“Ah? Is that of interest to the press?”
Now she looked at him as if he were Rip Van Winkle.
“Manflex’s rating on the stock market has been rocketing on rumors of a new wonder drug. They’re due to make an announcement Tuesday and there’s any amount of speculation.”
“Manflex-is that an all-American firm?”
She was obviously starting to think that she was stuck with a headcase. “Haven’t you heard of Manny Flexner? He was a legend in the pharmaceuticals business. Very dynamic. His son just became Chairman.”
“What’s he like?”
“Nobody knows yet. He only took over a few weeks back. He’s keeping his head down right now.”
“If this rumor is true, he’s off to a good start.”
“He needs it. There was a big loss of confidence after Manny jumped.”
“Jumped?”
“Out of bis office on the twenty-first floor.”
Diamond stared upwards.
“He fell on the other side,” the reporter informed him. “A small executive parking lot”
Diamond thanked her and took a walk along Broadway, working out what to do next He’d heard enough about the seesawing fortunes of Manflex to justify more inquiries, but he doubted whether he’d be able to convince Lieutenant Easdand that something should be done. For the present he preferred to pursue this tenuous line of inquiry independently. However, he wasn’t going to be able to bluff his way past the security guards. Some different strategy was wanted.
He found a stationery store and went in to buy a notepad and envelope. Then he wrote a letter to David Flexner, die Chairman of Manflex, introducing himself as a detective from England conducting an inquiry involving murder and the abduction of a child. As a matter of extreme urgency, he went on, he needed an interview with the Manflex management to discuss the mother of the child, Dr. Yuko Masuda, who had carried out research sponsored by Manflex at Yokohama University in the early 1980s. He gave the address and phone number of bis hotel and added the words “Detective Superintendent” below his signature. He addressed the envelope to Flexner, marking it “Personal-Extremely Urgent” Then he returned to the Manflex Building and handed the letter to one of the security guards, stressing that it was vital that it was delivered to the Chairman immediately. And once again his old police identity card came in useful; security staff are invariably ex-policemen themselves.
Before returning to the hotel he called at a bank and used his credit card to get more cash to patronize a deli he’d just passed. Later, he thought, he’d be able to tell Steph that for lunch he’d restricted himself to a sandwich. She’d never seen the size of an American sandwich garnished with dill pickles.
It wasn’t surprising that he took a postprandial nap in his room.
The phone woke him.
“Hello.”
“Superintendent, er, Diamond?”
He sat up in bed. The digital clock beside it said 3:36. “Yes.”
“David Flexner. You wanted to speak to me about this Japanese lady.”
“Correct.”
“There isn’t much I can tell you at this point in time, and you’ll understand that things are pretty busy here.”
“I appreciate that, but the child’s life-”
“Sure.” There was a pause. “I can meet you, but it would be easier someplace else, not in this building. Let me think a moment You know the Staten Island Ferry?”
“I can find it.”
“Battery Park. Anyone in New York will tell you. I’ll see you in the ticket office around seven-fifteen. That’s the earliest I can do. How will I know you?”
“I wear a fawn-colored raincoat.”
“Like Columbo?”
“Like five Columbos. I’m well fed. I’m also bald, but you won’t be able to tell, because I wear a brown trilby.”
“A what?”
“I believe it’s called a derby here.”
“Fine. Look out for a stringbean with long, blond hair and a red windbreaker. We shouldn’t have much trouble, Super.”
He got up and took a shower. Super. No one had ever called him mat before. Flexner had sounded like a sixteen-year-old. If he had anything to be ashamed of, it hadn’t come through in the voice. When this comes to nothing, Diamond thought, where do I go next? No messages had been left by the police, so they hadn’t made any progress. These intervals of inactivity were the devil to endure. In his days on the force, he’d have spent this time chivvying the murder squad, or-as they would put it-making their lives a misery. Here, in this godforsaken hotel room, he had only himself to goad.
He went out and took a walk in Central Park that didn’t deserve to be called a walk when compared with the gait of the exercise-minded fanatics who continuously strode past. When he rested on a bench he was immediately accosted by someone who wanted to compose a poem in his honor for five bucks. He said grouchily that he’d already heard enough poetry for one day and the poet spat on his shoe.
He tried some creative work of his own, devising scenarios in which Naomi’s mother had given up her research as a result of getting disillusioned with the drugs industry; or that she had become a whistle-blower on malpractices in Manflex; or even a victim of some drug experiment that had failed. He still couldn’t work out why she had been parted from her child if she was still alive.
About six, no further on in his conclusions, he took the subway south and found his way to Battery Park. The Statue of Liberty was already a blue silhouette fading in the evening light. A ferryboat came in and he watched the procedure as the iron trellis snapped back and the passengers disembarked. With a strong breeze blowing, he was glad of his raincoat-which he’d never thought of as anything like Lieutenant Columbo’s. It was a trenchcoat really, well lined and with flaps that could button across the chest With the hat, it was definitely more Bogart than Peter Falk.
He watched the ferry fill up and depart and then strolled across to the ticket office. Just after seven, too soon to be looking out for Flexner. The benches were fast filling up with passengers for the next ferry. Guessing that he might face a wait of twenty minutes or more, he claimed a seat.
Ten minutes passed. A mother brought her fractious toddler to the place beside Diamond and waged a noisy battle of wills over some chocolate that was certain, the mother said, to make the child very sick indeed after all he’d eaten. When junior had screamed enough to get his way, Diamond decided maybe the mother had not been bluffing. To safeguard the trenchcoat-which in his size wouldn’t be easy to replace-he got up and moved away.
Nobody matching young Flexner’s description was in sight
“Are you Mr. Peter Diamond, by any chance?”
He turned. Someone he must have seen and mentally dismissed had stepped over to talk to him, a pretty, dark-haired young woman in a cherry-colored bomber jacket and jeans.
“That’s my name.”
“Mr. Flexner sends his apologies. He had a problem escaping from the press, so the meeting-place had to be changed. I’m Joan. I’m going to drive you there.”
“Drive me where, exactly?”
“I’m sorry but I can’t tell you yet There’s a phone in the car. He’s going to let us know.”
“You want me to come with you now?” What was being suggested sounded reasonable enough. He checked his watch and saw that it was already past the time Flexner had suggested that they meet
“It must be such a burden for him, all this pressure from the media,” she remarked, leading Diamond across the park towards a place where several cars were parked.
“I appreciate that,” he said. “Are you his PA or something?” She smiled. “Or something-I’ve no idea what you could possibly mean by that.”
“So you’re on the payroll?”
“I drive a car. That’s all.”
It was a smart car, a long, black limousine, the sort that would cause heads to turn in England but make no impression in New York. From some distance away, Joan used a remote contro
l to disengage the security system. The indicator lights flashed briefly and the locks clicked. Just as automatically, Diamond went towards the left side.
Shes-said quickly, “I’m driving.”
He came to his senses. “My mistake.”
Inside, she picked up the phone and pressed out a number. “This won’t take a minute,” she told him.
He sat back casually, trying to listen without appearing interested, but the voice on the end of the line was inaudible.
She said into the mouthpiece, “We got here��� Sure, he was��� Yes, Mr. Flexner, I know it. You want to speak to him?��� Fine, we won’t be long.” She replaced it between them and started up. “Talk about cloak and dagger. You won’t believe where we’re going.”
Deviously, he suggested, “The Trump Tower?”
It made no visible impression. “No.”
“Where, then?”
“It’s on the West Side.”
“You’re being mysterious yourself. Is it anywhere I’m likely to know?”
“I shouldn’t think so, but it’s one of the in places.”
He had a depressing image of a trendy nightclub, the sort of venue a wealthy young hotshot like David Flexner might frequent. “Am I dressed all right?”
“Just fine.”
She would keep this going indefinitely, and he didn’t know New York well enough to pin her down. He didn’t like secrecy when he was the one being kept in ignorance. They were heading north, along the Hudson River waterfront. Occasionally they had glimpses of the lights of New Jersey. A diversion sent them away from the river, and they picked up their northward route on 10th Avenue. The Lincoln Tunnel was signposted, but they passed the approach roads and soon after slowed. Joan the driver was obviously counting streets, so Diamond helped.
“Forty-seventh.”
“Thanks.”
“Which one are we looking for?”
“Forty-ninth will do.”
They turned left and tracked the street to its limit, under the girders of the highway. Soon they were back in a dockland area. Presently she turned onto a tarmac stretch between warehouses. Red hazard lights marked the tops of some cranes.
“He’s hereV said Diamond in disbelief.
“I told you it was cloak and dagger,” she said. She flashed the headlights a couple of times.
A figure came from the shadows of one of the warehouses. “Doesn’t look like David Flexner,” Diamond commented as if he knew him well.
“This is one of his team,” she said, touching the control to let the window down on Diamond’s side.
“I hope you’ll be waiting,” Diamond remarked to Joan as he prepared to get out “I wouldn’t want to walk back to my hotel from here.”
“I’m in no hurry,” she said.
The man stooped to look in. “Mr. Diamond?” The face was unshaven and smelt of liquor. As the face of an executive’s personal aide, it wasn’t convincing.
Diamond turned to look at the woman who called herself Joan. Even at this stage she returned a level look without a trace of perfidy. If this was a setup-and he now believed that it was-she had played her part immaculately. She’d disarmed him with her poise.
The man outside reached for the door handle. Diamond snapped down the lock.
Joan said, “Why did you do that?” And before she’d got out the words she had released the lock from the central control at her side.
The man outside swung open the door. He was built like the stevedore he probably was.
Joan shrilled, ‘Take him!”
Diamond jerked away from the door and made a grab for the steering wheel, whereupon Joan stabbed the sharp end of the keys into the back of his hand. The searing pain weakened his grip. She opened her door and leapt out on her side, yelling something across the quayside.
At the same time the thug leaned inside the car and put an arm lock around Diamond’s throat. It was painful and disabling, but it wasn’t enough to eject him. He braced his legs to press his back against the seat and groped for the man’s face, which was close to his own. He found a handful of hair, but he knew better than to work on that. You go for the eyes and ears.
He slid his hand across the surface of the face, got bitten badly in the fleshy area under his thumb, but succeeded in thrusting the same thumb hard into a fold of soft, moist flesh that could only be the man’s eyesocket.
There was a scream and the arm lock loosened.
But there were voices. Someone was shouting, “Get out of my way!”
Something swung in a huge arc towards Diamond’s skull. He couldn’t duck. He put up an arm a fraction too late. The impact was terrific. His face hit the dashboard and smashed through glass. A second blow crunched into his shoulder. He was lucky to be registering anything.
“You got him,” someone was saying.
What now? he thought. Do I come quietly, or play dead?
Someone had two hands under his armpits and dragged him off the car seat. He went limp before hitting the ground.
“Bastard.”
Words, he guessed, wouldn’t be enough for the man whose eye he had damaged. Two kicks in his kidneys followed. He couldn’t stop himself crying out in pain. For this, he got another mighty crack on the head.
He was losing consciousness.
“Grab a leg, will ya?”
He didn’t expect to survive. Joan had said this was the “in place” and now he knew what she meant. They were going to dump him in the Hudson River.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
He had swallowed a bellyful of foul-tasting liquid. His eyes were smarting and his nose was blocked. Repeatedly he spluttered and vomited and felt no better for it. Once or twice he opened his eyes and saw nothing. He was aware only of an occasional nudge against his right arm and shoulder. And that he was cold, indescribably cold. Parts of his body must have ached, but the cold subdued every other sensation.
He was face up, most of him submerged.
He remembered nothing. For all he knew, he could be lying in a primeval swamp.
Waiting to die.
A stronger jolt forced his arm across his chest, turning him almost on his side. More of the liquid washed over his face, filling his mouth and nostrils again.
If this was drowning, he wouldn’t recommend it as a way to go.
He turned his head and emptied his mouth.
Coughed.
Gasped for air.
Whimpered.
Your strength is going, Diamond. If you don’t do something to help yourself, this is where you go under forever.
He flung out his right arm. His hand slapped against a surface slimy to the touch, but solid. He’d hardly begun to examine it when he felt the structure being moved out of reach. He groped for whatever it was and missed, realizing as this occurred that the surface hadn’t moved, but he had. As he was towed back to the right, he tried again, made contact and felt for the texture under the slime. Maddeningly, the action of the water rocked him away again.
His brain was beginning to function now. He realized that what he had taken to be nudging was the action of a current pressing him against some kind of obstruction. He pressed his hand hopefully towards it, grasped an object strange to the touch that he let go when he recognized its shape and texture as that of a large, dead bird. Then felt his knuckles come into contact with something smoother, some kind of container, a beer can, perhaps. Mentally he was back in the twentieth century. He was part of the floating rubbish that collects along the banks and shores of waterways.
But there was some reason why the rubbish was trapped here. The current should have carried it downstream. Presumably he was caught against some obstruction.
As his thinking process sharpened, so did the cold-penetrating, demanding to be recognized, persuading him mat it was futile to struggle. Feebly, he reached out again.
His fingers found something that didn’t move, about the shape and thickness of a prison bar, only this was horizontal. He held on.
/> It was securely anchored. Without releasing his grip, he explored the shape, discovering a ninety-degree angle, a shorter length and then, coated with waterweed, the masonry from which it projected. He had found an iron rung attached to a stone structure.
He flexed his arm to draw closer. Then reached over and upwards with his left hand to see if a similar rung was located above the one he was holding.
The hand scrabbled against weed and stone.
Yes. His fingers curled around a second rung.
There was a ladder set into the wall.
But had he the strength to drag himself out of the water? Such an exercise would require an exceptional effort anytime, and he was weak.
Try, or die, he told himself. One rung at a time.
He released his hold on the first and reached up with his right hand. Gripped and pulled. Found himself too feeble. Got both hands on the rung and slackened his body. His shoulders were out of the water, and now one of them was giving him pain he hadn’t felt before. From the chest down he was submerged, and he just hung there, cursing his size, unable to achieve any more.
Then he was aware that his thighs were in contact with something. There was distinct pressure above bis knees.
He’d found a lower rung. The ladder extended below the waterline. Not so far down as his feet, unfortunately, but if he could raise his legs high enough to get a foothold on this rung, he’d have a chance of making progress.
He raised his knees to the required level but found that, being pudgy, his knees wouldn’t give him any purchase. The only way was to hoist himself up a couple of rungs by using his arms alone.
He breathed deeply and reached up. Got his fingers around the next rung and immediately felt such a searing pain in the shoulder that he let go. Now he knew he was injured. The right arm was virtually useless.
With the imminent prospect of sinking back into the filthy water, he braced himself for one more effort to go higher, reaching up with the left hand while holding on agonizingly with the right.
He made fingertip contact, got a grip and hauled himself higher one-handed, immediately releasing the right arm from its painful duty. The sense of achievement set the adrenaline flowing. Without pause, he forced the right hand into use again and held on, while jackknifing his body in an attempt to get a foothold on the lowest rung.
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