At last Frederika's eyelids blinked, not once but several times in rapid succession. Her lips squeezed tightly together and curled in one corner, betraying the resistance in her mind.
"You will obey me without question," DeVilbiss prompted, "or you will never speak to your father. Kiss me!"
Frederika obeyed, touching her lips to his. She had stopped resisting, but she also gave nothing.
DeVilbiss rose from the bed. "Get dressed, go home, go to sleep. You feel very good. You will remain in this pleasant state for a very long time. Only when I say the words 'your lost teddy bear' will you come fully awake. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Good. When I snap my fingers you will remember nothing after our sex in the shower. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
DeVilbiss snapped his fingers. He saw a flash of puzzlement sweep across Frederika's face. Then the hypnotic suggestion locked in. She smiled at him and rolled off the opposite side of the bed, moving gracefully to the bathroom to retrieve her clothes.
***
DeVilbiss waited until Frederika had driven away before closing the door. He tightened the sash around his robe and walked toward the kitchen, to prepare himself a cup of unadulterated tea. He would will himself to sleep in a few hours, but for now he preferred to relax and gloat over his conquest of the strong-willed woman. Even more deliciously, if Little Nick had been getting his invisible, voyeuristic jollies over the episode, from the bathroom to the time Frederika left the house, he could not have guessed that the session was anything more than unbridled concupiscence and the creation of a hypnotic trance purely to help get the scrolls. If Nick interrogated him and asked why Frederika needed her passport, he could say that he wished to keep her his sex slave for a few months and then kill her. A good pot of tea would also help him figure out what to do with the speed-reading reverend, who might momentarily skip exactly to the passages that could undo not only Old Nick and Company but Vincent as well. He glanced around the room but, as always, he saw nothing.
***
Simon's ears perked up at the sound of the automobile engine, as they had at twenty others that had driven by in the past hour. This one, however, turned into the Vanderveen driveway and pulled into the garage. Simon snapped his novel shut and hastened into the kitchen. Relief surged through him, lightening his stride. He lit a flame under the pot he had already half-filled with milk and set to work popping the lid on a tin of cocoa. The back door opened and Frederika entered.
"Hi," Simon said, as casually as he could.
"Hello," Frederika greeted neutrally. "Midnight snack?"
Simon glanced at his watch, as he had done ten times in the past hour. "Actually, it's just eleven."
"I told you I wouldn't be home late," she said, shrugging out of her coat.
"I've made enough for two if you'd like some."
Frederika stepped close to the range. "No, thanks." She inhaled deeply. "But it smells delicious."
Simon stared at the hematoma on the side of her neck, a hickey of classic proportions. With her eyes closed to the pleasure of inhaling the chocolate, Frederika missed the slackening of his jaw and the veiling of his eyes. Simon turned away, ostensibly to fetch a cup and saucer.
"I'm very tired," Frederika told him. "I think I'll turn in. Good night." She took a couple steps, then turned. "I said 'good night,' Simon."
"Good night," he answered.
Frederika's eyebrows furrowed. A trace expression of guilt clouded her face. She noted the sudden heaviness of his movement. "See you in the morning," she added.
Simon nodded with his back to her. He listened as she climbed the stairs. He snapped the lid back on the cocoa box and dumped the milk down the drain.
CHAPTER TEN
December 21
Knowledge is of two kinds-we know a subject ourselves or we know where we can find information on it.
-Samuel Johnson
Simon hurried into the empty room, shut the door and locked it behind him. The owner of the office had left town for the holidays, but he had given his librarian friend a duplicate key to the space more than a year earlier. Even so, Simon's attitude was furtive. The professor whose name was on the door was unwittingly lending not only his office but his identity.
Simon opened his wallet, took out a sheet of paper with a telephone number and several lines of dialogue on it and flattened it on the desk. He dialed the number and waited tensely for an answer.
"This is Katerina Callahan." The voice belonged to a woman of some years, dry and with a slight tremor.
Simon labored in a breath and set his forefinger on his script. "Mrs. Callahan, my name is Neil Yoskin. I'm a friend of your niece, Frederika Vanderveen."
"I see. Is she all right?" the woman asked.
"As a matter of fact, she isn't. I'm a professor of psychology at Princeton University, and a therapist in private practice here." During his undergraduate days, Simon had acted in both the university's Theatre Intime and Triangle Club. In later years he played bit parts for the McCarter Theatre repertory company in town. With his script in front of him, he was confident he could play this role. He was also thankful that he possessed a naturally low voice, which over the telephone lent him added years and an air of authority. His ear told him he had kept the nervousness from his voice; he hoped his pseudoprofessional jargon sounded equally convincing.
"While Frederika is a friend and not a patient, I can't help registering serious professional alarm," Simon continued. "I've noted signs of suicidal tendencies, a-"
"Suicide!" Mrs. Callahan exclaimed. "Has she hurt herself?"
"No, ma'am," Simon said. "I said tendencies: growing periods of depression, an avoidance of friends, and so forth."
"Has she been hospitalized?"
"No. I'm calling for your help before that becomes necessary," Simon pushed. "I'm convinced this isn't a passing thing, such as Seasonal Affective Disorder syndrome." He paused, but the woman seemed willing to listen. "I realize this call is irregular and, in fact, unprofessional. Ordinarily I'd ask you to visit my office if you lived closer, or else would write a letter of inquiry. However, your answers to my questions would no doubt generate more questions and more correspondence. I'm afraid we may not have that luxury of time."
"I see. May I call you back in a few minutes, Professor?" Katerina asked.
"Certainly," Simon said. He gave the woman the office telephone number and hung up. She might have been in the middle of something. More likely, she would phone back through the switchboard, checking on this alleged professor of psychology. Simon stood and paced the little office. He was beginning to wear a path in the rug when the telephone jangled.
"Hello," he answered simply, in case the call was from someone unexpected.
"Dr. Yoskin?"
"Yes, Mrs. Callahan." Simon sat and grabbed his script. "Thanks for calling back so promptly."
"Do you have many questions?"
"That depends on your answers," he returned, carefully.
"Because, frankly, I haven't seen or talked ot her in… four years."
The admission jarred Simon. Considering that Frederika had so few relatives, it seemed strange that she would make no attempt to keep in touch with her aunt. He mastered his surprise and said, "I believe the problem arises from long before that. Did you see your niece much when she was young?"
"Constantly. Before I married, I lived in my brother's house."
Katerina had probably been the "nanny" whose room Simon now occupied. Dean Krieger had directed him to potential paydirt. "In your estimation, was Frederika a happy child?"
"I would say so. She wasn't an easy little girl, but then that would be normal for an only child who happens also to be beautiful and intelligent, wouldn't it?"
"How do you mean 'not easy'?" Simon said.
"One minute she was off in her own world, nonresponsive to conversation. The next she'd be chattering like a monkey, impossible to shut up. And she was unreasonably timid."
&nbs
p; "Do you have any idea why?"
"No. As I say, it was unreasonable; just her nature."
"So she was basically a happy child."
"Yes."
"But did she have a happy childhood?"
"Can one be one without having the other?" the woman countered. Her early sounds of concern had diminished.
"Yes," Simon assured. "But, in your assessment, this wasn't the case with Frederika?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Did she suffer any serious childhood illnesses?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the sort that might have caused permanent neurological damage."
"No." Her reply was curt. Simon had no idea when she would reach her limit of patience. He rushed on, to deny her time to think.
"Your brother traveled frequently," he prompted.
"That's right. His wife often accompanied him. That was my reason for living in the house… to take care of it and Frederika."
"Did they travel often when she was very young, before she was six?"
"Yes." Now her voice was clearly becoming irritated.
"How did Frederika react to this?"
"She understood."
"She's mentioned more than once, often with emotion, her father's demands for perfection. She seems fixated on the subject. Did you notice a fear of displeasing him?"
"Fear? Of course not! Their relationship was very loving," she said, with icy vehemence.
"I'm sure you love your brother still," Simon pushed, "but preserving his good memory ought not to outweigh his daughter's safety. I'm talking about the possibility of suicide, Mrs. Callahan. I must ask you, did your brother traumatize his child in some way?"
"Frederik was not the cause of any problems his daughter has," Katerina snapped. "She was traumatized because she was abandoned! If you want to know who hurt her, ask her mother!" Immediately, there was a sharp intake of air on the woman's end of the line, as if she were trying to suck back her last words.
Simon's surprise startled him upright in the chair. "Frederika says her mother's dead. But she's alive?"
"No." Her tone had made a mercurial change. "Of course she's dead. I was… only speaking figuratively." Then she was silent.
"Figuratively," Simon echoed, to fill in the gap.
"That's all I have to say. If Frederika isn't your patient, then send her to a colleague and mind your own business," the woman snapped. Her delivery was harsh, but a thread of fear was woven through it, destroying her intended effect. She hung up an instant after her last sentence. Simon was glad; her words had rendered him speechless. Speaking figuratively indeed! He didn't have to be the real Neil Yoskin to hear the truth behind her denial: as far as Katerina Callahan believed, Alice Vanderveen was alive.
***
As Simon ran across campus to the library, his mind outraced his feet. What was most incredible was not the secret itself but that it had been preserved from both sides. Frederika's mother must have made no attempt to contact her child in all the years since abandoning Frederika, even after her ex-husband had died. Had her silence been maintained for the same unknown purpose as the Vanderveen family's? Simon resolved to put aside speculation and concentrate instead on finding the real answer. He dashed into the library's Microforms room and hunted up the index for the Princeton Packet. Frederika was twenty-four. He guessed that her parents had married a year before her birth-1964. He quickly found the reference for the wedding and then hauled out the proper roll of microfilm. The ceremony had been held on the second Saturday in June. The bride's maiden name was Lydell. She came from Chestnut Hill, on the outskirts of Philadelphia, and had attended Girls' High School. She had a mother, Janet, a father, Thomas, and a sister, Jennifer, who had been the maid of honor. Her occupation was cited as secretary for the FAO office of the United Nations. The wedding was celebrated at Nassau Presbyterian Church. The remainder of the column was devoted to the famous Princeton resident and groom, but Simon felt certain that the eight facts given about Alice Vanderveen would be enough for any detective worth his salt. He went to the place in the Reference room where the telephone directories were shelved, not bothering to conceal himself from Frederika. She saw him, smiled, and returned to her work. Simon took the Philadelphia and Suburbs directory to a desk and flipped it open. Three of his leads evaporated. The only listing for Lydell was an inner city address, for someone with the initials G. A. A row of pay phones was tucked into a corner of the foyer. Simon paid his toll, dialed the number, and after three rings heard the hollow, mechanical sounds of an answering machine.
"This is Arthur Lydell," the decidedly black voice greeted. "I'm not able to come to the phone right now, so please leave me a message."
Simon declined, setting the handpiece back on its cradle. Alice had to be nearing fifty; her parents were likely dead or retired to sunnier climes. Her sister, Jennifer, no doubt had acquired a new last name. Simon stared through the glass wall at Frederika, who had her back to him. What would Mike Hammer do now, he asked himself. His half-serious thought dredged up the memory of two books Simon had chanced upon in the library, books that were sure to be common detective reference works. They were obverse and reverse sides of the same coin, entitled How to Find Almost Anyone and How to Create a New Identity. The latter's author wrote about getting oneself successfully lost, applying for a driver's license and Social Security card, and establishing credit. The former was an ingenious primer on getting information out of telephone directories, the post office, county and state records offices, public utilities, and all sorts of other resources for finding persons who had hied for parts unknown. Simon had found both books abstractly fascinating but had never dreamed he would have occasion to use either one.
Simon looked up the books' reference numbers in the card catalog and found that both were shelved on the B floor. He took the Catalog area's elevator and immediately regretted not having run around to the staircase. The library's elevators were built for holding great weight and not for speed. He once overheard a wag declare that "I fell in and out of love with a woman between C floor and Two." Simon glanced at his watch. He had already used up fifty minutes of his lunch hour making the telephone call and researching the wedding. He stepped out of the elevator and turned left.
All around him lay a maze of shelves, filled with books. He worked in no ordinary library. In size and importance both, this one ranked among the top twenty in North America. Its floor space rivaled that of most shopping malls. One corridor on C level ran 400 feet in an uninterrupted line. For someone without Simon's degree of expertise, it was overwhelming. He moved surely through the stacks, in and out of the deep shadows. To conserve energy, only those shelves in use were lighted; he had once estimated that the library had at least five thousand on/off switches. Simon turned into the aisle that held the first book, his eyes sweeping along the numbers, praying it had not been borrowed. But as he found it and reached out, another approach came to him, as if his consciousness had been strolling the corridors in the vast library of his mind and had switched on a light, illuminating something. He left the book untouched and hurried out of the library's core, taking the main stairs two at a time. Simon darted his head into his superior's office, pulled it out as quickly and looked at Willy Spencer, who sat at his perpetual perch in front of the Ahriman scrolls.
"Have you seen Dr. Gould?" Simon asked him.
Reverend Spencer's face swept up, wearing a scowl. Then he recorded that the interrupter was Simon and became less severe. "Dr. Gould? He said he was going to lunch at Prospect House. Went about ten minutes ago, I think."
"Would you tell him I won't be in this afternoon?" Simon asked.
"Of course." Willy stared over his reading glasses at Simon. Concern deepened the fine webbing of wrinkles around his chestnut-colored eyes. "Come here," he bid. When Simon had, he placed his hand on the librarian's forehead. "Definite fever," he judged, "and you look flushed. Get right to bed, son, or your whole holiday'll be ruined. Scat! I'll tell Dr. G
ould."
Simon thanked the old scholar and grabbed his coat. On the way out he felt his forehead and found it unusually warm.
***
At a few minutes past one o'clock, Simon stood in the Vanderveen mansion basement, thumbing through the senior yearbook Alice Lydell had left behind. He found Alice's photograph and, beneath it, what passed in such books for a biography.
ALICE Q. LYDELL
"Lizzie"… one of Mr. Cheswick's rowdies… oh, those baby blues… that puke green Bel Air… Queen's Court… headed for NYC… 50 Bayberry Ln Social Science Club 3, 4; Chorus 2, 3, 4.
Simon paged carefully through the book, searching for more information. A color photograph of the Senior Ball Queen and her court had been hand-pasted in. Alice stood on the step just below the queen and to her right. The queen was a girl named Robin Geisel-perky, petite, and with a winning smile, but not nearly as beautiful as Alice. In the informal photos section he found a snapshot of Alice and Robin arm in arm, sticking their tongues out at the camera, with the Washington Monument in the background. Simon paged to Robin's biography. She was described as "the future Mrs. William Agress."
Simon carried the yearbook up to the kitchen. Frederika had brought home several out-of-date telephone directories discarded by the library. In the Philadelphia and Suburbs book he found a listing for a Mr. William Agress, living in Mt. Airy. He dialed the number and rapped his pencil impatiently against the edge of the counter until the connection was made. A woman answered.
"Hello!" Simon said, enthusiastically. "I'm Richard Stern, from the counseling office at Girls' High. May I speak with Robin Agress?"
"This is she," the voice replied. Her tone was pleasant and expectant.
"Hello," he said again. "As you may know, your class's thirtieth anniversary is coming up next year."
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