by Peter Straub
The great door closed behind me. I went down the long steps and looked across Grace Street to the square. An old woman was scattering bread crumbs before lots of bustling pigeons. The golden-haired derelict I had seen before rocked back and forth over his guitar. Beyond the fountain, a graceful male figure was leaning against the trunk of a maple. The arm dropping in a straight line between the tree and the angle of his body ended in the rectangular outline of a briefcase.
The breath stopped in my throat. The man across the square was Robert. Although the shadow of the maple hid his face, I knew he was smiling at me. Robert pushed himself off the tree and walked into the sunlight, the case swinging lightly at his side.
72
I trotted down the steps, across the sidewalk, and into the street, only barely registering the traffic. Horns blared, brakes squealed. I got to the median unscathed and dodged through the southbound traffic, then jumped onto the pavement and ran up the long path to the fountain. Pigeons feuding over bread crumbs scattered at my footsteps. The golden-haired tramp on the other side of the path hunched over his guitar. I looked past an elderly couple at the opposite end of the square and glimpsed Robert’s head and shoulders in a group waiting for the light to change at the end of the next block.
When the group moved ahead, Robert was a few paces behind the others. His blazer and jeans were identical to mine. The tramp played a sequence that gave me the title of the song he was playing, “Keys to the Highway,” one of Goat Gridwell’s signature tunes. He was bending notes and stretching out his phrases, and when I came to within about six feet of him I took my eyes off Robert and glanced down. From a beaten, hardscrabble face, bright green eyes met mine. It felt like slamming into a force-field, and I stumbled forward. The green eyes charged with playful knowledge.
Goat Gridwell held my eyes with his until I trotted past him. For all I know, he watched me pick up speed and run out of the square.
Robert had reached the middle of the next block when I came around the fountain and started down the path to the east end of Town Square. He was moving with an easy stride that ate a lot of ground. I got to the end of the path and saw him turn right at the corner. I plunged ahead. Robert had deliberately invited me to follow him, but I had no faith in his patience.
I ran two blocks and wheeled right. The tail of a blue blazer and a portion of a caramel-colored satchel swung past the building on the next corner and vanished.
Robert seemed to be working toward Commercial Avenue. I could beat him to it by running straight down to the right from where I stood, but he might have been directing me to some other location along the way. I took a few deep breaths, ran down the block, flew across the next intersection, and spun into Grenville Street. The blazer and the elegant satchel were slipping left onto Commercial Avenue.
“Damn you,” I said, and took off down Grenville. Through the plate-glass window of a pizzeria I took in Helen Janette leaning over a table and waving a peremptory finger at Toby Kraft. I picked up speed and raced out onto Commercial Avenue.
Thirty yards down the sidewalk and a short distance from the entrance to Merchants Hotel, Robert was leaning on one hip, swinging the satchel in his hand, and looking right at me. Then he was gone. I moved along the sidewalk. When I reached the spot where he had been, the revolving door of Merchants Hotel released a chalk-faced old party under the care of the doorman who had witnessed my encounter with Grenville Milton. The doorman assisted his charge into the backseat of a waiting car, nodded at me, and swept his arm toward the entrance. Having been told what to do, I walked into the lobby. A good-looking clerk smiled at me from behind the desk. I smiled back at her. Thanks to Robert, I was a familiar visitor. At the top of the stairs to the right of the lobby, Vincent’s unoccupied podium stood guard over the darkened reaches of Le Madrigal. I turned to the marble stairs on the other side of the lobby. From the mezzanine, Robert looked down at me and disappeared again.
I mounted the marble stairs and went into the men’s room. Robert was leaning against one of the sinks, both of his hands on the grip of the leather satchel. The mirror behind him reflected only the row of urinals and the tiled wall.
Robert was grinning. “So here we are, at last.”
5 HOW I LEARNED
TO EAT TIME
73
Afterward, I changed my mind about the similarities between Robert and myself almost every time I was with him, but what struck me then was the magnitude of the differences between us. I didn’t see how anyone could mistake him for me: despite a structural likeness, the ruthlessness stamped into Robert’s features obliterated any resemblance. That he should not be reflected in mirrors seemed absolutely right. Then my eyes moved to the mirror and saw there the reflection of the back of his head. It was as though he had increased in substance at the expense of my own. When I looked again at his face, it was identical to mine in every particular.
“What the hell are you?” I asked.
“You know what I am.” Robert held out the satchel. “Go up to 554 and give this to Ashleigh. She’ll be so grateful, she’ll rip off your clothes.”
“What’s in here?” As soon as I asked, I thought I knew.
“Don’t be stupid.” He thrust it into my hands. “This morning, someone who refused to give his name called the Brazen Head and said he heard you had dinner with Ashleigh and Laurie Hatch last Friday. He assumed that you would be willing to assist the case against Stewart Hatch. These documents will give Ashleigh everything she needs to mount a successful prosecution. Hatch has no idea they’re gone.”
“So you did break into that building.” He shrugged. “Hatch must have checked to see if this stuff was still there. How can he not know it’s missing?”
“Because it wasn’t missing after the break-in. I went back to the Cobden Building last night. By the time Stewart takes another look, everything will be back in place. Tell Ashleigh to make copies and return the originals.”
“How did this anonymous guy get them?”
“He broke into the building, how else? The guy has an old grudge against Hatch. In the process of smashing up the offices, he stumbled on these papers. He told you to go to a bench in Town Square, you went, you found the bag, you’re bringing it to her. End of story.” Robert left the sinks and moved to the door. “Good thing you were thrown out of that rooming house.”
He stepped back and passed through the door. I mean that in the most literal sense possible. Robert did not open the men’s room door, he passed through it, smiling at me as his body melted into the white wood and, like the Cheshire cat, disappeared from view.
74
I locked myself into a stall and unbuckled the satchel. It was filled with fat manila folders: statements from a bank in the Virgin Islands; incorporation papers for companies named Glittermax Inc., Eagle Properties, and Delta Mud Holdings; deeds to buildings in Louisville and Cincinnati; letters from law firms. I thumbed through partnership agreements signed by Hatch and Grenville Milton. Two bundles of computer disks were tucked into side pockets.
Ashleigh put her arms around me and gave me a resounding kiss. “The unpredictable Ned Dunstan. What’s in that beautiful bag?”
I put it on the table and sat facing her. “You tell me.”
Ashleigh tucked her lower lip under her front teeth. “That’s an interesting answer.” A couple of seconds went by. “Are you interested in lunch?”
“That’s an interesting question,” I said.
“I’ll have room service send up a couple of club sandwiches. How about that Pinot Grigio you liked so much?”
“Good old Pinot Grigio,” I said.
She called room service, then sat down, opened the leather bag, and peered in. She glanced at me. I shrugged. Ashleigh took out one of the files and leafed through the papers. Her frown of concentration melted into blank surprise. She sampled another file. “Where did you get this stuff?”
I told her the fairy tale about the man who left a bag in Town Square. “He wants you
to make copies. I guess he’s going to put the originals back.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. If this guy can break into the Cobden Building, he’s a tricky customer.”
“This guy did more than break in.” Ashleigh sorted through another set of papers. “He found Stewart’s top-secret stash. Can you imagine how well this was hidden?”
“Can you use it?”
“Use it? This is like striking oil. He set up paper companies out of state, took over a bunch of nightclubs, and skimmed every penny he could. He sent the cash to banks in the Virgin Islands and laundered it through phony companies in the form of loans.” She reached into the bag and brought out the disks. “Every transaction he made is probably on these things. Every crook has a fatal flaw, and Stewart is a control freak. Do you know what this means?”
“Tell me.”
“There is no way on earth I can lose this case. It’d be nice if I could use this stuff in court, but I won’t have to. Once we scare the shit out of the secondary parties, Stewart’s going to be hung out to dry, and so is Milton.” Her eyes changed. “Did Laurie Hatch arrange to get you these papers?”
“No. She did not.”
Ashleigh leaned back in her chair. “I was about to come home empty-handed. My boss would have been patronizing and sympathetic. My colleagues would have disguised their glee at how badly I fucked up, and I’d be handling dipshit cases for the next two years. Now my boss is going to pin a gold medal on my chest, and the other assistant D.A.s are going to have to pretend they’re overjoyed.”
“You’ll be able to explain … ?”
“How I got this material? Enter our old friend, the anonymous informant.”
Ashleigh talked about her case until the room-service waiter showed up, and when he had uncorked the wine bottle and departed, she bit into her sandwich like a stevedore. “God, the way everything happened, it’s like it was all set up in advance.”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“And I have to say, Ned, when you’re in that mood you were in Friday night, you’re God’s gift to women.”
I slumped in my chair, and her face turned red. “Let’s go down to the business center and copy this stuff.”
75
When Ashleigh and I came back to her room, we looked at each other and undressed without saying a word. Later on, Ashleigh told me about her childhood in Lexington, Kentucky, and her marriage to Michael Ashton, who on their honeymoon had seduced the cocktail hostess at their hotel. I told her some things about Star, Phil and Laura Grant, and what I had done since leaving Naperville.
“Why did you leave Middlemount?”
“I couldn’t handle the math and science courses.”
“Wasn’t it harder to learn programming than freshman calculus, or whatever it was?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Come to think of it.”
“Do you like your job?”
“It’s the best job I ever had,” I said. “Every time I get my paycheck, I’m astonished.”
“Is money important to you?”
“No,” I said. “That’s why I’m astonished.”
“Do you have close friends?”
“Medium close,” I said. “Also semiclose, semidistant, and completely distant, except for insincere camaraderie. We’re guys, we like it that way.”
“How about girlfriends?”
“Off and on,” I said.
“What about Laurie Hatch?”
“What about her?”
“You’re enormously attracted to Laurie. And vice versa.”
“There is some truth in that,” I said.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“What do you think I should do?”
Ashleigh gripped my arm and shook it like a sapling. “Why are you asking me? If I had Laurie on the witness stand, I’d feel like I was questioning the Sphinx. But considering the way you feel about her, you should give yourself a break. I can’t believe I’m saying this.”
“You don’t like her,” I said. “Or you don’t trust her.”
The ends of her mouth curled up. “Have you slept with her yet?”
I wondered if I could get away with refusing to answer on the grounds of self-incrimination. I did not want to lie to Ashleigh, and she would have seen through any attempt to evade the question. By the time I had worked this out, the answer was already obvious. “Yes,” I said.
“I knew it!”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I knew it was going to happen, I just didn’t know how soon. Why do you think she let you do that? Laurie Hatch isn’t some bimbo on the make, she’s…. Let’s forget about Laurie Hatch. I want to concentrate on Ned Dunstan for a while.”
76
I woke up about 1:30 A.M., too late to visit Toby Kraft or look at the houses on Buxton Place. I felt my way around the room-service cart and took a shower. After I got dressed, I sat next to Ashleigh and stroked her back until she woke up.
“Who was that masked man?” she said. “Call me tomorrow morning, okay?”
I left the satchel in her room. It was safer than the Brazen Head, and the records of Stewart Hatch’s peccadillos had to be stashed somewhere until Robert collected them. The ideal hiding place suggested itself as I watched the panel above the elevator door count down to L.
A solitary car moved past the front of Merchants Park. I stepped down into the empty avenue and saw a red glow above the townhouses along Ferryman’s Road. When I got near the center of the park, I caught the unmistakable odor of smoke.
At Chester Street, I looked north. Arcs of water turned from silver to red as they fell glittering onto a burning building. A small crowd stood behind a rank of fire engines. Then I realized that the fire was in the same block as Helen Janette’s rooming house, and I sprinted toward it.
Flames poured through the front windows on both floors of the rooming house. A column of charcoal-colored smoke billowed from the roof. Helen Janette hugged her pink bathrobe over her chest, and Mr. Tite’s fedora-topped head jutted behind her like an Easter Island statue. Beneath the cuffs of his pajamas, his bare feet glared angry white.
Miss Redman and Miss Challis had claimed the arms of an enchanted young firefighter. Roxy and Moonbeam wore gleaming satin slips no different from their party attire, and, like Frank Tite, were barefoot, but seemed to be having a much better time. Policemen and firefighters moved through the fire engines and squad cars. A clutch of onlookers, many of them in bathrobes, occupied the middle of the street.
A sheet of flame burst upward and tinted the smoke bloodred. The roof fell in with a barely audible crash. I had never before seen a serious fire, never heard how a fire celebrates destruction in a rushing, inhuman voice. Helen Janette screamed, “That’s him! He burned down my house!”
Frank Tite plodded toward me, wincing. Roxy and Moonbeam fluttered forward. Two men in bathrobes appeared on either side of me. One of them twisted my arm behind my back.
“If you don’t let go of my arm, I’ll take your head off your shoulders.”
Helen Janette screeched, “It was him!”
The man holding my arm was about forty pounds overweight. Prominent keloids dotted his face, and sweat cascaded from his every pore.
“I apologize to you,” I said. “I got mad, so I said something stupid. How well do you get on with Helen Janette?”
He let go of my arm. “Mrs. Janette would sooner lick spit off the sidewalk than give me the time of day.”
Mr. Tite minced up. “Get hold of him again.”
“You hold him. I got no reason to believe your girlfriend or you either, Frank.”
Followed by a bearlike man with CAPTAIN stenciled in yellow across the front of his rubber coat, Helen Janette bustled beside Mr. Tite. “That’s him. I want him put in jail.”
The men around me retreated.
“Sir, what do you have to say?”
“I was walking back to my place from Merchants Hotel,” I said. “
When I noticed the flames I ran up, hoping it wasn’t Mrs. Janette’s house.”
“He’s lying,” said Helen Janette.
“Do you really think I’d burn down your house because you kicked me out?”
“No!” she yelled. “You know why you did it.”
“Helen,” I asked, “did Otto get out in time?”
She closed her mouth.
The fire captain asked my name and said, “We were unable to rescue the tenant who did not exit with the others.” He looked into my eyes. “Was the victim a friend of yours?”
“Otto was a nice man,” I said. “Sometimes he fell asleep when he was smoking.”
“Why are you just standing here?” Helen Janette shouted.
A police car came flashing around the corner of Ferryman’s Road. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” the captain said. “I will ask Mr. Dunstan to sit in the police car and sort things out with the officer. Mrs. Janette will be allowed to speak her piece, and she will do so in an orderly fashion. You, sir, will go back over there on the sidewalk, where you belong.”
Helen Janette nodded at Tite. He stalked away, and she tightened her bathrobe around herself, ready for battle.
Treuhaft and Captain Mullan got out of the car. Helen Janette said, “I want you to arrest this man on charges of arson and murder.”
Mullan followed the direction of her extended finger. “Not you.”
“Believe it or not,” I said.
“Mr. Dunstan, you spread joy wherever you go.”
“I was at Merchants Hotel until about one-thirty this morning. The desk clerk saw me leave, but you could confirm my story by talking to Assistant District Attorney Ashton.”
“I love these familiar old songs.” Mullan went back to Helen Janette. “You are accusing this man of setting the fire?”
She wrenched her robe tight as a sausage casing. “Maybe you remember the trouble I got into when my name was Hazel Jansky. I was punished for trying to do good for a few helpless babies.”
