Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Time Out of Mind (31 page)
“
I'm going to ask you both to spend the night.” Stur
devant gathered up his notes to make room for Cora Star
ling's sandwich tray. “There's a guest room with twin beds
upstairs.” He waved off any question of propriety before
Corbin could express it. “Gwen knows the way. It will be
well if all three of us remained in close contact for a while,
especially the two of you. You, Gwen, seem to be an ef
fective anchor for Jonathan.”
Corbin was barely listening. He was near dozing again.
An early night of it sounded good.
detail here and there. The Japanese maple tree, the small
park, a curious feeling of intimacy with a long-dead pres
ident, and his nose felt sore. He could even recall things
that were ancillary to the dream but not part of it. He remembered, for example, that there was a book he was sup
posed to read, and although he forgot its title, his mind
gave him a glimpse of the young man's room and the big
oak table-desk on which he'd left it. There was a leather
mark in place about halfway through its pages. He remem
bered a desk lamp that burned oil. It had a wide brass base
with a slot for pencils, and it had two shades of green glass.
On the wall behind it was an animal skin someone had
given him. And pinned behind the animal skin were two
hidden copies of the
Police Gazette,
which were the major reason why he wasn't as far along on his book as he should have been.
These memories, as they came, were not unpleasant. Not
at all. He remembered that Gwen seemed troubled when
she aroused him from his dream. That she was alarmed.
But the dream was fine. He would not have minded staying
there a while. It was a happy place and it was summer.
Especially,when it was summer.
“
Do you want to freshen up, Jonathan?” Sturdevant's
voice.
“
Hmm?”
You'll find most of what you need in the guest room.
The soup and sandwiches will keep. Actually, I'd like a
few minutes to myself.”
folded under his chin. He wished he hadn't given up his
pipe, speaking of tranquilizers. Nothing like a pipe to help
the mind settle and focus.
Where to start? His own bookshelves, he supposed, as
long as there's no such thing as an all-night library. But
what was he to look for? Was he to begin checking facts,
verifying the many tidbits of detail offered voluntarily or
otherwise by young Mr. Corbin? To what purpose? Did he believe Jonathan or not? He'd believed him without reser
vation until a few minutes ago, because he could imagine
no reason why Jonathan Corbin would concoct such an
elaborate and superbly researched fraud. But that was be
fore the name of Tilden Beckwith arose. Before there was a possible motive. Money. Many millions of dollars.
A young man, let's suppose, discovers by whatever
means that he bears an uncanny resemblance
to a long-
deceased
man of wealth. He decides to claim a blood relationship. Better yet, he decides to claim that he is the only
true heir. Someone switched babies, he claims. He relies
on the threat of scandal and waits for his offer of hush
money. But who would care nowadays? Least of all the Beckwiths, who are hardly pillars of propriety themselves.
They'd laugh at such an extortion attempt. It's remotely
possible that they'd pay a few dollars to avoid the nuisance
of tedious meetings with attorneys, but they'd be much
more likely to ignore him. Or slap him down.
ply nothing about Jonathan that would suggest deceit, es
pecially a conspiracy this complex. Too complex to work.
Murphy's Law and all that. And it would take a superb
actor to pull it off. Jonathan, as far as we know, hasn't been an actor since his kindergarten Christmas pageant. It would
also take a much more subtle turn of mind than Jonathan
seems to have. Collegiate boxers with banged-up noses are
rarely paragons of finesse. Which reminds me
...
He stepped around the table to the bookshelves that were
devoted to sports. There he found an encyclopedia of box
ing and opened it to its index. Flood, John. Pages 107 to
109, photo on page 115. Sturdevant flipped forward. -Ah
yes, his memory had been correct. Flood, the Bull's Head
Terror, fought John L. Sullivan, bare knuckles, in May of
1881 on a barge off Yonkers. Probably with a fully rigged
cutter standing by in case the police had been insufficiently
bribed in advance. Knocked out in eight rounds, though he
did much better than anyone else who faced Sullivan that
year. Sturdevant wondered whether his grandfather had
seen the fight. It's possible, he supposed. But if he had gone
to an illegal prizefight, as opposed to a boxing match at his
club, he probably would have disguised himself and kept
quiet about it afterward. They were such tawdry affairs in
those days. More like a dogfight than an athletic contest.
Even young Tilden of Gramercy Park seemed to know that.
Biting, kicking, wrestling, even gouging. Whether a fight
was allowed to finish often depended on whose supporters
were better armed.
Roosevelt. There was a Roosevelt biography here someplace.
Sturdevant found a faded volume whose gilt printing had
long since worn away. Roosevelt boxed. Sturdevant knew
that. Boxing team at Harvard. Sparred for exercise virtually
until his death. But did he ever live near Gramercy Park?
Sturdevant found the reference he was looking for. Yes. Early years in his family's home on Twentieth Street, just
off Fifth Avenue. That would be about five blocks from
Gramercy Park. Not exactly next-door neighbors but young Tilden never said that. Only that they'd both learned to fight
from John Flood in the stables back of the Rhinelander
house where Flood probably worked when he wasn't driv
ing a beer truck and fighting pass-the-hat matches in the
saloons along his delivery route. As for Roosevelt, his fam
ily, Sturdevant saw, did move to a new home on Fifty-
seventh Street in the summer of 1875. Number 6. And
Roosevelt remained in that home until he married and re
turned there after the death of his first wife. That address
would have him only a block from the Plaza and only two blocks from the Osborne Apartments at about the time the
original Tilden Beckwith seems to have lived there. Did
they remain friends? Jonathan didn't say. Or doesn't know.
Not yet, at least.
Biographies.
Sturdevant ran his finger across the bottom row of books
until it stopped at a red-bound copy of
Who's Who.
There
it is. Tilden Beckwith II. He hadn't thought of that name
in years. Chairman of Beckwith Enterprises. Which in
cludes Beckwith Hotels, Beckwith Realty, Beckwith Land Development, and an assortment of smaller companies—
probably contractors, architects, and the like. Sits on the
board of the investment firm of Beckwith, Stone & Waring,
which used to be Beckwith & Company, which is where
the family fortune began. No other board seats, however.
Unusual. A man in his position would normally have a list
of a dozen or more. Certainly on that of his bank. No char
itable involvement, either. No committees, no hospital
boards. Not much of a listing, really, for a captain of com
merce from old money. Why? Is he lazy? Stupid? On the
other hand, neither has ever been a barrier to sitting on
corporate boards. All one must be is a major stockholder. Attended Harvard, it says. There's another thing. Not grad
uated. Attended. Which probably means he didn't finish.
Harvard Club. All in all an embarrassing entry for
Who's
Who.
He really isn't anybody. Just a rich man's son. Yet
here he is, chairman of Beckwith Enterprises. Tillie, Stur
devant mused. I believe they used to call him Tillie.
Sturdevant closed the book and returned it to its slot. His hand moved to a much smaller volume bound in blue cloth. The
Social Register
might have more, he thought, assuming
the Beckwiths bothered to subscribe. Ah, yes. Beckwith,
Tilden II. Homes in New York and Palm Beach. Married
to the former Elvira Payson. Two children, Huntington and
Barbara, then more of the same about Harvard and Beckwith Enterprises. Let's see. Huntington, named after the
grandfather, would be about Jonathan's age and Barbara not
much older than Gwen. Otherwise, very little information
there, either. Sturdevant was about to put the blue book
away when his eye drifted to a listing it had almost missed
because it began at the top of the next column. Hello, look
at this. Beckwith, Ella Huntington. Ella. Of Greenwich,
Connecticut, of all places. Sturdevant decided to make a
phone call or two.
Uncle Harry?” The door opened following Gwen's
knock. Sturdevant waved her in as he nodded a series of
uh-huhs into the telephone crooked at his neck. He thanked
the person on the other end, suggested lunch sometime
soon, and replaced the receiver on its cradle.
Uncle Harry,” she asked, “you weren't just telling someone about Jonathan, were you?”
“
His name didn't arise,” he assured her. ”I was refreshing my memory about the Beckwiths. How is he, by the
way?’'
”
A bit dreamy, otherwise fine. If you don't mind, I'm
going to take our sandwiches upstairs and then get him into
bed. After that I might run over to my place and pick up a
few things.”
“
Can't that wait until morning? I have everything here
except a change of clothing.”
“
I'll see how Jonathan settles in.” Gwen pushed the
door until the lock clicked. “Uncle Harry,” she asked,
“
what was all that about Tilden Beckwith? How did you come up with that name?”
”
I knew him.” Sturdevant brightened. “It's the most
remarkable thing. Ever since you first introduced me to Jon
athan I've had a feeling we've met before. He is the ab
solute image of a young Tilden Beckwith, including that broken nose and the scarred eyebrow, which Tilden appar
ently got from young Todd Fisher. How did Jonathan get
his, by the way?”
“
I never asked. College boxing, I suppose. Uncle Harry,
don't you find it almost unbelievable that you happened to
know this Tilden Beckwith?”
“
Not at all. Almost everyone knew him back when I was a young man.”
“
He was famous?”
Sturdevant shook his head. “Everyone more or less like
me,” he corrected himself, reluctant to say “Everyone in
my set.” “He died during the war at about my age. Some
sort of accidental fall in his office.” Sturdevant gestured
toward the telephone, as if to indicate the source of this recollection. “Which is ironic because he was always very
graceful and athletic. A great sports fan too, especially of
the New York Giants. His box up at the Polo Grounds
wasn't far from ours. We'd also see him up at the old Saint
Nicholas Arena for the Friday night fights and at just about
every championship match at Madison Square Garden.”
”
I don't believe this, Uncle Harry.”
“
New York is a big city, Gwen dear, but the circles
within it can be very small. Avid followers of a particular sport tend to meet and know each other. Beyond a certain
income level, they tend to congregate in the same public
places. The baseball and boxing crowds of today hang out
at Gallagher's Steak House, among others. Go back sixty
years and that crowd gathered at the Hoffman House bar.”