Mr. X (52 page)

I nodded.

Coventry giggled and shook his head in a transport of disbelief.

“What?”

“Lovecraft wrote a novel called
The Case of Charles Dexter Ward
, and Wilbur Whately is a character in ‘The Dunwich Horror,’ one of his stories. I am truly happy. I’ll have to mark the day on my calendar. Never before have I come across a literary allusion in City Hall.”

“Would you mind looking up one more?”

“After that? Of course not.”

I gave him the address of the rooming house on Chester Street. In less than a minute Coventry was back at the counter with a manila folder. “How far do you want to go with this one?”

“Who’s the present owner?”

Coventry took the last page from the folder and slid it toward me. Helen Janette’s building had been purchased by a company on Lanyard Street in August of 1967. “T.K. Holding Company. Does that tell you what you want to know?”

“It tells me something I should have known,” I said.

Toby had bought the rooming house one month before Hazel Jansky was due for release. By present standards, $27,000 wasn’t much of a down payment, but after twenty-six years it still represented an impressive gift.

The great door closed behind me. I went down the long steps and looked across Grace Street to the square. An old woman was scattering bread crumbs before lots of bustling pigeons. The golden-haired derelict I had seen before rocked back and forth over his guitar. Beyond the fountain, a graceful male figure was leaning against the trunk of a maple. The arm dropping in a straight line between the tree and the angle of his body ended in the rectangular outline of a briefcase.

The breath stopped in my throat. The man across the square was Robert. Although the shadow of the maple hid his face, I knew he was smiling at me. Robert pushed himself off the tree and walked into the sunlight, the case swinging lightly at his side.

72

I trotted down the steps, across the sidewalk, and into the street, only barely registering the traffic. Horns blared, brakes squealed. I got to the median unscathed and dodged through the southbound traffic, then jumped onto the pavement and ran up the long path to the fountain. Pigeons feuding over bread crumbs scattered at my footsteps. The golden-haired tramp on the other side of the path hunched over his guitar. I looked past an elderly couple at the opposite end of the square and glimpsed Robert’s head and shoulders in a group waiting for the light to change at the end of the next block.

When the group moved ahead, Robert was a few paces behind the others. His blazer and jeans were identical to mine. The tramp played a sequence that gave me the title of the song he was playing, “Keys to the Highway,” one of Goat Gridwell’s signature tunes. He was bending notes and stretching out his phrases, and when I came to within about six feet of him I took my eyes off Robert and glanced down. From a beaten, hardscrabble face, bright green eyes met mine. It felt like slamming into a force-field, and I stumbled forward. The green eyes charged with playful knowledge.

Goat Gridwell held my eyes with his until I trotted past him. For all I know, he watched me pick up speed and run out of the square.

Robert had reached the middle of the next block when I came around the fountain and started down the path to the east end of Town Square. He was moving with an easy stride that ate a lot of ground. I got to the end of the path and saw him turn right at the corner. I plunged ahead. Robert had deliberately invited me to follow him, but I had no faith in his patience.

I ran two blocks and wheeled right. The tail of a blue blazer and a portion of a caramel-colored satchel swung past the building on the next corner and vanished.

Robert seemed to be working toward Commercial Avenue. I
could beat him to it by running straight down to the right from where I stood, but he might have been directing me to some other location along the way. I took a few deep breaths, ran down the block, flew across the next intersection, and spun into Grenville Street. The blazer and the elegant satchel were slipping left onto Commercial Avenue.

“Damn you,” I said, and took off down Grenville. Through the plate-glass window of a pizzeria I took in Helen Janette leaning over a table and waving a peremptory finger at Toby Kraft. I picked up speed and raced out onto Commercial Avenue.

Thirty yards down the sidewalk and a short distance from the entrance to Merchants Hotel, Robert was leaning on one hip, swinging the satchel in his hand, and looking right at me. Then he was gone. I moved along the sidewalk. When I reached the spot where he had been, the revolving door of Merchants Hotel released a chalk-faced old party under the care of the doorman who had witnessed my encounter with Grenville Milton. The doorman assisted his charge into the backseat of a waiting car, nodded at me, and swept his arm toward the entrance. Having been told what to do, I walked into the lobby. A good-looking clerk smiled at me from behind the desk. I smiled back at her. Thanks to Robert, I was a familiar visitor. At the top of the stairs to the right of the lobby, Vincent’s unoccupied podium stood guard over the darkened reaches of Le Madrigal. I turned to the marble stairs on the other side of the lobby. From the mezzanine, Robert looked down at me and disappeared again.

I mounted the marble stairs and went into the men’s room. Robert was leaning against one of the sinks, both of his hands on the grip of the leather satchel. The mirror behind him reflected only the row of urinals and the tiled wall.

Robert was grinning. “So here we are, at last.”

73

Afterward, I changed my mind about the similarities between Robert and myself almost every time I was with him, but what struck me then was the magnitude of the differences between us. I didn’t see how anyone could mistake him for me: despite a structural likeness, the ruthlessness stamped into Robert’s features obliterated any resemblance. That he should not be reflected in mirrors seemed absolutely right. Then my eyes moved to the mirror and saw there the reflection of the back of his head. It was as though he had increased in substance at the expense of my own. When I looked again at his face, it was identical to mine in every particular.

“What the hell are you?” I asked.

“You know what I am.” Robert held out the satchel. “Go up to 554 and give this to Ashleigh. She’ll be so grateful, she’ll rip off your clothes.”

“What’s in here?” As soon as I asked, I thought I knew.

“Don’t be stupid.” He thrust it into my hands. “This morning, someone who refused to give his name called the Brazen Head and said he heard you had dinner with Ashleigh and Laurie Hatch last Friday. He assumed that you would be willing to assist the case against Stewart Hatch. These documents will give Ashleigh everything she needs to mount a successful prosecution. Hatch has no idea they’re gone.”

“So you did break into that building.” He shrugged. “Hatch must have checked to see if this stuff was still there. How can he not know it’s missing?”

“Because it wasn’t missing after the break-in. I went back to the Cobden Building last night. By the time Stewart takes another look, everything will be back in place. Tell Ashleigh to make copies and return the originals.”

“How did this anonymous guy get them?”

“He broke into the building, how else? The guy has an old grudge against Hatch. In the process of smashing up the offices,
he stumbled on these papers. He told you to go to a bench in Town Square, you went, you found the bag, you’re bringing it to her. End of story.” Robert left the sinks and moved to the door. “Good thing you were thrown out of that rooming house.”

He stepped back and passed through the door. I mean that in the most literal sense possible. Robert did not open the men’s room door, he
passed through
it, smiling at me as his body melted into the white wood and, like the Cheshire cat, disappeared from view.

74

I locked myself into a stall and unbuckled the satchel. It was filled with fat manila folders: statements from a bank in the Virgin Islands; incorporation papers for companies named Glittermax Inc., Eagle Properties, and Delta Mud Holdings; deeds to buildings in Louisville and Cincinnati; letters from law firms. I thumbed through partnership agreements signed by Hatch and Grenville Milton. Two bundles of computer disks were tucked into side pockets.