The Tragedy of the Silver Moon

CHAPTER I.—THE CRAFT OF THE QUACK.-1

CHAPTER I.—THE CRAFT OF THE QUACK.PROFESSOR PARIS STARBANK, for so he called himself, had a long string of letters after his name, but they did not indicate diplomas which had been granted to him by any recognised university or college and were quite worthless as far as his ability in any walk of life was concerned. Their meaning was of course, unintelligible to most people, but they meant that he belonged to the Society of Natural Healers, was a member of the Dietetic Brotherhood, and had joined the Union of Universal Therapeutists.

The Professor was a man of varied attainments, and in his time had been a chemist’s errand boy, an employee in the Zoological Gardens, a kennelman to a veterinary surgeon, a conjurer, and a chauffeur and handyman to an East End practitioner of medicine. From the experiences gained in these occupations he now carried on a very successful practice as a quack doctor, styling himself “Professor” to avoid trouble with the police.

From his association with the chemist and the East End doctor he had started to acquire a knowledge of medicine, from his work with the veterinary surgeon he had learnt the use of the knife, from handling wild animals he had cultivated courage and authority, and from his conjuring he had come to realise that the great majority of people were quite easy to deceive.

He was of medium height, stoutish build, and about forty years of age. He had a large and heavy type of face, with full rounded cheeks and shrewd, calculating eyes. In repose his mouth was anything but kind.

Still, altogether he was by no means ugly, and hiding a cunningness of expression with an ever-ready smile, he passed with most people as a man of broad understanding and most sympathetically inclined.

Dressed smartly and in excellent taste, his outward appearance was that of an educated professional man, and no one would have supposed his father had been only a porter in the meat-market and his mother a little drab serving in a fried-fish shop. It was only when he spoke quickly and without care that one would have had grave doubts both as to his gentility and education, for then his aspirates were often missing and his grammar often incorrect.

A bachelor, his private residence was a good-class house in the best part of Hampstead, where a gardener-butler and a housekeeper ministered to his comfort. His consulting-rooms were at 69 Edgware Road, a corner building of five stories where he occupied as a self-contained flat, the whole ground floor of five rooms, with the yard at the back also included in his tenancy. The entrance to his flat was in a side street round the corner.

The professional rooms were furnished stylishly, with good engravings upon the walls, comfortable leather-covered chairs, and thick carpets covering all the floors. Two smart girls in the late twenties, dressed as nurses, were always in attendance. The Professor himself was always attired in spotless white ducks during his consulting hours.

His practice was quite a large one, and often seeing over twenty patients a day, he made plenty of money. Many of the patients were well dressed, and apparently of a good class. Not a few of them could have driven up in expensive cars had they so wished, but for reasons best known to themselves they preferred to park or garage their cars some distance away and arrive at the rooms on foot. Most of these latter patients were women.

Sometimes the Professor attended patients at their own homes, and then, upon occasions, his ways were most peculiar. He would not arrive until after nightfall, and the house would have to be in perfect darkness, or he would not enter. He would go, too, all muffled up, and spoke only in a hoarse whisper, so it was impossible for any of the patients to swear afterwards who it was who had actually attended them.

The police had their suspicions about a lot of things and were very interested in him. Not a few times they had called at the consulting-rooms to ask him certain questions. Then, however, he had neither seen nor heard of the person they were inquiring about, or else he stated he had only given a very harmless indigestion medicine, containing only the simplest drugs.

He had been invited to attend several coroners’ inquests, upon subpoena of course, but somehow he had never been able to help on the inquiries in any way, always assuming the pained attitude of a much maligned and misunderstood man.

The police had gnashed their teeth in impotent rage, being quite certain he would many times have been sent to penal servitude if only they could have sheeted home to him his undoubted guilt.

Among his unlawful activities they knew that he was trafficking in forbidden drugs, but although they had twice raided both his private house and his professional rooms, they had found nothing. To add to their fury, upon these occasions he had not showed the slightest resentment at their search. On the contrary, he had bowed them out, for all the world as if they were among his most valued and respected patients.

“And who’ll dare to tell us,” had snarled Inspector Tullock once to his colleague, Inspector Miles, when they were out in the street again, “that this ignorant quack here makes enough money to keep up all this style by pretending to treat people like a properly trained doctor? Why, he’d have been found out years and years ago, for he can’t know anything about the business. Damn it all, he used to be cleaning out the hyenas’ cages in the Zoo not long ago, and with all his silk shirts and suede gloves he’s only an ignorant, common fellow.” He had sworn angrily. “He’s cunning, right enough. I’ll grant you that.”

And certainly this self-styled Professor was cunning, for he managed to avoid all the traps which were set for him. He was always suspicious of people with big feet and could smell out, as if by instinct, a member of the Women Police who had been sent as a bogus patient to him. Directly she entered the room, one glance was sufficient to tell him what she was, and then, by a pre-arranged signal, the moving of the ink-pot upon his desk, the nurse in attendance never left his side. Upon these occasions, too, he always demanded his fee of one guinea in advance, and then would decline to examine the patient, and only discuss diet and regular exercise as a means of restoring lost health.

When a patient came accompanied by a friend he was always suspicious again, and to the talk which ensued neither the Chairman of the British Medical Association nor the Chief Commissioner of Police could have taken the slightest exception. It was a rule of life with Professor Starbank—never incriminate himself in front of a witness.

But the inspector had been quite wrong in stating that the Professor could know nothing about medicine. On the contrary, by the time the police came to be interested in him he had picked up quite a lot about the art of healing. He subscribed to a medical library and took in medical journals, being able both to understand and assimilate a lot of what he read. Added to that he had acquired quite a profound knowledge of human nature.

Indeed, there could be no denying he had made some remarkable cures, and among others, Sir Pompey Beadle, the wealthy company promoter, was a great feather in his cap. This man of many hundreds of thousands of hard cash swore right and left to all his cronies that Starbank knew more about diseases than all Harley and Wimpole Streets put together.

Sir Pompey’s had been quite an interesting case, for he had been the despair of practitioners in the West End, with irritating rashes upon his arms, legs and stomach. Nothing had seemed to do them any good, for Sir Pompey had absolutely refused to give up his heavy dinners, his champagne, his liqueurs and his old vintage port. Then one day he had heard of Professor Starbank, and as much to annoy his regular medical men as for any other reason, had gone to him.

“Can you cure me?” he asked scowlingly. “Mind you, I’m not going to alter my mode of living. I’ve lived the same way for twenty years and it can’t be doing me any harm.”

“Quite so,” agreed the Professor judicially. “Indeed, I consider it would be unwise to do so.” He nodded. “Yes, I can cure you in a fortnight, and you’ll begin to get better almost at once.” He had sized up his man and spoke sternly and with no cringing. “But you’ll have to follow my instructions minutely and come here every day, permitting nothing to interfere with your attendances.”

“Well, what are you going to do?” asked Sir Pompey, rather taken aback at being addressed, as he thought, so cavalierly by a practitioner who lived in so unfashionable a quarter as the Edgware Road.

“I’m going to give you some special Red Rays and some very strong medicine, of which you’re only to take the exact amount, not a quarter of a teaspoonful more or less. I shall only supply you with a day’s quantity of the medicine upon each visit, so that you won’t be tempted to take more, and you’re on no account to drink it within an hour of any food or it will be most dangerous to you. You’re to take it an hour before each meal and the last thing at night. You can have just the usual things to eat and drink which you are accustomed to, except that you’re not to take burgundy or any white wines.”

Then Sir Pompey was conducted into a room well filled with electrical appliances of various kinds and, with most of his clothes off, was laid upon a narrow operating-table. A nurse appeared and both she and the Professor put on big blue glasses and rubber gloves. Sir Pompey was given a pair of glasses of the same kind and told upon no account to remove them until the treatment was over. Strict silence was enjoined and the room was darkened. Then a fierce red light from above was swung over his body and at the same time a gentle magnetic current was run through him by way of two metal plates strapped to the soles of his feet. High up on one of the walls an electrical appliance crackled loudly, emitting long blue sparks. A strong, but pleasantly aromatic, perfume not unlike incense filled the room.

It was all most impressive, and Sir Pompey closed his eyes contentedly, being quite confident that at last he had come to the right man.

Three days later he shook the Professor warmly by the hand, giving it as his emphatic opinion that he felt at least a hundred per cent. better, and that the medicine he was taking must be very strong. Whereupon the Professor nodded with the solemn mien of one who was accustomed to handle drugs of a most deadly nature every day of his life.

Inwardly, however, he was much amused, for all he had given Sir Pompey to counteract his over-eating was a full teaspoonful of bicarbonate of soda dissolved in water flavoured with peppermint. It was an obsession of the Professor that an over-acid condition of the body accounted for quite half of the ailments from which people suffered.

Sir Pompey paid him a hundred guineas.

Another great triumph of Starbank had been old Mrs. Beddoes. This lady lived in South Kensington, and had plenty of relatives waiting upon her demise. She had suffered from deafness for many years, and all the great London aurists had been able to do for her was to recommend mechanical appliances of various kinds. The idea of these had been hateful to her and she had refused to make use of them. In the end she had given up all doctors, taking the view that it was sheer waste of time to go to them.

Two years later, however, her deafness had become much worse, and hearing of the Professor, she had consulted him. She told him her history and it pleased her that in his questioning he did not ask her age. She was very sensitive about that.

“I shouldn’t mind if I could get a little better,” she shouted, “even as I was two years ago when I gave up going to Dr. Villiers. Now do you think you can do anything for me? I don’t want you to start on any treatment unless you are quite sure.”