The Prize

The King would like to avail himself of the knowledge that you and Dr. Farelli possess. Since the operation is one that involves him emotionally, and beyond that will be widely reported in the world press, His Majesty feels a responsibility to see that the patient has every advantage. As much as he has faith in Dr. Ohman-and he has absolute faith in that young man-he would feel more secure if you could attend the surgery tomorrow morning, stand by, so to speak, in order that Dr. Ohman may draw upon your assistance and experience if necessary.’

‘Does Dr. Ohman know of this?’

‘He has given his wholehearted approval,’ said the Baron, ‘and would be much relieved if you would share his responsibility.’

‘I will share it, of course,’ said Garrett. ‘I will be on hand.’

‘Capital!’ exclaimed the Baron. ‘Surgery was originally scheduled for seven tomorrow morning. It will now be delayed until nine in the morning, so that Dr. Ohman may have time to go over his charts and plan with you.’

Garrett saw, at once, the advantage of his participation, his collaboration, so dramatic, to save a relative of the King through the discovery that he had made. Before the entire world, he would be able to demonstrate why he had won the Nobel Prize and why he deserved it alone. It was this last that troubled him now. The Baron had said that the King wished Ohman to avail himself of the services of both himself and Farelli. That would not do, and he must be firm and make it a condition of his co-operation.

Baron Johan Stiernfeldt had risen, and that was when Garrett spoke his mind.

‘There’s just one thing,’ he heard himself saying. He came off the velvet stool and joined the aristocrat. ‘Few laymen are acquainted with the tension that accompanies this difficult surgery. Speed and precision are the saving virtues. I have found, in my long experience in heart transplantations, that two make for good surgery, but three is a crowd.’

‘I am afraid I do not understand, Dr. Garrett. What are you suggesting?’

‘I assume you mean to confine the assistance given Dr. Ohman to myself alone. Since Dr. Ohman and I have exchanged notes on our work, and know each other, we will be able to perform at maximum efficiency together. A team of two-Dr. Ohman and I-will guarantee successful outcome. A third surgeon might make the undertaking extremely difficult.’

Baron Johan Stiernfeldt’s visage was stern. ‘Do you mean that you do not wish Dr. Carlo Farelli to attend the surgery?’

Garrett felt a wave of relief. It was understood. His victory was within his grasp. ‘Exactly, that is exactly what I mean.’

‘I am afraid that is impossible, Dr. Garrett.’

The reply was unexpected. ‘Why is it impossible?’ he wanted to know petulantly.

‘Because at eight-thirty this morning, the King had Dr. Carlo Farelli in his private quarters for breakfast, and together, at some length, they discussed the details of the impending surgery. The King has already accepted Dr. Farelli’s gracious offer to be of assistance.’

Garrett stood aghast. ‘The King himself saw Farelli?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Baron Johan Stiernfeldt, ‘and quite relieved was His Majesty. You see, as I have explained, the King was reluctant to make any imposition upon your time and Dr. Farelli’s time. Then, at last, he was convinced that the requests should be made. But before he could do so, Dr. Farelli relieved His Majesty of any embarrassment by voluntarily coming forward and offering his services to the King. You can imagine His Majesty’s delight and appreciation. And-I suppose I can tell you this-it was Dr. Farelli’s assurance at breakfast, that you would be as honoured as he was himself to co-operate, that induced the King to have me meet with you forthwith… Is anything the matter, Dr. Garrett? Are you having a dizzy spell?’

In Carl Adolf Krantz’s apartment overlooking the Malaren, fifteen minutes had passed since Daranyi’s arrival, and now the Hungarian looked up once more from his memoranda and waited while his host finished his writing behind the obstructing fern.

‘So much for Dr. Garrett and so much for Dr. Farelli,’ said Daranyi. ‘Next, I have the names of your chemistry laureates, Dr. Claude Marceau and Dr. Denise Marceau, of Paris. What I have learned of them, while not of considerable quantity, has quality, at least the quality I trust you will consider useful.’

‘Permit me to be the judge,’ said Krantz grouchily.

‘Very well.’ He held up his sheaf of papers. ‘This is lurid enough to make one blush. The Marceaus seem to have led spotless lives, entirely dedicated to their investigations and experiments, until recently. Dr. Claude Marceau committed adultery in Paris, and his wife seems to have retaliated by having an illicit affair here in Stockholm.’

‘Decadent frogs,’ muttered Krantz from behind the greenery.

‘I do not have the details, and so I will spare you that,’ said Daranyi, ‘but I do have in my possession certain facts. To begin with, Dr. Marceau’s little amour…’ With a free sense of staging, Daranyi released his facts one by one, each like a gaudy helium balloon floating skyward. He covered Dr. Claude Marceau’s indiscretions with the compliant Mademoiselle Gisele Jordan from their start in Paris to their forthcoming rendezvous this afternoon at the Hotel Malmen in Stockholm.

‘I do not know for certain if Dr. Denise Marceau is aware of this rendezvous,’ admitted Daranyi, ‘but from the nature of her own behaviour, I would suspect that she knows what is going on. In any case, she-and my source is unimpeachable-has committed two infidelities with one of your countrymen, Dr. Oscar Lindblom, a young chemist in the employ of Ragnar Hammarlund. One infidelity, was performed in Hammarlund’s private scientific laboratory three days ago, and the second was performed last night, on the occasion of Dr. Claude Marceau’s absence from the city, when his wife received young Lindblom in her suite at the Grand.’

‘Disgusting,’ snarled Krantz, his pen busy.

‘If you worry about a scandal,’ said Daranyi, ‘this may be it. I keep thinking Dr. Denise Marceau means for her husband to know of her own violation of the marital bed, and I keep wondering what Dr. Claude Marceau will do when he does find out…’

At 1.02 in the afternoon, Claude Marceau had learned that his loyal spouse of ten years had become an adulteress.

At 1.08 Claude Marceau had extracted from her the name of her vile seducer.

At 1.29 Claude Marceau, linked in step with Hammarlund’s butler, Motta, was striding over the forest path behind Askslottet to the isolated laboratory, the den of sin in the Animal Park, where he would find the infamous, lustful, treacherous Swede, Oscar Lindblom, and give him the thrashing of his life.

Claude Marceau, protector of home and hearth, was boiling mad. Nor was his rage misdirected. Denise, ever timid and fearful of violence, had tried to protect her lover by protesting his innocence and presenting herself as a femme fatale. The gesture might have been laughable had it not been so transparent and pathetic. Claude had known his wife too long and too well to be fooled. Denise was essentially provincial, bourgeois, naive, unworldly. There had been no doubt in Claude’s mind where the blame must be put: the Swedish snake had taken vicious and caddish advantage of her distress, her weakness, and through his practised wiles had hounded her into an infidelity.

Striding beside Motta, Claude reviewed the accident that had revealed all. He had returned from Uppsala after midnight, and immediately fallen into an exhausted sleep. He had awakened too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, to find Denise lounging in the sitting-room, taking coffee and leafing through an imported Paris Match, and what had caught his eye was the flimsy pink neglige that he had not seen before and that ill became her, a married woman. She had been unaccountably vivacious, as she had been since the Hammarlund evening, and again he guessed that she had determined to show him her best side in order to woo him back.

Now, remembering: the door buzzer had sounded, and he had gone to see who it might be. The caller had proved to be a hotel servant, some relic fugitive escaped from Balzac’s La Comedie Humaine, who held before him a bottle of something or other, gift-wrapped in red.

‘I am one of the room-service help,’ the servant had announced. ‘I have the champagne Madame requested for her husband.’

Claude had tried to think if it was his birthday. It was not. ‘I am Madame’s husband. I will take it.’

The servant had pulled the champagne away from the stranger’s outstretched hand. Madame had been