Surgeon at Arms

refurnish your home with a few hundred cigarettes.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Graham sombrely. ‘Everyone seems to be on the make. There’s a spiv in all of us.’ Lord Cazalay arrived promptly at seven. With him was the ferret-faced Arthur. Graham invited them in cordially. If they had some proposition for him, he had already decided to reject it. But at least he could politely offer them a whisky. After all, it had come via Lord Cazalay.
    For a while Lord Cazalay talked about the obstacles to making money in the postwar world, a subject he seemed inclined to leave with more impatience than usual. Arthur sat sipping whisky nervously and said nothing. After a few minutes Lord Cazalay declared, ‘Graham, I’ve found you a new patient.’ He inclined his head. ‘Arthur here.’
    Graham looked at the ferrety man with mild interest. ‘What’s the trouble?’ he asked.
    ‘I’d like you to fix my face up, Sir Graham.’
    ‘But you haven’t any scars or blemishes that I can see.’
    ‘I’d just like you to change it a bit. Like you did to the pilots during the war.’
    Lord Cazalay gave a harsh laugh. ‘Plenty of room for improvement, eh, Graham?’
    Graham put his finger-tips together and gave the profferred features a more careful inspection. It wasn’t a bad face. The nose was too pointed and the jaw underslung, but not to the point of unsightliness. But he appreciated, even if he still never understood, the psychological forces urging patients towards him. A crooked nose or a drooping eyelid, passing more or less unnoticed by the world, could incite any amount of self-torture. He remembered a youth during the war with a leg withered from polio. All the frustrations of his life were ascribed to his leg. He implored one of the general surgeons to chop it off, to cast it from his life altogether, replace it with one of the splendid artificial ones they were designing for the wounded. The surgeon obliged. Six months later the young man committed suicide. We must all find something to blame, Graham thought, even if it’s a bit of ourselves.
    ‘Of course, you realize that a cosmetic operation, like any operation, carries a risk?’ Graham explained, as he did to every patient. Arthur nodded. ‘Nor is it free from pain and bother. Some can be distinctly uncomfortable for weeks afterwards. And even I can’t guarantee a perfectly successful result.’
    ‘The bill will be rather painful too, I fancy,’ said Lord Cazalay, laughing again.
    ‘I wouldn’t conceal that either,’ said Graham.
    ‘You’d be looked after, Sir Graham,’ Arthur assured him solemnly. ‘Rely on me for that.’
    ‘As this is turning into a consultation, I’ll have to ask you to leave us, Charles,’ Graham explained to his brother-in-law. ‘It’s rather irregular to conduct one with an audience.’
    Arthur looked at Graham imploringly and asked, ‘Can’t he stay? He’s a friend.’
    ‘Oh, very well, if you wish,’ Graham conceded testily. ‘In what particular way do you want your appearance changed?’
    ‘I just want it changed. I’m not fussy.’
    Graham frowned. ‘But what’s the object? What is it that distresses you about your looks?’
    ‘I want it changed for business reasons.’
    Graham looked at Lord Cazalay. ‘What’s going on?’
    ‘Graham, do you have to ask so many questions?’ Graham paused. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. King, but I’m afraid I can’t take you as my patient.’
    Lord Cazalay glared angrily. ‘Look here, Graham, you’re being ridiculous.’
    ‘I apologize if it strikes you that way. But I couldn’t possibly operate on a patient without satisfying myself over the reasons. Some of them are pretty obscure, admittedly, but at least they hold water. I’m inclined to think there’s something behind all this. I’d prefer not to ask about it. There’re plenty of other plastic surgeons in London. You can always try your luck elsewhere.’
    Lord Cazalay brushed his moustache. ‘I’m sorry you’re being so unco-operative. Perhaps you’ll think again.’
    ‘Why don’t we tell him the truth?’ suggested Arthur, as if struck by a novel thought. As Lord Cazalay made no reply, he went on, ‘Look, Sir Graham—I’m in a bit of trouble.’
    ‘We’re all in a bit of trouble,’ muttered Lord Cazalay.
    ‘You saw in the papers this morning about Fred Butcher?’ Arthur continued. It’s the beginning of something. People have been nosing about where they shouldn’t, making trouble. Mind,