The Prize (18 page)

‘Exactly. And all Hitler’s allies co-operated in supplying doctors, and Farelli was one of them. There it is—black and white.’

Craig stared at the paper in his hand. ‘Where did you get hold of this?’

‘It’s authentic, all right. A friend of mine in the Caroline Institute made those notes from someone who had seen the photocopy. When the Nobel people were investigating Farelli—they investigated me, too—they found this out, in tracing Farelli’s war history.’

‘I read he was an anti-Fascist, arrested—’

‘Only to a point,’ said Garrett excitedly, as if he were happy at his rival’s weakness, ‘and then—well, there you see it—he decided to play ball and went to Dachau and collaborated with those medical murderers in torturing and putting helpless prisoners to death in experiments.’

Craig dropped the paper to the table. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said.

‘There it is,’ insisted Garrett doggedly.

Craig looked at Garrett’s glowing, unnatural face, and was dismayed. ‘And this—this so-called evidence—is this what you are giving to Sue Wiley?’

‘Well, I—I thought it seemed the right—’

‘Is that your problem?’ persisted Craig. ‘To do or not to do? Is that what you can’t make up your mind about?’

‘I’ve made up my mind—’

‘But still you’re not sure. Your conscience bothers you. And so you want someone else—your psychiatrist—me—anyone—to give our approval, so you’re not alone.’

‘Well, not exactly.’

‘You want my advice?’ asked Craig.

‘Yes, that’s why I showed you—’

‘Don’t do it,’ said Craig with all the firmness he could muster. ‘Tear this up and forget it.’

‘But—’

‘I said forget the whole thing. What kind of revenge is this—to destroy an eminent physician, destroy him utterly, in return for a punch on the jaw?’

‘It’s not revenge at all,’ protested Garrett.

‘What is it then—righteousness? Cut it out. Who appointed you supreme judge of all men? If a Nobel investigator, an informed and intelligent and balanced man, saw fit to weigh and reject this, why should you veto him and place your sole judgment, emotional and prejudiced, over an expert’s? Who are you to do this?’

Garrett began to shake. ‘A criminal should be punished,’ he said too loudly, so that several at the next table turned to stare.

Craig lowered his own voice, ‘You’re sentencing him to death without trial. Turning this unproved paragraph over to Sue Wiley is like giving a five-year-old boy a loaded Lüger and telling him to go out and play cowboy with the kids. She’ll plaster this a mile high around the world. You’ll ruin Farelli forever.’

‘If he deserves it—’

‘And what if he doesn’t deserve it? What if he can prove this is a mistake? Who’ll remember or pay attention to the retractions. They’re not worth headlines. For the rest of his life Farelli, no matter how innocent, will be the Nazi collaborator who helped kill at Dachau.’ Craig tried to reach the troubled man across from him with anything, even flattery. ‘Dr. Garrett, try to see yourself as others see you. Today you are world famous, Farelli or no Farelli. You are known, respected, applauded—and deservedly. Your discovery is one of the most remarkable in history. You don’t have to stoop to defamation of character to secure your own place. Can’t you see that?’

‘But letting a criminal—’

‘Who says he’s a criminal besides you?’

Garrett pointed to the sheet of paper between them. ‘The evidence is obvious.’

‘It’s circumstantial,’ said Craig, biting the words. ‘Were you there? Did you see it? Have you found actual reliable witnesses? Have you heard Farelli’s side of it? No, I’m sure not. All you have is a scrap of paper.’ He snatched up the paper and read the one line, ‘ “Dr. C. Farelli, Rome.” ’ He looked up sternly. ‘Is that enough, Dr. Garrett? Farelli is an Italian name, and so is Carlo, both common. There must be countless Carlo Farellis the length and breadth of Italy. And some of them physicians, and some of them with war records. Coincidences happen too often, and too often innocent men are injured for life because people refuse to believe in coincidences.

‘I remember reading of a renowned criminal case, a lamentable true story—Adolf Beck, that was his name—he was the victim of circumstantial evidence and misinformation. Just before the turn of the century, a Dr. John Smith was arrested for swindling women out of jewellery. He was arrested, jailed, released. Years later, there occurred another series of similar swindles and a Norwegian chemist residing in London, one Adolf Beck, was arrested, identified by ten women, but what really convicted him was the old file on Dr. John Smith. This Beck’s features, build, scars, handwriting were identical to those of Smith, and so the court decided that Beck was none other than Smith, and he was sentenced to six years in prison. He protested his innocence in sixteen petitions, to no avail. He was released from jail—in 1901, I think it was—and three years later, he was back in jail for swindling jewels a third time, although he pleaded that he was innocent and that it was all a case of mistaken identity. Then, after this long travail, two chance things happened to save Beck. An old identification of the original Smith, overlooked so long, was found, and it said that Smith was circumcised—and Beck was examined and he was
not
circumcised. And then a man named Thomas was arrested in the act of selling swindled jewels, and he turned out not only to resemble Beck, but to be the original Smith who was, indeed, circumcised. So after all those years in jail, his life ruined, Adolf Beck was freed. And all because of coincidence, hysteria, a mistake in identity.’

Craig halted his impassioned account and glared at Garrett. ‘Do you want to take the risk of having an Adolf Beck on your conscience, Dr. Garrett?’

Garrett had grown pale and smaller, and Craig pressed his point harder.

‘It’s not only that there may have been another C. Farelli at Dachau. What if there was none at all, and this was merely a diabolical trick, this insertion of the name of an anti-Fascist, by one of Farelli’s blackshirt enemies, by Mussolini himself? At the worst, supposing Farelli had indeed been there, your Farelli, our Farelli. Maybe his attendance was enforced at the point of a gun—to obtain his diagnosis and advice. Maybe he was there and did not participate in the actual murders at all. There are all those possibilities, and more. Are you the one to say none of these is correct and only your angry indictment—Farelli capitulated, volunteered, killed others—is the true one? Will you accept that responsibility fully—and tonight, on thin evidence, see a valuable colleague ruined by unprincipled scandal? The decision is yours to make, Dr. Garrett, not mine—your own and no one else’s.’

Craig’s appeal, so fervent, had depleted his reservoir of energy, and he fell back against the chair, exhausted, and waited.

Garrett stared down at the tablecloth, all dumb except for his hands in his lap, opening and closing.

‘There you are, Dr. Garrett!’ It was a young woman’s voice that called out, and they were both startled and turned to find Sue Wiley, wearing, her Robin Hood hat and a military coat, coming towards them. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’

Garrett, wraithlike, clambered to his feet, but Craig remained in his place.

Sue Wiley shook Garrett’s hand and widened her eyes. ‘Boy, what a beaut. Where did you get the shiner?’

Garrett felt Craig’s presence, and felt perspiration under his collar. ‘I—I was in the bathroom and turned around and the shower door was open—lucky I didn’t lose an eye.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Sue Wiley cheerfully. ‘If that’s your story—okay by me.’ She came around on one spiked heel. ‘Why, hallo, Mr. Craig. I didn’t see you.’

‘Don’t,’ said Craig.

‘I heard that you had a divine night with my friend Mr. Gottling. Did you? He said he was too drunk to remember a thing, the beast.’

Craig offered his silent thanks to Gunnar Gottling and hoped that it was true. ‘You can write that the alcoholic literary laureate was drunk too, and that he robbed the Royal Palace and raped a princess or two and that his mind is a blank.’

‘Thanks for nothing,’ said Sue Wiley with determined cheer, but her eyes blinked and blinked. She faced Garrett once more. ‘You wanted to see me about something? I have an important date, but if it’s anything at all, I can ring and put off—’

Garrett swallowed. ‘It—it’s nothing—nothing at all—I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought I would have some news for you, but—’

‘About what?’ demanded Sue Wiley.

‘I—well, it was about the nature of my next—next work—experiments. But it involves others—an endowment—and there’s been a delay, so I have no announcement to make yet.’

Sue Wiley sniffed. ‘Anything is grist for the mill. Maybe you can tell me something?’

‘I apologize for taking you out of your way, Miss Wiley, but what I wanted to tell you—it hasn’t developed—and I’m not at liberty—’

‘I understand,’ she said abruptly. ‘But if it happens, remember what I told you on the plane—I’m in your corner, and I want the beat.’

‘I promise you that.’

‘All right. See you before the Ceremony, I hope.’ She hitched her bag under her arm and turned to Craig. ‘You keep me in mind, too, Mr. Craig.’

‘You’re never out of my mind for a second,’ said Craig.

‘I know, I know. Well—happy
sk
ه
ling
and
goddag
and
adjِ
.’

‘The same to you,’ muttered Craig.

He watched her leave, stopping here and there to shake hands at various tables, until she had disappeared into the lobby.

Garrett sat down slowly, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. After he had stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, he took the sheet of paper from the table. He tore it into shreds, and crumpled the shreds, and shoved them into his pocket, too.

‘Can I have a sip of whatever you’re drinking?’ he said, at last.

‘Ice-cold
br
ن
nnvin
,’ said Craig. ‘Have it all.’

Garrett took the short glass in his unsteady hand and drank the
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ن
nnvin
down in one gulp. He grimaced, and then met Craig’s eyes.

‘Thanks,’ he said. And then he said, ‘I don’t mean for the drink.’

Craig nodded. ‘I know. You won’t be sorry.’

Garrett licked his lips. ‘I think you should know—this is only armistice—it isn’t peace.’

‘Whatever you say.’

After that, Garrett ordered another
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ن
nnvin
and smoked reindeer sandwiches, and by the time his order came, Denise Marceau was making her way back to their table.

‘Have I held you up? Please do not stand.’ She slid into her chair, and beamed at Craig. ‘That was the party of the third part on the telephone. Everything is arranged.’

‘The plot thickens?’ said Craig.