Twelve Red Herrings

“Shouldn’t take us too long, Mr. Kravits. Fairly routine, but the company does like to be sure you’re fit and well if they’re going to be liable for such a large amount of money. Do have a seat,” he said, pointing to the other side of his desk.

“I thought the sum was far too high myself. I would have been happy to settle for half a million, but the broker was very persuasive …”

“Any serious illness during the past ten years?” the doctor asked, obviously not interested in the broker’s views.

“No. The occasional cold, but nothing I’d describe as serious,” he replied.

“Good. And in your immediate family, any history of heart attacks, cancer, liver complaints?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Father still alive?”

“Very much so.”

“And he’s fit and well?”

“Jogs every morning and pumps weights in the local gym on weekends.”

“And your mother?”

“Doesn’t do either, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she outlives him comfortably.”

The doctor laughed. “Any of your grandparents still living?”

“All except one. My dad’s father died two years ago.”

“Do you know the cause of death?”

“He just passed away, I think. At least, that was how the priest described it at his funeral.”

“And how old was he?” the doctor asked. “Do you remember?”

“Eighty-one, eighty-two.”

“Good,” repeated Dr. Royston, ticking another little box on the form in front of him. “Have you ever suffered from any of these?” he asked, holding up a clipboard in front of him. The list began with arthritis and ended eighteen lines later with tuberculosis.

He ran an eye slowly down the long list before replying. “No, none of them,” was all he said, not admitting to asthma on this occasion.

“Do you smoke?”

“Never.”

“Drink?”

“Socially—I enjoy the occasional glass of wine with dinner, but I never drink spirits.”

“Excellent,” said the doctor and ticked the last of the little boxes. “Now, let’s check your height and weight. Come over here, please, Mr. Kravits and climb onto these scales.”

The doctor had to stand on his toes in order to push the wooden marker up until it was flat across his patient’s head. “Six feet one inch,” he declared, then looked down at the weighing machine and flicked the little weight across until it just balanced. “A hundred and seventy-nine pounds. Not bad.” He filled in two more lines of his report. “Perhaps just a little overweight.

“Now I need a urine sample, Mr. Kravits. If you would be kind enough to take this plastic container next door, fill it about halfway up, leave it on the ledge when you’ve finished, and then come back to me.”

The doctor wrote out some more notes while his patient left the room. He returned a few moments later.

“I’ve left the container on the ledge,” was all he said.

“Good. The next thing I need is a blood sample. Could you roll up your right sleeve?” The doctor placed a rubber pad around his right bicep and pumped until the veins stood out clearly. “A tiny prick,” he said. “You’ll hardly feel a thing.” The needle went in and he turned away as the doctor drew his blood. Dr. Royston cleaned the wound and fixed a small circular plaster over the broken skin. The doctor then bent over and placed a cold stethoscope on different parts of the patient’s chest, occasionally asking him to breathe in and out.