“Okay, what else?”
“Let’s see. The Visitors over in Northampton have been trying to get broadcast licenses of various kinds lately, giving her as a reference. As a matter of fact, about seven, eight months ago Northampton actually applied for a license and permission to build a TV studio here in Freeport, can you imagine that? They wanted to use the Regency Theater. We turned them down, of course.”
“I should hope so.”
“If I were you, Jack, I’d go back and, ah, talk to Carpentier again.”
File Eight: Wednesday Morning
Jack found dealing with his first two clients the next morning anything but easy. He was impatient to hear from the police. There could be no excuses this time, he thought while he should have been listening to his second client. The twenty-four hours were up, and Emily was officially a “missing person.”
After writing up his notes, and with no further clients until one, he at last called and was told simply that the investigation was under way. There was nothing he could do to spur them on so he decided to take Mallard’s advice and talk with Vanessa Carpentier again.
Though he had no appointment, he had no difficulty in getting in to see the president of WCTY-TV.
“Have you heard any word on Emily’s whereabouts?” Carpentier asked by way of greeting.
“Nothing. At least the police now acknowledge that she’s missing for real, and supposedly are doing something about it.”
“I suppose that’s encouraging.”
“Not really. But I’ve been able to learn a few things on my own. For example, I know that Emily had been taking some pictures at the Regency Theater just before her disappearance. Also that the Visitors of Northampton tried to get the theater to use for a broadcast studio here. And you worked with the Visitors about six months ago, in Northampton, helping them set up a studio there. The common connection is the Regency. I’m hoping you might be able to tell me something about it.”
“I know,” she said, growing distant, “that it was built in 1923, that it’s a fine example of the architecture of that period, and that it is going to be torn down soon.”
“But why would Emily’s pictures of the theater cause the mob to kidnap her? Why were the Visitors interested in the Regency?’
“Don’t you think those questions are better left to the police?”
“Perhaps, but they don’t seem inclined to ask them.”
“I really don’t think I can help you,” Carpentier said. “Yes, I did work with Northampton, six months ago, but that was all very carefully investigated and cleared. And at that time, they did mention something about an interest in the Regency, regretting that they had not been granted permission to build there or a license to broadcast.”
“Why in heaven’s name did they want a TV studio in Freeport?”
“Dr. Page, they really didn’t confide in me. All I know is that they said they wanted to ‘serve’ the naturalized Visitors in Freeport. I didn’t believe that for a minute, of course.”
“Of course,” Jack said dryly. “The next question is, how does organized crime fit in?”
“Do you think the mob has something to do with this?” “Three men, at least one of them known to be connected with the underworld, tried to mug me yesterday afternoon. It was from them that I learned about the Regency photos. ” “This is getting scary,” Carpentier said. “Vincent Kline seems to have a finger in every pie. Thank heavens he’s not been able to horn in on WCTY.”
“Or the radio stations,” Jack said. “Or the newspapers. ” “You seem to know a lot.”
“I know practically nothing. And that’s the problem. It was a mobster who tried to attack me today, but the only connection I can see is between the Regency and Northampton’s Visitors. That’s why I’ve come to you, since you’ve dealt with them, and might know something that will help. ” “I don’t think I do.”
“Look, any little thing might be important. Can you tell me something about what you did up in Northampton?” “I’d really rather not. You have to understand, I’m a bit sensitive about having worked with them at all.”
“Yes, but I also know that the investigation of your activities there gave you a clean bill of health—”
“Just who have you been talking to?”
“A friend of mine in city government. But can’t you see? Emily took photos of the Regency, the Visitors were interested in the Regency for a studio, you helped them build a studio in Northampton. It all ties together. I’m not accusing you, I just think you might know something you’re not aware of.”
“I really doubt that. And I don’t see a connection at all. You said it was the mob who kidnapped Emily. That’s the connection I see. As for what I did in Northampton, that’s none of your business.”
“Much of what you did is on public record.”
“I know that, dammit. But I have my reputation to consider. Aside from any personal scandal, there are other reasons for me to be discreet. All I can say is that my job there involved things that are sensitive, both on a racial and a technical level.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out about.” “If it’s in the public record, you’re welcome to the information. Look, I don’t like the Visitors much, but there were some technical subjects that I just can’t talk about, especially with someone whom I don’t really know all that well.”
“All right,” Jack said, “forget that. After all, as I see it, the crucial point is the Regency Theater. Northampton did not get permission to use the Regency. It was photos of the Regency that got Emily into trouble. Can you think of anything about that theater itself that might give me a clue as to who has Emily, or why they took her?”
“It would have made a fine studio,” Carpentier said, somewhat wistfully. “It’s really a shame it’s going to be tom down. No, I can’t—now wait a minute.” She sat back and stared at the ceiling.
“Now I remember,” she said after a long moment. “When Emily came here Sunday night she was supposed to have brought a folio of photos illustrating some of her ideas for the redecoration. But she’d brought the wrong folder by mistake. She just glanced at it, and I didn’t really see what was in it, but I’m sure one of the pictures was of the Regency. She forgot to take them with her when she left. ” “Aha!” Jack said. “Then that’s why she was coming hack here Monday night, after she called me, to get the photos back.”
“She never came here,” Carpentier said, “I was here Monday, and I would have seen her.”
“She never got past the front door,” Jack said. “Didn’t Torino tell you? Sorensen saw her coming in, just before he had his accident. She saw somebody coming from the elevators, turned and ran out. And I’ll bet you that was when she was kidnapped, right outside this building.”
“I can’t believe that. That’s terrible.”
“And the photos are still here. Can you find them for me, please?”
“Certainly.” She spoke into her intercom, and a moment later her secretary brought in a large folder. Carpentier curiously flipped through it. “This is it, all right,” she said, handing it to Jack. “Exteriors, interiors, she must have gone through the whole building.”
Jack glanced at the first few pictures. The photography was amateur but good, concentrating on architectural details.
“They don’t look very special to me,” he said. “I don’t know what I was expecting. I’ll have to look them over in more detail, later.”
“Shouldn’t they be returned to Emily’s office?”
“Of course, Dahlgren may need them. He’s Emily’s partner. Hasn’t he gotten in touch with you?”
“No, I haven’t heard a word. If you’re going by there, why don’t you take the photos back with you. It will be easier than mailing them.”
“I’d be glad to. I want to talk to Dahlgren and Joyce about what I’ve uncovered so far.”
“Do you suppose this Dahlgren can take on the job I talked with Emily about? I hate to sound unfeeling, but th
e
decorating still has to be done, and if Emily is missing, I’ll have to go elsewhere.”
“Probably the best thing would be for you to get in touch with Dahlgren and talk to him about it.”
“I’ll do that,” Carpentier said.
“Thanks for the pictures,” Jack said, and left.
File Nine: Wednesday Midday
Jack wanted to look at Emily’s photos before giving them to Marvin Dahlgren, so he stopped in for some lunch at the Wendy’s across from her offices. This time he went inside, took one of the larger tables, and spread the pictures out while he ate.
There were sixty of the eight-by-tens. As he flipped through them he could see nothing that could have any possible interest to anybody except architects or interior designers. Until he got to the last three.
They were part of a sequence of shots, somewhat out of order, of the interior of the auditorium, taken from the stage. The theater, once a Loews which had somehow failed to get on the National Register, was 1920’s gloptious, with painted plaster arches, columns, false boxes, statuary, all sort of a Moorish garden setting. Though sadly neglected, the grandeur was still evident. Besides the main floor there was a loge with balcony seats behind and, rather unusual, several private boxes on either side at loge level.
Each of these was set in a molded and painted plaster frame representing some kind of fairy castle window, with spires, false stone work, and other over-done features, also in painted plaster. As far as he could judge, all had been taken with a telephoto and illuminated by a strong strobe-flash.
But it was those three that were important. Because there were people in them.
The first photo was focused on the center box of the three on the left hand side, and the men were in the one furthest from the stage, which was only half within the picture. He couldn’t tell how many men there were, but he could see three and part of a fourth. They were not facing the camera, and from what he could tell were totally unaware that their picture was being taken. Jack could not make out any faces.
The second photo, however, was a different story. This time the box was nearly centered, and seven startled faces stared out of the shadows at the camera. Emily must have taken the picture just seconds after the first one.
Jack recognized two of the faces straight off'. One was Rudy Salanis, and the other was his pig-faced companion. Both were closer to the front of the box, and hence better illuminated by the flash, which cast strong shadows elsewhere.
Toward the center, a little further back, and somewhat less clear were three men who were obviously the center of whatever was going on up in that box. Jack knew Vincent Kline’s face from innumerable newspaper stories and news broadcasts. In his fifties, he was slender, handsome, and stood with almost a military posture.
The second man was Charles Anthony Oswald. Oswald, in his sixties, heavy-set but still good-looking with a full head of graying black hair, was Freeport’s most influential citizen. A banker and financier, he had friends in city government, in business, and in industry as well. What the hell, Jack wondered, were Kline and Oswald doing together, secretly, in the box of an abandoned theater?
Jack thought he should know the third man, but for a moment he couldn’t place the face. The two men on the far side of the box were complete strangers to him. Their position and posture indicated that, like Salanis and pig-face, they were subsidiary to the three men in the center.
Jack stared at that third face for a long moment before it suddenly clicked. He was just used to seeing that face above the red uniform of a high Visitor official. It was Dwight, who held an important post over in Northampton, something to do with human-Visitor relations.
If Kline and Oswald’s presence together there was disturbing, Dwight’s was even more so. He was wearing a three-piece pin-stripe suit instead of his usual uniform. He had no business being in Freeport in the first place. Those few Visitors who were allowed to come across the bay had to remain in uniform so that they could be easily identified. A Visitor in human clothing, unless he or she was a registered Natural, was automatically assumed to be a spy. In fact, in Freeport, human clothing was de facto proof of illegal entry, the sentence for which was death.
The third photo, centering on the loge entrance just beyond the boxes, again showed only part of the box in which the men had been meeting. In that photo, all those who were included in the shot had their backs turned, and appeared to be hurrying away. Again, the picture had to have been taken just seconds after the previous shot.
Their hurried departure spoke more loudly than words the fact that they had no business being there, that they had felt themselves to have been found out. There was no legitimate reason for Oswald, Kline, and Dwight to have met in such a place.
Of course the mob wanted these photos. It linked them all too clearly with big business and government through their association with Oswald who, as far as Jack knew, had so far been above reproach. And for the same reason, Oswald would want the photos suppressed, to protect his as yet unsullied reputation.
As for Dwight, that one picture proved his illegal presence in Freeport. Even if he’d gotten permission to enter the city, the civilian clothes he wore would convict him of espionage, if they could ever bring him back to Freeport for trial, an impossibility since Northampton would not cooperate. Perhaps more important, from Dwight’s point of view, was the evidence that he had been there at all. His own superiors might not be happy to learn about that.
And if Dwight had business with Kline, then the Visitors could be involved in other criminal activities in Freeport, the most obvious being the extensive black market which worked both ways. Dwight with Oswald hinted at a deeper government corruption than even the most cynical Free-portian had guessed.
How Emily had managed to escape capture at the time of this meeting Jack could not guess. It could have been just luck on their part that they had been able to get their hands on her Monday night.
Because of Salanis, Jack was sure that it was the mob who had Emily. He lost all interest in finishing his lunch as he speculated about what the mob might have done to her, might stiil be doing to her. They’d want to know who she’d shown the pictures to, whether there were other copies, and what else she might know or have guessed about the significance of that secret meeting. After all, in the right hands, these photos could cause the arrest of both Kline and Oswald, perhaps even put them behind bars. As for Dwight, if he ever came back to Freeport, he would be arrested and executed almost immediately.
Now Jack understood Emily’s incoherent phone call. She had been so afraid that she was imagining things, and even more afraid that she wasn’t. He aimost wished that she had in fact been suffering from delusion. After all, that could be helped. But if the mob had killed Emily, there was no consolation in knowing that she was mentally sound. And killing her was the most likely possibility—unless they thought she had come to take the pictures of them deliberately, and were torturing her to find out how she had known about the meeting.
He had eaten Only half his hamburger, but it felt like something gone rotten in his stomach. If Oswald had been there of his own accord, and not somehow a victim of Kline’s, then it would have been easy for him to exert pressure on the police, to keep the investigation into Emily’s disappearance at low key if not to quash it altogether.
But then, Kline had that kind of influence too, less direct perhaps but just as sure. And since it had been known mobsters who had tried to get to Jack, that convinced him that Kline was in fact the instigator.
But that was jumping to conclusions. Oswald could be a victim, or a partner, Jack had no way of knowing. As for Dwight, how could he tell? He, too, might somehow be under the control of the mob, who found smuggling black market merchandise into Northampton a highly profitable business. His presence in civilian clothes could have been because of Kline’s insistence.
Jack had no business making assumptions. Whatever the truth behind the meeting Emily had inadvertently disco
vered, it was her welfare that Jack was most concerned about. Jack had no friends who might be able to hint at the degree of the mob’s involvement in Emily’s kidnapping. Mallard knew most of Freeport’s politicians, councilmen, and other influential citizens, and could possibly learn something of how Oswald might be involved.
The only thing that was clear was that Jack had to find out more. He could not take these photos to the police. The only person he could trust was David Mallard, and even he might not be of much help. Mallard was in a vulnerable position, surrounded by people in the mob’s pay, or corrupt on their own stick.
But Dwight’s presence at the theater hinted at a Visitor involvement, and Jack did know some Visitors—Lewis in particular. Though Lewis, like all other Naturals, was no longer active in the fifth column, he might know others who could give Jack some information.
With that thought, Jack decided not to go to Emily’s office right now after all, but to go see Lewis instead. He left his unfinished lunch, went back to his car, and drove up US 18, which became Calvin at this point, to Laurel Avenue in the industrial part of town next to the bay.
He drove east out Laurel to Howe, and turned left to the building where Lewis worked as the chief custodian. It was a tall, old building, right on Bay Shore with only the bay on the other side of the potholed street. Further east was a beach, once popular but now seldom visited.
The building occupied half of the block on which it stood. Once important, it had long since slid downhill. The ground floor was given over to shops and stores of various kinds, many of which were now out of business, their windows covered with sheets of plywood. The upper floors still held offices, low-rent places where marginal businesses could operate, while other parts had been converted to storage, or were left empty. Maintenance here would be minimal, but still, somebody had to do it. Jack couldn’t help but think that it would make more sense to tear down this old firetrap on the edge of the city, than the once magnificent Regency Theater.
V 15 - Below the Threshold Page 5