and yanked him to his feet. At that moment my pursuer caught up with us. It was Alan Cromwell. He put a gun in my hand and commanded me to shoot Sheldon. “Here, I'll show you how,” he said, and giving Sheldon's arm a vicious twist he brought him to his knees. Then he placed the muzzle of the gun against the back of Sheldon's head. Sheldon was now whimpering like a dog. I took the gun and placed it against Sheldon's skull.
“Shoot!” commanded Cromwell. I pulled the trigger automatically and Sheldon gave a little spring, like a jack-in-the-box, and fell face forward. “Good work!” said Cromwell. “Now, let's hurry. We're due in Washington tomorrow morning early.”

On the train Cromwell changed personality completely. He now resembled to a T my old friend and double, George Marshall. He even talked exactly like him, although his talk at the moment was rather disconnected. He was reminding me of the old days when we used to act the clown for the other members—of the celebrated Xerxes Society. Giving me a wink, he flashed the button on the underside of his lapel, the very one we all religiously wore, the one on which was engraved in letters of gold—
Fratres Semper
. Then he gave me the old handclasp, tickling my palm, as we used to do, with his forefinger. “Is that enough for you?” he said, giving me another slippery horse-wink. His eyes, incidentally, had expanded to formidable proportions: they were huge goiterous eyes which swam in his round face like bloated oysters. This only when he winked, however. When he resumed his other identity, alias Cromwell, his eyes were quite normal.

“Who
are
you?” I begged. “Are you Cromwell or Marshall?”

He put his finger to his lips, in the manner of Sheldon, and went SHHHHHHHH!

Then, in the voice of a ventriloquist, and talking out of the side of his mouth, he informed me rapidly, almost inaudibly, and with more and more celerity—it made me dizzy trying to follow him!—that he had been tipped off in the nick of time, that they were proud of me at headquarters, and that I was to be given a very special assignment, yes, to go to Tokyo. I was to impersonate one of the Mikado's right-hand men—in order to track down the stolen prints. “You know,” and he lowered his voice still more, training those horrible floating oysters on me again, flipping back the lapel of his coat, clasping my hand,
tickling my palm, “you know, the one we use for the thousand dollar bills.” Here he began talking Japanese which, to my amazement, I discovered I could follow as easily as English. It was the art commissioner, he explained in chopstick language, who had caught on to the racket. He was an expert, this guy, on pornographic prints. I would be meeting him in Yokohama, disguised as a physician. He'd be wearing an admiral's uniform with one of those funny three-cornered hats. Here he gave me a prodigious nudge with his elbow and tittered—just like a Jap. “I'm sorry to say, Hen,” he continued, relapsing into Brooklynese, “that they've got the goods on your wife. Yep, she's in the ring. Caught her red-handed with a big package of coke.” He nudged me again, more viciously this time. “Remember that last meeting we staged—at Grimmy's? You know, the time they fell asleep on us? I've done that rope-and-ladder trick many times since.” Here he grasped my hand and gave me the sign once more. “Now listen, Hen, get it straight.… When we get off the train you walk leisurely down Pennsylvania Avenue, as if you were taking a stroll. You'll meet up with three dogs. The first two, they'll be fake dogs. The third one will run up to you to be patted. That's the clue. Pat him on the head with one hand and with the other slip your fingers under his tongue. You'll find a pellet about the size of an oat. Take the dog by the collar and let him lead you. Should anyone stop you, just say
Ohio!
You know what that means. They've got spies posted everywhere, even in the White House.… Now get this, Hen”—and he began talking like a sewing machine, faster, faster, faster—“when you meet the President give him the old handclasp. There's a little surprise in store for you, but I'll skip that. Just bear this in mind, Hen, that he's the President. Don't ever forget that! He'll tell you this and that… he doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground… but never mind,
just listen
. Don't let on that you know a thing. Obsipresieckswizi will make his appearance
at the critical moment. You know
him
… he's been with us for years.…” I wanted to ask him to repeat the name for me but he couldn't be stopped, not for a moment. “We'll be pulling in in three minutes,” he murmured, “and I haven't told you half yet. This is the
most
important, Hen, now get this,” and he gave me another painful poke in the ribs. But there his voice had dropped to such a pitch that I could only catch fragments of his speech. I was writhing in agony. How would I ever carry on if the most important details were lost? I would remember the three dogs, of course. The message was in code, but I would be able to decipher that on the boat. I was also to brush up on my Japanese during the boat trip, my accent was a little off, especially for the Court. “You've got it now?” he was saying, waving his lapel again and clasping my hand. “Wait, wait a minute,” I begged. “That last part.…” But he had already descended the steps and was lost in the crowd.

As I walked along Pennsylvania Avenue, trying to give the appearance of a stroller, I realized with a sinking heart that I was really completely befuddled. For a moment I wondered if I were dreaming. But no, it was Pennsylvania Avenue all right, no mistaking it. And then suddenly there was a big dog standing at the curb. I knew he was an imitation one because he was fastened to a hitching block. That reassured me even more that I was in possession of my waking mind. I kept my eyes open to spot the second dog. I didn't even turn around, though I was certain someone was on my heel, so anxious was I not to miss that second dog. Cromwell, or was it George Marshall—the two had become inextricably confused—hadn't mentioned anything about being followed. Maybe, though, he
had
said something—when he was talking under his breath. I was getting more and more panicky. I tried to think back, to recall just how I had gotten involved in this ugly business, but my brain was too fatigued.

Suddenly I almost jumped out of my skin. At the
corner, standing under an arc light, was Mona. She was holding a bunch of
Mezzotints
in her hand, distributing them to passers-by. When I got abreast of her she handed me one, giving me a look which meant—“Be careful!”—I sauntered leisurely across the street. For a while I carried the
Mezzotint
without glancing at it, flapping it against my leg as if it were a newspaper. Then, pretending that I had to blow my nose, I switched it to the other hand, and as I wiped my nose I read on the slant these words: “The end is round like the beginning.
Fratres Semper.”
I was sorely baffled. Maybe that was another little detail I had missed when he was talking under his breath. Anyway, I had the presence of mind to tear the message into tiny little bits. I dropped the bits one by one at intervals of a hundred yards or so, listening intently each time to make sure my pursuer was not stopping to pick them up.

I came to the second dog. It was a little toy dog on wheels. Looked like a plaything abandoned by a child. Just to make sure it wasn't a real dog I gave it a little kick with my toe. It crumbled to dust immediately. I pretended, of course, that this was most natural, and resumed my leisurely pace.

I was only a few yards from the entrance to the White House when I perceived the third and real dog. The man shadowing me was no longer dogging my steps, unless he had changed to sneakers without my knowing it. Anyway, I had reached the last dog. He was a huge Newfoundland, playful as a cub. He came running up to me with big bounds and almost knocked me over trying to lick my face. I stood a moment or two patting his big warm head; then I circumspectly stooped down and inserted a hand under his tongue. Sure enough there was the pellet, wrapped in silver leaf. As Marshall or Cromwell had said, it was about the size of an oat.