"Well ... that's my theory. It would appear logical that--"
Taber leaned forward suddenly and extended his glass, the grin on his
face showing some genuine humor. "Let's have another drink, Doctor. Then
I'll go. I love the factual way this Scotch of yours hits my stomach."
12
Frank Corson entered the office of Wilson Maynard, Superintendent of
Park Hill Hospital. Maynard looked out over the tops of his
old-fashioned pince-nez glasses and said, "Oh, Doctor Corson. You phoned
for a chat."
It was the rather pompous superintendent's way of saying he was happy to
give Frank Corson a little time. He considered all the doctors and
nurses at Park Hill his "boys and girls," and he did the "father" bit
very well.
"Yes, I--"
Maynard peered even harder. "You don't look well, Frank. Pale. You've
been working too hard."
"Nothing important, Doctor Maynard."
"Sit down. Will you have a cigarette?"
"No, thank you. I just wanted to ask you about a transfer."
"A transfer!" This was amazing. "Aren't you happy at Park Hill?"
"I've been very happy."
Maynard went swiftly through a card file on his desk. "You have--let's
see--five more months of internship. Then--"
"Then I'd planned to enter private practice. But something personal has
come up and I think a change is for the best."
"I'm certainly sorry to hear that."
"One of the men I graduated with went to a hospital in a small Minnesota
town. We've corresponded and he's given me a pretty clear picture--a
nice town, a need for doctors and physicians--"
"But we need them here in the East, too."
"I realize that, and I'm making the move with some regret. But, frankly,
New York City no longer appeals to me. I think perhaps a small hospital
is more suited to my temperament."
"I'm certainly sorry to hear this, Corson. But I won't try to dissuade
you. Normally, I might bring a little more personal pressure to bear,
but I sense that your mind is made up. We're sorry to see you go, but
the best of luck to you."
"Thank you, sir."
After Frank Corson left, Superintendent Maynard sorted a memo out of the
pile on his desk. The memo concerned Frank Corson. Superintendent
Maynard reread it and thought how well things usually worked out. Now it
wouldn't be necessary to have that talk with Corson about sloppy work.
Obviously there had been something on the young intern's mind for weeks
now. Too bad. But let the Minnesota hospital, wherever it was, worry
about the trouble and perhaps put Corson on the right track again.
He was their baby now.
Maynard took Corson's card from the files and wrote across it: _Transfer
approved with regret._
* * * * *
Brent Taber stood in the shelter of a doorway on the Lower East Side of
Manhattan and watched an entrance across the street. He had been there
for over an hour.
Another hour passed and Taber shifted from one aching foot to the other
as a man in a blue suit emerged from the entrance and moved off down the
street.
When the man had turned a corner, Taber crossed over and looked up at
the brownstone. It was a perfect place to hide--one of the many rooming
houses in the city where, if you paid your rent and kept your peace, no
one cared who you were or where you came from.
Not even, Taber reflected, if you had been born in a laboratory and had
come from someplace among the stars.
He climbed the steps of the brownstone and tried the knob. The door
opened. He went inside and found himself in a drab, dark hall furnished
with an umbrella stand, a worn carpet, and a table spread with mail.
There was a bell on the table. He tapped it and, after a lazy length of
time, a shapeless woman came through a door on the right and regarded
him with no great show of cordiality.
"Nothing vacant, mister. Everything I've got is rented."
"I wasn't looking for a room. I'm just doing a little checking."
"My license is okay," the woman said belligerently. "The place is clean
and orderly."
"That's not what I'm checking about. There's been some counterfeit money
passed in this neighborhood and we're trying to trace it down."
The woman had a pronounced mustache that quivered at this news.
"Counterfeit! My roomers are honest."
"I'm sure they are. But some people carry counterfeit money without
knowing it. Do they all pay in cash?"
"Only two of them."
"Men or women?"
"One girl--Katy Wynn."
"Where does she work?"
"Down in Wall Street."
"Not much chance we're interested. This money has been turning up around
Times Square."
"The other's a man--quiet, no trouble, pays his rent right on the dot
every week. John Dennis his name is and he doesn't look like no
counterfeiter."