Sally Spencer - Blackstone and the New World

‘And yet, after talking to Inspector O’Brien — in this very room — for only a few minutes, you were perfectly willing to hand the address over to him ,’ Blackstone said exasperatedly. ‘Why was that? Because you were quite prepared to take his word that he’d grant you immunity from any prosecution, but you’re not prepared to take mine ?’

‘It’s not that simple,’ Mrs de Courcey said. ‘I knew it would be safe to give the address to Inspector O’Brien.’

‘Safe? It what way?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

If she could hold out for two more days, it would be all over, Blackstone thought. And Mrs de Courcey showed every indication of doing just that — whatever it cost her.

But he still had one more card to play — a card he hadn’t even known had existed until a few minutes earlier.

‘Do you know what one of the most pathetic sights in the whole world is?’ he asked — deliberately harsh, deliberately cruel. ‘It’s the sight of a clapped-out old whore mooning about over a younger man like a lovesick virgin.’

‘You bastard!’ Mrs de Courcey said, with feeling.

‘His name’s not Imre, you know,’ Blackstone said. ‘And he’s not a Hungarian count. He’s really called Horace Grubb, and he hails from some of the worst slums of Whitechapel.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Mrs de Courcey asked. ‘Do you think I even care about that?’

‘If I can’t arrest Inspector O’Brien’s murderer, I’ll arrest our Horace instead,’ Blackstone said. ‘I’ll take him back to England with me, and you’ll never see him again.’

‘You. . you wouldn’t do that,’ Mrs de Courcey gasped. ‘You. . you just couldn’t do that!’

‘Just watch me!’ Blackstone told her.

For a moment, it looked as if Mrs de Courcey would crumple and faint quite away. But fainting away was not her style. She was a fighter, who had worked her way up from the gutter, and she did not give in so easily.

Blackstone watched, fascinated, as she pulled herself together again, and knew exactly what was going on in her mind.

She accepted defeat when it was inevitable, as it was inevitable here. But she was searching for a way to avoid it being a total defeat — looking around for what might be one minor victory of her own.

And, as a new smile — a vindictive one, this time — came to her face, he knew that she had found what she was searching for.

‘You stand there in your shabby suit, thinking that you’re so smart, when nothing could be further from the truth,’ Mrs de Courcey said in a voice filled with the deepest contempt. ‘You call yourself a detective, but you can detect nothing . In short, you really have no idea what is going on at all, and I truly despise you for that ignorance.’

‘But you’ll give me the address anyway, won’t you?’ Blackstone said, unmoved.

‘But I’ll give you the address anyway,’ Mrs de Courcey agreed.

She crossed to the escritoire, took out a sheet of paper, and wrote something on it.

‘What are you expecting me to give you, Mr Detective ?’ she taunted, as she walked back across the room towards him. ‘The address of a corruptible congressman, perhaps?’

Yes, possibly something like that, Blackstone thought.

‘Or maybe you think the address will lead you to the home of a rich and powerful businessman? Is that what you think?’

‘Just hand it over,’ Blackstone said wearily, and when she did, he looked down at what she had written and said, ‘Dr Muller? A medical man?’

‘No, not a medical man,’ Mrs de Courcey said, savouring the small victory that his surprise had brought her. ‘Not a medical man at all.’

‘But this says. .’

‘Dr Muller is a medical woman .’

Alex Meade looked much better for his short sleep, and as he and Blackstone climbed the stairs of the slightly seedy building in the very heart of Kleindeutschland, the inspector noticed that there was a distinct spring in the sergeant’s step.

They reached the second floor, and came to a halt in front of a door which had a notice on it — in both English and German — stating that surgery hours were from 9 to 12 and 4 to 8.

‘This is it,’ Meade said, his enthusiasm once more bubbling over. ‘Would you mind if I handled the interview?’

‘Not at all,’ Blackstone replied. ‘After all that standing about outside Mrs de Courcey’s, you deserve a bit of a treat.’

Meade grinned. ‘And a treat is what it will be. We’re on the brink of solving the case, Sam. I can feel it.’

Maybe we are, Blackstone thought. Or maybe this will be just one more dead end.

Meade’s first knock on the door was no more than a gentle inquiring tap with his knuckles. Then, remembering who he was — and why he was there — he made a fist and hammered so forcefully that the door frame shook.

A woman opened the door. She had a large, bony frame — although her hands, Blackstone noted, were surprisingly small and delicate. Her hair had been cut in a very masculine manner, and her eyes showed the natural concern of someone who was answering such an imperious summoning.

Meade held up his shield. ‘Dr Helga Muller?’

‘Yes,’ the doctor replied.

And Blackstone saw that the look of concern in her eyes had developed into something akin to real fear.

‘Do you mind if we come in?’ Meade asked, before brushing past her and entering the office.

The office contained a desk, a filing cabinet, two chairs for visitors, and an examination table. Meade sat down on one of the visitors’ chairs without waiting for an invitation, and gestured to Blackstone that he should sit in the other one. The doctor, meanwhile, hovered uncertainly by the still-open door.

‘Close the door, can you?’ Meade said casually, as if he were talking to a servant.

The doctor did close the door, but showed no signs of wanting to move any further away from it herself.

‘So, why don’t you tell us about this nice little practice of yours, doctor?’ Meade suggested.

The fear was still there in her eyes, Blackstone thought. Muller was doing her best to hide it, but it was definitely still there.

‘Why should you want to know about my practice?’ the doctor asked, in a heavy accent.

Meade frowned. ‘I don’t know how things work over in Germany,’ he said, ‘but here in America, it’s normally considered wise to answer a police officer when he asks you a question.’

‘I practise general medicine,’ the doctor said. ‘Most of my patients are recent immigrants. The majority of them come from Germany.’

‘Do they now?’ Meade mused. ‘And how’s business, doc? Are you making a good living?’

‘I do well enough,’ Dr Muller replied stonily.

‘Really?’ Meade said, sounding surprised. He looked around the office. ‘Well, if you “do well enough”, there’s certainly not much evidence of it in this place. To tell you the truth, it looks like a real dump to me.’

‘If you are going to be rude about my office, then you can-’ Dr Muller began.

‘If I’m going to be rude about your office, then I can what ?’ Meade interrupted.

‘I. .’

‘And before you answer that question, please remember that your naturalization papers are still being processed, and that it only requires one black mark against your name for them to be rejected.’ Meade paused for a second. ‘Now remind me, doctor, what were you going to do if I was rude?’

‘Nothing,’ Dr Muller said.

‘That’s good,’ Meade told her. ‘That’s very good.’ He stood up and walked around the cramped room, stopping in front of a framed medical certificate. ‘The University of Berne,’ he said, admiringly. ‘My, but ain’t you a real powerhouse, though?’