The Girl in the Face of the Clock (15 page)

“What a wonderful act of friendship for you to return this precious medal to us,” he said, his eyes suddenly moist with tears. “I am moved to the very depths of my soul by your kindness.”

“I wasn't really going to …” began Jane, then stopped, not knowing what to say.

Isidore Rosengolts looked up in alarm.

“I haven't misunderstood, have I? You were returning it, weren't you? That's why you came here, yes?”

“Yes, of course,” said Jane in a quiet voice.

“If it has a special meaning for you, then I wouldn't presume …”

His voice trailed off.

“No,” said Jane. “You take it. I want you to have it.”

Isidore Rosengolts squeezed the bridge of his nose and sniffed.

“Thank you from the bottom of my soul,” he said, rising.

“I had no idea what it was,” said Jane.

“No, of course not,” said Rosengolts, leading her through the door and into the passageway back to the shop. “It is a fantastic thing in this cynical day and age that you would have such kindness and character to do what you have done. You are a fine young woman, and God will bless you.”

“I'm glad to do it,” said Jane as they entered the shop through the rear curtain. The two clerks instantly looked down, avoiding eye contact. As they made their way to the front door, Rosengolts spoke again.

“If you're looking to sell your clock, my dear, I'd be happy to help you. As I told you, I am constantly being approached by collectors. Nearly all the interest in my grandfather's wares is here in England. You'll get a much better price here than you ever could in America. You could just ship your clock over.”

“Thanks, but it's not for sale.”

“I could probably get you a thousand dollars,” said Rosengolts.

“Really?”

“Collectors rarely go higher than a few hundred pounds, but this sounds like a good piece. I would even guarantee you fifteen hundred, make up the difference out of my own pocket if required. You have done such a service to my family I'd like to do something for you in return.”

“That's very kind of you but not necessary,” said Jane.

The old man smiled a kindly smile and shrugged.

“Well, if you should ever change your mind, please give me a call. Are you staying in London long?”

“Just until Monday.”

“Best of luck,” said Isidore Rosengolts, pumping her hand. “And thank you again.”

Jane stepped outside into the crowded street and headed back toward Oxford Street. What a strange journey the little dragonfly had had, she thought ruefully. From Antwerp to New York to London, across three generations and more than half a century, through basements and church services and now back to its rightful owners.

Jane wondered if Isidore Rosengolts would have a yellow satin pin attached and wear it on holidays and in parades. It was a funny thought, but Jane didn't laugh. She knew she should be happy that the cross had been returned, but all she felt was a tremendous sense of loss, as if she had made a terrible mistake, as if she had given away something precious that was not hers to give.

Jane walked a few blocks from the china shop, but the bad feelings only intensified. Suddenly, she stopped, turned around, and started to walk back the way she came. The dragonfly cross had always symbolized her mother, she realized, that was what this must be about. She was feeling the loss of her mother. What she needed was another symbol to take the place of the cross. Perhaps Rosengolts et fils had a sugar bowl to replace her little flowered one that had been smashed in last week's burglary. Something quiet and nice.

Jane retraced her steps back to the Mortimer Street shop, feeling a little better, wondering if she could maybe find a new butter dish, too. A hundred feet away a tall, freckle-faced man with dark red hair was at the curb in front of Rosengolts et fils, talking to the driver of the traditional black London cab that had just let him out.

Jane had to smile at herself. The man looked exactly like Valentine Treves. She must like Valentine more than she was admitting to herself if she was beginning to see him all over the place. As she got closer, however, her amusement turned to disbelief.

No, thought Jane, stepping into a doorway. It couldn't be! She had only met Valentine Treves once and there were a lot of tall men with freckles and red hair in the world. How could this possibly be the same man? But as she stood there just a few yards away, Jane knew—simply knew—that she wasn't wrong. The man standing in the street
was
Valentine Treves.

He hadn't seen her. Even if he had turned around, he probably wouldn't have picked her out of a crowd as someone he had met on an airplane to Seattle last week. It was only because he happened to be standing in front of this particular shop at this particular time that Jane was able to focus on him.

Jane wanted to call out, but found she couldn't speak. Valentine suddenly broke away from the cab, opened the navy blue door of Rosengolts et fils, and disappeared inside.

Jane stood paralyzed in the doorway, her head spinning, the dead hollow feeling of the past week returning to her stomach. What was Valentine doing here, of all places?

Before she could get her brain working straight, the navy blue door opened again and Valentine walked back to the waiting cab. He had been inside the china shop for only a few minutes.

As Valentine's cab pulled away, Jane stepped over to the curb and flagged down another taxi, this one white, with an ad for a radio station, “21 Million Britons Listen On The Road,” stenciled across its sides.

“Follow that cab,” she said, getting into the backseat.

“What's that, luv?”

“That cab in front of us. I want you to follow it.”

“Is this a wind-up then?” said the driver, turning around and staring at her. He had a broad red English face, a long chin, and ears like tennis shoes.

“A what?”

“Are you having me on?”

“No, not at all,” said Jane. “Please. It's very important.”

“Bloomin' spy, she is,” said the driver, shaking his head as he pulled away from the curb and regarding her suspiciously in the rearview mirror. “Let me ask you a question, luv. You don't 'ave to answer if you'd rather not.”

“Don't let him get too far ahead.”

“'Eaven forbid. I'd just like to know whether all you Yanks are barmy or is it only the ones I get?”

“There's an extra five pounds in it for you if you don't lose him.”

“Just like the movies, innit?”

It quickly became apparent that there really wasn't much chance of Valentine's cab getting too far ahead. The streets were clogged with traffic. Jane's cab crawled behind the black one carrying Valentine Treves, turning so often down narrow streets that she began to think they were going in circles. After ten minutes, however, the buildings themselves began to change, at first becoming massive, then growing in height and newness until several that could almost qualify as skyscrapers rose at streetside.

Finally, the cab in front of them halted at the entrance of a large modern building faced with glass. Valentine got out. Jane waited until he had walked from the curb and through the doors of the building before she paid her driver and got out, adding the promised fiver.

“'Ope you get your man, luv,” called the cabbie as she made toward the double doors through which Valentine Treves had disappeared. “And a good psychiatrist.”

The lobby of the building Jane found herself in was as slick and modern as the glass exterior. The light fixtures were huge orbs of polished metal that could pass for flying saucers. The walls were unadorned white stone. The floor was gray industrial tile.

There were two banks of elevators with brushed stainless-steel doors, but Jane had no desire to make a floor-to-floor search. Instead, she walked over to a building roster in a large glass case by the door and scanned the long columns of company names and personnel. There was no Treves in the T section, but as she began again from the A's, her eye soon landed on a familiar name: “William S. H. Bogen & Co., Ltd. Pty. Room 1109.” Willie Bogen. Willie the Weasel!

“May I help, miss?” said a voice.

Jane turned to find herself facing a small man wearing a uniform coat a size too big for him and an official-looking smile.

“I'm looking for Mr. Treves. Valentine Treves.”

“Eleventh floor, miss,” said the man, clearly proud of himself for knowing his tenants. “Works for old Mr. Bogen. Bogen & Company. Nice chap, Mr. Treves.”

“I'm not so sure,” said Jane, and walked out the door before the man could say another word. She felt hurt, betrayed, but most of all, confused. What the hell was going on?

The street seemed even brighter after the darkened lobby. Jane had walked several blocks before she realized she had no idea where she was, literally as well as figuratively. Her mind whirled with questions.

She pulled out her map, but it was another minute before she could orient herself. The building where Valentine Treves made his office with Willie the Weasel was in the City—the business section of London, the equivalent of Manhattan's Wall Street. Though it felt as if it was in another century, Rosengolts et fils was not too far from here.

As Jane walked in a daze back along the narrow, twisting streets, she tried to put the pieces together, to think things through logically, beginning with the question of why Valentine had been on that plane to Seattle.

The explanation was now obvious. He had been on his way to buy the lighthouse clock, of course. Perry Mannerback's arch rival, Willie Bogen, was a collector of clocks. Bogen must have somehow found out about the lighthouse clock and had dispatched his “Director of Special Acquisitions” to acquire it.

No wonder Valentine had been so startled on the plane when Jane mentioned that she worked for Perry Mannerback. Yet it was hardly a great coincidence that an agent for Willie Bogen might have ended up on the same flight as Jane and Perry. They were all going to the same place for the same reason.

But why had Valentine been coming out of Rosengolts et fils just now? It was an impossible coincidence that he had just happened to go shopping for china at this particular time at this particular store. What could Valentine and Mr. Rosengolts have in common? Could it have something to do with Grandmother Sylvie's clock?

Jane shook her head. It seemed incredible, but what other explanation could there be? Now she remembered that Valentine had even asked about the handless ceramic in Perry's painting the last time they had talked. Was it a prop, he had wondered, or an actual piece?

There were trees and wooden benches in the small grassy churchyard behind St. Paul's Cathedral, Christopher Wren's masterpiece. Gratefully, Jane made her way over to an empty bench and sat down. Her head was swirling. Her palms were damp. A woman passing on a bicycle gave her a quizzical look. Japanese tourists snapped photographs. The air smelled of taxicabs and spring.

If the clock was at the center of everything, then she had been seeing everything from the wrong point of view. Sometimes Jane worked out fight routines by pretending she was someone's fist or the tip of an actor's sword. Now she closed her eyes and pretended that she was Grandmother Sylvie's clock. What did she see?

The first thing Jane realized was that there were really two clocks—the ceramic monstrosity in her basement and its representation in the Aaron Sailor painting that Perry Mannerback had purchased. For the past eight years, the real clock had seen nothing from its box on the basement ledge. The clock in the painting had seen only what went on in Perry Mannerback's study.

Then, two Sundays ago, Perry's painting was reproduced in the
Sunday Times Magazine
where it could see—and be seen—by the entire world. After that, things began to happen quickly. Somebody had injected Aaron Sailor with insulin that very night. Jane's apartment was broken into a few days later. And now Valentine Treves was paying a call at Rosengolts et fils. How could all these things be connected to the clock's appearance in the newspaper unless …?

Jane opened her eyes.

“Someone recognized it,” she said out loud, stunned.

But how could anyone recognize a clock that had been relegated to top shelves and basements for decades? For someone to recognize it meant that he must have seen it in the 1930s or 1940s. He would have to be an old man now. An old man with an interest in clocks. How old was “old Mr. Bogen,” the clock collector?

A chill went down Jane's spine. It wasn't unlikely that Valentine might have directed his employer's attention to the article in last Sunday's
New York Times
. Valentine would know that Bogen might be interested in a painting that featured an unusual clock.

The minute that Bogen opened the
New York Times
and saw the ceramic in Perry's painting, he would know that the real ceramic clock had once been in Aaron Sailor's possession. For the artist to paint it, he would had to have had access to it. Bogen would also know that somebody else had the clock now, since the article made it clear that Aaron Sailor had been in a coma for eight years. And if the clock hadn't been sold or otherwise disposed of, Bogen could assume that it was now with a relative.

Who was Aaron Sailor's only living relative according to the obituary in the
Times?
Jane L. of Manhattan, who, according to the same obituary, was going to be at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home last Thursday morning at eleven o'clock.

In short, Willie Bogen—and his employee Valentine Treves, who just happened to have been in New York last week—had all the information they needed to break into her apartment at a time when it was certain that she wasn't going to be home. She'd even told Valentine her address was listed in the phonebook!

Jane took a deep breath. It all fit. Willie Bogen had sent Valentine to break into her apartment. And the reason that nothing was taken was because Bogen and Treves couldn't have known the clock was down in the basement.