He’d move in tonight. Sleeping bag and air mattress and all his backpack equipment. Clothes too—at least some of them. And he’d get the moving company to get the rest of the stuff as quickly as possible. And he’d never sleep in Brevoort House again.
He felt released suddenly. A great burden was lifted. A new apartment, a new start. His troubles were behind him.
19
Thames Street Building Supplies. The wooden sides of the truck flapped violently as the vehicle crawled over the uneven terrain behind Brevoort House. The name of the company was lettered on the wooden fencing of the truck sides that shuddered and flapped.
The driver, heavily bundled and wearing a hood with a leather face mask, stopped the truck and stepped down. He’d halted at the outside door to the cellar of the Brevoort House.
He unloaded the supplies. Cement. Tools: a bucket, a trowel, a small pan. A metal grating. Miscellaneous bags and supplies. Then with an electric chain hoist and clamps, he lowered a half load of brick to the ground. He pulled a heavy-gauge clear plastic sheet over the supplies, put a brick on each corner and regarded the arrangement for a moment.
Satisfied, he drove off. The chilly ground wind flapped the clear sheet lightly. Dusk was nigh.
20
The man arrived a half hour later. He studied the supplies, then went away. Shortly later, he opened the cellar door from within and stepped up to the supplies. Slowly he carried them into the cellar, trip after trip. He used a cardboard box to carry’ the stacked bricks.
When he had all the material inside, he shut the cellar door.
He set to work mixing the mortar.
Chapter The Tenth
1
February dusk. It was grainy and it seemed to fall like soot, putting the city into darkness a dot at a time. Sunset had been a violent flush of rose-colored smoke and cloud that had promised another freezing night.
Richardson rose from the subway and hurried toward Brevoort House. He could see the wrecker parked near the building, holding its slender boom up to the risen moon like a boastful gladiator.
Soon, he promised himself, he’d be away from toppling masonry, ground-shaking crashes, billowing clouds of brickdust.
He glanced at his car, parked at the curb. The back seat and the trunk would hold his clothes and sleeping gear, a large carton of miscellaneous junk. With that, he’d be able to make it until the movers dragged out the rest. All he needed was ten minutes to load up the car and he’d be gone—a new start that he should have made a long time ago. Ten minutes.
He unlocked the front door of the building, flipped on the stairwell lights and bounded up the steps. He put on all the lights in his apartment and quickly went to work. He packed a suitcase, packed an overnight bag, filled his three-suit garment bag and put them near the door. Then he pulled down his sleeping bag and air mattress. He carried them to the door.
His phone rang.
He looked at it, waiting, hesitant. It rang again. In the quietness of the empty building, the phone’s bell was loud, peremptory.
Richardson rubbed his hands.
The phone rang a third time. And again. Richardson opened the hallway door and put the suitcase out on the landing. Another ring. He was close to bolting, wanting urgently to run down the stairs and away. He put the overnight bag out on the landing.
Again.
He surrendered. He couldn’t run but he couldn’t stand the bell. He answered it to silence it. “Hello.”
“Richardson?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Clabber.”
“Jesus jumping Christ. You’re as persistent as a tombstone salesman, Clabber. I can’t talk to you now. I’ll call you later.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up.”
“You’re moving.”
Richardson gave an involuntary “Hah.”
“Where you moving to?”
“Around. Around. I’ll let you know. I can’t talk now. I’ll call you. So long, Clabber.” He hung up. He walked away from the phone, then turned and looked at it. He walked back to it. He picked up the receiver and left it on the table. It hummed a dial tone. He went back to his packing.
He needed a box. He went to the kitchen, found a chair and used it to pull down a large carton from a closet. Blankets she’d packed in camphor. Wool. Expensive. Wedding presents. He lifted one out of the box and looked at it. Soft. Thick. Why didn’t she take— The hell with it. He dropped the blanket on the couch, lifted out the other one and shook the camphor flakes off it rudely.
He carried the box into the kitchen and packed some of his kitchen equipment. He overloaded it, but it was easier to carry it down to the car than to repack it. He opened the hall doorway, then returned to the kitchen, hefted the box and marched through the apartment to the hall. Heavy as hell. He descended quickly. At the second-floor turning he paused. He rested the box on the railing and listened.
There was a tapping coming from somewhere. Tap tap tap. He shook his head at it. Outside somewhere. He went down the stairs to the vestibule, pressed the box against a wall and pulled open the door. He staggered down the outside steps to the car trunk, rested the box on a fender and with one hand opened the trunk lock. The lid lifted and he pushed the box in. It just fit. The cold had seized him in a few seconds. He slammed the trunk lid and hurried back into the house and up the stairs.
Toilet articles. He went to the bathroom and began to pack his shaving case. He heard something bang against the door. He hesitated. It banged again. Then Goulart’s cat keened. Richardson’s temper rose. Goulart or no Goulart, he was going to cream that cat. He quickly walked to the hallway and found the blackthorn cane. He heard the cat scream again. Quickly, he yanked the door open and raised the stick.
He saw no cat. His eyes searched the hallway, looked at Abby’s doorway, down the stairs at Goulart’s door. He walked to the stairwell and looked down. Pale light on each landing. Shadowed passageways. The silence of an empty house. No cat anywhere.
Richardson picked up the suitcase and the overnight bag and quickly descended with them, holding the blackthorn under one arm. He went all the way to the front door without seeing the cat. Weird. The door to the cellar was closed. He quickly put the two cases into the car and ran back inside. He paused.
He felt it, sensed it. Don’t go back up. Leave now. Come back for the other stuff tomorrow. No overcoat. No shaving gear. Just get in the car and go. Now.
No, that was absurd. One more trip; just grab the stuff and be off. He had to have an overcoat in this weather. And he needed shaving gear. Up the stairs and back down before he could count one hundred.
He hurried up the steps, beating the air with the blackthorn, counting as he went.
He was up to thirty when he reached his door. He kicked it shut, grabbed his jacket and coat, struggled into them. He was up to forty. He went into the bathroom, added a few more things, seized the shaving case and turned. When he reached the doorway he was at fifty.
The cat hit the door again, screaming. He grabbed the blackthorn and opened the door. The hallway was empty as before. The faint tapping had resumed.
He shut the door, stepped quickly into the kitchen, the bedroom, the bath. Okay. Go. Go. Go. Nothing more. He returned to the door and reached for the knob. He was up to seventy. And free. Just two flights of steps and gone!
The vestibule door slammed. The sound rose up the stairwell. He looked around. The fire escape. He waited a moment, cocking his head, listening. Footsteps. Richardson went into his bedroom and examined the window to the fire escape. Then he hurried back to the apartment door and put on the chain latch and double lock. The footsteps were moving along the second-floor hallway. They mounted the stairs to the third floor.
.Richardson wrung his hands. Run, stupid, if you’re so afraid. Down the fire escape.
The steps reached the third-floor landing. They crossed the landing to his door. A fist rapped on the door—so firmly he could see the door tremble
slightly. A thin piece of wood between him and the knocker. The fist knocked again—three four five six times. Emphatically.
“Richardson.”
That goddamn Clabber. Richardson looked around him. The fire escape was still there. No. He was going down his own stairs. He was going to carry that gear to his new apartment, then he was going to go to a restaurant and have a nice thick steak. Then he was going to sleep. Sleep.
He reached out and slipped the chain free. Then he undid the locks. Pulling the door open, he stepped out into the hallway, then pulled his apartment door shut and locked it. He turned around on the landing and looked at Clabber.
Clabber looked at the locked door, then at Richardson’s overcoat and shaving kit. “That’s emphatic enough.”
“I’m up to eighty-five and I swore I’d be on my way away from here before I reached one hundred.”
“Whatever that means.”
“It means that I’m going to go right down those stairs, out the door and into my car, and never come back here again, is what it means, Clabber, old buddy. It means that in a few days when I become a human being again, maybe I’ll be ready to talk to you. Meanwhile, gangway.”
Clabber uncoiled an arm and pointed elaborately down the stairs. “Go. Help yourself.”
Richardson stepped past him and started down the steps. He heard Clabber following him.
“Are you going to give me your new address and phone number?”
Richardson shook his head. “No no no.” He stepped and turned to Clabber. “You know, I finally was able to put into words what bothered me about you. You make me feel like a specimen under glass.”
“Sorry about that,” said Clabber. He descended a few more steps behind Richardson. “Do you think,” he asked tentatively in a low voice, “you’ll escape that weird sound in your new apartment?”
Richardson paused, then halted. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I expect. I expect to get a few nights’ sleep too—without any hidden microphones. I expect to get away from whatever and whoever has been trying to turn me into a raving psychotic.” “Not I,” said Clabber.
“Someone did, Clabber. Someone drove Goulart around the bend, drove him to some kind of frenzy that caused him to freeze to death. For all I know, they may have tied him up in that house until he did freeze to death.”
Clabber’s footsteps sounded behind him. “No,” said Clabber. “You’re wrong.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes. You’re panicked. You’re running.”
“You bet your blue booties I am, Clabber.” Richardson stopped again. “I’m getting away from here, away from all the hidden props, the rigged atmosphere, away from a dead friendship, a ruined marriage—away from that wrecker’s ball out there. Listen. You hear it. That tap-tap-tapping. That’s the steel cable slapping against the boom of that tractor out there. I’m going to hear that sound for the rest of my life.”
Clabber shook his head at him. “That sound is coming from someplace else.”
“'Yeah—well, wherever it’s coming from, I’m not going to hear it anymore.”
“You can’t get away from yourself.”
Richardson stopped. “I don’t need to get away from me, Clabber. I need to get away from somebody else.”
“You remembered, then; is that it?”
Richardson frowned at Clabber’s shadowed face. “Remembered what?”
“What you couldn’t remember. What you’ve been trying to remember for weeks.”
“Ah, that’s nothing.”
“No. That’s everything. The answer’s right there.” Clabber’s gloved finger touched Richardson’s temple. “Right there.”
“Nah. Forget it, Clabber. What I need is a good steak, a night’s sleep, and a good bowel movement. You can’t help me with any of those, so good night. I’ll be in touch.” Richardson had reached the front door of the apartment house and opened it. The remorseless winter air hurried in around his ankles as the door opened. He glanced at his car, at the lumps of luggage on the back seat. Steak with mushrooms. Don’t listen anymore. “Who’s Maeve?” asked Clabber.
Richardson stopped in the open doorway. He turned around and looked again at Clabber. “Maeve?”
“Yes. At the séance last night, she was the only one who sent a message. And you received it.”
“Yeah? How do you know, Clabber?”
“I felt it in your hand. So did Anna Quist. Who’s Maeve?” “Clabber, you know damn right well who Maeve is.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t lie. I don’t know who Maeve is.”
Richardson hesitated. “She’s my mother.”
“Mother!”
“Yeah. And with that, I bid you good night.”
“Wait, wait, wait.”
“No. No. No. No more waits. I'm leaving.”
“Just a moment, Richardson. Please. Shut the door.”
“Say it with the door open, Clabber. It’ll make you briefer.” “Do you remember last night when you came to my apartment? Do you remember that nightmare? You can’t walk away from them. You’ll have another tonight when you shut your eyes. And if not tonight, then tomorrow night. Those nightmares are from your unconscious mind. They’re messages. And your unconscious is going to keep on making nightmares until you find out what it’s trying to tell you. Now listen carefully. I can hypnotize you in less than a minute. In five minutes I can ask you several questions under hypnosis that will give you the answers you want. Ten minutes from now, you can be on your way with the information you’ve been trying to remember. Ten minutes.” Clabber watched Richardson’s face. “No more nightmares. No more funny sounds. Ten minutes and you’ll know.” Richardson stood in the doorway, feeling the freezing air blow past him into the vestibule, watching Clabber shivering, feeling himself begin to shiver. He turned his head and looked at his car, so near. So far. He looked back at Clabber. “What makes you so sure?”
“Please, shut the door. We’ll freeze like stone statues.” Richardson shifted from one foot to the other, regarding Clabber with great suspicion. Then he stepped back into the vestibule and pushed the door shut. The latch clicked.
“I’ve hypnotized hundreds of people, Richardson, and I’ve never had one mishap. I’m not going to stand here now and give you a list of credentials but I will later. I’ll tell you case history after case history if you want to sit and listen to them. But right now, I can help you and— Tell you what.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tape recorder. “I’ll record every word of it and you can have the tape. It’ll be your own words on tape. Ten minutes. Let’s go.” Clabber gripped Richardson’s arm and pulled gently. Richardson took a step toward the stairs. “That’s it,” said Clabber. “Let’s go.”
Richardson started toward the stairs and Clabber followed him. “If this doesn’t work, Clabber—”
"Don’t worry. I know exactly what I’m doing. The sooner you get up there, the sooner we’ll be done.”
Richardson mounted the steps with Clabber behind him. Somewhere unplaceable, the tapping persisted. Then it stopped. Richardson stopped.
"What now?” demanded Clabber.
‘That sound. It stopped.”
Clabber shrugged. "Okay. It stopped. Most sounds eventually do. Let’s go.”
Richardson mounted the first flight of steps and turned to walk along the passageway past Griselda Vandermeer’s apartment door, then Clabber’s, then Goulart’s.
He mounted the next flight to his apartment. He pawed at his key ring and unlocked his door. Clabber stepped into the apartment and Richardson followed him.
As he shut the door, the tapping sound resumed.
2
"Relax,” said Clabber.
Richardson lay on his couch with his hands behind his head. He took a deep breath and waited with a skeptical expression.
"Now,” said Clabber. "I want you to watch this little medal that I’m swinging from this chain. Don’t take your eyes off it. All right. Now. Relax. Your whole body is relaxing. Y
ou feel very heavy. You need sleep. Sleep so desperately. When I count to three you’ll be in a sleep. Then when I say four, you’ll open your eyes and you’ll feel marvelously rested. Just relax. There’s no need to resist. You’ll feel wonderful. Better than you’ve felt in weeks. Just keep your eyes on the chain. Watch it sway back and forth, back and forth. Back and forth. I’m going to count now. I’m going to count to three, and when I do you’ll fall into a deep sleep, and then when I say four, you’ll wake up. All right. One. Watch the chain. Two. Your eyes are getting heavy. Three. That’s it. Shut your eyes.” Clabber watched Richardson’s eyes close. He drew his chair a little closer to the couch and waited a few seconds.
"Four,” he said softly.
Richardson’s eyes opened.
“Now, you feel fine. Rest your eyes at the corner of the ceiling up there and answer a few questions for me. These are answers you want to hear, answers to questions you’ve had. First, what is your name?”
Richardson’s eyes were fixed on the corner of the ceiling. His eyes blinked. His mouth turned down at the corners. His eyes squinted. He was extremely annoyed. He gave his name.
Clabber stood up almost involuntarily. The chair fell over as he stepped backward.
“Say your name again.”
“Joseph Tully.”
3
Clabber strode up and down Richardson’s living room, wringing his hands, deep in writhing thought. He paused at his castoff overcoat and groped in a deep pocket.
He extracted a small tape recorder.
He put it on the coffee table and started it. “What?” he demanded. “What do you say your name is?”
“I said my name is Joseph Tully.” The voice was unmistakably British.
“Tully?” Clabber placed his hand on his mouth, hesitatingly. “Tully? Ah—what year is it?”
“It’s 1779.”
Clabber sat back in his chair and stared at Richardson’s face. Gently he fanned his hand back and forth above Richardson’s eyes.
“Stop that,” said Joseph Tully.
4
Clabber returned quickly from Richardson’s desk, grasping a pad of paper. He groped in his suit coat and found a mechanical pencil. “Tully, eh?” he said almost breathlessly. “1779. Tell me, what are you doing right now?”
The Search for Joseph Tully Page 21