The Girl in the Face of the Clock

by Charles Mathes

  “Yes, I’ve got to get a new one,” said Jane, glancing at the wastebasket where the remains of her answering machine had been consigned after its encounter with Melissa Rosengolts.

  “He wanted you to meet him at a Galerie Elinore King, at seven o’clock tonight. He said that this King woman had made certain troubling accusations and that he was going over to interview her. He said it would be helpful if you could be present. I told him I’d try to reach you when I got home, but you’ve been out.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” said Jane, her happiness evaporating.

  “This is about Perry, isn’t it?” asked Fripp.

  “I don’t know,” lied Jane. “Do you know if Perry contacted the police this afternoon?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. He never came into the office. I haven’t heard from him all day. I’m terribly worried.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Barbara. Believe me.”

  “Perry’s still in trouble, isn’t he?”

  “I’m sure I can straighten this all out,” said Jane. She said good-bye and hung up the phone, furious.

  What had Elinore King done now with her stupid meddling? Just thinking about Elinore made Jane want to explode. She looked around for something to throw. A lamp, several bowls, and a flowerpot had been casualties of her afternoon. The little flowered sugar bowl had been smashed last week. There wasn’t anything small left to break.

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll let that bitch …” Jane said out loud, then went over to her desk, rummaged through her address book for a phone number, and dialed.

  “Hello?” said a male voice. “King Gallery.”

  “Lieutenant Folly?”

  “No, it’s Greg King. Is that you, Jane? Lieutenant Folly said you might be coming over.”

  “Can I speak with him, please?”

  “Certainly,” said Gregory King. “Hold on and let me see if I can get him. He’s here with a lady and gentleman from the District Attorney’s office and they’ve been speaking with Elinore for a while. If I can just work this phone—the staff is all gone. Call me back if I disconnect you, okay?”

  There was a click. Classical music played in Jane’s ear. Dr. King’s voice returned a moment later.

  “Jane, they’re sort of right in the middle of something. Mr. Folly says he’d still like you to come over, though, if you can. Is that possible? Apparently, they’re going to be here for a while.”

  “Absolutely,” said Jane. The sofa bed looked inviting, but she couldn’t very well let Elinore have the last word about Perry Mannerback.

  “Do you know where we are? Have you been over here before?” asked Dr. King.

  “Not for years, but I remember where it is,” said Jane. Elinore’s gallery was on the southwest corner of Madison at Seventyfifth, right across from the Whitney Museum—a block down the street from the Carlyle. “I’ll be over as soon as I can get a cab.”

  “We’re on the fifth floor,” said Dr. King. “The building’s closed at this hour, but we’ll buzz you up. Just ring the bell.”

  Jane said good-bye, then went into the bathroom and removed two twenty-dollar bills from her emergency stash in a Band-Aid box in the bathroom. A few minutes later she was downstairs on West End Avenue again, hailing a taxi.

  Twilight was descending as the cab cut through Central Park. The rush-hour traffic had thinned. Jane was still furious and weary, but she sat back in her seat, trying to center herself. The best way to counter Elinore’s hysteria was to be calm, dispassionate, just tell them the truth. If the people from the District Attorney’s office had any brains, Jane was bound to come across as more credible than inarticulate Elinore with her nutty conspiracy theories.

  The cab pulled up in front of the address on Madison Dr. King had given her. The grand town house—once a single-family mansion like its neighbors—now housed some of the most expensive retail space in the world. At this hour, however, the security gates were down on the chocolate shop and the little boutique on either side of the entrance. The doorway to the upstairs spaces was dark.

  Jane looked up at the tower of the Carlyle a block away, trying to pick out the window of the suite where she had just been. Might Valentine glance down and see her? Her funny Valentine.

  She pressed the outer buzzer for Galerie King, forcing her gaze away from the hotel. A gentle buzzing came from the door. Jane opened it and entered a vestibule. To the right was a small lobby with a display case showing images of paintings in the four galleries on the floors above. Something suitably peculiar from Picasso. A nineteenth-century landscape. Galerie Elinore King featured a contemporary realist not nearly as good as Aaron Sailor.

  There was another buzzer system on the wall by the elevator. Jane pressed the button for the top floor. Nothing happened for a moment. The vestibule was dark, the building obviously deserted. A strange, uncomfortable feeling swept through her, but then the intercom clicked.

  “Jane?” asked a voice. It was distorted through a speaker but she still recognized it as belonging to Gregory King.

  “Yes,” said Jane to what seemed to be the microphone part of the system.

  “Hold on. I’m going to send down the elevator. When you get in, just press five and it will bring you up.”

  From somewhere in the shaft there was a clank and mechanical sounds of gears began whirring. In a minute the elevator had reached the ground floor and its doors opened. Jane got into the small cab and pressed five as instructed. The doors closed. The elevator jerked, then began a slow ascent. Finally, the doors opened again and she stepped out into a large, brilliantly lit space with a cathedral ceiling and skylights that showed the darkening heavens above.

  The floors in Galerie Elinore King were bare wood, polyurethaned in the fashion of SoHo lofts. The walls were painted a stark white. There were large paintings in the style of the one in the display case downstairs. They didn’t come off any better in person.

  Gregory King, looking pale, sat at a desk in the middle of the room about thirty feet from the entrance, dressed in blue jeans and a dark polo shirt. Standing by the outer wall of the building, across from the elevator and dressed in a hideous green sweatsuit, was Elinore. In her hand was a snub-nosed revolver.

  “See, I told you she’d come,” declared Elinore in the general direction of her husband. “You’re so stupid. Why don’t you ever trust me?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Jane. “Where’s Detective Folly?”

  “He’s not here, obviously,” said Elinore. “I tricked you. It was Greg who called Perry’s secretary, pretending to be the police. Now move over there by the window. And don’t get cute and try any of your little make-believe fight stuff. I can shoot you five times before you can make it across to me. All I have to do is point and pull the trigger.”

  Elinore motioned with the barrel of the gun toward the wall opposite the one where she was standing—the front corner of the gallery where the two outer walls met. No paintings were hung within fifteen feet of the spot. On the ledge by the window was a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen. There was a tarp on the floor. Twenty feet away was an open can of white paint, a pan, and a roller. Nearby was a can of Spackle, a screwdriver, and a putty knife.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Jane, feeling her center rise.

  “Now!” shouted Elinore. “Get over there. Stand on the tarp.”

  Jane had never had a gun pointed at her before. It was a terrifying experience, especially since the gun was being held by someone as out of control as Elinore. The knuckles of Elinore’s fat little hand were white and her finger twitched on the trigger. Jane hurried into the corner.

  “There’s a paper there on the windowsill,” said Elinore. “Sign your name on the line at the bottom.”

  “Come on, Elinore, you can’t be serious,” said Jane, trying to laugh. “This is crazy.”

  “Sign that paper,” said Elinore, not laughing back.

  “What is it?” said Jane, picking it up. It seemed to be
the last page of some kind of contract.

  “Just sign or I’ll shoot you,” screeched Elinore. “Don’t think I won’t. Sign it right now or so help me God I’m going to shoot.”

  She raised the gun.

  Jane took the pen and scribbled her name. Surely a contract couldn’t be binding if signed under duress? Was the gun even loaded? The whole situation was unbelievable.

  “Now put the paper down on the floor a few feet in front of you,” said Elinore.

  Jane did as she was told.

  “Go get it, Greg,” said Elinore. Dr. King stood up and walked across the room. He picked up the piece of paper and brought it over to Elinore.

  “See, Janie?” cackled Elinore. “That wasn’t so hard. Now I can sell your dad’s paintings, all legal, fair and square. And I’ve settled for fifty percent, like we agreed. I always keep my word. My word is my bond. Integrity is my middle name.”

  “Can I go now?” said Jane.

  “You really do think I’m stupid, don’t you?” said Elinore, glancing down at the paper in her hand.

  “Yes, I do,” said Jane, taking a step forward.

  There was a huge explosion. At least it sounded like a huge explosion in the enclosed space. Simultaneously, Jane felt something whiz so close to her face that it burned. Instinctively, she raised her hand to her cheek, her ear. There was no blood. The bullet had missed, but by no more than millimeters.

  “Get back there,” screamed Elinore, the gun raised. “Next time, I won’t miss. Get back on that tarp.”

  Jane hastened back to where she had been.

  “Get on your knees. Clasp your hands behind your neck. Now!”

  Jane complied. It would take her several seconds to get up from this position. It would be impossible to try to rush Elinore again, which was obviously the point.

  “I’ll tell you how stupid I am,” said Elinore smugly. “I’m so stupid that I knew you were going to do that. I’ve thought of everything. I even know this is going to make a mess, that’s why you’re on that tarp. And we’ve got paint, too. To paint over the blood that splatters on my wall. We’ll dig the bullets out with that screwdriver, then Spackle before we paint. We’re going to kill you.”

  “Come on, Elinore,” said Jane in disbelief.

  “No, let me finish. After it’s over, we’ll use the tarp to wrap your body up in. Gregory’s Jeep is parked right downstairs. We’ll drive to New Jersey to these woods we know. That’s where we’ll bury you. Nobody will ever know what happened, just like with Jimmy Hoffa. See? I’ve got it all planned out. I’m so smart I amaze myself sometimes, I’m such a planner.”

  Had anyone heard the shot? Jane wondered. No, how could they? The walls of the old building were a foot thick, the windows double-glazed, and there was no one around to hear—the building was empty. Besides, even if anything could be heard from the street, this was New York City. There were miscellaneous inexplicable explosions in the distance all the time—car backfires, trucks driving over potholes, so many that no one even paid attention.

  “If you really needed the money so badly,” began Jane, trying not to panic, but Elinore cut her off.

  “I told you before. The money’s not the point.”

  “Then what is?”

  “After all I’ve been through,” said Elinore, “I’ve got to get something out of this.”

  Jane looked to Dr. King, who swallowed hard and walked back to the desk.

  “What have you been through?” Jane asked, turning her attention back to Elinore. As long as she could keep her talking, maybe she could think of a way out of this. Unfortunately, her brain didn’t seem to be working. Most of her body had gone numb as well.

  “You don’t have any idea of what this whole thing has done to me, do you?” said Elinore. “You can’t imagine what it’s cost me, being stuck in this stupid marriage because of what happened eight years ago. The stress. The unhappiness. Why do you think I put on all this weight? We couldn’t very well divorce—who knows who Dr. Moron over there might blab to, what he would say? A few hundred thousand from Aaron’s paintings isn’t going to make much difference, but at least I’ll have some compensation for what I’ve had to put up with. It’s only fair.”

  “It was you who pushed my father down the stairs,” said Jane to Elinore, horrified, suddenly understanding.

  “It was him,” said Elinore, gesturing derisively to her husband with her chins. “The whole thing is his fault.”

  “You shouldn’t have slept with him in the first place, El,” said Gregory King.

  “Oh, don’t start that again, please,” she snapped. “That’s ancient history.”

  “Slept with who?” asked Jane.

  “Your stupid father,” said Elinore. “I told you he was crazy about me. And who could blame him? I was gorgeous. He seduced me.”

  Jane felt her mouth drop open, but there was no point in expressing disbelief. Or disgust. Besides, from what she had learned about her father, it was probably true.

  “She threw herself at him,” said Gregory King to Jane. “It was pathetic. He was depressed about his show. She was always flirting with him, always trying to get him alone with her. She had to get him drunk out of his skull that night, that was how she finally managed it.”

  “I wasn’t the one who pushed him down the stairs.”

  “It was an accident, Janie,” said Dr. King. “I caught them together at his loft. You have to understand. I was so angry. Elinore was lying there on the rug, naked, with that stupid smirk on her face. Aaron was putting on his pants. He came out into the hall with me, tried to calm me down. I don’t even know how we started pushing one another. It was an accident, I swear.”

  “You are so stupid, Gregory,” snapped Elinore. “He barges in like some outraged Puritan. It was pathetic. If I hadn’t stopped him, Janie, he would have turned himself in right then and ruined my whole life.”

  “I should have.”

  “Oh, be a man, for Crissakes, Gregory. It’s almost over.”

  “I believe you, Dr. King,” said Jane, anxious to keep them talking. “It was just an accident about my father. The police will understand. It doesn’t make any sense for you to let Elinore kill me now.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” said Elinore, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Like you don’t know about the woman.”

  “What woman?”

  “That Peach woman, Aaron’s stupid model. You told me yourself on the phone today that people were dead because of that article in the what-do-you-call-it magazine, the New York Times. Because of the photos I gave them, people were dead, that’s what you said. I pretended I didn’t understand, but I’m not stupid. I knew right then that you were talking about Leila Peach.”

  “I was talking about the clock,” said Jane. “The clock was what caused all the problems.”

  “What clock?” demanded Elinore. “It was the picture of me that was important. The picture of me with Aaron. Leila Peach recognized Gregory in the background.”

  “The picture of you?” said Jane. “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Elinore.

  “Please, Dr. King, tell me what she’s talking about.”

  “Leila Peach saw me that night eight years ago,” said Gregory King. “I didn’t know who she was at the time, and she didn’t know me, either. Elinore never wants me at her art parties, so the two of us had never met. Leila had just come into the building when I pushed your father. I rushed down the stairs to see if there was anything I could do. A woman was standing there, looking amazingly calm. She got a good look at me, then turned tail and ran. I was sure she was going to go to the police. I panicked and ran, instead of calling an ambulance as I should have. I wanted to call the police when I got home and admit everything, but Elinore made me wait a few days to see what would happen, said the woman couldn’t possibly have any idea who I was any more than we knew who she was. Elinore was right. No one came for me.”

  “Then after all these years this Leila P
each shows up last week wanting money, can you believe it?” demanded Elinore, outraged. “She had seen that stupid article about your father, and there was Gregory’s picture. He was standing right behind me. She’d met me, but never him. Why did the Times have to identify him as my husband in the caption, that’s what I want to know? That stupid woman would never have known who he was if the Times hadn’t done that. What did Dr. Moron have to do with anything? Why couldn’t they just crop him out?”

  “I didn’t mean to do Miss Peach any harm, Janie, you must believe me,” said Gregory King in a weak voice. “Elinore made me meet with her, hear what she wanted. I went to her hotel room. It was blackmail, of course. She talked about money. I don’t know what I said, but she pulled out a gun and said she wasn’t afraid of me. We struggled and the gun somehow went off. I don’t know how it happened.”

  “That’s Gregory for you,” said Elinore to Jane, rolling her eyes. “Doesn’t know how it happened. Doesn’t know how anything happens. Totally clueless. He even brought back this stupid gun—about as incriminating a piece of evidence as you can possibly get. Jesus, Greg, if it weren’t for me, I don’t know where you’d be.”

  “I wouldn’t be a murderer,” whined Gregory. “Everything else was an accident, but killing poor Aaron like that … helpless in his bed … I don’t know how I let you talk me into that.”

  Jane’s eyes widened.

  “You killed my father in the hospital?”

  “I’m sorry, Jane,” said Dr. King. “I’m so very sorry.”

  “But why?”

  “He was waking up, you stupid girl,” said Elinore. “He was going to wake up, you told us so at dinner. He was saying all kinds of things. It was only a matter of time before he started blabbing about me, and about what Greg had done. It was a blessing, really. Greg was just putting Aaron out of his misery.”

  “But then why did he tell the police about the insulin?” Jane asked.

  “He what?” demanded Elinore, turning toward her husband, but not taking her eyes—or the gun—off Jane. “What’s this?”