The Girl in the Face of the Clock

by Charles Mathes

  “No one might ever have known that my father’s death wasn’t natural if you hadn’t made them check his insulin levels, Dr. King,” said Jane.

  “Is this true, Gregory?” shrieked Elinore. “How could you do something like that? I can’t believe you could be so stupid. Did you want to get caught?”

  “No, no, of course not,” said Dr. King weakly.

  “Maybe he did,” said Jane. “He’s a doctor. He’s supposed to be someone who heals people, not someone who kills them.”

  “Shut up, Janie,” said Elinore. “Just shut up. Let’s get this over with. Get over here, Greg.”

  “You’ll never get away with it,” said Jane desperately, as Gregory King stood up and walked across the room to Elinore as he’d been told. “Perry’s secretary knows that I came here. She’ll tell Detective Folly that someone was impersonating him.”

  “That’s right, El,” said Gregory King, alarmed. “They’ll know that we were the last people to see her. They’ll know we did it.”

  “Shut up,” said Elinore.

  “Why didn’t you think of this, El? Oh, God, what are we going to do now?”

  “Shut up,” screeched Elinore. “Let me think!”

  Suddenly, her face unscrewed.

  “It’s just lucky I’m so smart,” she announced in a smug voice. “You should thank your lucky stars, Greg, that I’m such a genius.”

  “We should just turn ourselves in,” said Dr. King. “It’s the only way. We should have told the truth eight years ago.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” said Elinore. “I’ve got it all figured out. All you have to do is take care of the secretary, and it will be all over. We won’t have anything to worry about.”

  “What do you mean, ‘take care’ of her?” asked Dr. King.

  “Shoot her, stupid. Or maybe give her an injection of something. Whatever you need to do to make it look like suicide.”

  “No, I couldn’t possibly,” said Greg, his hand coming to his mouth. “We never said anything about anyone else. Please, El, couldn’t we just …” He reached out and touched Elinore’s shoulder. She squirmed away, her piggy little eyes fixed on Jane.

  “Gregory, you’re not going to start again, are you? Don’t start with me.”

  “You really are crazy, Elinore,” said Jane. “Killing Barbara Fripp isn’t going to solve anything for you. Detective Folly is still working on my father’s death. He’s investigating Leila Peach’s murder. Those cases won’t just go away if you kill Barbara. And he’ll have to find out what happened to me, too.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, dead wrong,” declared Elinore triumphantly. “The secretary’s suicide will explain everything. She’s bound to be in love with Perry, secretaries are always in love with their bosses. The police already think that Perry pushed your father down the stairs because of how he was raving. So it makes perfect sense that the secretary killed your father. The woman thought that Aaron was going to wake up and incriminate her darling boss, so she removed the threat by giving Aaron a little injection. Then Leila Peach appeared out of nowhere, the naked woman from the painting come back to steal Perry away. The heartbroken poor secretary kills her, too, then ends her life.

  “Greg, you’ll put some insulin in her apartment where the police will find it. Plus you’ll put this gun there, too, the gun that killed Leila. The police will figure it out right away. And, Janie, if your body is ever found, which it won’t be, it will look like the secretary was jealous of your relationship with Perry and killed you, too. See, I’ve got it all figured out. I told you I was a genius.”

  Jane’s hands had turned ice cold. Her mouth was so dry she couldn’t swallow. Elinore might actually be right for a change. The people at OmbiCorp probably would tell the police that Barbara Fripp was in love with Perry. And there was a good chance that she knew all about insulin, maybe even helped Perry inject himself.

  “Please, Dr. King,” said Jane urgently. “You’re not a killer. You can’t just let her murder me like this.”

  “He’s not going to let me,” said Elinore. “He’s going to do it himself. He’s the one who started this whole mess and he’s the one who’s going to finish it. Come here, Gregory, take this gun.”

  “Me?”

  “Are you going to argue?” she shrieked, reaching over and grabbing his hand. “I am so mad with you already, telling the stupid police about the stupid insulin. Now take it.”

  She practically forced the gun into his hand, then pushed him forward.

  “Now shoot her.”

  “I …”

  “One more isn’t going to make any difference.”

  “Two more,” said Jane, desperate. “You’ll have to kill Barbara Fripp, too. And yes, it will make a difference. You’re not a cold-blooded murderer. Are you, Dr. King?”

  “No.”

  “Yes he is!” shouted Elinore. “He gave Aaron that insulin and he shot Leila Peach.”

  “That was an accident,” protested Dr. King. “I can’t just …”

  “So help me God, Greg, if you don’t shoot her, I am going to make your life so miserable … You are going to be so sorry …”

  Greg raised the gun at Jane, who was on her knees, helpless. Panic swept through her. He was too far across the room. She could try to get to her feet, but if he didn’t fire right away, Elinore would have more than enough time to take the gun from him and do it herself. Jane didn’t know if her legs would work anyway. For the first time, she realized that she was going to die. Gregory King was too weak to say no to Elinore.

  “It will all be over?” he asked. “We can get a divorce?”

  “Are you kidding?” said Elinore, her face curling into a sneer. “Do you think I’m going to let you out of my sight for one minute so you can tell the police something else? After you’ve made me into a what-you-call-it—an accessory? Now do it! Pull the trigger! Let’s get this over with.”

  Gregory King stood there with the gun raised, staring at Jane. His eyes were very small and full of fear. Like a trapped animal’s.

  Jane looked out the window. She could see the Carlyle. Was Valentine looking out the window, too? Thinking about her? Thinking about a dinner tomorrow that would never happen?

  “Come on!” Elinore demanded. Gregory King didn’t take his eyes off Jane or lower the gun. “Do I have to do everything myself? Be a man for once in your life. We don’t have all night. Do you know how long it’s going to take us to clean up here and drive to New Jersey?”

  Jane willed herself to relax, lowered her center, calmed her thoughts. What Willie Bogen had said an hour ago flashed into her mind. You had a choice in what your life would be, you always had a choice. She didn’t have to die in panic and fear. Whatever came next, whatever awaited her on the other side, she didn’t want to meet it with hatred in her heart.

  “I forgive you, Dr. King,” she said. “I don’t want you to kill me, but I forgive you. I forgive you, too, Elinore.”

  Something in Gregory King’s eyes seemed to break. His hand holding the gun lowered.

  “Oh, for God’s sakes,” said Elinore. “Give me that, you moron.”

  Elinore grabbed for the gun. Gregory King allowed her to get hold of the barrel and raise it to a point an inch to the left of her sternum before he pulled the trigger.

  There was another huge explosion. Elinore seemed to leap back a foot. On her breast was a growing red stain, on her face an expression of disbelief. Dr. King had found her heart with surgical precision. Elinore’s mouth opened and closed slightly before her eyes glazed over and she toppled.

  “Thank you,” Gregory said in a hoarse whisper. He had made his choice, too.

  Jane could swear he was smiling as he placed the revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger.

  Epilogue

  “Here we are,” said N. C. Pilkington, gently wrestling the well-wrapped bundle in his arms onto the wide table of the conference room on the third floor of Sotheby’s York Avenue galleries. “I think y
ou’ll be pleased with the way it’s come out.”

  This was Jane’s second meeting with Pilkington, the auction house’s London-born, jumbo-sized, white-haired vice president, who specialized in oddball items.

  “Anything from Fabergé whist counters to solid gold Cadillacs, if no one knows what to make of it, N. C. Pilkington is the man,” he had declared at their first meeting, skeptically regarding the ceramic monstrosity that Jane claimed concealed a treasure.

  After listening to Valentine’s explanation, however, he had become almost like a little boy and given them what he said would be their single opportunity to guess what his initials stood for, hoping that they wouldn’t throw the opportunity away with another uninspired Ned or Nick or Clark or Charles. Jane now knew officially that N.C. did not stand for North Carolina. Valentine had suggested Not Coming. This was wrong, too, though Pilkington did acknowledge that he had been a breech birth.

  “Our conservators have worked their usual miracle,” Pilkington declared now, whipping off the cloth with a flourish. “Et voilà.”

  Jane literally stopped breathing for a moment. Three weeks ago at their meeting in the Carlyle, Willie Bogen had described what a Cartier portico mystery clock looked like, but to see it in reality was another thing.

  The clock’s hands, intricately set with tiny diamonds, were curled around the central pivot in the shape of a spiky dragon. Similarly diamond-faced Roman numerals were set into a mother-of-pearl ring around the nine-sided crystal dial, its outer rim punctuated with pearls. The milky quartz pillars that supported the onyx crosspiece from which the dial was suspended by a gold chain seemed themselves to have veins of gold running through them.

  Jane wasn’t much one for fancy things, but somehow this clock transcended its expensive materials and projected not showiness or ostentation, but elegance, simplicity, and taste. The clock was wondrous, awe-inspiring, a work of art.

  “Why, the dial is nine-sided,” said Valentine. “That’s unexpected.”

  “Yes, quite unique among the Cartier mystery clocks,” agreed Pilkington. “The Greeks would have called such a shape an enneagon, but I prefer the Latin nonagon. Would that Mother had named me Nonagon. Life would have been far less complicated.”

  He sighed.

  “It’s beautiful,” marveled Jane.

  “Have you decided on an estimate yet?” asked Valentine, who had brought Jane here to consign the clock a few days after that horrible night with the Kings.

  She had had to cancel their dinner date—there was nothing like a nice murder-suicide to spoil one’s appetite. Business had then forced Valentine to return to London while she was still giving statements to the police and fending off reporters (“The Art of Death” had been the headline in the Daily News). Valentine had arrived back in New York only yesterday. When she had met him downstairs fifteen minutes ago, it was the first time they had seen each other since then.

  “Strictly P.O.R., dear boy,” said Pilkington with a twinkle in his eye. “Price on request. Truth be known, I haven’t the foggiest what the thing will fetch. In ’ninety-six, the French auctioneer Etude Tajan had Portico Mystery Clock Number Four on the block in Geneva with an estimate of six-fifty to eight hundred thousand U.S. dollars. It brought nearly one and a half million, including premium.”

  “One and a half million!” exclaimed Jane, sinking into a nearby chair lest she fall down.

  “Of course, this one is much more desirable on its beauty alone,” said Pilkington with a sniff. “To say nothing of its direct connection to Louis Cartier, and the fascinating history surrounding it. The unknown mystery clock. Smuggled from Europe. Concealed in a basement for fifty years. In the special catalogue I have been authorized to do, we will feature a picture of its ceramic camouflage: the before and after, if you will. The ugly duckling and the swan. Talk about sexy! Collectors will positively swoon. A pity the key described in Maurice Coüet’s letter is missing. The dragonfly key, most unique. Cartier never made another like it.”

  “Actually, one of the bidders is in possession of the key,” said Valentine.

  “Indeed?” said Pilkington brightly, rubbing his large pink hands together. “There’s an incentive for someone, certainly. It will be an interesting sale, most assuredly. Now stay right here for a moment; there are some people whom I would like you to meet—the grand Sotheby Pooh-Bahs, if you will. They’re very excited about this whole thing. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  He darted out the door, leaving Jane alone with Valentine.

  “This seems to be working out quite well for you,” said Valentine after an awkward moment of silence.

  “Not so well for you and Willie, though. It will cost Willie a fortune if he intends to outbid everyone at the auction.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t mind,” said Valentine. “Willie’s quite shrewd. This really will bring a great deal of publicity to his museum, plus he will have the additional pleasure of publicly besting Perry Mannerback in the auction rooms.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” said Jane. “Perry took me to lunch last week to thank me for catching the real killers, though catching is hardly the right word for what I did, which was fifty percent less than nothing, plus nearly getting myself killed. Anyway, I told Perry about the clock, and well, excited isn’t the right word for his reaction, either. He literally started jumping up and down for joy.”

  “The other diners must have found that very amusing.”

  “The other diners were jumping up and down, too.”

  “They were clock aficionados?”

  “They were monkeys. We were eating hot dogs at the Zoo.”

  They both laughed. There was another long silence, which Valentine again was the first to break.

  “Are you all right, Jane? You seem to be very much assured on the surface, but I know that these past few weeks must have been pretty horrifying for you. I still can’t believe what that pitiful woman actually planned to do.”

  “Let’s not talk about it,” said Jane. “Let’s not talk about it ever again.”

  “Are you certain? It isn’t wise to sweep one’s feelings under the carpet, I’m told.”

  “I’ve had my tears and my nightmares,” said Jane, “but I prefer Willie’s philosophy. My life isn’t going to be about what happened to me in the past. It’s going to be about what happens next.”

  “And what will that be?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “You’ll take me to the Zoo and buy me a hot dog?”

  “Yes, but that comes later. There’s something I need to do first, something I’ve been meaning to do for a long time.”

  “And what’s that?” asked Valentine, raising an eyebrow.

  “This,” said Jane.

  Then she grabbed the lapels of his suit, drew him close, and kissed him.

  Also by Charles Mathes

  The Girl with the Phony Name

  The Girl Who Remembered Snow

  The Girl at the End of the Line

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to many people who helped me with this book, several of whom I met on the Internet through the wonderful DOROTHYL Mystery Literature E-conference: Carole Shmurak introduced me to her brother, Dr. Leslie Bernstein, who confirmed medical details; Barbara Franchi and Susanna Yager kept me straight about London; Ellen Sather provided support during dark hours and squirrelly encouragement. Thank you all, and special thanks to Tessa Reddish Jones, who went far beyond the call of duty (on foot and by tube) on my behalf.

  Special thanks are also due to Ruth Cavin, my editor; to Meredith Bernstein, my agent; to SMP’s great design and production staff; and to Feroze Mohammed and Heather Locken at Worldwide Library for supporting me in paperback.

  Thanks, too, to Bonnie Selfe, archival person at a world-famous store in New York City which I’d give credit, but I don’t want to issue any “spoilers” this early in the book.

  Everything I know about stage combat I learned twenty-five years ago from B. H. Barry
. That I remember so much proves what a great teacher and fight director he is.

  Though I work for a New York City art dealer, I am happy to say that I have never met an art dealer in this city or elsewhere who bears any resemblance to the dealer who appears in this book. Anyone wishing to know how I feel about Jane Kahan, whose gallery I have the privilege of directing, need only look at what I came up with when I needed a name for a heroine.

  Finally I want to thank my wife, Arlene Graston, who goes over every word of my books before anyone else reads them. It is risky for a man to write about women, and I wouldn’t have even attempted to without her guidance. However convincing my young women are I owe to Arlene; anything that does not ring true is probably one of those places where I stupidly refused to take her advice.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  THE GIRL IN THE FACE OF THE CLOCK. Copyright © 2001 by Charles Mathes.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Title page illustration by Arlene Graston

  ISBN: 978-1-4668-0012-0