Mr. X

by Peter Straub

  I put to rest the concern that I might form an unholy alliance with Miss Redman and Miss Challis.

  She slid the key on top of the dresser. “Try to keep reasonable hours. Comings and goings after midnight wake me up.”

  I hung up my clothes, shoved things into the dresser drawers, and called Suki Teeter. After three rings, an answering machine picked up, and Suki’s voice informed me that if I were to leave my name and telephone number she would probably call me back, unless I were looking for money. Suki was still in bed. I called Merchants Hotel and asked for Mrs. Ashton.

  “My God, are you all right?” Ashleigh said.

  “Thanks to you.”

  “I couldn’t believe those guys. Especially that creepy Lieutenant Rowley. I hardly believe you, either. Why didn’t you tell them you were here?” She giggled. “Lieutenant Rowley has a filthy mind. I said we gabbed away like old buddies until you sobered up enough to go back to your aunt’s, but I could tell he knew exactly what we were doing. You know what? You were like the way you were in Chicago, sort of dangerous. Not drunk dangerous, that would have been awful, unpredictable dangerous.”

  My insides folded into origami. “Sometimes I surprise myself.”

  “They let you go, anyhow.”

  “About six-thirty this morning.” I told her that I had moved out of my aunt’s house and gave her my new telephone number.

  “Am I going to see you today?”

  “I don’t know. Someone is going to help me track down some information. I’ll call you if I can.”

  “This is exactly what I deserve,” Ashleigh said. “I know, all right, it’s okay.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Would your research assistant be Laurie Hatch?”

  “She knows a guy at City Hall who can do me a lot of good,” I said. “It’s a long story, but I’m trying to find my father, and she volunteered to help.”

  “No kidding.” She hesitated. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I want to see you again, though. All right?”

  When we were done, I dialed Police Headquarters and asked a desk sergeant to give Captain Mullan my new address and telephone number.

  I went into the hallway. Mr. Bremen caught my eye and beamed so widely that his handsome mustache nearly touched his ears. He jabbed a thick forefinger at his chest. In one of those spread-out Western voices evocative of endless plains and starlit camp-fires, he said, “Otto Bremen.”

  My life appeared to be turning into a movie in which I had to invent my lines as I went along. I pointed at myself and said, “Ned Dunstan.”

  “Drop in any time, Ned,” he told me. “Door’s always open.”

  Two blocks west of Merchants Hotel, I turned into Grace Street and walked south toward the library. A congress of sparrows huddled on the sidewalk ascended in a flutter of wingbeats and sculpted an uptilted curve in the clean morning air. Shop windows bounced back slanting sunlight. I was present and not present, still in a movie. A boy with gilded eyes and sleek, shoulder-length hair stared down from the second-story window of a hairdressing salon. Directly across Grenville Street from the library was the foursquare brick structure of the Illinois State Provident.

  A bank officer who looked about eighteen years old checked that I, along with Star Dunstan, was one of the box holders, led me downstairs, and asked me to sign a book and record the time. He let me into a chamber lined with numbered panels and indicated the panel that matched my key. I opened the panel, pulled out a wide steel container, placed it on the polished table, and worked the catch. A package wrapped in butcher paper had been wedged inside the box. From its weight and dimensions, I thought it was a photo album, and I would have opened it on the spot if I hadn’t been about to meet Laurie Hatch. I signed a form and carried the package upstairs and out through the front door.

  Laurie was standing in front of the colonnade on the other side of Grenville Street. She was wearing a dark green silk blouse and fawn trousers, and her perfection transformed the sunlit street and the curving row of pillars into a backdrop. For a fraction of a second, the scene before me seemed as frozen in time as an advertisement in a magazine. Laurie broke into an incandescent smile, and I was no longer in a movie.

  44

  “I’m glad you’re early,” she said. “Stewart did his usual number and screwed up my plans. He has to bring Cobbie back around three o’clock. What’s in that package? Did you rob the bank?”

  I told her about the key in the envelope and the safety-deposit box.

  “It’s like a Russian doll. Inside the box is an envelope. Inside the envelope is a key that opens a box with another box inside it, and inside that box there’s a package wrapped in brown paper. Maybe it’s stuffed with hundred-dollar bills.” She took it from me and weighed it in her hands. “However, it feels more like a photo album.”

  “If it turns out to be a fortune in hundred-dollar bills, I’ll split it with you.”

  “I’d settle for a good lunch. Let’s put your fortune in my car. I’m parked right across the street.”

  She slid the package under the Mountaineer’s backseat. “Nice car,” I said. “You ought to be ferrying lion hunters across the veldt.”

  “My father did things like that, but I don’t. Stewart thought this was the proper vehicle for a suburban mother, so this is what I have.” Laurie linked her arm through mine. “Let’s see Hugh. He’ll be thrilled.”

  “So who is this Hugh Coventry character?”

  “Well, hmmm. Let me give you his short-form bio.” She cocked her head. “Hugh Coventry broke from his ancestral New England after getting his history degree from Yale by entering graduate school at Northwestern. When he discovered that a lot of history Ph.D.s were driving cabs, he transferred into library science.”

  She waited for the straight line. “Weird move,” I said.

  “You think?” We glided on ahead. “Hugh is in love with libraries. His M.A. thesis came out of a summer spent rollicking amongst the parish records of his family’s church in Marblehead, Massachusetts. He’s a computer genius, he likes to work nights and weekends, and he never gets mad at anyone. Ever since he took over, the Edgerton library ticks like a Swiss clock. Hugh Coventry is practically a saint!”

  One day, Coventry had wandered out of the library, down Grove Street to City Hall, and into the Records Office to inquire about volunteering. The Records Office spread wide its official arms and said, Come right in, Mr. Coventry. Within a year, the managers of every department in the building were seeking Hugh Coventry’s assistance. In his second year as a volunteer, consultations with the mayor’s staff had resulted in instant access on the part of His Honor to block-by-block voting records, numbers of arrests and convictions on specific charges, welfare statistics, and other matters essential to governance. Thereafter, Coventry had been given the run of the building.

  Two years before, when Edgerton’s upcoming 150th birthday had presented itself as an occasion for celebration, the new co-chairmen of the Sesquicentennial Committee, Stewart Hatch and Grenville Milton, asked for Coventry’s aid in assembling a visual record of the city’s past. The job spoke to his interest in local history, it called upon his organizational talents, it gave him yet another means of embedding himself within his adopted city. Laurie had met him when Rachel Milton had installed her on the committee, to which Rachel gave three afternoons a week. The arrangement had endured until Laurie’s defection from her marriage.

  “I couldn’t have stayed anyhow, with Rachel scorching me with crucifixes and pelting me with garlic cloves whenever I walked in. Have you seen Town Square yet? It’s kind of nice, I think.”

  Arm in arm, we crossed the street alongside Police Headquarters. The square and the fountain lay to our left. A bum with long red-gold hair lay wrapped in a ragged overcoat next to a guitar case on one of the benches. Half a dozen cops stood smoking and talking on the sidewalk. “I saw it this morning,” I said. “While I was coming down those steps.”

  The
cops stopped talking and stared at us in that way only cops can stare.

  “You were in the police station?” Laurie asked. “Why?”

  My description of having been arrested for murder made it sound like a grade-school excursion with Officer Friendly. Laurie said, “How long were you there?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  When we had come within a few yards of the policemen, Laurie took in their stony expressions. She glared back, and the cops shuffled apart and looked away. After we had covered another six feet of pavement, she muttered, “Assholes.”

  “They don’t like seeing someone like you with someone like me.”

  “Screw ’em. They don’t even know you.” She shook her head. “So the whole thing was a case of mistaken identity?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do those other guys know that, or do they still want to find you?”

  I said I would have no trouble avoiding Staggers and his friends, told her about moving from Nettie’s, and gave her my new address.

  “Your life is shot full of adventure,” she said, dropped my arm, and glided up the stairs like a ballerina.

  We went through the columns. Laurie pulled open an immense, iron-clad glass door and led me into a dim lobby with a marble floor the size of a skating rink. An empty reception desk stood half of the way toward the center of the lobby. No lights burned behind the pebbled-glass windows labeled COUNTY CLERK and BUILDING INSPECTOR. At the lobby’s far end, two marble staircases curved upward. “I’m surprised the doors weren’t locked,” I said.

  “On Saturdays, they leave the place open for a skeleton staff. The question is, Where do we find the helpful Mr. Coventry? Let’s go upstairs.”

  My footsteps ticked as though I were wearing tap shoes. A sudden sense-memory of running through Hatchtown’s narrow lanes returned the phantom smell of lavender. We came to the end of a corridor on the second floor, and a single office door glowed yellow.

  “Bingo!” Laurie said.

  The light snapped off. The door bumped open. A tall, fair-haired man in a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves backed into the corridor holding an armful of manila folders.

  “Work, work, work,” Laurie said.

  He jumped, clamped one arm over the tilting pile, and gaped at Laurie. What happened to his face was almost embarrassing. He seemed about to levitate from sheer joy. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was hoping you could help my friend dig up some information about his father. He’d like to see his mother’s marriage license and his birth certificate, things like that. Ned, this is the legendary Hugh Coventry. Hugh, my friend Ned Dunstan.”

  Coventry was glowing like a fireplace. “Let me, uh …” He deposited the stack of folders on the floor and stepped forward to shake my hand. “Hugh Coventry. At your service. Sir.”

  I said, “I hope we’re not interrupting you.”

  He waved at the folders. “That stuff isn’t important. You’re a friend of Laurie’s?”

  “Mrs. Hatch and I met a few days ago. She’s being nice to me.”

  “Your name is Dunstan? You’re one of the Edgerton Dunstans?”

  “Don’t hold it against me,” I said.

  Coventry’s eyes lit up, and he reared back in a transport of scholarly pleasure. “Are you kidding? You’re from one of the most fascinating families in this city.”

  I thought I could see the entire pattern of his life. Hugh Coventry was a decent guy who would always live alone in a couple of upstairs rooms lined floor to ceiling with books. His emotions were generous without being personal.

  “Your ancestors, two brothers named Omar and Sylvan Dunstan, founded the Edgerton Bank and Trust, now the Illinois State Provident. At one time, they owned most of downtown Edgerton. Howard Dunstan built Merchants Hotel. I wish I knew more of their story.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “You must be related to Annette Rutledge. Mrs. Rutledge sent over a wonderful collection of Dunstan family photographs. I hate to say this, but they seem to be misplaced for the time being. I’m sure we’ll find them in the next day or two.”

  Mrs. Rutledge was my mother’s aunt, I said, she would be overjoyed to have her pictures on display, and I hoped he might be willing to help me.

  “Of course.” He looked at the stack of files. “Would you, um …”

  I picked up half of the folders and followed him into a darkened office. On a long desk, two computers sat opposite each other, like chess players. Laurie said, “You can find marriage licenses in here?”

  “Birth certificates, too. It took me months to get this place into reasonable shape, and I’m still not done.” He flipped on the overhead lights. “Next is the county clerk’s office. That’s going to be a nightmare.”

  “The county clerk’s office is going to be heaven, and you know it,” Laurie said. “Now, what about Ned?”

  Coventry looked at me as though I had descended from a cloud. He had forgotten I was there. “You were interested in your mother’s marriage license? Is there some confusion?” His eyes flickered. “I don’t mean to pry, you understand.”

  “Confusion is probably the right word,” I said. “My mother was Valerie Dunstan. She gave me her family name, although she was married. Before she died, she told me that my father was named Edward Rinehart. I’d be grateful for whatever you could tell me.”

  Coventry went to the computer on the far side of the desk and punched a button on the tower case. He gazed at the monitor with the fascination of a small boy watching the progress of an electric train. Laurie positioned herself behind his shoulder while he shifted the mouse and tapped keys. “Once you get here, you can access information from all these different areas.”

  “No wonder everyone loves you.”

  Flushing, Coventry looked across at me. “Do you know the year your mother was married?”

  “Nineteen fifty-seven.”

  He pulled the mouse down the pad and double-clicked. “V-A-L-E-R-I-E?” I nodded. Laurie moved a step closer and rested her hand on his shoulder. Coventry clicked the mouse and bent forward.

  Laurie frowned at the screen. “That can’t be right.”

  Coventry looked at me. “Have you ever heard of a man named Donald Messmer?”

  “Why?”

  “According to this, Donald Messmer married Valerie Dunstan on the twenty-fifth of November, 1957. Peter Bontly, justice of the peace, performed the ceremony; witnesses, Lorelei Bontly and Kenneth Schermerhorn.”

  “Something’s wrong,” Laurie said. “His father was named Edward Rinehart.”

  Coventry did a lot of things with the mouse. “The birth certificate ought to tell us something. What was your date of birth?”

  “June twenty-fifth,” I said, “1958.”

  “Right around the corner.” He beamed at me. “Happy birthday, in case I don’t see you before that.”

  I thanked him.

  “Full name?”

  “Ned Dunstan.”

  Coventry blinked. “Isn’t Ned generally a nickname for Edward? You have no middle name?”

  “Just Ned Dunstan,” I said.

  “That’s so sensible,” he said. “However, if you feel deprived, take one of my middle names, will you? Your choices are Jellicoe, York, and St. George. I recommend Jellicoe. It has a nice nineteenth-century ring.”

  Laurie took her hands from his shoulders. “Your actual name is Hugh Jellicoe York St. George Coventry?”

  “It was the only way to stay on good terms with the relatives.”

  “My father was like that,” she said. “His name went on and on, like a list, but he never called himself anything but Yves D’Lency.”

  Hugh Jellicoe York St. George Coventry folded his hands over his belt buckle and smiled up.

  “Weren’t you looking for Ned’s birth certificate?”

  “Oh! Excuse me! I’m sorry, Ned.”

  “I’ll take St. George,” I said. “It has a nice twelfth-century ring.”

  He stru
ck a key and leaned back again. “This shouldn’t take more than a couple of seconds.” We waited. “Here it comes.” Coventry shifted in his chair, bent forward, and propped his chin on his hand.

  Laurie said, “I don’t get it.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense,” I said.

  Coventry cleared his throat. “Name of infant, Ned Dunstan. Date of birth, June twenty-fifth, 1958. Time of birth, three-twenty A.M. Place of birth, St. Ann’s Community Hospital. Weight, seven pounds, twelve ounces. Length, ten inches. Mother’s name, Valerie Dunstan. Father’s name, Donald Messmer. Attending physician, none. Attending midwife, Hazel Jansky.” He looked back at me. “All through the fifties, midwives attended nearly half of the births at St. Ann’s Community. Hazel Jansky’s name turns up over and over.”

  “Who fills out these certificates?” Laurie asked.

  “People at the hospital, but they would have obtained the father’s name from your mother.”

  His essential decency made him hesitate, and I said, “Whatever you’re thinking isn’t going to hurt my feelings, Hugh.”

  “Marriage requires proof of identification. Even a justice of the peace wouldn’t marry a couple unless they showed him driver’s licenses and birth certificates. However, I don’t know what you’ll think of this idea, but it’s certainly possible for a pregnant woman to marry another man. After delivery, she’d have every reason to name the husband as the child’s father. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said.

  “I feel uneasy suggesting something like that, but if she gave you your father’s name and another name turns up in the records …”

  “It makes sense,” I said. “We have to go now, but could I see you again? I’d like to look up a few other things.”

  “Want to come back tomorrow morning? The doors will be locked, but if you bang hard enough I’ll hear you.”