It's not, Carter muses, as if he has no reason to visit Doctor Theodore Price. There's plenty of old aches and pains he could summon up if he wanted an excuse. But by the time he's limping his way up the steps to the clinic — having bypassed the dangers of the downstairs apartment by some shrewd timing with Madame Rake’s afternoon outing — he still doesn't have his story straight.
The carpet on the stairs is clean but aged, fraying at the edges like an old woman’s whiskers. The air is musky with patchouli and something over-sweet and alcoholic from the witch downstairs. Halfway up it mixes with the sharp bitterness of straight rubbing alcohol. The effect is akin to a shot of moonshine floated over barrel-aged port. Carter isn't sure which he prefers.
He considers, again, his motivations for coming here. He's no closer to a convincing excuse than when he'd stepped out of his office that afternoon. Maybe he doesn't think Price is worth lying to, or maybe there's just no good answer. It's impulse. A desire to check up on the good doctor, perhaps, after last month’s events. See how he's faring. See if he's taken any long-term damage from that blow to his pride.
Whatever this drive is, this curiosity about Dr. Price, it's dangerous. That, at least, Carter knows he needs to be careful about admitting to. Maybe he is too interested in Price. Maybe he can't stay away. So, what? It's not as if the doc would do anything but scoff at him if he knew.
Carter catches his breath at the top landing. It's a small, dingy white space converted to an even smaller waiting room. He leans his hip against the banister and takes out a cigarette, lighting it with an easy, practiced motion. He thinks.
Detective Finley Carter has been subjected to enough haughty, cold glares in his time to make him practically inoculated against the shame his Catholic upbringing tried so hard to beat into him. At worst, condescension hits him like cheap whiskey: it goes to his head and gets all those gears clicking into place, oils the wheels of his mind. At best, it's a shot of adrenaline. There's nothing like the satisfaction of pulling one over some well-educated high hat. The moment a person sneers at Carter, they underestimate him; and a posh, educated bastard the likes of Dr. Price is exactly the sort of mark Carter is certain to hustle.
It isn't as though no one can see through Carter's little acts. On the contrary, the really intelligent ones – the clever ones, the ones who can see from the start that he isn't a fool – are all the angrier for it. That's why Carter had been so sure he'd had Price wrapped around his finger at Harlock’s ill-fated dinner party. He'd worn the doctor’s condescension around him like a silk dress, painted himself with the doctor’s withering glares like rouge, danced through the steps of their little tet à tet without missing a beat. He'd made himself to be what the doctor thought he was: a fool, a queer, a clown.
It had all been fun and games one second, nice and satin smooth, and the next moment Carter had found himself jabbering like the circus monkey he was pretending to be. His keen instincts, the compass of which was usually such a reliable source of danger, had spun wildly. It could have gotten him killed. Almost had got him killed. Carter had thought Price was the usual shot of cheap whiskey and instead he'd been a fifth of the top shelf stuff. He’d knocked Carter flat on his ass when the detective had least expected it, and the old woman had done the rest.
And the worst part? The sawbones hadn't even been trying. Hell, he hadn't even known. Carter was certain he hadn't recovered from the shock of his little feminine affliction being discovered by the time the investigation had closed. Price had walked away thinking that Carter had beat him. But it hadn't been a chess match, it'd been bowling, and Carter barely had one pin standing by the time Price was done with him. His only saving grace was that Price hadn't ever cottoned onto what game they were playing. That – that was danger, alright.
By all rights Carter should have turned tail the moment he was clear, and let the doctor keep his peace – but here he is, back for another shot. Maybe Carter is looking for the rush. Maybe he's trying to learn how to control it. Maybe he just wants to see if it had even been real, or if he'd been clouded by the stormy night and that infernal Madame’s incense and the adrenaline of almost being stabbed in the goddamn—
The clinic door opens, and Carter stubs out his cigarette automatically. A woman with mousy brown hair and a cloche pulled far over her face exits with quick, mincing movements. She ducks her head below her upturned jacket collar at the sight of the detective, even in plainclothes, and scurries down the stairs past him with a murmured request for pardon that does nothing to identify her age or ailment.
The clinic door clicks shut after her departure. Well-weighted, and oiled. The doctor’s drive for discretion extends even to his regular surroundings, it seems.
Carter sits in one of the two chairs in the minuscule waiting room and picks up a newspaper from the coffee table. This morning’s, even. He goes to his customary first stop and frowns, then grunts in interested amusement when the obituaries are missing. Now, had Price took those, or the Madame? Perhaps they took turns. What a thought.
Carter waits ten minutes before getting back to his feet. He rolls his shoulders back and lets himself into the clinic.