The Faceless One (8 page)

“Tell him I’ll need to push that back. I have to take care of some items from Daniel Slater’s estate.”

Theresa looked at him with sympathy and regret. “Mr. Breckforth seemed quite emphatic.”

Purcival felt the weight of the briefcase in his hand. “Fine, tell him I’ll be in his office at three.”

Purcival went into his office and closed the antique mahogany door. The door had been salvaged from a mansion in Virginia—each partner had one, a mark of prestige and wealth—it closed with a comforting and ponderous click behind him.

I’m safe
.

The thought struck him as odd for just a second, then he was anxious to see his acquisition.

His office was large and tastefully furnished without being ostentatious. There was a small Hockney entitled
Pool 2
over the leather sofa and a series of studies by Seurat along one wall. The wall behind his desk was made entirely of glass, giving him a magnificent view.

Purcival surveyed the office, trying to decide where best to display the mask. It seemed to him that hanging it opposite the desk would give him the best view of it. It would mean moving the Hockney, but he could either put that above the small bar or take it home. He placed the briefcase on a small conference table surrounded by four chairs that matched the couch.

That left the mask itself.

He placed it, still wrapped in suede, on the empty portion of the conference table. Gingerly, he unwrapped it, anxious to see it again.

The mask felt cool in his hands, and its weight was comforting, like the heft of a well-balanced knife or elegant decanter.

He turned it over to see how he might hang it.

There was no cord or band for securing the mask to someone’s face. Indeed, there were no holes or eyelets to accommodate such a cord. He couldn’t drill holes into it; he might split the wood or loosen the inlaid tiles of ivory and mother-of-pearl.

He turned the mask over and looked at it, thinking.

His wife had bought several collectible plates when they were still in college. They were fairly abysmal, and she had donated them to charity years ago, but he remembered that she had displayed them with a plate hanger, a device comprised of long springs and hooked brackets for mounting round objects. Something like that, if large enough, would work.

He looked at his watch. It was just after noon. He had plenty of time to go out, find a plate hanger, hang the mask, and make his meeting with Breckforth.

Purcival placed the mask gently on his desk, using the suede wrapping as a cushion to
rest it on. He started out, noticed the items for Steven Slater, and called to Theresa as he left the office.

“Theresa, I’m going out for lunch and to run a couple of errands. There is a stack of documents and some other items on the conference table. Please send those out to Steven Slater in California. His address is in the Slater file.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Purcival.”

“I’ll be back by two at the latest.”

“Have a nice lunch.”

As he started for the elevator, he wondered if maybe he should go back and hide the mask. But that was silly. Theresa had worked for him for ten years. She and everyone in the firm were above reproach. Besides, he was going to have the thing on open display, wasn’t he?

Chuckling at his own foolishness, Jackson Purcival went in search of a plate hanger.

* * *

Theresa finished her lunch at 12:45. She glanced at her watch and decided she’d better pack up the documents Mr. Purcival had mentioned for the 2:00 pickup. Mr. Purcival was an ideal boss, one she had called a “real mensch.” He never gave her grief when things were stressful at the firm and was always polite and thanked her for each day’s work. That, coupled with a generous benefits package and its location, made the firm easily the best job she had had since moving to New York from Akron in 1990.

Theresa took a document-shipping box into Mr. Purcival’s office. Finding the stack on his conference table, she first put the documents into a large manila envelope to keep them in pristine condition. She placed these in the container with the jewelry box.

As she started out of the office, something caught her eye.

It was on Mr. Purcival’s desk.

Theresa set the shipping box down on the table and went over to see what had grabbed her attention. She glanced around because she was afraid someone might think she was snooping, something she would never do.

The mask was quite beautiful yet disturbing at the same time.

Glancing behind her again, she picked up the mask. It had a weight to it that seemed to belie its size. She had to be careful not to prick her hand on the sharp points projecting from the rim.

Maybe this was supposed to go to the brother, too. The more she thought that, the more it seemed to make sense. Surely, Mr. Slater would want his brother to have an example of his life’s
work. But if that were true, why hadn’t Mr. Purcival put the mask with the documents and the jewelry box? He had left in a hurry, and there was an important meeting today; perhaps he had forgotten. Theresa was unsure what to do. It seemed important that the mask be sent out right away though she couldn’t say why. Part of her was sure she’d feel better when it was out of the office and on its way.

She stood there for half a minute, undecided, then glanced at her watch—1:00 P.M. Mr. Purcival had said he would be back by two. If the mask wasn’t supposed to go, she could take it out of the box and get the other items on their way. The UPS man usually didn’t get to their office until 2:15, and Mr. Purcival was always prompt.

Happy that she had resolved the dilemma, Theresa went out to get a larger box.

* * *

Purcival was swearing under his breath as he left the stationery store. None of the three places he had stopped at carried plate hangers. Indeed, the young girl behind the counter at the Rite-Aid drugstore had never even heard of one.

He decided to take a different tack. He looked up “Artifacts” and “Museum Displays” on his phone until he found a listing for a store called Evolution in Soho. He dialed the number, praying they would have what he needed.

“Evolution,” replied a pleasant male voice.

“Hello, I’m looking for a plate hanger. Do you carry those?”

“No, I’m afraid we don’t.”

Purcival swore to himself and wiped bead of sweat from his brow with his pocket square.

“Do you know who might? I’m having a terrible time finding one.”

“Usually, a home-decor place. What do you want to display?”

“It’s an Eskimo mask, about a foot in diameter.”

“And there’s no way to hang it from the drawstrings?”

“This doesn’t have any—there aren’t even holes for them. I really don’t want to try drilling any, or mounting any kind of hooks.”

“God, no,” the man at Evolution said, horrified at the prospect. “You know, we do have display stands for those kinds of items, and cases, too. It would cost quite a bit more than a plate hanger but would give you a more …”

Not interested in any more of the clerk’s blather, Purcival hung up the phone and checked his watch. He could get over to Soho and back and still be in time for the meeting.

The first cab he saw swooped in and picked him up.

This was his lucky day.

* * *

Theresa carried the mask carefully to the conference table, shielding her fingers with the suede the mask had been placed on. She put it down and picked up some bubble wrap she had gotten from the supply cabinet in the copier room. As she was cutting the bubble wrap, Mr. Breckforth stuck his head in the door.

“Hi, Theresa. Jackson at lunch?”

Theresa jumped a bit at the sound of his voice.

“Yes, Mr. Breckforth. He should be back in about ten minutes.”

Breckforth walked in.

“I just wanted to touch base with him over the Hoeniger meeting.” He looked at the mask. “What’s this?” he asked, picking it up.

“That’s from Mr. Slater’s estate. I’m sending it to his brother in California.”

“Oh, Slater, yes. God, that was bloody awful.”

Theresa nodded, not really wanting to think of Mr. Slater, especially in the context of “bloody.”

Mr. Breckforth placed the mask back on the suede.

“Tell Jackson to come to my office as soon as he gets back.”

Theresa nodded and went back to work, anxious to get the mask into the box and sealed away. She didn’t want to look at it anymore.

* * *

Purcival entered Evolution, squeezing into the limited space made smaller by its profusion of skeletons and fossils. Evolution was a stylish store that dealt with various biological specimens mounted for either museums or private collectors, emphasis on the latter. There were entire skeletons mounted, everything from a tiny bat weighing less than two grams to a full-grown grizzly bear. There were skulls of saber-toothed cats, protohumans, and various extinct species cast in resin from actual fossils. One wall was filled with mounted butterflies and insects, including a vast array of scarab beetles. The beetles defied the conventional, many of them looking as if they had been dipped in gold, covered in chrome, or plated with any of a dozen precious metals or gems.

There were several people browsing at the vast collection of artifacts, but Purcival noted
gratefully that no one was making a purchase or requiring the help of the sales staff.

There were two people behind the counter, one a tall man dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a purple silk shirt. The other was a young woman with a pierced lower lip and the beginnings of a Maori tattoo on her pale face. Purcival approached the young man.

“I called about displaying a mask?”

“Right! I have something right here.”

The young man brought out a beautiful glass case edged with black lacquered wood and containing a brass stand.

Purcival mentally checked the dimensions of the case against the image of the mask in his mind. It seemed like it would fit perfectly.

“That’s fine. How much is it?”

“One hundred and twenty-five dollars. Normally it’s two hundred, and—”

“Fine, fine, I’ll take it,” Purcival said, interrupting. He fumbled his American Express Platinum card on the desk.

The young man was used to such abruptness. He swiped the card through a small electronic device and punched in the price. As they were waiting for the sale to be approved, he wrote up an invoice by hand. With precision timing, the device chirped its approval just as he wrote the total in the lower-right-hand corner. He tore off the slip that the device spit out with a series of hums and clicks and presented it for Purcival to sign.

“I can put this in a box for you with some styrofoam packing material, Mr. Purcival.”

“That’s all right, just a shopping bag is fine. I’m going right back to the office to put the mask in it.”

“Certainly.” The young man frowned for a fraction of a second. This was less than the service his employers prided themselves on. But his supervisor was watching the transaction, she would be his witness if Purcival broke the case on the way back to his office and tried to demand a replacement or credit.

He placed the case in a large bag emblazoned with woodcuts of fossils and nature drawings as well as the store’s logo.

“You can clean the glass with any regular glass cleaner—”

Purcival grabbed the bag and hurried out of the shop. He flagged down a cab, relieved that his purchase had taken less than ten minutes. Now he could get back to the office with plenty of time to display the mask before his meeting. He carefully placed the bag on the seat beside him as he gave the driver his destination.

* * *

Theresa looked up at the wall clock. It was 2:10, and there was still no sign of Mr. Purcival. Perhaps he had had an accident or lost track of the time. She decided to phone him on his cell and get both the clearance on the package and tell him Mr. Breckforth was waiting for him. The box she had packed was next to her desk. Even the presence of that anonymous cardboard-and-tape structure made her nervous. She hoped Mr. Purcival had intended on sending the mask. She really didn’t relish opening up the box and taking it out again. She thought wildly for a moment of asking Eleanor to do it, then admonished herself for being so foolish. She dialed Mr. Purcival’s number from memory, wondering why such a call hadn’t occurred to her until then. There was the hiss of static and a mechanical voice telling her the caller was out of the service area. How could that be? Mr. Purcival could take calls in Europe, for God’s sake. How could he be out of the area? Clucking with agitation, she dialed again, very slowly. Again, Mr. Purcival was nowhere in the known world, as far as Sprint was concerned.

The sound of footsteps approaching her desk made Theresa look up. It was Joey, the deliveryman from UPS. Theresa liked Joey. He was friendly as well as good-looking and seemed to embrace each day with unbridled enthusiasm. She held up her index finger, asking him to give her a second. Joey smiled and looked over some of the photos she had taken on her trip to Barcelona.

The mechanical voice recited its message once again, each syllable modulated in precisely the same way, yet she imagined that she could hear the recording growing impatient with her repeated attempts to reach Mr. Purcival.

What could she do? If she was wrong, Mr. Purcival might be angry, but they could always ask Mr. Slater to send the package back. Even if he wanted to keep the mask, not many people would argue with a high-priced Manhattan lawyer.

Besides, was it her fault he was late?

Theresa hung up the phone and smiled at Joey.

* * *

Purcival entered the lobby at two thirty. He almost whistled on his way up in the elevator although he found it annoying when anyone else did that. When he reached his office, he entered with the air of a man who had just won a lottery or gotten a positive response to his proposal of marriage.

“Mr. Purcival, Mr. Breckforth wants to see you ASAP.”

“The meeting’s still at three, right?”

“Yes, but he wants to discuss things. ‘Touch base’ was the phrase he used.”

Purcival smiled; nothing would dampen his good mood.