The Girl in the Face of the Clock (21 page)

“Cartier made only six portico mystery clocks, or so everyone has thought,” interrupted Willie again. “Izzie, however, somehow got hold of a letter from Maurice Coüet, the maker of the mystery clocks, to Charles Jacqueau, Cartier's most brilliant designer during the Art Deco period, talking about a seventh portico mystery clock. Apparently, this clock had been made for Louis Cartier himself as a prototype, but he had gifted it to a Belgian doctor who had saved his life when he had taken ill on a trip to Antwerp.”

“My great-grandfather?” asked Jane.

“Willie sent me over to Rosengolts et fils for a copy of this letter last week,” said Valentine, nodding. “That's why you saw me there.”

“The letter clinched it for me,” said Willie. “That's why I bought the key from Izzie. The key is mentioned in Coüet's letter. The dragonfly clock key, the only one of its kind Cartier ever made.”

“Are you all right?” asked Valentine.

“I'm fine,” said Jane, putting down her glass. “Just incredibly stupid. It's been there all along, right in front of me. I should have smashed the clock open a week ago.”

“No, no, no,” exclaimed Willie in horror. “I don't know how Izzie Rosengolts's grandfather was able to case the clock in ceramic, but it has to be removed with incredible care. No one but a professional should attempt it.”

Jane just shook her head.

“So what do you think of my little story, dear distant Cousin Jane?” asked Willie. “Does it answer all your questions?”

Jane stared back at him. The mystery of the dragonfly cross was now cleared up. Willie's explanation had also left no doubt why Isidore Rosengolts sent his granddaughter to steal the clock and what Valentine's interest had been. But her questions were far from answered.

“I don't understand Leila Peach's part in all of this,” she said.

“Yes, neither do I,” said Valentine. “You used that name on me in London. Who's Leila Peach?”

“I believe that there was a Robert Peach who was Bishop of Coventry in the twelfth century,” said Willie helpfully.

“Leila Peach is the model who posed with my grandmother's clock in the painting that was reproduced in the
Times
.”

Valentine and Willie Bogen stared blankly back at Jane.

“She's dead,” Jane added.

Still no reaction.

“Perry Mannerback owns the painting of Leila and the clock.”

Willie's eyes crinkled up and his mouth dropped open. His cheeks got rosy. Jane was frightened he was having a stroke.

“No,” he finally whispered in a hoarse voice.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Did you hear, Valentine?” said Willie, his voice coming back to its normal pitch, then rising in excitement. “Perry Mannerback owns the painting. It means he will want the clock even more when he finds out about it. It will drive him crazy unless he can buy it. He'll go insane. Isn't it wonderful?”

“Quite,” agreed Valentine.

“Mr. Bogen,” said Jane. “Willie …”

“He hasn't made you an offer, has he?” said Willie, his voice turning urgent. “Please tell me you haven't done anything foolish like selling your clock to that ridiculous man, have you?”

“I haven't sold it to anyone. It's not for sale.”

“Why not?”

“Because … Because …”

“The clock is worth a lot of money, Jane,” said Willie.

“How much?”

“I haven't the slightest idea.”

Jane rolled her eyes.

“You don't believe me?” asked Willie in mock indignation. “You think maybe I've got a price list for one-of-a-kind portico mystery clocks in my pocket? You think values for these things are printed in the
Financial Times
or the
Wall Street Journal?
No, my darling. No one can say what such a miracle and wonderment is worth any more than they can name a price for the Eiffel Tower, which is why you must put it up for auction.”

“The Eiffel Tower?”

“Your portico mystery clock,” said Willie. “That's why I wanted to speak with you tonight. I have thought this through very carefully. I will not see
mispocheh
taken advantage of, no. Auction is the only way to establish the clock's true value.”

“I don't understand,” said Jane. “You want to bid against Perry Mannerback?”

“More than anything.”

“But why? He's got all the money in the world.”

“No, not all of it,” said Willie, rubbing his hands together. “I have quite a bit myself, and Isidore Rosengolts still has his grandfather's first centime, he is such a cheapskate. He would buy the clock just to be able to sell it to me for a profit. Who knows who else may surface? There are other collectors. Museums. Kings. Bidding will be very spirited indeed.”

I'm not a business person,” said Jane, “but I thought the object was to pay as little as possible for what you want.”

“Sometimes it is,” said Willie Bogen, his eyes like dancing little robin's eggs. “Sometimes it isn't. Do you know about my museum? We've taken a town house in Mayfair. The Bogen Collection will be opening to the public at the beginning of next year. What could be better publicity for the museum than for me to establish a record price for a mystery clock? And in the unlikely event that the price goes too high even for me, I will have the satisfaction of costing Mannerback the Moron a fortune. A museum can get away with paying any price for a treasure. Greedy Mannerback will just make himself more of a laughingstock than he already is.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

“Hate him?” said Willie, amused. “No, my dear. Maybe years ago I hated Perry Mannerback, but those days are long gone. I positively adore the fellow now. Driving him crazy is not merely a pleasure for me, it is a privilege.”

“But why? Did he do something to you?”

“To him, it was nothing,” said Willie, picking a piece of lint off his shirtsleeve. “Less than nothing. He merely destroyed my business and bankrupted me, that's all. But this was a long time ago. I'm sure you're not interested.”

“Come on, Willie,” said Jane, wise to this little routine. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

Willie shrugged.

“After the war I made my way to London, a penniless refugee who spoke no English,” he said, his eyes far away. “I took a job with a watchmaker in the East End. For ten years I slaved away, unable to save a shilling. Then one day I received a package of chocolates from a fellow I had known from the detention camp and who had stayed in Switzerland. Chocolates were a great luxury in England after the war, and rather than eat them myself, I decided to sell them. Fifteen years later, I was the most successful chocolate importer in Great Britain.

“Then in the summer of 1971 I made a huge deal to provide chocolates for the tennis championships at Wimbledon and related events. These are held in late June, early July, and I had made arrangements to lease a refrigerated warehouse to store the chocolates I was bringing in from the Continent. There was a terrible heat wave in London that year, and to make a long story short, all of my chocolates melted because I was thrown out of the warehouse and nothing else was available at short notice. I was thrown out because the warehouse had been purchased by one Peregrine Mannerback, a young man from America who decided that he wanted to have a summer snowball fight with some of his chums and needed the warehouse's refrigeration equipment.

“Nothing that I or my lawyers said could make any difference. I was ruined; my wife left me; my employees were out on the street. Mannerback had his little snowball fight. Later, I read that he turned around and sold the warehouse to a desperate dairy company for twice what he had paid for it, such a business genius he was.”

“I'm sure Perry didn't mean to hurt you,” said Jane. “He's not a bad person. Just oblivious.”

“Let me tell you something, my darling,” said Willie in a kindly voice. “All of our actions in life have consequences. Whether we choose to take responsibility for those consequences is a matter of our own decision. I had my choice, too. Yes, I was very angry at Perry Mannerback at first, and I could have dwelt on what had happened to me forever, spent the rest of my life being bitter, feeling sorry for myself. I've seen people do this, let themselves be eaten alive by resentment and hatred or be twisted into something vile. Something bad happens to them, but rather than leave it in the past, they become obsessed with it. They carry it with them until it becomes their whole reason for being, their future, their identity. Not for me. I forgave Perry Mannerback and blessed him and went on with my life.”

“Philosophy is one of Willie's hobbies, too,” said Valentine.

“And so is money,” said Willie with a smile. “Life is a funny old thing, is it not? I turned to the financial markets and began buying and selling shares. I am now far better off than I ever would have been if I had remained an importer of chocolate. Ten years ago, my fortune secure, I became interested in clocks again and began to collect them. To my astonishment, who turns out to be my major competition for every good piece? None other than the very same fellow who had indirectly been the cause of my present good fortune—Perry Mannerback. So why shouldn't I return the favor? For his entire life, this poor fool has been able to buy anything he's ever wanted. Every time I snatch a clock from under his nose and make him crazy, I see it as a
mitzvah
, a good deed, something that all the Mannerback millions cannot buy for him—the opportunity to learn a little wisdom.”

Jane shook her head and laughed.

“So,” said Willie. “I think I have answered all the questions and cleared up all the mysteries, yes?”

“Not quite,” said Valentine from his position on the couch. Both Willie and Jane turned to look at him. “There's one more thing that I need to find out, and I shall be most unhappy until I do.”

“And what is that, dear boy?” asked Willie.

“Does Cousin Jane plan to eat a more balanced dinner tomorrow night, and if so, will she consent to have it with me?”

The two men's eyes turned back to Jane.

“Yes,” predicted Jane, popping a final canapé into her mouth. “She will.”

Jane took the Seventy-ninth Street crosstown bus back to the West Side, thankful that she still had a Metrocard with some money on it. She had taken yet another cab across the park to her meeting at the Carlyle, and her cash was nearly gone. Tomorrow morning, she'd have to start some serious economizing while she looked for a job.

The last stop was at West End Avenue. Jane could have transferred to the M5 going up Broadway on the same fare, but instead she chose to walk the remaining distance to her apartment. It was only eleven blocks. Like many New Yorkers, the thought of waiting for a bus to go anything less than a mile always seemed crazy to her.

West End was lined with funky prewar apartments that now sold for six and seven figures. As Jane walked up the wide street, she found that the mad tangle of speculation, worry, and fear that had tied her brain into knots over the past few weeks had nearly sorted itself out. Willie Bogen had shown her the solution to the mystery of Grandmother Sylvie's clock. Perry Mannerback had explained why Aaron Sailor had been calling out his name from his coma. Valentine Treves wasn't a villain after all, thank goodness.

Jane still didn't know what had really led to her father's fall down the stairs eight years ago or who had caused his recent death. Nor did she know who had killed Leila Peach and why. Somehow, however, these things didn't seem to matter so much any more. Folly had been right—justice wasn't her job. The police would find out what had happened to her father and to Leila. Or they wouldn't. Ultimately, the killer would have to answer to God.

Willie Bogen was right, too: Why latch on to the most horrible negative things that happen to you and make them your identity? Jane didn't want to become one of those poor souls who populated daytime television, professional victims bemoaning all the things that had happened to ruin their lives. Yes, what had happened to her father was horrible, but it had happened. Nothing that Jane could do now was going to bring him back. What she did with her life from this point forward was her own choice. She saw that it was time to move on.

It was nearing seven-thirty. The street was alive with people. Businessmen and women getting home from work. Teenagers on their way out. In front of the building at the corner of Eighty-ninth Street a gray-uniformed doorman was playing catch with a cute little kid bedecked in the standard West Side uniform for little boys and girls: baseball cap, jeans, and T-shirt from the Gap.

As Jane turned onto her block, she found herself humming “My Funny Valentine.” It was a beautiful melody by Richard Rodgers, a great lyric by Lorenz Hart. Was that why Valentine Treves preferred Rodgers's music with Hammerstein? Had he once had a hard time with other little boys who didn't appreciate someone who was comic and sweet, with laughable, unphotographable looks? Weren't men dopes?

Smiling, Jane entered her brownstone, climbed the four flights, and opened her battle-scarred front door. While waiting for the locksmith that afternoon, she had straightened up the mess from her fight with Melissa Rosengolts. Except for some little dents in the walls and one big dent in the refrigerator, the little apartment looked almost cozy again.

Jane took off her jacket and began to remove her blouse. Her head was fuzzy with champagne and old melodies. She'd been awake for nearly twenty hours, been beaten up, and learned the secrets of people on two continents. In the basement was a clock that was her legacy from a family she had never known—a family that could be traced back all the way to Adam, according to Willie Bogen.

If Willie and Perry Mannerback both had been willing to pay a hundred twenty-five thousand dollars for the lighthouse clock in Seattle, how much, Jane wondered, would a portico mystery clock bring at auction? Two hundred thousand? Three? What would it be like to have real money without strings attached?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the telephone ringing. Dreamily, she picked up the receiver and said hello.

“Hello, Jane, it's Barbara Fripp,” said the familiar British voice. “Sorry to bother you at home, but a policeman, a detective lieutenant named Folly, called the office several times at the end of the day looking for you. Apparently, your machine isn't working.”

“Yes, I've got to get a new one,” said Jane, glancing at the wastebasket where the remains of her answering machine had been consigned after its encounter with Melissa Rosengolts.

“He wanted you to meet him at a Galerie Elinore King, at seven o'clock tonight. He said that this King woman had made certain troubling accusations and that he was going over to interview her. He said it would be helpful if you could be present. I told him I'd try to reach you when I got home, but you've been out.”

“Oh, for heaven's sakes,” said Jane, her happiness evaporating.

“This is about Perry, isn't it?” asked Fripp.

“I don't know,” lied Jane. “Do you know if Perry contacted the police this afternoon?”

“Not that I'm aware of. He never came into the office. I haven't heard from him all day. I'm terribly worried.”

“There's nothing to worry about, Barbara. Believe me.”

“Perry's still in trouble, isn't he?”

“I'm sure I can straighten this all out,” said Jane. She said good-bye and hung up the phone, furious.

What had Elinore King done now with her stupid meddling? Just thinking about Elinore made Jane want to explode. She looked around for something to throw. A lamp, several bowls, and a flowerpot had been casualties of her afternoon. The little flowered sugar bowl had been smashed last week. There wasn't anything small left to break.

“I'll be damned if I'll let that bitch …” Jane said out loud, then went over to her desk, rummaged through her address book for a phone number, and dialed.

“Hello?” said a male voice. “King Gallery.”

“Lieutenant Folly?”

“No, it's Greg King. Is that you, Jane? Lieutenant Folly said you might be coming over.”

“Can I speak with him, please?”

“Certainly,” said Gregory King. “Hold on and let me see if I can get him. He's here with a lady and gentleman from the District Attorney's office and they've been speaking with Elinore for a while. If I can just work this phone—the staff is all gone. Call me back if I disconnect you, okay?”

There was a click. Classical music played in Jane's ear. Dr. King's voice returned a moment later.

“Jane, they're sort of right in the middle of something. Mr. Folly says he'd still like you to come over, though, if you can. Is that possible? Apparently, they're going to be here for a while.”

“Absolutely,” said Jane. The sofa bed looked inviting, but she couldn't very well let Elinore have the last word about Perry Mannerback.

“Do you know where we are? Have you been over here before?” asked Dr. King.

“Not for years, but I remember where it is,” said Jane. Elinore's gallery was on the southwest corner of Madison at Seventyfifth, right across from the Whitney Museum—a block down the street from the Carlyle. “I'll be over as soon as I can get a cab.”

“We're on the fifth floor,” said Dr. King. “The building's closed at this hour, but we'll buzz you up. Just ring the bell.”

Jane said good-bye, then went into the bathroom and removed two twenty-dollar bills from her emergency stash in a Band-Aid box in the bathroom. A few minutes later she was downstairs on West End Avenue again, hailing a taxi.

Twilight was descending as the cab cut through Central Park. The rush-hour traffic had thinned. Jane was still furious and weary, but she sat back in her seat, trying to center herself. The best way to counter Elinore's hysteria was to be calm, dispassionate, just tell them the truth. If the people from the District Attorney's office had any brains, Jane was bound to come across as more credible than inarticulate Elinore with her nutty conspiracy theories.

The cab pulled up in front of the address on Madison Dr. King had given her. The grand town house—once a single-family mansion like its neighbors—now housed some of the most expensive retail space in the world. At this hour, however, the security gates were down on the chocolate shop and the little boutique on either side of the entrance. The doorway to the upstairs spaces was dark.

Jane looked up at the tower of the Carlyle a block away, trying to pick out the window of the suite where she had just been. Might Valentine glance down and see her? Her funny Valentine.

She pressed the outer buzzer for Galerie King, forcing her gaze away from the hotel. A gentle buzzing came from the door. Jane opened it and entered a vestibule. To the right was a small lobby with a display case showing images of paintings in the four galleries on the floors above. Something suitably peculiar from Picasso. A nineteenth-century landscape. Galerie Elinore King featured a contemporary realist not nearly as good as Aaron Sailor.

There was another buzzer system on the wall by the elevator. Jane pressed the button for the top floor. Nothing happened for a moment. The vestibule was dark, the building obviously deserted. A strange, uncomfortable feeling swept through her, but then the intercom clicked.

“Jane?” asked a voice. It was distorted through a speaker but she still recognized it as belonging to Gregory King.

“Yes,” said Jane to what seemed to be the microphone part of the system.

“Hold on. I'm going to send down the elevator. When you get in, just press five and it will bring you up.”

From somewhere in the shaft there was a clank and mechanical sounds of gears began whirring. In a minute the elevator had reached the ground floor and its doors opened. Jane got into the small cab and pressed five as instructed. The doors closed. The elevator jerked, then began a slow ascent. Finally, the doors opened again and she stepped out into a large, brilliantly lit space with a cathedral ceiling and skylights that showed the darkening heavens above.

The floors in Galerie Elinore King were bare wood, polyurethaned in the fashion of SoHo lofts. The walls were painted a stark white. There were large paintings in the style of the one in the display case downstairs. They didn't come off any better in person.

Gregory King, looking pale, sat at a desk in the middle of the room about thirty feet from the entrance, dressed in blue jeans and a dark polo shirt. Standing by the outer wall of the building, across from the elevator and dressed in a hideous green sweatsuit, was Elinore. In her hand was a snub-nosed revolver.

“See, I told you she'd come,” declared Elinore in the general direction of her husband. “You're so stupid. Why don't you ever trust me?”

“I don't understand,” said Jane. “Where's Detective Folly?”

“He's not here, obviously,” said Elinore. “I tricked you. It was Greg who called Perry's secretary, pretending to be the police. Now move over there by the window. And don't get cute and try any of your little make-believe fight stuff. I can shoot you five times before you can make it across to me. All I have to do is point and pull the trigger.”

Elinore motioned with the barrel of the gun toward the wall opposite the one where she was standing—the front corner of the gallery where the two outer walls met. No paintings were hung within fifteen feet of the spot. On the ledge by the window was a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen. There was a tarp on the floor. Twenty feet away was an open can of white paint, a pan, and a roller. Nearby was a can of Spackle, a screwdriver, and a putty knife.

“You've got to be kidding,” said Jane, feeling her center rise.

“Now!” shouted Elinore. “Get over there. Stand on the tarp.”

Jane had never had a gun pointed at her before. It was a terrifying experience, especially since the gun was being held by someone as out of control as Elinore. The knuckles of Elinore's fat little hand were white and her finger twitched on the trigger. Jane hurried into the corner.

“There's a paper there on the windowsill,” said Elinore. “Sign your name on the line at the bottom.”

“Come on, Elinore, you can't be serious,” said Jane, trying to laugh. “This is crazy.”

“Sign that paper,” said Elinore, not laughing back.

“What is it?” said Jane, picking it up. It seemed to be the last page of some kind of contract.

“Just sign or I'll shoot you,” screeched Elinore. “Don't think I won't. Sign it right now or so help me God I'm going to shoot.”

She raised the gun.

Jane took the pen and scribbled her name. Surely a contract couldn't be binding if signed under duress? Was the gun even loaded? The whole situation was unbelievable.

“Now put the paper down on the floor a few feet in front of you,” said Elinore.

Jane did as she was told.

“Go get it, Greg,” said Elinore. Dr. King stood up and walked across the room. He picked up the piece of paper and brought it over to Elinore.

“See, Janie?” cackled Elinore. “That wasn't so hard. Now I can sell your dad's paintings, all legal, fair and square. And I've settled for fifty percent, like we agreed. I always keep my word. My word is my bond. Integrity is my middle name.”

“Can I go now?” said Jane.

“You really do think I'm stupid, don't you?” said Elinore, glancing down at the paper in her hand.

“Yes, I do,” said Jane, taking a step forward.

There was a huge explosion. At least it sounded like a huge explosion in the enclosed space. Simultaneously, Jane felt something whiz so close to her face that it burned. Instinctively, she raised her hand to her cheek, her ear. There was no blood. The bullet had missed, but by no more than millimeters.

“Get back there,” screamed Elinore, the gun raised. “Next time, I won't miss. Get back on that tarp.”

Jane hastened back to where she had been.

“Get on your knees. Clasp your hands behind your neck. Now!”

Jane complied. It would take her several seconds to get up from this position. It would be impossible to try to rush Elinore again, which was obviously the point.