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street eagerly for a cab. Typically, now that he really needed one, none was to be found. Finally, one came by, pulled by a shabby gray nag.
“Prinz-Eugen-Strasse 19, please.”
Rubinstein had done well for himself. The apartment building had a lobby with a polished marble floor, and a bronze statue holding an electric light globe surmounted the carved newel post of the staircase. The elevator was on one of the upper floors, and von Falkenburg strode up the thickly carpeted steps rather than wait for it.
“Good day, Captain. Does the Captain have an appointment?” the receptionist asked. She was quite pretty in a businesslike sort of way.
“No. But please ask the
Herr Doktor
if he might have some time for Captain von Falkenburg. He knows me personally.”
There was the slightest hint on the receptionist’s face of the disapproval she felt for people – even handsome army officers – who did not make appointments in the regular fashion. Nevertheless, she conveyed his message to her employer, and a moment later reappeared to tell von Falkenburg that Dr. Rubinstein would see him now, and to usher him into Rubinstein’s office.
“Hello, von Falkenburg. What can I do for you? You certainly look fit enough, and besides, you have the skills of the regimental doctor at your command.”
The look of amusement on Rubinstein’s face as he said that showed what he thought of regimental doctors, who were said to rely on only two treatments: iodine and cod liver oil.
“Oh, I’m healthy enough,” von Falkenburg said, “but I need your medical expertise anyway.”
Without going into why he was asking the question, von Falkenburg described Röderer’s appearance and behavior, and then asked Rubinstein if he thought a drug might be involved.
“Sounds very much like it. Mophine, I expect. Detoxification is a
very
painful process.”
“Now,” von Falkenburg said, “supposing a person was deprived of the stuff and was told he had absolutely no prospect of getting it. Do you think he might kill himself?”
Rubinstein leaned back in his chair and thought for a while. “It’s not at all impossible,” he said finally. “The effect of morphine and related drugs is to produce a euphoria. When they wear off, there is an intense depression.”
“The person I am talking about was in a cell, facing very serious charges for which he was certain to be convicted.”
“An officer?”
“Yes.”
“The deprivation of the morphine could have been a decisive factor, taken on top of the other circumstances which would suggest suicide. As I say, morphine is a euphoric. If your man had kept taking it, he would have stayed on Cloud Nine. Instead, he was in intense physical agony, and in a mental state where his bleak future could have persuaded him to take the step which the idiotic honor-cult expected of him.”
“You fought a duel once back at the university,” von Falkenburg said with a smile.
“I know, and every day I thank my stars that I’m not in the Central Cemetery on account of it.”
“But you’d do it again?”
“Oh yes. I mean, when someone lets his anti-Semitism get as badly out of hand as that little idiot
Freiherr
von Probern did, one simply can’t let it pass. I’m glad no one got hurt, though. I couldn’t hit the side of a barn of course, since it was the first time I’d fired a pistol.”
“And von Probern was trembling too much to hold his pistol straight,” von Falkenburg added. It was the first duel he had attended as a second.
“One last question,” he went on. “How long after a person is deprived of morphine will the effects of the deprivation really begin to make themselves felt?”
“Depends on the degree of addiction. Hours; maybe half a day after the last dose before the suffering is really at its height.”
“But not longer.”
“No. But the suffering continues for quite some time before the withdrawal symptoms begin to diminish with the completion of
“Prinz-Eugen-Strasse 19, please.”
Rubinstein had done well for himself. The apartment building had a lobby with a polished marble floor, and a bronze statue holding an electric light globe surmounted the carved newel post of the staircase. The elevator was on one of the upper floors, and von Falkenburg strode up the thickly carpeted steps rather than wait for it.
“Good day, Captain. Does the Captain have an appointment?” the receptionist asked. She was quite pretty in a businesslike sort of way.
“No. But please ask the
Herr Doktor
if he might have some time for Captain von Falkenburg. He knows me personally.”
There was the slightest hint on the receptionist’s face of the disapproval she felt for people – even handsome army officers – who did not make appointments in the regular fashion. Nevertheless, she conveyed his message to her employer, and a moment later reappeared to tell von Falkenburg that Dr. Rubinstein would see him now, and to usher him into Rubinstein’s office.
“Hello, von Falkenburg. What can I do for you? You certainly look fit enough, and besides, you have the skills of the regimental doctor at your command.”
The look of amusement on Rubinstein’s face as he said that showed what he thought of regimental doctors, who were said to rely on only two treatments: iodine and cod liver oil.
“Oh, I’m healthy enough,” von Falkenburg said, “but I need your medical expertise anyway.”
Without going into why he was asking the question, von Falkenburg described Röderer’s appearance and behavior, and then asked Rubinstein if he thought a drug might be involved.
“Sounds very much like it. Mophine, I expect. Detoxification is a
very
painful process.”
“Now,” von Falkenburg said, “supposing a person was deprived of the stuff and was told he had absolutely no prospect of getting it. Do you think he might kill himself?”
Rubinstein leaned back in his chair and thought for a while. “It’s not at all impossible,” he said finally. “The effect of morphine and related drugs is to produce a euphoria. When they wear off, there is an intense depression.”
“The person I am talking about was in a cell, facing very serious charges for which he was certain to be convicted.”
“An officer?”
“Yes.”
“The deprivation of the morphine could have been a decisive factor, taken on top of the other circumstances which would suggest suicide. As I say, morphine is a euphoric. If your man had kept taking it, he would have stayed on Cloud Nine. Instead, he was in intense physical agony, and in a mental state where his bleak future could have persuaded him to take the step which the idiotic honor-cult expected of him.”
“You fought a duel once back at the university,” von Falkenburg said with a smile.
“I know, and every day I thank my stars that I’m not in the Central Cemetery on account of it.”
“But you’d do it again?”
“Oh yes. I mean, when someone lets his anti-Semitism get as badly out of hand as that little idiot
Freiherr
von Probern did, one simply can’t let it pass. I’m glad no one got hurt, though. I couldn’t hit the side of a barn of course, since it was the first time I’d fired a pistol.”
“And von Probern was trembling too much to hold his pistol straight,” von Falkenburg added. It was the first duel he had attended as a second.
“One last question,” he went on. “How long after a person is deprived of morphine will the effects of the deprivation really begin to make themselves felt?”
“Depends on the degree of addiction. Hours; maybe half a day after the last dose before the suffering is really at its height.”
“But not longer.”
“No. But the suffering continues for quite some time before the withdrawal symptoms begin to diminish with the completion of
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