The Girl in the Face of the Clock

by Charles Mathes

  “But I can’t …”

  “I’ve already seen a picture of the piece. There’s an ad in the new Antiques magazine coming out next week. I have a contact at the printers, which is how I’ve gotten the jump on the competition. Let Honeychurch know the sale is null and void if I find the clock is not as described. I’ll have it checked out here in New York.”

  “But what if he won’t give me a better price? What should I do then?”

  “Just buy it,” said Perry. “The important thing is to buy it. The minute the magazine comes out, there are other people who will be interested. Agree to pay the full hundred and twenty-five thousand if you need to. We’ll wire-transfer the funds.”

  “A hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars?” exclaimed Jane. “For a clock? This must be the most expensive clock that ever lived!”

  “I’ve got to go now,” said Perry. “Take the first flight you can get back to the city. I’ll see you when you get in.”

  “About my father—” began Jane.

  “I’m sorry for all this, Jane. Please believe that. Very, very sorry.”

  There was a click. The line went dead.

  Eight

  Still on New York time, Jane was up early and out of the hotel by eight o’clock the next morning.

  The answering machine at Honeychurch Antiques had indicated that store hours began at ten, not giving her much time to explore Seattle. Determined at least to see the city’s famous market, she made her way from the hotel to the bottom of Pike Street.

  The Pike Street Market was an old sprawling structure filled with men and women selling everything that grew, flew, grazed, or swam in a five-hundred-mile radius. Wonderful things to eat stretched out in both directions. Case after case of fresh trout, salmon, orange roughie, cod. Vegetable stands of broccoli and carrots, peppers of every color, apples and grapes. Butchers displayed free-range chickens, meats of every description. Open bushels of clams and oysters were everywhere. Smells of brewing coffee and baking bread filled the air.

  After half an hour Jane stopped at a little café across the street from the market for a coffee and croissant, both of which were fresh and delicious.

  The sky was gray and a light rain fell over the city, off and on. It was a strange kind of rain that didn’t seem to bother anyone. Unlike the driving rains in New York that soaked you to the bone, the drops here had worked out a way to fall a few inches apart so no one got very wet or had much need of an umbrella.

  The time passed too quickly. At ten o’clock exactly, Jane made her way over a few streets to Honeychurch Antiques, which occupied the ground-floor corner of a small four-story brick building. In its window were a pair of Queen Anne chairs, a floral Aubusson tapestry, and a Chippendale desk upon which sat a lighthouse clock. It was exactly as Perry had described it. The cylindrical mahogany base sat on four gold-painted ball feet and supported a white-dialed clock under the shelter of a tall, tapering glass dome.

  It was a bit smaller than Jane had imagined, perhaps twenty-eight inches from top to bottom. At a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, that worked out to something like forty-five hundred dollars per inch.

  Jane opened the door and walked into the shop.

  It was a long room with a high ceiling. Well-appointed furniture was spread throughout, including a few grandfather-type clocks with silvered dials and mahogany cases. Coming from New York where space was at such a premium, Jane was instantly taken with how uncrowded the place was. On Madison Avenue, probably ten times as much stuff would be crammed in, but then the rent on Madison was probably ten times what it was here.

  After Jane had browsed for a few minutes, a tall, thin man in his forties walked out from the back. He was dressed casually, a sport shirt, dark pants. Again, it was quite a difference from New York, where the owner of a fancy antique shop like this would probably be in a suit.

  “May I help you?” he asked. “I’m Bill Honeychurch.”

  “Yes,” said Jane, speaking in what she hoped was a confident voice. “I believe my employer, Perry Mannerback, spoke with you. We’re interested in the lighthouse clock in the window.”

  “I’m afraid that clock is sold,” said Honeychurch, “but I’ve got some great mantel clocks in the back that I’m sure Mr. Mannerback would like, and if you’re looking for a long case piece …”

  “Sold?” blurted Jane. “How can it be sold? It’s right there in the window.”

  “Gentleman came in yesterday and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” he said with a grin.

  “But Mr. Mannerback spoke to you. I’ve come all the way from New York for the express purpose of buying it.”

  “Sorry,” said Honeychurch. “Mannerback just told me he wanted to see it, we didn’t have a deal or anything. The other fella was here first with a check. Like they say, early bird gets the worm, and all that.”

  “I can’t believe this,” said Jane.

  “Neither can I,” said Honeychurch happily. “I’ve got an expensive ad for the darn thing coming out next week. Looks like I could have saved my money.”

  “Do you think the man who bought it would be interested in selling?” said Jane, trying to think of what Perry might want to do in this situation.

  “I know he wouldn’t be,” said Honeychurch.

  “But maybe …”

  “The gentleman specifically told me to tell anyone who came calling that the clock was not for sale. It was like he knew that people were going to come round and he wanted everyone to know the score. The clock is now a permanent part of the Bogen Collection, he told me to say. That’s B-O-G-E-N. He wanted me to spell it out so there would be no mistake.”

  Jane walked back to the hotel feeling terrible, as if she had let Perry down somehow. It was foolish, she knew. There was no way she could have prevented this Mr. Bogen from finding his way to Honeychurch Antiques and buying the clock; but still it seemed like her fault.

  Back at her room, the message light on her phone was blinking. Jane pressed the voice-mail button and a crisp baritone voice came on the line.

  “Miss Sailor, this is Dr. Bleiweiss at Yorkville East End Hospital. I need to speak with you about your father. Please call me as soon as possible.”

  He gave a number, which Jane jotted down on the notepad that the hotel had provided by the phone. The hospital probably wanted permission to do more tests, she thought ruefully. Just what her father needed. Depressed, she dialed the number for OmbiCorp instead and was put through to Miss Fripp.

  “Mr. Mannerback didn’t come in today,” said the secretary in her precise British voice, as cold and clipped as Valentine’s had been engaging and soft. “He’s at the apartment.”

  “Is he ill?”

  “I couldn’t say. He’s not very communicative. Oh, and a Dr. Bleiweiss from Yorkville East End Hospital has called several times trying to locate you. It seems to be important. About your father.”

  “Yes, I’ve got that message. Thanks.”

  Jane put down the receiver. She’d call the hospital, but first it was more important to tell Perry what had happened.

  Olinda was not happy about disturbing her employer, but finally she put the call through.

  “Hello, Jane,” Perry Mannerback said at last. His voice sounded dull, almost dazed.

  “Hi,” she said. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry. I understand you’re not feeling well.”

  “No, no, no,” mumbled Perry Mannerback. “Not well. Not at all. Don’t have to get up if I don’t want to. Stay here all day under the covers if I choose.”

  “About the lighthouse clock …”

  “What?”

  “The lighthouse clock,” said Jane. “We were flying across the entire country to see it, remember?”

  “Oh, yes. The lighthouse clock. Simon Willard. Very important. Great addition to my collection.”

  Jane took a deep breath.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t able to buy it.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Perry with a sigh. “That
is disappointing.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, no problem. It’s not so important in the great scheme of things, I suppose.”

  “I’m glad you’re not upset,” said Jane, relieved.

  “No, no.”

  “It went into the Bogen Collection.”

  The sound began softly, but then grew and grew—almost like a jet taking off—until it was a blood-curdling, inhuman roar.

  “WhaaattTT? What did you say?”

  Jane had to pull the phone away from her ear.

  “It went into the Bogen Collection,” she repeated, not comprehending. “That’s B-O-G …”

  “I know how to spell it, damn it,” yelled Perry. “That fiend! That subhuman, monstrous, odious, wretched bastard! That filthy, abominable substitution for a human being! That greedy progeny of a hound!”

  Jane took the phone away from her ear again, as Perry’s tirade continued. She had never heard him even a little bit angry. This was practically hysteria. She was stunned.

  “I take it that you know the man who bought the clock?” she ventured in a quiet voice when he stopped for a moment for air.

  “Know him? He’s my absolute nemesis! I revile his very existence. That miserable bastard, Willie Bogen. They call him Willie the Weasel. Willie the goddamned Weasel, and he’s done it to me again. Damn him! Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn him to hell!”

  “Who is he?” asked Jane in a quieter voice still, trying to calm him down. This was one of the techniques she used in teaching stage combat that transferred well to daily life. You responded to anger with increasing gentleness, setting an example. It usually worked. But not today.

  “He’s a monster, that’s who,” shouted Perry, a notch louder. “A liar and a scoundrel and a cheat! Oh God! Nothing is going right. Everything is a mess. My whole life is a mess. I can’t talk. I’ve got to go. We’ll speak when you get back to New York. Goodbye.”

  The phone went dead.

  Jane sat mystified for a moment, still feeling somehow responsible for what happened. But it wasn’t her fault, she told herself. This Bogen fellow had simply gotten there first, that’s all. If Perry hadn’t flown back to New York and made her wait all day in the room for his call, they could have gotten to Honeychurch Antiques yesterday and maybe beaten Bogen to the punch. If it was anyone’s fault that they hadn’t gotten the clock, it was Perry’s.

  Feeling unsettled and guilty nevertheless, Jane dialed the number for the doctor at Yorkville East End Hospital that Fripp had given her. She might as well get this over with.

  “Dr. Bleiweiss,” answered the same deep voice that had been on the hotel voice mail.

  “This is Jane Sailor,” she said. “I understand that you wanted to speak with me about my father?”

  “Yes, Miss Sailor.”

  “What is it? More tests? I’ve got to tell you, Doctor, that I really don’t see the point. Do you really think that any of this is going to make a difference?”

  “I’m afraid I have some sad news, Miss Sailor.”

  There was a pause. Then Dr. Bleiweiss spoke again.

  “I’m afraid your father died last night.”

  “What?”

  “He died.”

  “He died? How could he die?”

  “People in coma are in a precarious place between life and death,” said Dr. Bleiweiss gently. “Though their state may seem constant, they are always subject to certain negative processes. Your father’s death was a peaceful one. It happened very quickly. Miss Sailor?”

  “I … I’m out of town,” Jane stammered.

  “I know.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “We’re all very sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jane hung up the phone and stared out the window at the towers of Seattle and the pewter sky, waiting to feel something.

  It had been so long since she had allowed herself to feel anything for her father that she didn’t even know where to look for it. He had been dead so long already that she didn’t think there were any feelings left. She was surprised, therefore, after a minute when she found her eyes full of tears.

  “Isn’t this silly, after all this time …” she started to say out loud. Then, like a dam that had burst, all the pain and guilt and frustration that Jane had been holding in for so many years was suddenly coming out. She cried until her sobs filled the entire world. And then she cried some more.

  The time change added three hours to the five-hour flight time back from Seattle. When Jane finally opened the door to her apartment in New York, it was nearly eleven o’clock at night. The light on her answering machine was blinking like a tiny lighthouse across the room. Jane pressed the message button, turned on a lamp, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the painted Norwegian chest of drawers that held her clothes. Her hair was still that ridiculous color. Her eyes were red from crying. She looked awful.

  “Miss Sailor, this is Dr. Bleiweiss from Yorkville East End. It’s about eight-thirty in the morning. I need to speak with you. It’s very important. I’ll try you at the OmbiCorp office later.”

  Jane’s eyes, which she thought were all cried out, filled with tears yet again. She had gotten that message already. It was still hard to believe that it was over. The tears weren’t coming from sadness, she knew. Nor were they for her father. They were tears of relief and they were for herself. It was finally over. At last her father was at peace. Perhaps now she could find peace, too.

  Dr. Bleiweiss’s message was followed by a string of hang ups. Who could be calling her, Jane wondered. Dr. Bleiweiss trying again? People calling to express their condolences? Had word gotten out about Aaron Sailor’s death already?

  As she stood there, trying not to be overwhelmed by it all, the phone rang—an impossibly loud sound shattering the quiet of the little apartment. Jane picked it up.

  “Miss Sailor?”

  “Yes?” said Jane, glancing at the time, wondering whose condolences couldn’t wait for the morning.

  “Miss Sailor, my name is Octavio Folly. I’m a detective lieutenant with the New York City Police Department, nineteenth precinct. I’m sorry to be calling you so late, but I know I’m not disturbing you. I’ve been trying your phone for several hours. I know you were flying back tonight from Seattle.”

  “I just got in,” said Jane, not comprehending. “You said you were from the police?”

  “Yes,” said Detective Folly. His voice was sibilant and mellow, almost like a loud whisper. “I’m very sorry about your father.”

  “Thank you,” said Jane. “I’m sorry, Detective …?”

  “Folly.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective Folly, but why exactly are you calling me?”

  “I know this is a very difficult time for you, Miss Sailor, but I’m afraid that I need to ask you some questions. Do you know if anyone would profit in any way by your father’s death?”

  “No. My father has been dead for all practical purposes for many years.”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  “What is this about, Detective? Before I answer anything, I want to know what this is about.”

  “There are certain problems with your father’s death.”

  “Problems? Being dead isn’t a problem enough?”

  “Your father could have lived for decades longer in his state,” said Detective Folly, “but it didn’t surprise anyone that he had died. Didn’t surprise anyone, that is, except for one doctor, an endocrinologist, who stopped in on his way out last night and who was familiar with your father’s condition. A Dr. Gregory King. Says he knows you.”

  “Yes,” said Jane. “His wife is my father’s dealer. Was.”

  “Dr. King noticed some symptoms,” said Folly. “Rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing, sweating. Nothing that appeared dangerous, but something to keep an eye on, he thought. Something he had seen before. When he learned that your father had died in the night, Dr. King suggested to the doctor who was doing
the routine autopsy that he consider an insulin overdose as a possible cause of death.”

  “An insulin overdose?” repeated Jane. “I don’t understand. Why would they be giving my father insulin? Isn’t that for diabetics?”

  “They weren’t giving your father insulin, Miss Sailor. But an insulin overdose can result in rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing, sweating. Later, the patient goes into shock and coma, resulting in death.”

  “My father was already in a coma.”

  “Which is why his death probably would have been put down to natural causes were it not for Dr. King,” said Detective Folly. “When a healthy person loses consciousness and falls into a coma, it is a very alarming event. But as you say, your father was already in a coma, so there was no dramatic change in his condition that would alert anyone that something was wrong. Also, insulin metabolizes very quickly. If the autopsy hadn’t checked for elevated levels right away, it would never have been found. No one would have ever known.”

  “Are you saying that you believe that someone did this to my father deliberately?”

  “Because insulin is an enzyme that is naturally present in the body, there is a certain amount of uncertainty,” said the soft voice. “The medical examiner, however, now believes that insulin overdose is the most probable cause of your father’s death. And this insulin would have had to be administered to him intentionally by someone. Do you understand, Miss Sailor? Do you see what this means?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Jane, her voice suddenly very calm, the tears entirely gone from her eyes.

  Aaron Sailor had been murdered. Again.

  Nine

  The funeral was Friday morning.

  “Murder is the loss of love,” Valentine Treves had written in his sonnet. Jane already knew all about the impact of death, but its logistics were something else entirely. Again Perry Mannerback came to her assistance with another display of spontaneous generosity. Not only did he put the formidable Miss Fripp at her disposal to assist with the details of the funeral, he insisted on paying for it.