The Girl in the Face of the Clock (4 page)

There was no Peregrine Mannerback in the phonebook, either in the business listings or in the personals. Perhaps he had moved. He could even have died. He might not even be a he. For all Jane knew, Peregrine Mannerback could have been some hot little chickie that Dad had been playing Monopoly with. Or a law firm with a clever marketing gimmick. Or the name of a toy store.

Who would know if there had been a Perry Mannerback in Dad's life eight years ago?

Jane went to the desk, got out her own address book, and flipped through the pages until the listing for Imre Carpathian appeared. Imre's loft on Broome Street was only a few blocks away from where she had grown up. For all Jane knew, Imre might have moved or died. She hadn't spoken with him for years.

“What?” answered an enraged voice after the seventh ring. “Who is calling Imre when he works, you stupid fool?”

“Hi, Uncle Imre, it's Jane. Jane Sailor.”

“Jane?”

“It's been a long time.”

“Dear little Jane,” the voice softened to a roar. “Why you never call me? You are still making with the sword fights?”

“That's me,” said Jane. “Fencing, fisticuffs, and fearlessness. I'm not in New York too much. Most of the work is in regional theatres.”

“Good for you. We get together some time, make palacsinta, sing dirty Hungarian songs. Not now, though. I am creating. I am blue. I am paint. I am this stupid can.”

Jane heard a clattering that might have been a paint can being kicked across the room. It was nice to hear the crazy old artist's voice again.

“Just answer one quick question, Uncle Imre. Do you remember a friend of my father named Peregrine Mannerback? Perry Mannerback?”

“Never heard of no such person. Ridiculous name. Call me later sometime. I am working now. Good-bye.”

The phone went dead. Imre hadn't changed at all.

The only other person Jane could think of who might know her father's friends was Elinore King, his dealer. Was finding out about Peregrine Mannerback worth a call to the woman her father referred to as “greed on legs”?

Jane looked at the “Get Out of Jail Free” card again. Then she found Elinore's number in her book, picked up the telephone, and began to punch out numbers. Ever since the show at the Fyfe had been announced, Elinore had been calling about Aaron Sailor's paintings. Jane knew she would have to have it out with Elinore sooner or later. Why not kill two birds with a single stone?

“Galerie Elinore King,” said a soft, melodic voice.

“Is Elinore available? This is Jane Sailor.”

“Janie, darling, honey,” screeched Elinore a minute later. “I've been calling and calling, but you never return my messages. You're okay? Nothing's the matter?”

Her voice was a cross between a steam whistle and a myna bird, with a touch of cat being castrated thrown in.

“I'm fine,” said Jane. “I've been out of town on a job. I only just got back.”

“Hold on, hold on,” shouted Elinore. “I'm in middle of eighteen things. Hold on.”

A stream of invective followed that was not as loud by a few decibels because it came through a set of fingers. “No, no, not there. Why are you so stupid? I told you where I wanted it. Can't you do anything right? All right, fine, now get out.”

Elinore's voice changed again when she returned to Jane on the receiver. Now it was coquettish and giggly.

“So Janie, honey, sweetie, it's so wonderful to talk to you. You know, I'm hearing fantastic things about the show in California at the … you-know museum … what's it called?”

“The Fyfe.”

“They love your father. Absolutely love him. It's incredible. Did you see the article in
ArtNews
that I sent you? Isn't it fantastic?”

“Yes,” said Jane. “It's nice to see that Dad is finally getting some of the credit he deserves.”

“And it's about time,” Elinore said smugly. “I mean, I feel so proud. I'm the only one who believed in your father, you know. I sweat blood for that man. It cost me a fortune to promote him, a fortune!”

Jane felt her jaw tighten. She hadn't seen her father's dealer in eight years, but could still picture Elinore's delicate features, her long blond hair, her self-serving smile. Most people thought Elinore was pretty. Jane knew what she really was.

“If you believed in him so much, why wouldn't you buy Dad's paintings from me after his accident?” said Jane, her voice exceedingly cool.

“Janie, Janie …”

“You could have had them for next to nothing, but you weren't interested. You wouldn't even store them.”

“Janie, listen to me …”

“It would have made a real difference.”

“Janie, sweetie, please,” cooed Elinore, “let's not get back into this, okay? Nobody wanted Realism back then. That wasn't my fault, was it? God, everybody thinks it's so easy, but believe me, it's not. You were too young to understand, but I promise you, honey, that this was … that I didn't … you know what I mean? Okay? It's all water over the bridge. Okay? I mean, you really hurt me when you talk that way. Now that things are going so well. Did I tell you about the
New York Times?
”

“No. What about the
New York Times?
”

“They're doing a piece in the
Sunday Magazine
. A feature. I've sent them transparencies and everything. It's fantastic. This is what I've been working for all this time, to get Aaron the recognition he deserves. You'd be amazed at what has to go on behind the scenes to get this kind of publicity. Oh God, you don't know what I've gone through to get this show at the what-do-you-call-it museum, and this article in the
Times
. You owe me, you know. You really do.”

Jane took the phone away from her ear and tried to stay calm. What she owed Elinore was seventy percent of the proceeds from any sale of her father's paintings because of the overreaching contract he had signed when he was desperate for gallery representation. Jane had talked to three different lawyers about it over the years. The bottom line was that trying to break the agreement could cost thousands of dollars in legal fees with only the tiniest possibility of success.

But if Jane were stuck with Elinore, Elinore was also stuck with her. Elinore couldn't collect her percentage unless Jane agreed to a sale, which of course was the reason for all this sudden interest.

“I'm not calling to argue with you, Elinore,” said Jane in a quiet voice. “I just want to ask you something.”

“That's fine, sweetie. Ask me, ask me anything. That's what I'm here for. That's what a dealer does. I'm just here to serve. I'm just here for you. I'm like your personal servant. Your wish is my command.”

“Have you ever heard of Peregrine Mannerback? Perry Mannerback?”

“Perry Mannerback, of course I've heard of Perry Mannerback,” declared Elinore. “Why? What about him?”

“Who is he?”

“He's a client of mine. Very difficult. I've tried a million times to get him on the phone to tell him about opportunities, but he never returns my calls. He's very rich but strange. A real problem.”

“Did he know my father?” asked Jane.

“Yes, of course he knew your father. Mr. Mannerback … Peregrine … Perry … was the man who bought that big painting of Aaron's, the only thing we ever sold. I put a photo of it in the window downstairs and he came up and bought it before we opened the show, before anyone else even saw it. It was one of the transparencies I sent to the
Times
. Has Perry Mannerback contacted you? Is he interested in another piece?”

Jane wondered if it was her imagination or whether you could actually hear someone salivating over a phone line.

“I just found his name in some of my father's old papers and was curious, that's all,” Jane said, not wanting to share any more with Elinore than she had to. “Did Perry Mannerback and my father know one another well?”

“They met when he bought the painting,” said Elinore. “Then he came to my opening vernissage. I don't know what happened after that, but listen to me, honey. If Perry Mannerback wants to buy another painting, you can't fuck around with him. He's an important man and the only one who supported Aaron's work back then. You have to let me sell him whatever he wants. You just have to.”

“We've been all over this, Elinore,” said Jane evenly.

“But Perry Mannerback—”

“I've told you, I don't want to do anything right now.”

“Okay, okay,” muttered Elinore. “That's your privilege. If you want to be this way, I'm not going to argue. You're your own woman. You can do what you want, now that Aaron is beginning to get a little success. I just happen to think that you have a moral obligation to your father, that's all. Sales are what he would have wanted. This isn't about money, it's about Aaron. His work, his art. Okay, now I've said my piece, and I won't bring it up again. You'll never hear another word from me on the subject, I promise. I swear to God.”

“Don't worry, Elinore,” said Jane. “You'll get paid if I do anything. I'm just not ready to sell anything to anybody right now.”

“Janie, darling, sweetie,” said Elinore, her voice growing dewy. “Of course I trust you. After all we've been through together. We're just alike, you know. We're like sisters. That's why you have to trust me, too. You do trust me, don't you?”

Jane didn't say anything. What do you say to a sister who would probably charge you a commission for selling you into slavery?

“So when can I see you?” Elinore resumed, the ground glass returning to her voice. “Greg and I would love to take you out for dinner, get reacquainted. There's this fabulous new place in the Village that everyone's talking about,
Les Matins
. It's all the rage. The ‘in' place. And you know that I'm an ‘in' girl. So when would be good? Saturday? This is absolutely the top place in the city. You're going to love it.”

“I just got back to town. Maybe in a few weeks.”

“Next Saturday then. Please, pretty please?”

“I'd like to, Elinore, but there's so much I have to do.”

“Sure, darling. I understand completely. That's why we want to take you out, so you can relax among friends. Then it's a date? Next Saturday? Please say yes, I absolutely won't take no for an answer.”

Jane gritted her teeth. Elinore's strategy was to make herself so difficult that most people ultimately gave up and just let her have her way. Jane really didn't want to have anything to do with the woman, but getting rid of her would probably require a silver bullet. And a wooden stake through her heart. And perhaps burial at a crossroads at midnight. Maybe if Jane saw her in person she could get Elinore off her back for a while.

“All right. Next Saturday.”

“See?” said Elinore, laughing happily. “That wasn't so hard. I'm going to mark it in my calendar right now. You can't know what I'll have to go through to get a reservation, but it will be so great to see you. I'm going to win your trust, you'll see.”

“Do you have Perry Mannerback's telephone number?”

“Why don't you let me call him for you?”

“I thought you said he didn't return your calls.”

“Can you believe that?” shrieked Elinore, remembering her outrage. “I don't understand that man. I really don't. And I suppose it's your business if you don't want to tell me what this is all about. That's okay. I'm not hurt. Really, I'll be fine.”

Jane didn't say anything.

“Martha!” Elinore yelled. “Get me a phone number. Where is that stupid girl?”

It took another five minutes for Jane to extricate herself from the conversation. Then she dialed the number that Elinore had gotten from her secretary. As Jane did so, she caught a glimpse of herself in the little mirror on the back of the kitchen door and shook her head in disbelief. She should have left her hat on. She looked like a dandelion.

“You have reached the offices of OmbiCorp International,” answered a mellow, recorded female voice. “If you know your party's extension, you may dial it at any time or select from the following menu …”

It took several minutes to get from this point to a human being, but Jane eventually succeeded.

“Mr. Mannerback, please,” she said in her best command voice, the voice she employed to order self-important actors and narcissistic actresses to perform summersaults and sit-ups.

“Thank you,” said the operator. “One moment, please.”

“Chairman's office,” said another voice after a moment.

“Mr. Mannerback, please,” Jane repeated.

“I'll connect you.”

“Mr. Mannerback's office,” said a third voice in due course.

“Is he available?”

“Who's calling?”

“Jane Sailor.”

“Is this a foundation matter or corporate?”

“It's personal.”

“One moment, please.”

There was a longer wait this time. Eventually, still another voice came on the line. This too was female, as all the others had been. She spoke with a clipped, efficient British accent. Her voice was as cold as the concrete floor in Jane's basement.

“Miss Barbara Fripp. May I help you?”

“I'd like to make an appointment to see Mr. Mannerback,” said Jane, trying to sound equally efficient.

“To what is this in reference?”

“It's personal,” said Jane. She had no idea of what she would say to Perry Mannerback, but figured that just meeting him would give her an idea of how to proceed.

“Mr. Mannerback is a very busy man,” declared Miss Fripp. “If you would care to put your problem in writing and send it along, I will be happy to bring it to his attention.”

“I'd prefer to see him in person.”