Out of the Sun (30 page)

That's OK. You weren't to know you'd nearly give me cardiac arrest." She nodded down at the hatbox. "Looking for something?"

"This snapshot, actually. It's one Iris particularly likes." He slipped the photograph into his pocket. "And some of his, er, working papers. For a colleague of his."

"Really? Are you sure David would approve?" Then she waved her hand. "Well, it's none of my business. You must do as you think best."

"Maybe you can help me. I don't seem to be able to find the stuff."

"Lord, I wouldn't know about that sort of thing. Isn't it all in the study?"

"Not what I'm looking for."

"He must have taken it to England with him, then."

"Apparently not."

"It has to be one place or the other."

"Yes. That's what I thought. Nobody else has ... been through his papers .. . have they?"

"You mean here? Absolutely not. No-one but me's crossed the threshold since David left." She frowned. "Unless they had a key, of course. I wouldn't have known you'd been here if I hadn't come in." Her frown deepened as her gaze moved to the hatbox. "Depending how well you plan to clear up after you, that is."

"So it is possible someone's been in?"

"I guess so. But we keep a pretty close watch on comings and goings here in Maple Place. Have to, the number of crazies there are wandering the streets. Especially lately."

"Why lately?"

"Oh, a gruesome-looking old hobo showed up last month and just wouldn't go away. I know a lot of people were worried about their children. The police must have moved him on a dozen times, but he kept coming back. Like he was waiting around for something. Though we'll never find out what. Not now."

"Why not?"

The police seem certain he was the man they pulled out of Rock Creek last weekend. He must have fallen in and drowned. Maybe off one of the bridges. Drunk, I daresay, or high on drugs. You'd have to be to drown in that depth of water. Mad would help as well, of course. According to this morning's Post, he's been identified as an escaped inmate from some lunatic asylum up north. So I suppose '

"Did they give his name?"

"Probably. I don't recall."

"Was it Dobermann?"

She looked at him sharply. "Why yes. Now you mention it, I believe it was."

"Carl Dobermann. From the Hudson Valley Psychiatric Center, near Poughkeepsie."

"Yes. That's exactly right. You must have read the report."

"No." He shook his head. "I didn't read the report."

Then how do you know? Were you acquainted with him?"

"Never met him in my life."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I. But I think you're right. He was waiting for something. Or someone. And it looks like he waited too long."

FORTY-SEVEN

The body recovered from Rock Creek on Sunday just south of the Q Street bridge has now been identified as that of Carl Victor Dobermann, 59, a long-stay patient missing from Hudson Valley Psychiatric Center, Poughkeepsie, NY, since September 5. He had no known connexions with the Washington area. Police are treating his death as an accidental drowning. They believe Mr. Dobermann may have been the prowler complained of in recent weeks by residents of Maple Place, Georgetown, who confirm that they have not seen

Woodrow Hackensack tossed the newspaper aside and made a quizzical face at Harry. "So Mad Dog Carl's gone to meet his maker. You won't be getting any answers from him now, will you?"

Harry shrugged. "Perhaps I don't need any. He was looking for David. That's obvious. And he was disturbed enough for the reason to be well-nigh unfathomable. That's equally obvious. What more do we need to know?"

"You've sure swapped hymn sheets. A few days ago you were all for turning over every stone Dobermann ever trod on."

"Not much point now, is there?"

"What about Rosenbaum? He might still be able to tell you something."

"I decided to give him a miss. I think Donna was right. Dobermann's just a red herring."

"Fish can't drown, Harry. Didn't they teach you that in school?"

"Certainly not. Mine was a classical education." Harry lowered his voice. The point is, Woodrow, Donna has the tape and a good chance of dishing Lazenby. She's promised to do her very best to persuade this hot-shot neurosurgeon, Sandoval, to take on David's case as soon as she's free to approach him. So, the sooner I get back to England and convince Iris there really is some hope of progress, the better."

"And maybe you'll eventually be able to ask David to explain his interest in Dobermann for himself."

"Exactly."

"You handled Lazenby better than I'd have given you credit for, y'know." Hackensack nodded at him in puzzled appreciation. "Smooth as silk. Which I'd never have said you were in a million years. Must have taken real nerve to go through with it on your own."

"More a case of desperation. Plus a lot of luck."

"So you say. But '

"Tell me the medical news. When do you get out of here?"

"Oh, after the weekend, they reckon. The stairs back home are gonna be a problem, o'course. But good ol' Martha's offered to fetch and carry for me. That'll be non-stop entertainment, let me tell you. But don't worry. I'll have plenty of time to scour the papers for the first signs of Lazenby's well-earned downfall."

They won't be long in coming. I'm sure of it. All you have to do is sit tight and watch it happen."

"Sounds easy."

"It is, believe me. I have a feeling everything's going to come right from now on."

"Yeh? Well, I have a feeling you're holding out on me. But since it's a sure bet you're not gonna tell me why .. . I'll just have to shake your hand and wish you bon voyage. Happy landings, Harry. Reckon you deserve 'em."

Harry agreed with Hackensack. Happiness or at least peace of mind seemed a fair reward considering everything he had gone through in recent weeks. Unfortunately, peace of mind eluded him. During the long subway ride out to JFK Airport, he tried as hard as he could to reason his way to such a condition. But something stronger than reason held him back, something founded in what Hackensack had correctly deduced was being kept from him.

Harry had not lost interest in Dobermann now he was dead. Quite the reverse. The circumstances of his death were too eerily reminiscent of the caprices of fate that had overtaken four out of the seven participants in Project Sybil to be ignored. Harry had left Maple Place that morning with every intention of breaking his journey to New York in Philadelphia and trying to track down Isaac Rosenbaum.

Only to discover, standing on the Q Street bridge and gazing down at the stretch of Rock Creek where Dobermann had drowned, that he had somehow mislaid the piece of paper on which he had recorded Rosenbaum's address. It had been in his pocket two days ago, tucked inside the cover of his diary. Now it was no longer there. He had turned out his pockets since, of course. In Lazenby's office, the previous afternoon. It was possible the piece of paper had slipped out then. It was hard to imagine where else it could have slipped out.

Harry could still have gleaned Rosenbaum's address from some other source. The telephone directory; Columbia University. Its loss had not been an insurmountable obstacle. But where he had lost it had been. There was no logical cause for concern. A scrap of paper with a Philadelphia address scrawled on it would mean nothing to Lazenby. He had probably not even noticed it. Yet probably was not quite good enough. He might have seen it fall from Harry's diary. He might have kept it. If he had, then he would remember it when scandal broke around his head and Norman Page's consuming interest in his choice of soft furnishings at last made sense. It would be the only trail he could follow. A trail that was bound to peter out so long as Rosenbaum had no visit from an inquisitive stranger to report. Whatever he might or might not recollect about Dobermann's long-ago crack-up would have to remain an open question. "A good poker player knows when to fold," Chipchase had told Harry more than once. Now, Harry reckoned, it was time to break a forty-year habit by following his friend's advice.

FORTY-EIGHT

Higher than a transatlantic flightpath on duty-free booze, Harry's misgivings floated away into the pressurized ether as the homeward journey passed in a blur of rapid-reverse time zones. As seasoned travellers around him donned the bizarre paraphernalia of in-flight slumber, Harry drifted into a hazy dreamland where he, David and Iris shared a harmonious domestic existence, went for long country drives in the Riley 4/44 he had once owned and picnicked languidly in flower-carpeted Wiltshire meadows.

Dreams end as inevitably as journeys. But even the dismal tumult of Heathrow Airport at dawn could not crush Harry's spirits. He felt strangely alert and clear-headed, as if jet-lag and a hangover had slugged each other into mutual submission. Rattling into London on the Piccadilly line and out again on the Bakerloo, he had ample time to plot his strategy for the day. He did so with something close to relish. He had good news for Iris and even better news for his opinion of himself. He had returned. And he was not empty-handed.

For Mrs. Tandy he had two surprises. One was a litre of Bailey's Irish Cream, her favourite tipple. The other was his well-groomed and smartly dressed appearance. It was not clear which pleased her more. Either way, his reward was a breakfast fit for a trencherman. "I went out specially to buy these sausages after you called last night," she announced. "Though why I should want to pander to your unhealthy tastes I cannot imagine, considering the previous lack of so much as a postcard by way of proof that you were still in the land of the living."

"Sorry, Mrs. T. Force of circumstance."

"Profitable circumstance, judging by that overcoat. Cashmere, isn't it?"

"Shouldn't think so. Taiwanese lookalike, I expect. You'd be surprised how cheap it was."

"Taiwanese? I find that hard to believe."

"The bangers are great," lisped Harry evasively through a mouthful of one.

"Good. When you've finished, I hope you'll telephone Mrs. Hewitt, by the way. The poor lady is anxious to hear from you."

"Mrs. Hewitt?" For a moment, Harry did not recognize the name. "Oh, Iris."

"Yes. She's called several times."

"Don't worry. I plan to see her later."

"Do I take it from that you won't be phoning her?"

"Put it like this. She'll want to hear what I have to tell her face to face. And when she's heard it, I reckon she'll agree it was worth the wait." He stirred the yolk of his fried egg with a forkful of sausage and grinned at Mrs. Tandy across the table. "Believe me."

Harry grabbed a couple of hours' sleep, then had a bath and a second breakfast before setting off for the hospital. He planned to arrive about half an hour earlier than Iris's customary two o'clock visiting time and to share his high hopes of Sandoval's expertise with the patient before sharing them with the patient's mother. It was less than three weeks since he had said goodbye to David en route to Copenhagen, but it felt far longer. "I'll do what I can," had been his parting promise. And he had been as good as his word. Pride was stirring unfamiliarly within him. There were grave difficulties ahead, but it was no longer inconceivable that they would be surmounted. Thanks to the father he had never known, David's future might yet be retrievable.

Harry took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and cut through Soho to Theophilus's shop near the top of Charing Cross Road. Theophilus claimed not to recognize him at first, then asked if he had come into an inheritance. If so, would he be switching to Cuban cigars in future? Because it just so happened .. .

Harry bought two hundred Karelia Sertika and smoked the first ambling through Bloomsbury towards Queen Square. The afternoon was cold and grey. London was at its late autumn bleakest, traffic fumes souring the dank and bitter air. But Harry was undaunted. He stopped off at the Museum Tavern in Great Russell Street for a couple of pints, then headed on, reaching the hospital on schedule just after half past one.

He took the lift to the third floor and followed the well-remembered route to room E318. He did not stop at the nursing station, merely smiled and said "Hello' to the nurse who was sitting there, immersed in form-filling, as he passed. "Mr. Barnett?" he heard her say in a surprised tone from behind him.

"Yes. Long time no see, eh?"

"But He reached the door to the room and opened it. "Mr. Barnett!"

The room was empty. David was not there. Nor was anyone else. The bed was bare. The shelves were clear. Harry glanced stupidly at the number on the door to reassure himself he had not somehow taken a wrong turning. But there was no mistake. And no reassurance. This was room E318. But the name-panel was blank. David had gone.

"Mr. Barnett?" The nurse had caught up with him. She spoke softly, her hand tugging gently at his elbow.

"Where is he?" he mumbled.

"You mean David?" But his look of baffled alarm must have made that obvious. "Haven't you ... I mean .. ."

"Where is he?"

"Don't you know?"

"What's going on?"

"Surely Mrs. Hewitt... I mean, we assumed she would have ... Do you really not know?"

"Know what?"

She stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then said, her face colouring as she spoke: "Mrs. Hewitt decided .. . acting on Mr. Baxendale's advice, of course .. . that there really was no point ... in artificially prolonging his life."

They switched him off?"

"He was taken off the ventilator .. . earlier this week."

"He's dead?"

"I'm afraid so."

"When? When did they do it?"

Tuesday."

"But that's only three days ago." He fell back against the doorpost behind him and closed his eyes, feeling the tears start into them. "Only three bloody days."

FORTY-NINE

They found him a chair in a rest room and gave him a cup of tea. Staff Nurse Kelly was sent for to have a quiet word with him. Embarrassed consolation was tentatively plied. But none of it made much impact on Harry. The shock drained into a grief sharper than anything he would have expected to feel for somebody he had strictly speaking never even met. Then a darker thought filled his mind. He had kept his word. But Iris had broken hers. "I'll do nothing until I've heard from you," she had assured him. Yet she had brought herself to end their son's life. And she had not heard from him. Only now she would. By the time Staff Nurse Kelly arrived to offer her starched brand of sympathy, Harry was on his way out.