Kill as Directed (2 page)

“Your old man's a genius, did you know that?” Tony Mitchell had said to Harry Brown in his baritone chuckle. He was reputed to have an extraordinary courtroom voice. “And I take advantage of him, pick his brains.” For one moment young Mitchell had turned serious. “It's unfair as hell. But … You know what's wrong with your father, Harry? He's too damned
shy
.”

It was an indictment, Simon Brown had remarked dryly later, that would never be drawn against Anthony Mitchell, Esquire.

But Harry had liked him. And, of course, envied him.

They had become friends quickly, gone out together. They made an interesting pair. Where Harry was serious, Tony was ebullient. Where Harry was inarticulate, Tony was glib. Where Harry was quiet, Tony was suave. Where Harry was awkward with women, Tony collected them like moths. They complemented each other, even physically. Harry's big, bulky, rugged body was the perfect foil for Tony Mitchell's quicksilver slenderness.

But then Harry had had to go back to school, and Simon Brown died, and the friendship died too, as quickly as it had been born. They drifted apart and soon lost track of each other.

Harry Brown stepped out of the shower and toweled himself viciously. Then he shaved and got into the change of clothing he kept in the bathroom closet. Against tonight's eventuality he had stored fresh linen, black shoes and socks, a custom-tailored midnight blue suit and a solidly dark blue French silk tie. Knotting the tie before the mirror he asked himself, How do I stand? And how much longer can I keep up the front?

Not long, he knew. He was over his head in the two classic troubles: money trouble and woman trouble.

He had planned everything so conscientiously. The thirty thousand dollars had looked as impregnable a reserve as the gold in Fort Knox. He was interested in two fields, internal medicine and surgery; he had figured that two years of private practice would determine which way he would go. And choosing the “right” neighborhood for his office, the most modern equipment, the slick car, the posh clothes—these had seemed the logical means to his goal, and the devil take the cost.

The devil had taken the cost without providing the anticipated
quid pro quo
. After two years, nothing had come to a head. The surplus of patients implicit in a shortage of doctors had shunned Dr. Harrison Brown in droves. Patients had materialized, but in insufficient numbers. This week was not typical; he had had far better ones; but, on the average, income and outgo were ludicrously out of balance. He saw, too late, that establishing a lucrative practice was going to take far longer than he had calculated. Time meant money. And his money was running out.

And then, four months ago, a chance encounter in a bar with Anthony Mitchell had breathed life back into his hopes just as they were heaving their last gasp.

One stare, and Tony Mitchell was all over him like Old Grad at the class reunion. “Harry boy! My God, it's Harry! How are you? Where've you been hiding out?”

They had double-dated for weeks, got high together, done the town—having more fun than Harry Brown could remember. Then one night, alone in Mitchell's apartment, the lawyer had said suddenly, “All right, Harry, it's time you took your hair down. What gives? Where's it pressing? You put on a pretty good act, but seeing through acts is standard procedure in the courtroom, and I can spot one a mile away. You in trouble? Do something foolish? Let's have it.”

So Harrison Brown, M.D., had told Anthony Mitchell, LL.B., all about it. From the beginning to date. His ambitions, his plans, his training, his decisions, his frustrations, his grim prospects. And he told of terror by night and by day; of the first doubts, then the growing fear, then the panic …

“Okay, enough,” Tony Mitchell said crisply. “I want to sleep on this, Harry.”

“You?” Harry had exclaimed. “What can you do?”

“Plenty. Just give me—oh, a couple of days. Can you be at my office Thursday, at noon?”

“Yes—”

“Here's my card.”

“But, Tony—”

“Look, let me do the worrying. It's my business to worry about peoples' troubles. That's what I get paid for. Only for you it's on the house. See you Thursday.”

At noon on Thursday, Dr. Brown had presented himself at Attorney Mitchell's surprisingly businesslike offices on Fifth Avenue. No playboy here. The office girls had clearly been picked for efficiency, not looks; the law clerks were intent on their work. “Sit down, Harry,” Tony Mitchell said in a tone Harry Brown had never heard from him before.

Harry sat down and fumbled for a cigarette, wondering what was coming.

“I've considered your problem,” the lawyer said, leaning back in his chair, “and I approve your plan. It's perfectly sound for its long-range objective. It wouldn't be for a cluck, but you're no cluck.”

“How would you know that?” Dr. Harry Brown said. “For all you know, I might be a medical misfit.”

“I've looked you up,” said Mitchell quietly, “and you're not. I'm satisfied that, professionally, you can make it big. The one weakness of your plan was insufficient capitalization. You didn't realize how long a pull it was going to be.”

“I sure as hell didn't.”

“The problem gets down to this: To get where you're going, you need more fuel than you figured. Once you build up enough speed, the fuel question drops out as a factor. Harry, you're going to have to go to the bank.”

“For what?”

“For a big fat loan.”

Harry Brown laughed. “And what'll they give it to me on, Tony, my good looks?”

Tony Mitchell grinned back. “If that was your collateral, you couldn't borrow the down payment on Jack Benny's Maxwell.” But then he became all business again. “I think another thirty thousand would do it, Harry. If you were careful, it ought to get you over the hump.”

Dr. Harrison Brown suddenly realized that he was still trying to light the cigarette. He lit it, looking at his friend through the smoke. “You know a bank that will lend me thirty thousand dollars without collateral?”

“Sure. Mine.”

“Don't tell me you own a bank!”

“Not quite,” said Tony, smiling. “What I have in mind is to sign as co-maker. You'll get it.”

“Now wait a minute, Tony,” Harry protested. “I couldn't let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“If I fell flat on my face—”

“You're not going to fall flat on your face. I consider you a lead-pipe cinch, given enough time. Thirty G's should do it. Also, I'm going to protect my investment by seeing what I can do to throw some well-heeled patients your way.”

“Let me think about it, Tony.” He tried to control his voice.

“There's nothing to think about.” Tony Mitchell jumped out of his chair. “Let's go, Harry.”

“Go? Where?”

“To my bank. They're waiting for us.”

“Tony—”

“Oh, shut up. What are friends for? On your feet, kid.”

So he had let himself be rushed into it, confused with reborn hope and unutterable gratitude. There had been no trouble about the loan; four months had gone by and nothing had changed, really, except that the condemned man had been granted a reprieve. Oh, there had been some changes, but they had scarcely improved his position. In fact, Harry Brown mused, they had worsened it.

Tony Mitchell had been as good as his word about the “well-heeled” patients. Dr. Brown, on Mitchell's generous recommendation, found himself the personal physician of the first rich patients of his career, Mr. and Mrs. Kurt Gresham.

Kurt Gresham was a multimillionaire. He owned an import-export company with world-wide outlets and a huge annual income. Gresham's offices were in the Empire State Building.

The millionaire was a cardiac, chronically overweight from compulsive eating; his medical needs called for frequent examination and adjustment of medication. His doctor was an old man on the verge of retirement; he was transferring his patients gradually to other physicians, and Kurt Gresham's time had come.

“Tony Mitchell's told me a lot about you, Dr. Brown,” Gresham had said during their first interview. “And I've done some poking around of my own. After all, it's my heart that's involved; I don't want to make a mistake.”

“Why don't you transfer to a heart specialist?” Harry Brown had asked him abruptly.

The stout millionaire had smiled. “I like that, Doctor. But old Doc Welliver has always said it wasn't necessary. Now maybe he told me that to hang on to a good thing, but I don't think so. Anyway, what I've learned about you I'm satisfied with. Do you take me on?”

“I'll answer that question, Mr. Gresham, after I've learned about your heart. I'll want to see Dr. Welliver's records on you, and I'll want a day of your time.”

“You name it.” The millionaire had seemed pleased.

He had gone into Gresham's case with great care. In the end he had decided that there was nothing involved which he could not handle. And, again, the millionaire had seemed pleased.

So their professional relationship had begun well. If only, Harry Brown thought glumly, it had stayed that way!

For there was Mrs. Gresham—the fourth Mrs. Gresham, according to Tony Mitchell. Karen of Gresh, as Tony called her. Delicious Karen …

Delicious Karen was the woman trouble.

Dr. Harrison Brown got to the Big Dipper at ten minutes past eight. Tony and Karen were already there, lapping up martinis, at a table against the banquette. Karen was seated on the banquette, with Tony opposite her.

“Notice that I've reserved the place of honor for you,” Tony said, his beautiful teeth laughing-white against his sunlamp-burned skin. “With Cupid sitting across the table beaming.” To the waiter who had moved the table aside to allow Harry to slip in beside Karen, Tony said, “Two vodka martinis for the doctor here, and another round for Mrs. Gresham and me.”

“Where's Kurt?” Harry said. On the banquette seat, protected by the cloth, Karen's hand was searching for his.

“Oh, these beetle-brows,” Tony said softly. “You always make the lovelies. Why wasn't I born with the gene of beetle-brows?”

“Oh, shut up, Tony,” Karen Gresham said. “Kurt's not coming, Harry. He just called. Tied up at home working on whatever he works on. Disappointed?” She turned her enormous green eyes his way. Below the cloth her hand was brushing his lightly, hungrily.

“Not disappointed, and not not,” Harry said. There it was again, the havoc to his nervous system. On the excuse of reaching for his cigarettes, he withdrew his hand.

“Forgive him the syntax, honey,” Tony Mitchell said. “Doctors get that way from writing prescriptions.”

“I think Harry's disappointed,” said Karen, smiling. There was the slightest pucker between her brows. “Kurt fascinates him. Doesn't he, Harry?”

Harry said nothing except, “Your health.” He picked up one of the two cocktail glasses the waiter was setting before him and gulped down half of it.

“That's a hell of a toast for a would-be successful doctor,” Tony said. “And say what you want about that husband of yours, Karen, he's a fascinating monster. The most fascinating in my experience, which has dealt with monsters almost exclusively.”

“To Kurt Gresham, Monster De Luxe,” murmured Karen, and she sipped her fresh martini.

“Might's well order,” said the lawyer; the waiter had his pencil patiently poised. “Duck, that's it. Duck Aldebaranis—truly out of this world. How about you two?”

“I don't care,” Karen said.

Harry shrugged.

“Shrimp first? With that crazy sauce? Lovers? I'm speaking!”

“Oh, you order, Tony,” Karen said.

“Yes.” Harry observed her over the rim of his glass. That fascinating old monster certainly had an eye for women. She was exquisite, and when she sat beside her husband he became grotesque; Karen was almost half Kurt Gresham's age. What hath God bought, he thought bitterly.

Yes, exquisite. The facial bones so delicate, with the fragility of fine china, and something of its translucence. The thoroughbred way in which she held her head, with its swirl of incredible copper hair. The great green wide-apart, innocent, worldly, inscrutable, enchanting eyes. The flesh under that tight green gown with its daring décolleté cut.… The gown must have cost his income for months. The emerald necklace making love to her throat was probably worth more than his father's insurance policy had brought. Yes, old Gresham knew how to pick his women—and how to keep them … For one lightning moment Dr. Harrison Brown thought: Was
she
what had got into his blood? Or was it what she represented—the symbol of everything he had fiercely yearned for all his life?

They were well served and they ate while Tony Mitchell joked and ragged them. Through it all Harry was conscious only of the heat of her pressing thigh, the caresses of her secretive fingers. They lingered over dessert and coffee and Drambuie, and then, after the table was cleared, they drank more coffee and more Drambuie; and he got a little drunk, and his tongue loosened, and he even laughed several times. And then, at about eleven o'clock, Tony said, “Did you come in your car, Harry?”

“Yes.”

“Then suppose you take the lady home. I've got to get a good night's sleep tonight—I'm due in court in the morning on a tricky case. You don't mind, do you, Karen? And don't bother to lie. Waiter?”

They left Tony Mitchell paying the check.

He drove her home and double-parked in the gloom of Park Avenue near the Greshams' duplex. She threw herself into his arms, kissing, straining, clinging. “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

Harry Brown said nothing. He clutched her and said nothing. What was there to say?

“What are we going to do, darling? What are we going to do?”

He made no answer. He had no answer.