The Paper Dragon (49 page)

"Yes."

"I don't understand. I thought we were flying Pan Am."

"Well, there seems to be some confusion about the booking," Sidney said.

"Why don't you call the agency?" Courtlandt suggested. "I'm sure they can straighten it out."

"What agency would that be?"

"Travel Time on Madison Avenue."

"Thank you, sir."

"I'm sure they said Pan Am. How'd this happen, anyway?"

"Probably a duplicate booking. We'll straighten it out, sir, don't worry about it."

"Okay."

"Thank you, sir."

"Thank you for calling," Courtlandt said, and hung up.

Sidney immediately replaced the receiver on its cradle and sat with his eyes squeezed shut, trying to catch his breath. All right, it was true. He was their client, he was taking a trip, it was true, it was true. He would call Chickie and apologize immediately, tell her he loved her, tell her he trusted her. Well, he couldn't apologize, he didn't want her to know he'd called Courtlandt. But he'd tell her he loved her and trusted her, that was what he'd do. He found another dime in his pocket, put it into the slot, and quickly dialed the agency. Ruth McCutcheon answered the phone.

"Travel Time," she said, "good afternoon."

"Good afternoon," he said, "may I speak to Miss Brown, please?"

"She's out to lunch right now," Ruth said. "May I help you?"

"Well, no, I don't think so," he said, and was about to hang up.

"Would you like to leave a message?" she asked. "May I say who called?"

"Yes, this is…" He hesitated. She had not recognized his voice; she did not know who he was. In the three seconds it took him to make up his mind, he did not even consider the fact that he was intuitively behaving like a lawyer, putting to practical use the years of experience he had had in courtrooms, covering ground already covered, stating and restating the same point, examining and re-examining, driving for the complete truth where only the partial truth was known. He knew only that he possessed information now, he had received information from Mr. Jerome Courtlandt, and that he could use this information to learn the whole truth, three seconds to make a decision, nothing but the truth, three seconds in which to conceive a strategy.

"This is Pan American Airlines," he said.

"Yes, well, this is Miss Brown's partner," Ruth said, accepting the lie.

"I see." He hesitated again. Let it go, he thought. Leave well enough alone. "I'm calling to verify a flight," he said.

"Yes?"

"For Mr. Jerome Courtlandt."

"That's been verified already," Ruth said.

"Not according to my information."

"I handled it myself," Ruth said.

"I'm sorry, but there's obviously been an error."

Ruth sighed. "I don't know why everything always has to be done six times," she said. "All right, let's get it over with."

"Which flight
is
that?" Sidney asked.

"Saturday morning. I haven't got the number right before me. Don't
you
have the number?"

"To London, is that?" Sidney said.

"No, to Rome. Oh,
boy
" Ruth said. "It's four seats to Rome on Saturday morning, the nine forty-five flight. Just a minute, I'll get the flight number for you. Oh, boy."

He heard the clatter of the receiver on the desk, heard the clicking of high heels across a hard floor, heard another phone ringing somewhere in the distance, "Travel Time, good afternoon." He waited a moment longer. He could hear her indistinctly in the background. He did not know what further information he needed or required. Courtlandt was obviously leaving for Italy, they were obviously handling the trip for him, there was nothing more to know.

He hung up abruptly and came out of the booth, oddly unsatisfied.

They talked about Christmas gifts during lunch, exchanging ideas about the people on their lists, but she had the feeling Jonah's mind was elsewhere, and her own thoughts were about the little Egyptian who had come to her office that morning. They walked up Broadway afterwards, stopping now and then to inspect the wares displayed in each holiday window. There were decorated Christmas trees everywhere, and on each corner a Santa Claus despondently shook his bell at the passing crowd. On Park Place, a Salvation Army band was playing "Adeste Fidelis." The snow underfoot had turned to slush, and the weather was milder than it had been all week. It did not seem as though Christmas was only ten days away.

They walked back toward the courthouse slowly. It was only one-thirty and the trial would not resume until two. They discussed the change in the weather, and the possibility of more snow in time for Christmas — had she ever seen that movie with Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire, yes,
Holiday Inn
, wasn't it, yes, who was the girl in that film? They sat on a bench facing Centre Street on the smallest of the Foley Square islands. A sharp wind swept around the corner of Duane off the river beyond. Gray pigeons echoed the gray slush on the curb, nibbling for peanuts around the benches. Jonah was quiet, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets, legs stretched, head bent, dark hair moving with each fresh gust of river wind. His glasses reflected the gray pavement and the parading pigeons, hiding his eyes from view. She wondered suddenly if anyone had ever looked directly into the eyes of Jonah Willow, and just as suddenly wondered what he looked like in bed, without his glasses. There were no more Christmas gifts to discuss, and all the talk about the weather had been exhausted. They had both seen
Holiday Inn
and could not remember the name of the girl in it, and now they sat in silence while he thought God knew what, and she thought of the Egyptian. She took a deep breath.

"Hadad came to see me this morning," She said.

"Who?"

"Ibrahim Hadad. The man we ran into Monday night."

"The man who ran into
us
," Jonah corrected, and then suddenly sat erect and turned to face her. "What do you
mean
he came to see you? Hadad?"

"That's right."

"What'd he want?"

"He told me he'd been visited by a detective. He said you'd called Santesson of the Circuit Court…"

"Yes, so…?"

"… and that Santesson assigned a detective to investigate."

"Yes, that's what I asked him to do."

"Investigate what, Jonah?"

"Third-degree assault."

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not."

"Are we talking about the same accident?"

"I think so."

"There was no assault, and you know it."

"Sally, with all due respect, I hardly think you're familiar enough with the penal law to give an opinion on…"

"I read Section 24 this morning, after Hadad left. How do you figure there was culpable negligence?"

"He went through a full-stop sign."

"He didn't."

"Sally, you were asleep. I saw him."

"I was
not
asleep. He stopped the car just before he came onto the highway."

"He may have hesitated, but he didn't come to a full stop."

"Jonah, the district attorney would still have to prove disregard of the consequences and an indifference to—"

"Please don't throw precedent at me. Hadad went through a stop sign on a very dark night, driving his vehicle in a culpably negligent manner, and causing bodily injury to two other people. That's third-degree assault."

In the silence, she heard the wind sweeping around the corner of the courthouse. Crossing over from Centre Street, two obvious prostitutes ducked their heads against the sudden gust, one taking the other's arm as they stepped gingerly over the slush against the curb and then ran across Duane, probably on their way to the Criminal Courts Building. Behind them, a sailor looked up as he lighted his cigarette, decided to follow them, then decided against it, and turned and headed downtown toward City Hall. Sally put her hands in her pockets and looked at the tips of her shoes.

"Jonah, I don't see why you're doing this," she said.

"He violated the law."

"He's a poor slob who was coming home late from a—"

"I don't care what he is. He could have killed us both on that goddamn highway."

"But he didn't."

"He could have. He's guilty, Sally."

"I thought people were innocent until…"

"Now cut it out, will you!"

"Jonah, there's something behind this."

"There's nothing…"

"There's more than just…"

"There's
nothing
, I said!"

They fell silent again. The pigeons cooed around the bench. In the distance, they could hear the sound of heavy trucks rumbling toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

"We don't know each other well enough for this," Jonah said.

"No, we don't."

He rose suddenly, startling the pigeons, into frantic flapping flight. He stood before the bench for a moment, as though about to say something, staring down at her, his glasses reflecting the pavement — you can never see his eyes, she thought again — and then abruptly seemed to change his mind. He held out his hand. "Come," he said.

"Where?"

"I've got to get back."

They crossed over to the courthouse in silence.

"Will I still see you tonight?" he asked.

"Do you want to?"

"I want to."

"All right."

They stood on the courthouse steps without speaking. At last Jonah said, "He's guilty, Sally."

"The Egyptian?"

"No. James Driscoll."

He turned and walked up the steps.

"Mr. Driscoll," Brackman asked, "would it be fair to say that Lieutenant Alex Cooper is an idealistic afficer?"

"It would be."

"Were
you
an idealistic officer?"

"No, I was not."

"So on that score at least, Alex Cooper is
not
James Driscoll."

"That's right."

"Alex Cooper is single, is he not?"

"Yes."

"Were you single when you went into the Army?"

"No, I was married."

"Mr. Driscoll, did you have a love affair with an Army nurse while you were in Korea?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"But Lieutenant Cooper did?"

"Yes."

"You're familiar with
Catchpole
, I know, and I'd like to ask you now if you recall that Lieutenant Mason in that play is an idealistic officer. Do you recall that?"

"Yes."

"That he is an idealist? The same as your Lieutenant Cooper."

"He is an idealist, yes. He is
not
the same as Cooper."

"In what respect do they differ?"

"In many respects."

"They physically resemble each other, do they not?"

"Yes."

"They're both single."

"Yes."

"They both have an affair with a nurse."

"Yes."

"And they are both targets in a murder plot."

"Yes."

"In those respects they are similar, are they not?"

"Yes."

"Point of fact, in those respects they are
identical
."

"No. They are not identical. They are two separate men. I don't know who Constantine's hero is based on, but Lieutenant Cooper is based on
me
."

"Even though you possess none of these characteristics which can be attributed to him?"

"I possess
most
of the characteristics that can be attributed to Lieutenant Cooper."

"Like his idealism?"

"No, not that."

"Or his single state?"

"No."

"Or his love affair with an Army nurse?"

"Those are three isolated aspects of his character. For the most part, Cooper's mental processes are identical to my own, and he behaves as I might have behaved in the circumstances."

"But you were in identical circumstances, were you not?"

"I was in Korea, if that's what you mean."

"In a combat situation."

"Yes."

"As the officer in charge of an infantry platoon."

"Yes."

"Just as Lieutenant Cooper is in your book."

"Yes."

"And as Lieutenant Mason is in the play
Catchpole
."

"Is that a question?"

"It is a question."

"Lieutenant Mason is an officer on Eniwetok during World War II."

"But similar in all other respects."

"If you mean that he's in command of a combat infantry platoon, yes."

"A great many things happen to Lieutenant Cooper in the course of your novel. Did all of these things happen to you while you were in Korea?"

"No."

"You invented some of them, is that it?"

"Yes."

"Which of the events
did
happen to you, Mr. Driscoll?"

"Many of them."

"Well, let's just go over them one at a time, shall we? Let's try to find out which were based on your own experience and which were invented. To begin with, you've testified that you did
not
have an affair with an Army nurse, so I think we can safely conclude you invented that particular character and that particular event. Did you invent Private Colman as well?"

"Partly."

"You mean there
was
someone like Colman in your platoon?"

"No. But I'd met people like him before I went into the Army."

"But not in Korea, not in a combat situation?"

"No."

"Was there a troublemaker in your platoon?"

"No."

"Was there a homosexual?"

"No."

"Yet Colman is a homosexual troublemaker."

"Yes."

"You testified earlier that Sergeant Morley was based on a Negro who did in fact exist."

"Yes."

"A boy you knew in school…"

"Yes."

"… and whom you have not seen since."

"Yes."

"Did this real person ever fall under the influence of someone like Colman, as Morley does in your book?"

"No."

"Then this situation was invented?"

"Yes."

"Did this real man ever become instrumental in a murder scheme?"

"No."

"This, too, was invented?"

"Yes."

"Were you ever the target in a planned murder, Mr. Driscoll?"

"No."

"You
do
agree that the men in your novel actively plot the murder of Lieutenant Cooper?"