Kill as Directed Read Free

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?”
    â€œSure. Mine.”
    â€œDon’t tell me you own a bank!”
    â€œNot quite,” said Tony, smiling. “What I have in mind is to sign as co-maker. You’ll get it.”
    â€œNow wait a minute, Tony,” Harry protested. “I couldn’t let you do that.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIf I fell flat on my face—”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œLet me think about it, Tony.” He tried to control his voice.
    â€œThere’s nothing to think about.” Tony Mitchell jumped out of his chair. “Let’s go, Harry.”
    â€œGo? Where?”
    â€œTo my bank. They’re waiting for us.”
    â€œTony—”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œTony 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.”
    â€œWhy 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?”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œYou 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.