Night Secrets (17 page)

He was still watching it nearly an hour later when a car stopped in front of it. Mr. Phillips got out and walked to the passenger side. He opened the door and Mrs. Phillips stepped out as well. He kissed her lightly, then got back in the car.

Frank shrank back slightly as the car moved toward him very slowly until it halted at the corner, and he saw Mr. Phillips's eyes sweep over to him, then nod slightly as he pulled away.

Mrs. Phillips remained on the street, glancing quickly at her watch once Mr. Phillips had turned the corner. Then, instead of going inside, she headed east toward Madison Avenue, and Frank went after her, walking as quickly as he could to keep her in sight, but holding himself far enough back to be nothing more than a distant figure, should she glance over her shoulder.

But she never glanced back. Instead, she moved forward hurriedly, her slender figure weaving in and out of the scattered pedestrians who surrounded her.

As Frank continued after her, he took out his notebook, jotted down the time, and then the few observations which struck him as he walked. She was moving faster, as if hurrying somewhere, until she finally reached the corner of Madison Avenue. She stopped abruptly, glanced at her watch, then looked downtown, as if searching for a cab. But instead of raising her arm to hail one, she turned right, headed down the avenue for several blocks, then abruptly turned on her heels and walked to a shop window. For a moment, she stood at the window, facing it silently. Then she turned again, walked to the curb and glanced southward a second time.

Even from a distance, Frank could make out a certain strained quality in her posture. Her head was held high, but she moved it in quick, birdlike jerks, and her skin seemed to tighten around her bones, as if trying to squeeze out their dark-red marrow.

Then suddenly, her whole body slumped slightly, her shoulders dropping like someone who'd just released a long-held breath, and she trudged a few yards down the avenue to a telephone booth and stepped inside.

Frank continued to move toward her, but slowly. He could see her fumbling edgily in her purse for a moment before she drew out a silver telephone credit card. Then she picked up the receiver, read off the card number and waited while the operator made the call.

Frank closed in slightly, but only near enough to tell that she never spoke into the receiver. After a moment, she returned it to its cradle, then straightened herself and backed out of the booth. For a time, she looked oddly disoriented, as if she didn't know exactly what to do. Then she simply started walking back.

When she was far enough away, Frank rushed into the booth. He pulled out his notebook to the page where he'd written down all the important numbers Mr. Phillips had given him, and dialed the operator.

“New York Telephone,” the operator said. “May I help you?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Frank said quickly. Up ahead he could see Mrs. Phillips's body moving farther and farther away from him. “I just made a credit card call, but I think I may have given you the wrong number.”

“What is your card number, sir?”

Frank read the number.

“And how can I help you?” the operator asked.

“I was wondering if you could tell me the number that was called.”

“I can if it was completed,” the operator said.

Frank took a guess. “Yes, it was completed,” he said.

“Just a moment,” the operator told him. She left the line for a few seconds, then returned. “I show a credit call made just a moment ago.”

“Yeah, that's it,” Frank told her. “Can you tell me the number?”

“It was a local number, sir,” the operator said, “five-five-five, seven-one-five-four.”

“Thank you very much,” Frank told her, as he wrote the number down in his notebook. Then he hung up and stepped out of the booth.

Mrs. Phillips was barely visible as she continued to walk uptown, so he started after her immediately, moving at a quick pace, shifting in and out of the thickening pedestrian traffic until he was near enough to keep her easily in view. Then he slowed down and kept his distance, idly strolling along the sidewalk, his mind going back over what the operator had told him. Mrs. Phillips had completed her call. But he knew that she hadn't spoken into the receiver, which meant that she'd probably gotten an answering machine. But whose?

Mrs. Phillips continued uptown until she got to Sixty-fourth Street. Then she turned west until she reached the brownstone and disappeared inside.

For the rest of the afternoon, until Mr. Phillips returned at six, Frank waited outside the building, sometimes pacing slowly up and down the street, sometimes taking up various positions and simply standing very still, like a figure painted onto an urban landscape. His eyes continually drifted over to the small wrought-iron gate, then up along the building's silent, shuttered windows, the sightless eyes of its upper floors. Somewhere behind them, he thought, Mrs. Phillips might be preparing to come out again, preparing her face, her lips, her hair, the whole mysterious mask, so that she could come back through the little gate, lead him here and there, dropping dark hints like bits of paper as she went, messages which he would instantly snap up, but which, when opened, returned nothing to him but his own blank stare. Still, if she came out, he would follow her anyway. And so he waited for the door to open. But it never did.

The first shades of evening were already darkening the air by the time Frank got back to his office, and as he neared it, he found his pace quickening somewhat, as if he were finally getting close to something that would lend an edge to the day case, some element of compelling attraction. It was the sort of thing that kept the evil bubble from growing in him, that kept his days from seeming like a long, uneventful blur. It wasn't the same kind of piercingly beautiful edginess which fatherhood had given him or, from time to time, a woman. But it was edginess of a kind, the sense of something poised threateningly behind a curtain, and in barren times, it was enough.

Once in his office, he strode quickly to his desk, sat down behind it, and pulled out his notebook. He flipped through the pages until he came to the one that held the number the operator had given him. It was possible that everything resided in that number, and that the day case would suddenly, abruptly, find its solution. He picked up the receiver, then tapped out the number and waited.

It rang three times, then Frank heard the receiver click, and after that, the short purr of the tape as the answering machine spun out its answer “You have reached the offices of Business Associates. At the sound of the beep, you will have one minute to leave your message.”

The small beep sounded immediately, and Frank hung up the phone. He took out his notebook and wrote the name of the company down in it, then opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out the Manhattan telephone directory and looked up the address. Business Associates wasn't listed. He closed the book and returned it to the drawer, trying to imagine what Business Associates did, that they'd chosen such a deliberately nondescript name for it. Then slowly, meticulously, he went back over the notes he'd made during the day, trying once again to figure out some pattern that would make things clear. He smoked one cigarette, then a second, a third, until a dense white cloud hung around him, one too thick for occasional waves of his hand to disperse.

After a while, it was too much for him to take, and so he walked outside and stood silently on the street, his body slumped against the railing which led to his basement office. He stood there nearly an hour before he returned to his office and waited for Farouk to arrive.

F
arouk knocked at the door of Frank's office, then walked in without waiting for an answer. He was wearing a black double-breasted suit with a white shirt and dark-red tie. He fingered the small red rosebud he'd inserted into his lapel. “How do I look?”

“Like you're going to a show or something,” Frank said.

Farouk smiled happily. “That is close enough, I suppose,” he said as he sat down in the chair in front of Frank's desk.

“To what?”

“The look I intended.”

“What did you intend?”

“To give myself an air of opulence,” Frank told him. “But with a touch of risk.”

Frank walked to the small coffeemaker, poured Farouk a cup in a short paper cup and handed it to him. “It's Turkish,” he said. “I had it ground up.”

Farouk took a quick sip. “Good. Very good.”

Frank sat down behind his desk. “Who are you made up to be?”

“A man of substance,” Farouk said with a wry smile. “One who cannot easily be turned aside.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see a man of means. A certain Mr. Preston R. Devine.”

Frank rolled his own cup of coffee between his hands. “You found out something?”

“About Powers first. Then also, Mr. Devine.”

“Go ahead.”

“I begin with Powers,” Farouk said. “And I must say that my first suspicions were not confirmed.”

“What suspicions?”

“I thought perhaps that he was not a doctor,” Farouk said. “But he is. Not only that, but the 1968 degree from Tufts University, it is genuine. A Dr. Kevin Austin Powers was graduated in that year.”

Farouk took out a small square of paper and handed it to Frank. “The final confirmation will be yours.”

Frank looked at the paper. It was a grainy photocopy of a page from a university annual.

“Do you see your Dr. Powers?” Farouk asked.

Frank's eyes scanned the page until he found the face, younger, but still somewhat pudgy, with more hair, but not a lot more. “That's Powers,” he said.

Farouk nodded. “Then the first area is closed,” Farouk said. “To discover if a man is who he says he is, this is the first thing one must know.”

Frank handed him back the page. “So Powers is a legitimate doctor.”

“Undoubtedly,” Farouk said. “But a man of broader interests as well.” He took another sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to him.

Frank looked at it closely. It was another page from the same university annual; this time all the last names began with D. On the third column down, a face was listed as belonging to Preston Robert Devine.

Frank glanced up from the page. “Old college buddies.”

“Companions of the mind,” Farouk said. “If one would wish to put the best light on it.” He smiled quietly. “But in any event, it is our first connection.” He raised his hand and wagged his finger. “But I am pleased to tell you that it is not the last.”

Frank returned the page to Farouk. “Go on.”

Farouk stuck the paper back into his jacket pocket, then folded his large arms over his chest. “Something you said interested me,” he began. “About the pictures in Powers's office. They are not the usual decorations in such places, and when a man makes such a choice, he betrays himself.”

“What did it betray in Powers?”

“A love of the theater, of course.”

Frank was unimpressed. “So, he's a theatergoer,” he said. “Broadway's clogged with them at night.”

Farouk shook his head. “Ah, he is a good deal more than that, my friend. To sit and enjoy, this is not enough for Dr. Powers. For him, there is a wish to be more involved in it. He wishes to make theater.”

“Make theater?”

“His desire is to produce plays,” Farouk said. “In this pursuit, he has spent a great deal of money.” He shook his head mournfully. “But he has not made any, I am afraid.” He plucked his ear dramatically. “As they say, he does not have the knack of the street.”

“So you're telling me that Powers has lost a lot of money producing unsuccessful plays?”

“Yes.”

“But he's also made a lot of money in his practice, right?”

“Without doubt.”

“So what's your point exactly?”

“That this money he spends on producing plays, it is spent with all his heart,” Farouk said.