Out of the Sun

by Robert Goddard

  THIRTY-THREE

  “Globescope Incorporated. Martina speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Ann Mather please.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Norman Page.”

  “Putting you through, Mr. Page.”

  A few seconds of synthesized Sibelius, then: “Ann Mather here, Mr. Page. Mr. Lazenby’s very much looking forward to meeting you. When can you come in? Later today, perhaps?”

  “Today’s a little… difficult.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  “Weller…”

  “The end of the week’s filling up awful fast for Mr. Lazenby.”

  “All right. Tomorrow.”

  Ten thirty?”

  “Could we make it later? I… er…”

  “Four o’clock?”

  “Yes. OK. Four o’clock.”

  “I’ll enter it in his diary. Mr. Lazenby will see you and your colleague at four tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Page. Thank you for calling.”

  “Right. Well, thank Harry stopped as soon as he realized he was talking to himself. He had never found it a profitable exercise. Besides, soliloquies came ruinously expensive at Amtrak’s onboard call rates. He put the telephone down, extricated himself from the cramped cubicle and rocked and rolled to the rhythm of the Metroliner back to his seat.

  The train was about halfway between Philadelphia and New York. It was just after ten o’clock the following morning. Harry glared out at an anonymous stretch of overcast New Jersey hinterland, as if holding it personally responsible for this journey he should not have had to undertake. But argue it out with himself however he pleased, there really was no alternative. He had to find out what had happened to Woodrow. Preferably, he had to find him. Before the appointment he had just made with Lazenby.

  Perhaps he should not have made the appointment at all. But to have delayed any longer would have looked odd. And it is a short step from oddness to suspicion. Perhaps he should also have consulted Donna before leaving Washington. She could have boarded the train at Baltimore and shared whatever difficulties or dangers awaited him in New York. But she might have insisted on going instead of Harry. Probably would have, given how crucial his safety was to their plans. So maybe some old-fashioned concept of gallantry was actually the key to his behaviour.

  The train slowed fractionally as it swept through a station. Peering out, Harry managed to catch its name. Princeton Junction. He was not far from the University, then, where Torben Hammel-gaard had worked. Nor from the Institute for Advanced Study, where Athene Tilson had swapped high-flown theories with Albert Einstein forty years ago. And maybe not far from the answer either, if only he could learn what the question was.

  Harry paused long enough on arrival at Penn Station to lift Woodrow’s address from a telephone directory. Then he jumped into a taxi. The driver had to spend several minutes studying a pocket atlas of the city before starting off and Harry soon lost his bearings in the skyscrapered grid. They headed east and south from Penn, crossing Broadway and finishing up in a narrow defile between steepling soot-smeared apartment blocks. Fifth Avenue it emphatically was not.

  Woodrow’s apartment was in a five-storey building most of the way along. Six bell-pushes and their respective wires clung to the doorpost courtesy of a few strips of rain-loosened insulation tape. Harry went through the motions of ringing Woodrow’s. Then, after a response less few moments, he tried the bell next to it. The speaking grille, on which somebody had apparently been sick recently, spat out some static. Harry bellowed back an enquiry about Woodrow’s whereabouts. More static was followed by silence. Then, almost as an afterthought, the door-lock buzzed open.

  The hall was narrow and ill-lit. A pool of grey dusk descended from some lofty fanlight onto brown lino and the lower treads of seemingly endless stairs. Harry craned his neck to look up them as he entered. And met the gaze of a swarthy stubble-chinned fellow in a grubby T-shirt, who was staring down at him from the second-floor landing.

  “You sure you’re the Harley-Davidson type?” he asked, leaning out over the banisters. “I wanna sell it to a serious biker, y’know.”

  Harry grinned defensively. “I’m not here about a motorbike. I’m looking for Woodrow Hackensack.”

  The man in the T-shirt scowled. “That case, we’re both outa luck. He ain’t here.”

  “Do you know where I’d find him?”

  “Bellevue, the paramedics said. But he could be in the morgue by now for all I know. Looked a candidate for it when he left here, that’s a fact.”

  “What happened?”

  “Fell down the stairs. Did himself quite a bit of damage. But what d’you expect, when a man that size starts high-diving without a pool to land in?” He sniggered. “An accident-prone escapologist. Ain’t that something?”

  “You’re sure it was an accident?”

  “What else, man?”

  “You saw it happen?”

  “No. I was out. Came back to find an ambulance out front and old Woodrow being hauled through the door on a stretcher.”

  “Who called the ambulance?”

  “Martha Gravett. Door across the hall from where you’re standing. She’ll tell you all about it. Just so long as you don’t mind her telling you all about her frigging family tree as well.”

  Martha Gravett, a frail but dignified old lady attended by an almost equally frail but dignified Cairn terrier, proved much more succinct than her neighbour had predicted.

  “I heard an almighty thump about eleven o’clock yesterday morning and when I came out here there was poor Mr. Hackensack, all crumpled up on the floor at the foot of the stairs. He was out cold. And it looked to me like his leg was broke. I came straight back in here and dialled 911. Then I stayed with him until the ambulance arrived.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He came round a bit and started mumbling. But nothing you could understand.”

  “He was definitely alone when it happened?”

  “Of course. What can you be Her expression changed. “Well, now you ask, I suppose…”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just… When I came out here and found him, I thought I saw, out of the corner of my eye … the door to the street swinging shut, as if… somebody had just left. But I guess I must have been mistaken. If there had been someone, they’d have stayed to help. Wouldn’t they?”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Woodrow Hackensack was not in the morgue. He was actually sitting up perkily in bed on a mound of fluffy white pillows in a modern air-conditioned wing of Bellevue Hospital, munching a bagel and surveying a view of the East River through an adjacent window. Had it not been for his bandaged forehead and the thigh-to-ankle plaster on his right leg, he would have looked like a man occupying a hospital bed under false pretences. As it was, his immobility should have worried Harry more than it did. For the moment, he was simply relieved to find him alive.

  “Great to see you, Harry. I tried to call you earlier but you’d already left. I reckoned you might be on your way here. Sorry I wasn’t in touch yesterday. Matter of fact, I wasn’t in touch with much after that fall. Concussion, so they tell me. But I’m feeling fine now.”

  “What about the leg?”

  “Broken tibia. Plus some wrenched knee ligaments. No big deal. I should be up and hopping around by the end of the week.”

  “I’ve arranged to meet Lazenby tomorrow afternoon.”

  Hackensack grimaced. “That’s kinda soon for me. Can’t you put it off?”

  “Till when? Our fax said we’d only be in Washington for a few days. I don’t think so, do you?”

  “I could try and talk the doc into letting me out on crutches. Just for the day, maybe.” He caught Harry’s eye and nodded ruefully. “Well, maybe not.”

  “I’ll have to go alone.”

  That’s crazy. Deception works by distraction: the illusionist’s big secret. With me along to distract Lazenby, you have a chance. Without me…”

&
nbsp; “I don’t see what else I can do.”

  “Donna won’t let you take the risk.”

  “Donna needn’t know. Have you spoken to her?”

  “Nah.” He glanced meaningfully around at the other occupants of the ward and lowered his voice to a whisper. Too many ears on stalks. Deafness sure ain’t these people’s problem. I only called you as a last resort.”

  There you are then.”

  “But I’ll call Donna if I have to.” Hackensack was suddenly serious. “Don’t do it, Harry.”

  Harry shrugged. “All right.”

  “You mean that?”

  Tell me about the fall. How did it happen?”

  “Plain stupidity. I was leaving in a hurry. Aiming to catch the noon train. Taking the stairs two at a time. I guess I must have missed my footing. Simple as that.”

  “You guessT

  “Well, it’s all a mite hazy. Short-term memory loss is pretty common with concussion, they tell me. To be honest with you, I don’t remember much between setting off down the stairs from my apartment and waking up in here. The rest is kinda like the Chinese flag: red with a lot of stars.”

  “Martha Gravett thinks there may have been somebody on the staircase with you.”

  “Does she? Well, Martha thinks her dead sister from Jersey City calls by for tea most afternoons. I wouldn’t set much store by anything she says.”

  “She seemed sane enough to me.”

  “You don’t live above her. There was nobody with me, Harry. Believe me.”

  “But you just said you couldn’t remember.”

  “I’d remember being pushed, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Would you?”

  “You think the people who caught up with Torben caught up with me?”

  “Maybe.”

  They must be losing their touch, then. As fatal accidents go, mine was pretty ineffective.”

  “Perhaps you just got lucky.”

  “You call this lucky?” Hackensack rolled his eyes. “I spent the entire weekend turning myself into a well-dressed financier. Only to finish up in here, with the pants of my Wall Street suit ripped from ass to ankle and my memory shot full of holes. Most people would reckon that was about as unlucky as a guy gets in an average day.”

  “OK, OK.” Harry held up his hands appeasingly. “I’m on your side. Remember thatT

  “Sure. And I remember the favour I agreed to do for you too. How could I forget? It’s partly because of it that I slipped on the stairs.”

  “How do you make that out?”

  “I went up to Columbia last week and asked around about your friend and mine, Carl Dobermann. Drew a blank. There’s nobody on the manual staff who goes back that far. Nobody on the academic staff either, far as I could figure out. And Dobermann ain’t the stuff of local legend. Like I told you, students go loco for a pastime. Memorable it is not. I trawled through the 1958 index for the Times and Post. No entry for Dobermann. He’s a dog without a scent.”

  “What’s this got to do with falling downstairs?”

  “Jeez, sorry, I keep losing my drift.” Hackensack bounced the heel of his hand off his bald patch in self-reproach. “I got the name and address of a lab technician who’d been at Columbia more than forty years. Retired about eighteen months ago. Isaac Rosenbaum. Lives with his daughter now, down in Philadelphia. That’s the point. I knew you’d want to hear what I’d found out, so I planned to stop off in Philadelphia and look the old guy up. That’s why I was in such an all-fired hurry to catch the noon train. So I’d have time for the stopover. And this’ he tapped his plaster-cast ‘is where hurrying got me.”

  “Which means I’m to blame?”

  “Sure. And you can make up for it by reducing my stress levels. They need to be rock-bottom to expedite a swift recovery.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “Call off your meeting with Lazenby.”

  “Didn’t I say I would?”

  “You did,” Hackensack grinned. “But I didn’t believe you.”

  When Harry left half an hour later, he had still not convinced Hackensack he meant to cancel his appointment with Lazenby.

  This was hardly surprising, since he had not convinced himself either. Why turn back when he had come so far? Why give his nerves the chance to fail? They might hold for twenty-four hours. But they surely would not last until Hackensack came out of hospital. In the end, it did not matter if Hackensack knew he was being fobbed off. There was nothing he could do about it, apart from contacting Donna. And there was nothing she could do about it even if he did.

  Harry boarded the four o’clock train back to Washington, armed with Isaac Rosenbaum’s address and a firm intention of stopping off in Philadelphia to hunt him down. But fatigue proved stronger than his intentions. He had slept little and eaten less since his anxious vigil at Union Station the night before. Now, his anxiety relieved on one score at least, he plunged into the deep sleep of a body running on empty. To be woken by the conductor three hours later in Washington.

  It was out of the question to return to Philadelphia at that stage. Irritating as it was, Harry concluded that his business with Mr. Rosenbaum would simply have to wait. He trudged out into the Washington night and headed for his hotel.

  Halfway along E Street, he was lured into the Hard Rock Cafe by the doorman’s promise of draught Bass. The beer turned out to be of such excellence that he found himself reminiscing to the barman about the arrival of the first juke-box in Swindon and his youthful admiration for Elvis Presley. As a result it was nearly ten o’clock when he entered the lobby of the Hay-Adams, walked unsteadily to the desk and asked for his key. Only for sobriety to pay him a sudden and unexpected call.

  “Glad to see your colleague was able to join us after all, Mr. Page,” the clerk said cheerily.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Cornford. I wasn’t on duty when he booked in this afternoon, but I see from the register ‘

  “Cornford?”

  “Yes, sir. We gave him the room next to yours.” He glanced at the key-board. “And it looks like you’ll find him in.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Harry lit another cigarette and gazed up at the southern facade of the Hay-Adams Hotel, checking his calculations for the umpteenth time. Those were definitely the windows of his room on the third floor. And those were just as definitely the windows next to them of the room occupied by whoever was posing as Bill Cornford. Golden lamplight seeped through the thick curtains, but no hand twitched them back to reveal the identity of his impersonator. Whether, strictly speaking, appropriating somebody else’s alias qualified as impersonation was a point Harry did not propose to dwell on. He glanced nervously over his shoulder and commenced another circuit of Lafayette Square, pummelling his weary brain into some kind of logical thought.

  What should he do? Get as far as possible from the Hay-Adams as quickly as possible? Or walk up to the third floor, knock boldly on the door next to his and see who opened it? The answer might be revealing as well as dangerous. So much that had dogged his path since leaving England had been unseen and unattestable, a threat made more potent by its elusiveness. Now, within the reassuringly solid walls of the Hay Adams Hotel, there was a chance to corner his foe, to look him in the eye and know him for who and what he was. And it was a chance he knew he had to take.

  Ten minutes later, Harry emerged from the hotel lift and walked slowly along the third-floor corridor, easing his key from his pocket as he went. He paused by the door before his, but heard nothing, not even a footstep, within. Then he moved on to his room, slid the key gently into the lock, turned it and entered, closing the door softly behind him.

  The walls were thick enough to absorb most sound. And a maid had already been in to switch on the lights, draw the curtains and turn down the bed. He went straight to the bedside table, picked up the telephone and dialled room service.

  “Page here. Room 331.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Could I have
a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Right away.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Delivered to room 330. I’ll be there.”

  “Be with you directly, sir.”

  Harry replaced the handset and sat slowly down on the bed. Then he lit a cigarette and listened to the silence in which his heart beat louder and faster than a funeral-drum. It would not be long now, though it would seem for ever. Five or ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Then he would know.

  Or would he? A sudden crazy thought formed in his mind. Perhaps there was nobody in room 330. Perhaps there never had been. Like whatever had visited David at the Skyway Hotel and met Torben on the bridge in Copenhagen; like the push on the Metro platform, the trip on the stairs, the blocked flue in Montreal: it could touch but not be touched; it could see but not be seen.

  He rose, circled the bed and leant his head against the wall, willing his ear to detect something, anything, that would tether his anxieties to physical reality. Somebody was in there. They had to be. They had signed the register, ridden the lift and tipped the porter. They existed. Yet he could hear nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was as if

  Then he did hear a sound, though from a different direction. The opening and closing of the service lift, followed by footsteps in the corridor: a firm waiterly tread. He padded swiftly across the room. As he reached the door, there was a tap at the next one along. “Room service,” a voice announced.

  Harry turned the handle, edged the door open and peered out round the jamb. The waiter had his back to him, one hand fanned beneath a tray on which a bottle of champagne stood in an ice-bucket flanked by two glasses, the other hand raised, index knuckle cocked. “Room service,” he repeated. Before he could knock again, the door opened, hinged to Harry’s blind side. It snagged on a chain. There was a mumbled remark from within. The waiter smiled, shrugged and pulled out a chit. ‘330,” he said. “Champagne ordered by Mr. Page. Took the order myself.”