The Girl in the Face of the Clock (19 page)

“I have to think.”

Jane stood.

“I'm sure you'll do the right thing. You have to. I'm going home.”

Jane had walked down through Central Park to get to the Zoo, but returning home the same way was out of the question. All the adrenaline that had flushed into her system was long gone. She felt like a dishrag, barely able to lift her legs. At Sixty-eighth Street she managed to catch a cab going to the West Side.

By the time the taxi pulled up in front of her brownstone, it was two-thirty. Nearly an hour had passed since she spoke with Folly. A white patrol car was double-parked in front with an impatient-looking cop at the wheel. Another impatient-looking cop was sitting on the front stoop. He stood up to meet her.

“You Miss Sailor?”

“Yes.”

“Nice of you to join us. Where you been?”

“I … I needed to calm down. I took a walk.”

“In a taxicab?”

“I walked farther than I had planned.”

The cop grunted, then pulled out a notebook from his back pocket.

“We need to get a statement about the events that transpired earlier in your apartment,” he said, clicking open a ballpoint pen.

“Is the woman okay?” asked Jane.

The cop made a face.

“She woke up and clouted one of the paramedics,” he said with obvious distaste. “They had to give her a shot after we got her cuffed. Now she's in Bellevue, being examined by somebody. Like they say: an unexamined life ain't worth livin'.”

Happy not to have killed Isidore Rosengolts's granddaughter, Jane spent the next twenty minutes telling the cop what had happened. Then, beginning to ache in places she didn't remember having, she called the locksmith.

An hour and a half later Jane's door could again be locked, though the only way the apartment would ever be secure again, the locksmith pronounced, was if she replaced the patched wooden doorframe with a new steel one.

It was now nearly half past four. Jane was still on London time, and after the day she'd had, she was quite ready for bed. She opened the bottle of Chardonnay she kept at the bottom of the refrigerator for emergencies and poured herself a glass. After taking a single sip, she went into the bathroom, took off her clothes, and turned on the shower. She had just stepped in when the phone rang.

The answering machine lay in pieces in the wastebasket, thanks to Melissa Rosengolts. Folly said he would call again. Cursing, Jane grabbed a towel and made her way to the telephone.

“So, Janie, honey, sweetheart,” said Elinore King without further introduction, as if no one could possibly fail to recognize her voice. “I'm back. It's so horrible about your father. I'm sorry I couldn't make it for the funeral, but Greg gave you my regards, didn't he? I told him to give you my regards.”

“What do you want, Elinore?” said Jane, dripping on the floor.

“Okay, honey. So this is the thing. I know you were, like, upset and all when we talked on the plane, but that's okay. I want you to know that I'm not mad at you or anything. I understand, and it's okay now, because we've gotten some real offers.”

Jane rolled her eyes.

“Elinore, even if we had anything to talk about—which we don't—this isn't a good time.”

“It's always a good time to talk about money,” Elinore announced breezily. “You're going to really love this, Janie, you really are. So you know the one with the lady's crossed hands with the cantaloupe and the squirrel? Your father's painting? Twenty-five thousand, and that's just a small one. But get this—sixty-five, that's sixty-five thousand dollars, for the couple. You know the one? With all the blue? The two women in the tree?”

“What do I have to say to you, Elinore? How can I get through? I told you, I'm not going to sell my father's paintings. I am going to donate them to museums. Period. End of story. Now I just stepped into the shower and I …”

“I know what you said, Janie,” said Elinore with a smug little giggle, “but these are real offers. One is from a doctor who saw the show at the what-do-you-call-it museum. And I made contact with some very important collectors in Seattle; people up there have more money than God with the biotechnology and the computer stuff and all that. Now, wait, I haven't told you about the third offer, and it's really the best. A hundred and ten thousand for the diptych. A hundred and ten thousand. Net.”

“No, Elinore,” said Jane. “
No
. Why is that so difficult for you to …?”

“I don't understand why you're being like this,” said Elinore angrily. “I know you're upset about your father and all, but his death was the best thing that ever happened to him, if you know what I mean, in terms of his value and all. You can't turn this down. You can't stop the momentum or you'll never get it back, believe me, I know.”

“Can't you get it through your head that I don't care?”

“Oh, come on, Janie, don't be an ass,” said Elinore, her voice turning ugly. “You care plenty. You're just still angry that I talked to Perry on the plane. I don't understand why you would want to keep me away from him. He's my client, you know. I knew him a long time before you did.”

“You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?” said Jane wearily. “I swear to God, Elinore, you are the most greedy, egomaniacal …”

“What did you say?”

“I said …”

“How dare you say that to me? How dare you?”

“I'll say what I please, you selfish …”

The receiver slammed down at the other end with such a bang that it hurt Jane's ear. She was halfway back to the bathroom when the phone rang again.

“Hello?” she answered.

“I'm sorry, Janie,” said Elinore in a tearful, abashed voice. “I'm sorry for hanging up on you like that. I've been under a lot of stress lately. Sometimes, though, you just make me so mad …”

“I'm sorry, too, Elinore,” said Jane. “But you …”

“No, let me finish. I know I come on a little strong, a little aggressive. But you have to be aggressive in this business. And me being a woman and all that. You can't know what it's like, you just can't.”

“Elinore—”

“I'm just doing it for you, you know, honey,” said Elinore, her voice brightening. “Do you know what your share is going to be if we can sell just these three paintings? A hundred thousand dollars. See? I've kept up my end of the bargain. I'm giving you fifty percent, just like I said. Now don't tell me you can't use a hundred thousand dollars. And that's just for starters.”

“I don't want it, Elinore. This isn't what I want. This is what you want.”

“Of course I want the money,” said Elinore impatiently. “It's only fair after all the work I've done. But I'm trying to tell you that there are other things at stake here, more important things. There's a principle at stake here.”

“What principle is that?” asked Jane.

“Loyalty, for one thing. I never gave up on your father and I don't intend to now.”

“My father's dead.”

“That's beside the point,” shrieked Elinore. “If I let artists just walk away after all the work I do, even when they're dead, where would I be? You can't just decide all on your own that you don't want to do this any more, now when it's finally beginning to pay off. Aaron wouldn't have wanted you to treat me like this, believe me. Loyalty cuts both ways, you know. Look, I might as well tell you the truth. The fact is that Aaron and I were more than just friends. He was in love with me, if you want to know.”

Jane shook her head in disbelief. The woman was unbelievable.

“I sweat blood for that man,” Elinore ranted on. “No, let me finish. If it wasn't for me, your father would be nothing, nothing. And there wouldn't be any of this interest now in your father if I hadn't gotten that article into the
Times
. I gave them the whole story.”

“That's right, Elinore,” said Jane, unable to contain any longer what was really bothering her. “And because of that stupid article, because of the photos you gave them, people are dead.”

“Who's dead? What do you mean?”

“You have no idea what you've set into motion with your meddling. No idea whatsoever.”

“I want to know what you mean. I didn't have anything to do with what happened to your father. I was in Seattle.”

“He's dead, isn't he? And a woman saw your stupid pictures and now she's dead, too. But what do you care?”

“You're crazy,” sputtered Elinore. “If anybody's dead, it's because of Perry Mannerback. Perry Mannerback killed your father. That's what the police think. They called me at my daughter's in Seattle. I know all about it.”

“Perry had nothing to do with my father's death. Just leave him out of this.”

Elinore pounced at the opening.

“Aha!” she shouted. “Now I understand. Now I see what this is really about. He's talked to you about more paintings, hasn't he? Perry must have killed your father because he knew it would make his own painting more valuable. And now he's convinced you not to let me sell any others so you can sell them to him directly without cutting me in! I'm sure the police will be really interested in this. It gives Perry a motive and everything. I'm going to call them. What do you think about that?”

This time it was Jane who hung up the phone with a bang. She had made it back to the bathroom and had one foot into the shower when the phone rang again. For a moment, she tried to ignore it. Then she stomped backed into the living room and grabbed the receiver.

“Now you listen to me, you miserable …”

“Are you still so mad at me?” said a male voice with a smooth British accent.

“Valentine!”

“I felt very bad after we spoke the last time. You know, you really have misunderstood this whole situation.”

“I suppose you can explain everything,” said Jane, happy to hear his voice despite herself.

“I can.”

“Well, that's very nice, but I just was about to step into the shower.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Valentine. “Going out somewhere tonight?”

“Only to bed,” said Jane, too embarrassed to resume shivering.

“More interesting still. I was hoping that I could persuade you to come over to the Carlyle. I think we can clear everything up. There's someone here who has a very proposition for you.”

“Nice try,” said Jane. “But I'm not up to being propositioned tonight, thank you very much. I'm still on London time and I've had a day that you wouldn't believe.”

“Oh, I'm not the one with the proposition. At least not tonight. It's my employer, Mr. Bogen.”

“Willie the Weasel?”

“That's a very misleading and cruel nickname,” said Valentine. “Mr. Bogen's really quite a decent chap; he just happens to be cunning in financial doings, which has engendered a certain amount of envy.”

“I'm sure.”

“He wants to explain to you about your ceramic clock. It will be greatly to your advantage.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“I'm afraid that it has to be now,” said Valentine. “Mr. Bogen had intended to stay the entire week, but emergencies have come up in London and he has to fly back tonight in our company plane.”

“Sorry, Valentine. There's nothing you could possibly say that is going to get me to come out tonight.”

“Please?” said Valentine.

“I …”

“I'd like to see you, too, Jane. I definitely want to see more of you.”

“Would you?” said Jane, reaching over and taking another sip of wine. As she did the towel around her slipped loose, leaving her naked and vulnerable in the draft.

It was a little before five-thirty when Jane stepped out of the cab in front of the Carlyle. The grand hotel took up the entire block of Madison Avenue between Seventy-sixth and Seventy-seventh streets. The tallest structure in the East Side historic district, it towered thirty-four stories above the smart shops and boutiques of the avenue. Somehow, however, the hotel was so quietly tasteful that from street level at least it seemed like nothing special. There wasn't even a grand entrance on Madison, just a small doorway with a discreet marquee on the side street.

Inside, too, the hotel stood out for what it was not rather than what it was. There was no soaring lobby, no symphony of brass and velvet like the opulent hotels downtown. The Carlyle rated its five stars simply for being perfect. The large floral bouquet in the entry way was perfect. The Gobelins tapestries, the Louis XV-style furniture, even the window treatments, all perfect. Further inside, Jane could see a perfect dining room full of perfectly behaving guests. Somewhere off to the left was the bar that Ludwig Bemelmans of
Madeline
fame had decorated with perfect fanciful zebras to settle a bill and where jazz singer Bobby Short had held court for years.

Jane glanced at herself in a rococo mirror. Her hair was still Raphael Renaissance Red, but she looked remarkably good considering that she had begun the day more than fourteen hours ago in London, had knocked out a woman with a refrigerator, and had interfered with a police investigation in the meantime. She ascended the elevator. A few minutes later, she was poised outside the room on the twenty-eighth floor that Valentine had directed her to.