He pretended to be rather ashamed of the fact that the only language he knew was English. But he supposed one could get by if one had the right connections.
I enjoyed hearing him hand out this line. Never by word or gesture did I betray his confidence. Not even to Mona would I have dared reveal what I knew about Cromwell. He seemed to understand that I could be trusted.
And so we talked and talked, listening to Moskowitz now and then, and drinking moderately. I gathered that he had already made it clear to Mona that the column was no go. Everybody had praised her work, but the big boss, whoever that was, had concluded it was not for the Hearst papers.
What about Hearst himself? I ventured to ask. Did he say no to it?
Cromwell explained that Hearst usually abided by the decisions of his underlings. It was all very complicated, he assured me. However, he thought that something else might turn up, something even more promising. He would know after he got back to Washington.
I of course was able to interpret this as a mere politeness, knowing full well now that Cromwell would not be in Washington for at least two months, that in seven or eight days, as a matter of fact, he would be in Bucharest, conversing in the language of that country with great fluency.
I may be seeing Hearst when I go to California next month, he said, never batting an eyelash. I’ve got to go there on a business trip.
Oh, by the way, he added, as if it had just occurred to him at that moment, isn’t your friend Doctor Kronski a rather strange person … I mean, for a surgeon?
What do you mean? I said.
Oh, I don’t know … I would have taken him for a pawn-broker, or something like that. Perhaps he was only putting on to amuse me.
You mean his talk? He’s always that way when he drinks. No, he’s really a remarkable individual—and an excellent surgeon.
I must look him up when I get back here again, said Cromwell. My little boy has a club foot. Perhaps Dr. Kronski would know what to do for him?
I’m sure he would, I said, forgetting that I was supposed to be a surgeon too.
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 percent of his cases. He hag 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 most 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 Polak! 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
