Night Secrets (36 page)

Frank nodded, then strolled across the room to the long lines of gray metal shelves. He headed down one aisle, then another, glancing idly at the books and papers which Farouk had gathered together over the years. Their variety was astonishing. There were books on plants, on chemicals, on all kinds of synthetic materials, and they shared the shelves with other books and magazines on general science.

History came next, and as Frank wandered through what Farouk had saved of man's time on earth he found himself more and more amazed by the scope of his interests. There were books on Oriental, African and European cultures, as well as works of military, civil and legal history. Other books specialized in the history of economic life—usury, revenue, the circulation of money—and next to them were scores of works on both social and natural forms of crisis—books on fires and floods and earthquakes shelved side by side with other books on revolution, insurrection, wars and strikes: a gathering of works which seemed to have been filed under some general category of irrepressible upheaval.

As he continued walking idly among Farouk's books, Frank found himself growing more and more respectful of the kind of knowledge which they contained. There were books on Farouk's many languages, of course, but there were also books on philosophy, religion, mythology, on medicine and pharmacy, sorcery and witchcraft, gardening and etiquette. It was as if Farouk had spent his life searching for that last bit of evidence that would finally break life's dark, unsolvable case and provide him with some ultimate vision of the smoking gun.

“It is finished.”

The voice seemed to come from far away, but when Frank glanced back down the long canyon of books and shelves, he saw Farouk standing at the end of it, staring at him solemnly, his arms outstretched as if waiting to embrace him, but with three small photographs held motionlessly in his hands.

“Come,” Farouk said as he turned toward the enormous table to his right. “Let us examine.”

Frank followed him to the desk, then waited while Farouk arranged the photographs, each turned on its face, as if kept hidden until the best possible moment.

“Now,” Farouk said, “observe.” He turned over the first picture.

Frank leaned forward and looked at it closely. It showed Mrs. Phillips as she sat near the mosaic tile memorial, her legs primly crossed as she stared out over the park, her head turned in profile.

“Observe the place beside her,” Farouk said. Then he pointed to the small black pouch that rested near her right leg. “This will remain after she has departed.”

Frank nodded.

“But it will not remain unnoticed for too long a time,” Farouk added. “For as always, there is a watcher in the woods.” He turned over the next photograph. “He who was waiting.”

Frank's eyes squeezed together. In the picture, a man could be seen lightly picking up the pouch. He was very large and dressed in a badly rumpled suit, and although the photograph was in black-and-white, Frank knew that his eyes were blue and that his hair was red. He spoke his name in an astonished whisper: “Sam McBride.”

Farouk looked up from the picture. “You know this man?”

Frank nodded silently.

“In what way, may I ask?”

“He works out of Manhattan North,” Frank said wonderingly, his eyes still fixed on the picture. “The suicide shift.”

Farouk looked at him doubtfully.

“He's just been transferred,” Frank explained. “Just over the past week. You wouldn't have met him yet.”

Farouk nodded. “I see,” he said. “But you are sure?”

Frank looked at the photograph again. “Yes, I'm sure,” he said.

Farouk slid the third photograph over the last one. It showed McBride and a second man talking quietly at a table at the rear of a small delicatessen.

“The place was on West Forty-fifth Street,” Farouk said. “And the man you recognized, he went there with the pouch.”

“And gave it to the second man?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” Farouk said.

Frank continued to stare at the picture.

Farouk pointed to the second man. He was middle-aged and balding, with a large paunch which drooped over his belt. “Do you recognize this man as well?” he asked.

Frank shook his head.

“His name is Henry Floyd,” Farouk told him. “And he has been around Hell's Kitchen for many years.”

Frank looked up instantly. “What's he do?”

Farouk stared at him darkly. “He is for hire,” he said. “Once he was a Westie, but since they have been broken up, he is working for himself.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever it is you wish,” Farouk said. “For a price, of course.”

“You mean anything?”

“He has been known to break a debtor's arm,” Farouk said. “He has done things to a rapist who harmed a friend's daughter. This rapist, he will not be doing this particular crime again.”

“I see,” Frank said.

Farouk shrugged. “And he will kill,” he added, almost casually. “If that is what you want.”

“Kill?” Frank asked. He thought instantly of Phillips, the changed will, his wife's steadily growing distance. “I've got to call Phillips,” he said urgently, then stopped himself. “No, I'd better be sure I know what I'm talking about before I do.” He looked at Farouk. Farouk nodded. “I'll have to talk to McBride first.” He glanced at his watch. “He doesn't come on until midnight.” He looked at Farouk. “That's still a few hours away.”

Farouk smiled. “A few hours, yes,” he said. “To find the Puri Dai.”

N
ight had fully fallen by the time Frank and Farouk returned to the street. Frank could feel his edginess building rapidly, but Farouk appeared utterly calm, moving slowly, ponderously, his eyes often drifting over toward the river while he talked.

“Your Mr. Phillips will be all right for the next few hours,” he said. “But the Puri Dai—this will happen very soon. Agreed?”

Frank had to admit he was right. It would be irresponsible to go running off to Phillips on such flimsy evidence, at least until they had a chance to talk with McBride. And meanwhile, the Puri Dai was running around somewhere with his gun.

“It is good to know the nature of a person,” Farouk said meditatively as he walked. “How they will betray themselves. Sometimes, it is through passion, sometimes through ignorance. These are blameless things, for they are beyond control.” He stopped and let his eyes return to Frank. “But greed, that is without the virtue of passion or the helplessness of a natural flaw.”

“Greed,” Frank repeated. “Are you talking about the Puri Dai?”

“Those who would enslave her.”

“The man?”

“And she who serves him.”

“The old woman, Maria Jacobe?”

Farouk nodded. “These are two people who do not know themselves,” he said. “Who are dead to earth, without being.” He shook his head. “These are people who have large spaces in them, and these spaces they fill up with what is ready to their hands, with money, with ritual. These small things they cling to because without them, they would be nothing but emptiness, light as air.”

“Where does the Puri Dai fit in?” Frank asked anxiously.

“She is the touch that topples them,” Farouk said authoritatively. “The one who has cracked the old design.” He smiled again. “But still, in the end, they did it to themselves.”

“What?”

“By their greed,” Farouk said darkly. He stopped again, this time turning his face to the river. “Do you remember last night when we visited the old woman?”

Frank nodded. “When she read your palm?”

“And I spilled the contents of my wallet onto the floor.”

“Yes.”

“And the old woman gathered them up?”

“Yes.”

“This was part of my design,” Farouk said.

“For her to pick up the stuff?”

Farouk nodded. “And in the midst of such confusion, to keep something for herself. In this case, a credit card.”

“Did she?”

“She did, yes,” Farouk said. “And she gave it to the man as she has always been commanded to do, and with it, this man made a purchase, which I have discovered.”

Frank smiled. “On your computer,” he said, suddenly recognizing the purpose of all the vast equipment which Farouk had gathered onto the enormous table. “You break computer codes. That's how you get so much information.”

Farouk shrugged. “It is a game I play from time to time.”

“So you found out what the charges were on the credit card that the old woman stole,” Frank continued.

Farouk nodded. “It was used on Fifty-seventh Street,” he said. “A place known as Midtown Liquors.” His body tightened suddenly, and Frank saw that his own tingling edginess had suddenly swept over Farouk like a wild, electric wind.

Midtown Liquors rested on a comer of Fifty-seventh Street that was not far from what still remained of the old West Side Highway. It was small and cramped, with tightly packed bottles arranged on wooden shelves that rose to the ceiling.

There was no one behind the counter as the two men entered the store, but a large, round-shouldered man could be seen at the end of the aisle, his body bent forward as he drew bottles of wine from a box and placed them in the cooler at the rear of the store.

Farouk nodded to him as the two of them walked down the aisle.

“What can I do for you?” the man asked as he turned toward them.

Farouk smiled quietly as he pulled out an official-looking ID.

The man glanced at the identification. “Bank investigator?” he asked.

Farouk nodded.

“What are you investigating?”

“Fraud,” Farouk answered immediately. “That is to say, the illegal use of a credit card by one who is not entitled to possess it.”

The man shrugged. “So?”

“One such card was used in this establishment,” Farouk told him.

The man seemed unimpressed. “So?” he repeated.

“We are interested in discovering the identity of this person.”

The man said nothing.

“And his whereabouts,” Farouk added. “In this, we are also very interested.”

The man laughed. “Yeah, I'll bet you are.” He snapped the box from the floor and began to break it down. “Well, you get paid for asking questions, but I don't get paid for answering them.”

“You will do it out of courtesy,” Farouk said evenly. “This has been my experience.”

The man leaned forward and laughed again, this time very close to Farouk's face. “Courtesy, is that what you said, fella?”

Farouk faced him expressionlessly. He did not speak.

“Courtesy,” the man scoffed. “Where you from, buddy, Mars?”

“Manners are most important in my country,” Farouk said solemnly. “We are taught to be careful how we speak.”

“Your country?” the man chuckled. He looked at Farouk mockingly. “What are you anyway?”

“We are taught to speak with courtesy to strangers,” Farouk went on. “For we do not know the evil or the good that may be in such a person's heart.”

The man's face crinkled. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“And since you do not know a stranger's heart,” Farouk continued, his voice now utterly flat, the light in his eyes slowly going out, “we are warned against offending him.”

The man stopped laughing. “That sounds like a threat to me.

Farouk said nothing.

The man drew himself to his full height and let the box slip from his fingers. “Why don't you get your fat ass out of here,” he said.

“And we are also taught,” Farouk added, “to present ourselves immediately and powerfully to another, so that he will not have time to mistake us for a weaker thing.”

The man stepped toward Farouk and placed his large hand on his chest. “Beat it, dickhead.”

“So, please, if I may present myself,” Farouk said. Then in a lightning turn, he grabbed the man's hand, twisted his arm behind his back and spun him around roughly, so that he could see the cooler just before his face slammed into it.