On Friday Herbert Poole and I were back in Parker Foxcroft’s office for the third day, plowing through what seemed to be every scrap of paper the man ever covered, some pages with bile, others with syrup. As his “literary executor,” I was uncertain what to do with the stuff, as we read and then tossed it aside. Would anyone want to buy it? I wondered. Could I even give it away? Somehow Parker had overestimated the value of his notes and letters, at least that’s how it seemed to me. I decided to beg the question by packing it all away in cardboard book cartons from our shipping room, that portion of it which hadn’t drifted to the floor, where even now a mound of it had gathered. I would decide later what to do with it.
Still, even the most Herculean task must come to an end sometime, and this one was wound up around the cocktail hour.
“Thank God,” I said.
“Amen,” said Poole. “Do we have it all?”
“I devoutly hope so.”
“And what do we have?”
“As far as I can tell, nothing. When it comes to the rejection letters, we’re left with a good zillion potential suspects but no clues. Too bad he didn’t keep a journal of some kind.”
“Well,” said Poole, “at least we haven’t lost any ground.”
“By the way,” I said, “we’ve been so busy burrowing into Parker’s verbiage that we haven’t discussed your book.”
“Pan at Twilight?”
“Not that book—your mystery. The one you’re going to write for me, remember?”
He laughed, more a chuckle than a laugh, but I’ve never cared for the expression “He chuckled.” It doesn’t sound serious enough.
“I’d be happy to talk about it,” Poole said. “I’ve only got the idea for the book now, but it’s taking shape in my mind.”
“Good. Let’s hear about it.”
For a variety of reasons, I no longer felt comfortable in Parker’s office, if I ever had, so I motioned Poole to follow me, and led the way back to my own office. It isn’t exactly that I felt Parker’s presence in his office, nothing like that; he didn’t haunt the place, thank God, because it was expensive real estate and I couldn’t afford to let it stand vacant much longer. Nevertheless, I couldn’t forget that I’d found his body there. The blood may have been washed away, but the memory of that moment was still powerful. Violent death can’t just be forgotten or brushed aside—Susan Markham’s injunction to let the dead bury the dead notwithstanding.
“So tell me,” I said to Poole, when we were at ease on leather chairs in my familiar wood-paneled and book-lined nest. “What do you plan to do?”
“I respect what you said about the mystery genre,” he said. “About it being fantasy? And I think you’re probably right—for the most part.”
“No generality holds up against every particular, as we know.”
Poole got up and began to pace back and forth as he spoke.
“Do you remember the Casolaro case?”
I thought for a moment. “Vaguely. A writer, wasn’t he?”
“It happened several years ago,” Poole continued. “Joseph Casolaro was a freelance writer working on an article about a suspected government conspiracy. He had been investigating a case in which the owners of a computer software company accused the Justice Department of stealing programs the company had designed to track criminal cases worldwide. Justice denied all the allegations and resisted the computer company’s challenges in court.”
“I do remember reading about it. Casolaro may have been close to uncovering some kind of huge, Watergate-like conspiracy, right? And he was found dead in a West Virginia motel room.”
“That’s it. The authorities considered it suicide because it looked like suicide. But he told his brother two months before his death that if he died in an accident, ‘don’t believe it.’ Also, the guy had received death threats, and, although he was a conscientious reporter, none of his investigative notes were found in his motel room.”
“You believe he was murdered.”
Poole stopped pacing and rested his hands on my desk, looking straight into my eyes. “I do,” he said. “And because I can’t really prove anything, and I’m not a journalist, I intend to fictionalize the story. And if I can, solve it. What do you think, Nick?”
I crossed the room to the low bookcase where the bronze bust of my father stood on its wooden pedestal, reached down, and pulled out a Library of America volume of Edgar Allan Poe.
“The Mystery of Marie Roget,” I said. “Based on the murder of a young New York woman named Mary Rogers. Poe wrote the novel in an attempt to solve the case through pure ratiocination.”
“And did he succeed?” asked Poole.
“No. He claimed to have solved it, but he was fudging the issue. Actually no one ever found a solution to the case.”
“Maybe I’ll have better luck,” said Poole. He smiled. “Worth a try, anyway.”
“I agree, I definitely agree. Go ahead with it. And let me know how you’re doing.”
After Poole had left, I turned to the phone messages, notes, and correspondence I’d ignored in favor of combing through Parker Foxcroft’s Mount Rushmore of paper.
One envelope stood out: mint green and lightly perfumed. It bore the monogram “SSM.” I tore it open.
“Nick, darling,” the note read, “6 little words: Call, if ever you need me. Love, Susan.”
I picked up the phone and dialed her number. Four rings and then the answering machine kicked in. “This is Susan speaking. I can’t come to the phone just now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll return your call as soon as I can.” Beep.
“Hello, Susan,” I said. “I would recognize your notepaper anywhere; it’s the color of your eyes. I would recognize your perfume anywhere, too; its scent still clings to a pillow in my bedroom. As for your voice, it makes me think of cocktail piano music played softly in a dimly lit bar. Three little words: I miss you.” I had barely finished when I was cut off.
I returned to the tasks at hand, most of which required signing correspondence and initialing memos I had dictated earlier, between sessions with Poole.
Shortly before five, a call came from Alex Margolies.
“We’ve got Frederick Drew out of durance vile,” he said. “That is, Svenson has. He’s going to be arraigned on Tuesday, however, and we may require bail. Are you willing to post the bond?”
I swallowed hard and said yes. Mortimer Mandelbaum wouldn’t like this. Mother wouldn’t like this, either. Tim would probably think I was getting softheaded as well as softhearted. So why was I doing it? I believed I knew my man. He wouldn’t skip, and he wasn’t guilty. At least I thought so.
“I’ll keep you posted,” said Alex. “By the way, he’s most grateful. I believe he means to dedicate a sonnet sequence to you.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Have a pleasant weekend, Nick.”
“The same to you. Shalom aleithem.”
I had decided that maybe it wasn’t all that safe to stick around the Barlow & Company offices after darkness had set in, so I stuck several chapters of Sarah Goodall’s private-eye novel in my briefcase and left.
It was five-thirty when I stepped out of the building, and the heat was stifling. New York in summer can be like Calcutta, but that’s usually in July or August, not in mid-June. Anyway, it was hot hot hot and so humid I began to sweat the instant I hit the outside air. I walked out to the curb and paused, waiting for the traffic light to turn green.
I hardly noticed the man who approached from the right; I was only aware of him when suddenly he seized the sleeve of my jacket and pulled me roughly away from the spot where I was standing. At the same time, I could sense that something had come hurtling down alongside me, brushing close by but not touching me. When whatever it was shattered on the sidewalk, a chip flew up and hit my cheek.
“My God,” I said. I had probably meant to say something about the rudeness of strangers, but I realized in time that this particular stranger had undoubtedly saved my life. “What the hell happened?”
“Are you all right, sir?” asked my benefactor.
“Sure, just a scratch, I think.” I put my hand up to my cheek, and when I drew it away, there was blood on one of my fingers.
We both then looked down at what had fallen, from God knows how many flights up. It was a heavy stone urn, such as one puts funerary ashes in—but it was empty. That was a relief; I’d hate to have been brained by somebody’s last remains.
I turned to the man who had pulled me away from the path of the urn. He was short, stout, almost pear-shaped. Behind his Coke-bottle glasses, his eyes blinked incessantly. Despite the heat, he wore a felt hat—to cover his baldness, I suspected.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” I said. “Jesus, that was close.”
“No need for thanks, no need at all.” He reached out and touched my arm, a light, solicitous touch this time. “Sure you’re all right?”
“Quite sure.”
“Well, then—” He nodded, touched the brim of his hat, and started to move off.
“Wait a minute, sir,” I said. “Won’t you tell me who I must be grateful to?”
“Certainly.” He pulled a small leather case out of his pocket and extracted a business card, which he handed to me. “My name is Flitcraft, Homer B. Flitcraft. I’m from Spokane, Washington State. I’m in real estate out there.”
“Mr. Flitcraft,” I said, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. But how—”
I was going to say, “How can I thank you?” or something of the sort, but he finished the sentence for me.
“How did it happen? It was just good fortune that I came along when I did, and that I happened to be looking up while you were looking down. I saw this object falling, and grabbed you. Anyone else would have done the same, don’t you think? Good evening.”
And he walked off. I looked more closely at his card. “Homer B. Flitcraft, Real Estate Broker,” followed by his address, phone number, and fax number. Odd little man, but a godsend.
What could I do to thank him? Send him one of my books? Perhaps he didn’t read. Well, if I ever got to Spokane…
But why on earth would I want to go to Spokane?
And why in the world did an urn just happen to drop precisely where I had been standing?
I dabbed my cheek with my handkerchief and started walking.
If it was an accident, it was certainly freaky. Just suppose it wasn’t an accident at all. What was I to make of that? Nick Barlow, still running lucky—as Artie the cop had observed.
When I got out to Connecticut that weekend, I brought Mother and Tim up to speed on recent events, doing my best to downplay the shotgun incident and the falling urn.
Of the former, Mother, as usual, had a theory.
“But surely the burglars intended to rob our firm, Nicholas, not the jeweler.”
“I don’t follow that, Mother.”
“The break-in at the jeweler’s must have been a cover for the one at Barlow and Company. Undoubtedly they wanted to steal something in one of our offices. Yes, that’s it. Possibly something in Mr. Foxcroft’s office, something that has to do with his murder.”
“Like what?”
“Humph. You can’t expect me to work out every detail, now can you?” She snorted again. “You or the police will have to find the rest of the answers.”
Mother’s theory seemed to me as full of holes as one of her lace doilies, but, as always, I forbore to challenge her. Domestic harmony meant more to me in Connecticut than scoring points—unlike New York City, where I usually find myself as aggressive as the next man, unless the next man is lurking in a darkened doorway with a switchblade.
Of the urn, Tim’s first question: “Was it Grecian?”
I didn’t think that worthy of a response, either.
When I was closeted with Tim in his upstairs apartment, I admitted that the shotgun and the urn had both unnerved me.
“When it comes to the shotgun,” I said, “I suspect I just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. The urn, however, seemed aimed at me and no one else. Or so I think, though I could be mistaken—maybe that, too, was an accident. What’s your opinion, Tim?”
“Whether it was blind chance that the urn fell, or someone’s intention to kill you, I figure you ought to be grateful that Mr. Flitcraft was there.”
“Oh, I am.”
“His presence,” said Tim, “was probably the real accident.”
“So you think I was targeted.”
He nodded. “You may represent a threat to somebody in this investigation, Nick.”
“I prefer just being a suspect.”
When I then told Tim about how thorough a search Poole and I had made through Parker’s files, he smiled in approval and said: “Of course you checked his computer hard drive, too.”
I must have looked dumbstruck, because Tim shook his head sadly, as though thinking: my idiot brother, as usual.
“You didn’t?”
“Not yet.”
“But you intend to.”
“Oh sure, Tim. As soon as I get back to the office.”
Leave it to Tim to puncture any show of smugness on my part. Before leaving, I asked Tim what he was reading these days. He pointed to a stack of books on his night table. “You see there the complete works of your latest acquisition.”
“Poole?”
“Right. His first three novels. Time Lock. The Edge of the Precipice. Cody Appleton. And his best-seller, Pan at Twilight.” Tim picked up one of the novels, opened it to the back flap, and said, “He’s a Virginian.”
“Yes, I recognized the accent.”
“Herbert Poole, Jr., was born in Newport News, Virginia,” Tim read, “the son of a naval officer. He attended elementary school at Hilton Village, Virginia, and completed his high school training at Christ Church School, Virginia. He attended Davidson College and the University of Virginia.” Tim broke off, and closed the book. “I guess that makes him a Virginian, all right.”
“And what do you think of his books?”
“I’m barely into them,” replied Tim, “and I’m really reading them to see what kind of writer he is—what sort of mystery he might do for us. That’s the point of the exercise.”
“Well, let me know if you think I ought to read them, too.”
“So far as I can tell, he’s good. He’s damn good. I think you’ve got a winner.”
“Hallelujah.”
On that Sunday, Mother as much as dragged me down Kellogg Hill Road to the neighborhood Episcopal church, whether to give thanks for my deliverance from evil, or just to improve my character, I can’t be sure.
The Emmanuel Episcopal church is as unlike the Little Church Around the Corner as two such houses of worship could be. To begin with, Emmanuel ought to be the one called “the Little Church.” It was built in the style of an early New England meeting house, and could easily be a Congregational or Presbyterian parish. Plain, down-to-earth architecture; no frills. The walls painted white, the only decoration a large wooden cross hung above an unpretentious altar. However, there is a cleanliness, a sparse beauty in that style, which I find enormously soothing, even if I’m just sitting there and not paying too close attention to the service itself. A rather Low Church service—no incense or chanting, such as you’ll find in the Church of the Transfiguration. The sun was streaming through the windows on my left, setting the chandeliers aglitter, and a breeze blew across the pews from the open windows. I found life, the world, mankind even, to be passing fair, or at least not as bad as they might be. The choir sang with gusto, the minister did not make too much of an ass of himself by preaching about original sin or man’s wickedness to man—I’d had enough of that lately. And I was making my mother happy.
When we stepped out into the bright sunshine, I took a deep breath and drew in the splendors of a Connecticut summer: flowers of every color in full bloom, the trees leafed out, and the scent of pine in the air.
Turning to my mother, I said: “One of those June days that Will Shakespeare found so rare, isn’t it?”
“It surely is,” she said, and took my arm as we followed the other members of the congregation down the sidewalk to our car.
Once again, the countryside had worked its restorative magic on my troubled spirit, and I could go back to the city much strengthened.