Escape the Night (38 page)

“I'm quite busy today.” Barth paused, testing. “Perhaps we should do this by telephone.”

“Really, I wouldn't waste your time on trivial matters, or those to which delay would do no harm.”

Barth's eyes narrowed. In a private piece of play acting, he consulted his watch, delaying to make his point with Englehardt. “Between eight and eight-thirty,” he said in a reluctant voice. “You'll have to do with that.”

“I shall.” Barth heard a quick rush of adrenaline in the words, and then Englehardt added, respectfully, “Thank you,” and hung up.

Alone, Barth began searching for what troubled him until, instinctively, he turned to the Manhattan skyline, and saw John Carey's building.

“Manhattan information.”

“Yes.” Carey saw the first flakes of snow melting on his window. “I'd like the new listing for Alfred Krantz.”

“How are you spelling that?”

“K-r-a-n-t-z.”

“Just a moment.” Turning from the window, Carey stared at the picture of his father, and then the operator said, “I have no new listing under Krantz. When did he …?”

“This weekend.”

“It takes ten days, sir. You'll have to call back then.”

Charles Carey grinned down at him, frozen by the memory of a camera, alive …

Carey hung up, and headed for his uncle's office.

Phillip's assistant looked up from her typewriter. “Hi, Susan—Phil in?”

“He just called.” She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “This sore throat he's got is really rough. He said no one was to call him.”

“What if it's an emergency?”

“I'm sorry, Peter—he's not even answering.” She shifted in her chair. “Is there something I can do?”

“Yes,” Carey snapped. “When he calls back, tell him I'm coming over.”

Phillip Carey sat in the library of his town house, amidst his father's books.

He remembered them—the years, the authors, how they had looked in galley proofs. On summer evenings, his window filtered the fading sunlight in golden shafts, and lent his shelves the gauzy richness of an old color photograph whose tints have blurred. Sometimes, sitting there drinking, he would forget …

The telephone rang, once, and then it was winter, and only Peter was alive.

The ring was Englehardt's signal.

Reluctant, fearful of some new demand, Phillip called him. “Yes?”

“Your nephew is coming to visit, Phillip. I suggest you go to the Museum of Modern Art—on a doctor's appointment, of course.”

Phillip felt weary. “I'll simply tell him I'm sick.”

“Not after your performance the other day. He's not to see you, is that clear?”

“Very well.” Phillip closed his eyes. “What about this business of hypnosis?”

“We'll discuss that this evening—here, at ten o'clock.”

“Why so late?”

“I have an earlier appointment,” Englehardt said softly. “But I should be through by then.”

Album in his lap, Martin stared at the copy he had made of the photograph, now restored to its place on Carey's pillow. Gently, he touched Noelle's body.

A telephone rang, and then a voice came from the stereo: “Peter Carey's office.”

“Yes.” The second voice sounded older each time Martin heard it. “Is Mr. Carey in?”

“He's stepped out for a moment. Can I take a message?”

“Yes, please. This is Dr. Levy. Tell him that I've made an appointment with Dr. Pogostin.”

Martin dialed his own telephone, still listening.

“It's for nine o'clock tomorrow, at Pogostin's office. Let me give you the address …”

“Yes?” Englehardt answered.

“Carey's appointment is for nine o'clock tomorrow.”

“I see.” There was silence. “Then you must go back to Levy's, as soon as he receives the tape.”

And just guess what you'll do for me
, Martin thought to himself, and slid the picture of Noelle into his album.

For the second time, Peter Carey pounded on his uncle's door.

No one answered.

Carey jammed both hands in his coat pockets, and then remembered standing there once before, on the doorstep of a darkened house, three days before Christmas.

He bent, opening the milk-chute, and patted the top with his fingertips.

Ten years later, the green magnetic keycase was still inside.

Sliding back the lid, Carey removed the key, and placed it in the lock.

“
Sometimes even brothers need their privacy
…”

Carey hesitated; then he turned the key, and looked inside. “Phil?”

From the corner of the street, Phillip watched his nephew call to him.

Impulsively, Phillip started back, to see what Peter wanted; then Peter disappeared inside, reminding him to fear, and Phillip Carey turned and slowly walked toward the museum.

Barth waved Englehardt to the place he had selected for him. “You've half an hour,” he said without introduction, “to tell me what you find so pressing.”

Englehardt sat in an armless chair at the end of a table so polished that it reflected his face as a translucent mask. Barth had dimmed the conference room: deprived of props, Englehardt seemed less like a thief of power than an aging technocrat, strip-mined of dreams. His shoulders stooped. Imagining the comic figure he must cut in his underwear, Barth smiled inwardly at his own apprehension. The true leader brings his specialists to heel, training their pride to his ends: Roosevelt and Old Joe Kennedy, Nixon and Kissinger.

“Do you also wish my recommendations?”

Englehardt's voice was so soft Barth could barely hear. “Speak up.”

Englehardt spoke to the table. “Perhaps if I moved closer?”

Barth paused, annoyed. With a show of carelessness, he said, “As you like,” and waved him to a chair on his right.

“Thank you.” Englehardt walked stiffly forward, pointing to his throat. “Sore, you know—Phillip Carey has it, too.”

Deflecting the remark with a passing smile, indulgent and impersonal, Barth demanded, “What is it you have to say.”

Englehardt looked up. “That it's time to force a sale from Phillip.”

“Now?” Covering his wariness, Barth rested his chin on tented fingers. “I've been expecting some further effort to immobilize
Peter
Carey. You've taken some very intricate measures to set all that in place—”

“—which shall prove invaluable in telling you everything he does or plans to do—in or out of court—and
why
he does it. Indeed, without my operation, Peter would have remained an incomprehensible stranger, destroying your hopes through this lawsuit as you struggled vainly to stop him. But the effective use of
Phillip
requires dispatch.”

The man was nervous, Barth thought suddenly, he never spoke this quickly. “We have four months yet …”

“… and as Phillip is where you must start, the most effective use of our surveillance is in the context of a
fait accompli
.”

Barth stared at him, reasserting his control. “You're giving me conclusions without a plan.”

“You've already thought of it, I'm sure.” As he watched Barth, Englehardt's voice slid to a note of reassurance. “The surveillance is in place, and we've discovered Peter's weakness for Miss Ciano is much greater than we'd guessed.
Now
I direct Phillip to sell you
both
his forty-nine percent interest
and
two percent of Peter's, while he retains the power to do so. In one stroke Van Dreelen and Carey becomes legally yours, and Peter's options—which surveillance enables you instantly to counter—become quite limited. He can accept Phillip's sale of his controlling interest, sweetened by your generous offer to buy
his
remaining forty-nine percent, or try to undo the sale in court, in which case you will advise Peter that should his lawsuit fail you will refuse to buy this remnant at any price.

“In itself, that must make Peter stop and think. Should he lose, then he holds only a minority interest in a difficult business, worth so much less than a controlling interest that I doubt there'd be much market for it. He'll no longer be able even to set foot in Van Dreelen and Carey, and yet, unless he somehow unloads his remaining shares, no rival publisher will have him. No man, especially Peter Carey, will lightly contemplate the loss of virtually all he's got. At this moment of hesitation we may then
exploit
the torment in his psychological makeup, rather than
fear
it. Which”—Englehardt permitted himself a smile—“is why the young woman we are watching is so valuable.” His eyes dropped modestly. “But then no doubt you perceived that last night, as I've said.”

Barth began examining the odd brilliance of what he had just heard. “How do you propose to threaten him through the woman?”

“In ways which he could never trace to you. But the psychoanalysis reveals that she's the perfect counterforce to his passion for the firm.
That
passion stems from his terrible sense that he caused the deaths of both John and Charles Carey, whose forgiveness he can secure only by cherishing their work—even, perhaps, by pushing this worrisome potential lawsuit to the limit. Fortunately, despite this fear that he somehow murders those whom he loves, and despite a competing fear of women derived from his mother's distaste, he has fallen in love with Miss Ciano.” The hint of a smile reappeared. “Now suppose I were to make him fear that clinging to his father's firm would bring terrible harm to
her?
”

“
How
, dammit?”

“His guilt would drive him quite mad, you see. I doubt that he could even face such a choice, let alone offer you resistance. He might well kill himself.”

The man's insane
, Barth thought; in that instant he saw his father's shattered skull. He leaned forward. “I want to know your
methods
.”

“I simply do what is necessary.” Englehardt closed his eyes. “My secrecy becomes your shield. Which is why, should you still desire to own this firm,
I
must approach Phillip Carey, alone.”

“No.” Barth's voice grew steely. “It's time I knew what you've got on him.”

Englehardt's eyes snapped open. “That would be foolish, on both our parts. All I ask is one more day. Tomorrow, I will place in your hands the papers conveying John Carey's firm to you, signed by Phillip Carey. Then you can decide for yourself how important it is to know the
reason
for his signature.”

Noelle looked from the fireplace to Peter. “What would you have said to Phillip, if you'd found him?”

“That I was undergoing hypnosis. I figured maybe by surprising him …” He shrugged. “If that's what frightens him, I thought he might tell me why.”

“Maybe you should wait, Peter—at least to let Pogostin find out what it is.” She edged closer to the fire. “Are you still nervous?”

“About tomorrow?” She nodded at the flame. “Yes,” he answered. “After that, I don't know what happens.”

She stared ahead. “The truth, Peter: is this for me?”

He hesitated. “Partly …”

“Because now
I'm
feeling guilty.”

He turned to her. “Just feel guilty enough to be careful, all right?”

“Yeah, okay.” Her voice lightened. “Another day, and no ugly stranger.”

“In Manhattan?”

She smiled. “Well, not
that
ugly stranger.”

“Good.” Unsmiling, Carey looked toward the fire. “Anyhow, I guess some of it's for Levy. Today …”

“But is any part for
you?
”

“The biggest part.” A faint smile appeared. “I've become afraid of being afraid.”

She watched him. “I just wish I could be there.”

“They don't even know if it'll work.” His smile lingered. “I'd be afraid to disappoint you.”

“Then at least let me give away the tickets. It's silly to drag you out.”

“I'll probably need it. Besides”—he gave her a sardonic look—“it's nice of Sutcliffe to include me.”

“Peter, you don't think …?”

“Not after this.” He touched the photograph that lay between them, and then looked up at her. “It was beautiful, you know.”

“I thought so, too.” She turned back to the fire, ending a long silence in a different voice. “You know, it
is
weird about the Krantzes. I wonder what made them move.”

“I don't know.” Frowning, Carey bent forward. Gently, almost reverently, he placed her photograph in the flames.

Noelle turned to him. “Why, Peter?”

He kissed her forehead. “I'll remember,” he said softly. “And I'm the only one who should.”

Englehardt placed the photograph in front of Phillip Carey. “All women are alike, aren't they, Phillip.”

Sick, Phillip could not help staring at Noelle. “Where did you get this?”

“You'll recall that I'm rather good at such things.” Smiling, Englehardt slid the photograph back into the manila folder. “I wonder how young Peter will react.”

Phillip looked up, speechless.

“Oh, I
would
, Phillip—driving Peter across the line can only serve my purposes.” His smile vanished. “I could do other things, far, far worse than this. I merely offer it as a reminder of what could happen should you, through yet another inexplicable outburst of self-sacrifice, leak word of this to Peter before I wish it.” He pointed toward the certificates of transfer, sitting on the desk between them. “You may remember why you're here.”

Phillip stared past him into the shadows of the loft. “But nothing's changed,” he began, and then stopped, glancing up at Englehardt.

Englehardt nodded. “Hypnosis,” he said softly. “Tomorrow.”

“You
knew?
”