Cloak of Darkness (16 page)

It was cramped in floor space, its walls lined with deep shelving on which was stacked masses of envelopes, paper, every kind of replacement for office work of boxes of rubber bands and clips to a couple of spare typewriters. His eyes searched the dividing wall between this room and Lorna’s. Here, the shelves had rows of filing boxes drawn up like soldiers on parade. And then he noticed the step-ladder, abandoned quickly, left in a precarious tilt against a column of boxes. Quickly, he scanned that column; the neighbouring one, too. And
there
was something—a box well above his reach that broke the rigid pattern, retreated half an inch from the line-up. Replaced too hurriedly?

He pulled the ladder into position, climbed two-thirds of its height to stand on eye level with the filing box. It was of cardboard, not so light as it looked but easily pulled out by the leather tongue on its spine. Placing it on the top step of the ladder, he leaned forward to look through a hole drilled neatly into the wall. Judging from where he stood, the peephole must lie just above the painting next door.

He had a limited view of Lorna, sitting at her desk, sufficiently recovered from her paralysis to speak into a Dictaphone. He could hear nothing. He pulled out the next box; there was no mark of any listening device on the wall behind it. But this one was lighter in weight, much lighter. He replaced it exactly, opened the first box. Inside, fixed in position by a leather band—no slipping, no rattling when the box was lifted—was a cup-shaped item with a small earphone attached by a tube. An imitation stethoscope. It worked on the same principle, too. With the rim of its cup pressed against the wall, the earphone gave Renwick the clear sound of Lorna’s dictation. He listened to only three words before everything was being replaced in its proper place and he could leave.

He opened Lorna’s door, locked it behind him. She looked up at him, switched off the Dictaphone.

“Get out,” he told her. “Leave now. As soon as you can, get out of New York. He could partly see us, and he certainly could hear us once he got his listening device working.”

Her eyes showed fear. “Leave now? But there’s no plane until this evening.”

“Then get lost in New York until your flight leaves.”

“He really saw us through that wall?” She could scarcely believe it.

Renwick walked over to the painting. It had been centred, logically enough, in a column of grey roses. They were shaded, lifelike except in colour. Leaves sprayed out from their stalks, all carefully shaded, too, but darker than the flowers. One leaf seemed almost black, a deep shadow nestling so innocently among the intertwining foliage. That could be it, he thought, and pulled the picture to swing open on its hinges. The gilded frame with its antique curves no longer distracted the eye. The blackened leaf was definitely a hole. He pointed to it, then closed the picture over the safe. He heard Lorna’s gasp. He chose that vulnerable moment to say, casually, “If you’re heading for Europe, you’d better start packing.”

“Yes, yes.” She rose, distracted. “I never looked up when I opened that safe.”

“No one does.” One looked at a safe, not above it.

She reached for the telephone, told the receptionist, “No calls, no visitors. I’m going to see my doctor—a bad migraine. I’ll be back here tomorrow.” She replaced the receiver, opened a drawer, began pulling out its contents, jamming them into her shoulder bag. “You don’t have to wait. I’ll be out of here in ten minutes.” Like her words, her movements were rapid. She brushed past Renwick, pulled the painting wide, and opened the safe. She reached for a neat stack of dollar bills. “What’s delaying you?” Her tone was brusque. She had recovered.

“Curiosity. I’d have thought you would have made a beeline for Brimmer’s safe. Or,” he added, “have you already taken that little book with its Plus List?”

“It’s secure. Beyond anyone’s reach.”

“Risky. What if he had opened his safe and found it missing?”

“A small black diary is easy to substitute. Two ninety-five in any stationery store.” She closed the safe, then the picture.

“But inside”—Renwick persisted if only to hear her confirm his guess—“blank pages? A complete giveaway.”

“Not so blank.” She was much amused.

“I see. Brilliant. Names and dates and amounts of money— no relation to the real thing, of course.” How long had she been preparing for this escape? The diary—and that was another detail for an estimate of its size—must have taken several weeks of careful imitation.

“Of course,” she said mockingly, as she added the dollar bills to a zipped pocket in her handbag. “But good enough for any glance inside.” She began filling a briefcase with a few folders from the filing cabinet, selecting them with care.

Beyond anyone’s reach
... So Brimmer’s Plus List was not anywhere in her apartment but some place far from New York where she could collect it without fear of discovery. Some place, also, where she’d find more money: the dollars from the safe would pay her fare to Europe, would keep her for a week or two. On the run, no one risked leaving a trail with traveller’s cheques or a charge card: it was cash, nicely anonymous cash, all the way.

She closed the briefcase. “For God’s sake, why don’t you leave? You’ve scared me enough for one morning. What’s keeping you?”

“A last piece of advice. I would avoid Switzerland. Klingfeld & Sons have offices in Geneva.”

“Thank you for your concern, but Geneva wouldn’t attract me.” She was condescending, quite certain she had defeated him.

“Zurich could be safer. I hear it is a good banking town, too.” That ended her assurance. “When you see Al Moore, give him a kind word from me.” He will need it, poor guy.

“I’ll do that. If I see him.” She opened the door. Her voice sharpened. “Do I go first? Or you?”

“Ladies always first.” He stood aside.

“Don’t follow me!”

Renwick shook his head. But others might, he thought.

Should he warn her: one last word of advice? The windblown-hair boy must have had time to contact a backup—if he had one. “Lorna—”

But she had left. Handbag strapped over her shoulder, briefcase in hand, pleated skirt swinging above excellent legs, three-inch heels clacking briskly on the tiled floor, she marched along the corridor, didn’t look back.

Renwick followed slowly, gave her time to take the elevator before he passed the reception desk. He was still troubled by her last phrase about Al Moore.
If I see him.
Not
when; if.
Moore had served his purpose, so now...? The money she intended to screw out of the men on Brimmer’s Plus List would go twice as far if she were alone. Money... she had grown accustomed to its taste. There were two curses in life: money and politics. But no one—except the hermit in his cave—could live without them.

He stepped into a crowded elevator. No one edged near him; no one paid him any attention. He relaxed. But the sooner he emptied the inside pocket of his jacket, the better. For him as well as for those four pieces of paper.

By the time Renwick reached the lobby, stepped into a whirl of people eddying around the elevators, Lorna Upwood had vanished. Almost half-past eleven, he noted; he would be on time for his noon appointment with Joe Neill—Park Avenue and the Drake Hotel were only three blocks away. It would be a relief to talk with someone who was honest, straightforward, and with no avarice, either. How much did he make—twenty-five thousand a year? Everything was out of whack: Joe was worth more than any rock-and-roll singer or movie star in terms of the future of this country. But who thought much about the future? Me, me, me, only thought about now now now. Renwick shook off the effects of his talk with Lorna Upwood and concentrated on reaching the entrance to this enormous building. The desk and its uniformed guard were just ahead. And there, too, was the supply-room clerk.

The man was alone, standing apart from the stream of people, watching. He had seen Renwick. He was either a fool or ill-trained: he wasn’t even trying to melt into the background. At this hour the lobby was far from empty, yet this gas-head couldn’t be missed, with his windblown hair and heavy glasses, posted as he was near the desk. Posted? A warning bell sent off its small alarm inside Renwick’s head.

Quickly, he side-stepped behind two business-men, ignored a friendly wave and a cheerful “Hi, there!” And where was the fellow’s backup, ready to tail Renwick once identification was made? Renwick didn’t wait to see. He turned on his heel, joined three lawyers arguing about torts on their way to the elevators, and broke into a short sprint to reach a closing door before it shut tight. He got out at the second floor, used the fire-exit staircase to lead him all the way down to a vast underground garage.

He had just managed it, but barely; no one could have had time to follow. This interest in him was to be expected. Inside his securely buttoned jacket there were four documents for which Mr. Klaus of Klingfeld & Sons would willingly murder. The clerk—and not such an idiot, Renwick admitted wryly— had seen him receive them from Lorna Upwood, had heard talk about illegal transactions and Telex messages in code. But the man hadn’t stayed to hear a discussion about Brimmer’s Plus List or Lorna’s admission that she had taken it. Or, thank God, to hear Renwick leading her into the subject of Switzerland.

Plenty of problems, he thought as he made his way through row after row of cars—must have been hundreds of them parked here: the building was almost a small city in itself—but the immediate problem was a clean exit from this garage. Far ahead he could see a sloping ramp that led up to a wide mouth gaping into a busy street. He headed toward it. Waste no time, he told himself.

At the foot of the ramp’s slope, a private ambulance was drawn close to a side wall. Door left open, waiting. But no one guarding it. Renwick halted, stepped instinctively behind a blue Chevrolet. A garage attendant had noted him, came forward at a leisurely pace.

“I was to meet my wife here,” Renwick told him and forestalled any question. “But I don’t see any sign of her—or her car.”

“What make?”

“A Chevy. Blue. Like this one.”

“Plenty of them around.” The attendant was young, his voice not unfriendly. The glum look on his face was probably normal.

“An accident?” Renwick nodded toward the ambulance.

“Just an emergency in the lobby upstairs. Some guy had a heart attack. They’ll be bringing him out any minute. They’d better. Can’t have them parked here for long.”

“Why not in the street?” Renwick was sympathetic.

“Couldn’t find space.” The attendant shrugged. “So what can you do? Turn away an ambulance?” He stared at the ramp where two men came hurrying down from the street. “What— no heart attack? Perhaps the guy’s dead.” He didn’t seem to find it remarkable that the men wore no white coats, carried no stretcher. Or perhaps it had been explained to him and the other attendants, still engrossed in a heated discussion near the ramp: no stretcher required, the driver would take the ambulance to the building’s entrance, the sick man could be helped to walk that short distance from the lobby.

Now the driver climbed into his seat, the other man about to enter. He paused—heavily built, round-faced, with a genial look and thick dark hair—and gave a friendly wave to the three garage attendants. “False alarm,” he called as they approached him.

“Wouldn’t you know?” the young man beside Renwick said in disgust, and left to get his share of the tip now being handed out.

Yet another figure had appeared, waiting at the head of the ramp until the ambulance would stop and pick him up. He no longer wore glasses, but he hadn’t changed his hairstyle or seersucker jacket. Renwick bent to tie his shoelace, straightened up when the ambulance’s motor merged with the traffic outside.

So the supply-room clerk had a mini-transceiver among his other little gadgets. When had he called for support? As soon as he saw me enter Lorna Upwood’s office at ten o’clock? Or perhaps five minutes later, when he had started listening in. The ambulance was stolen temporarily, no doubt. It wasn’t intended for Lorna Upwood—they must know her apartment in Beekman Terrace, could pick her up any time. So you’re the candidate, he told himself as he walked toward the street level, leaving behind an argument resumed: who was to blame— owners or baseball players?

He hailed a taxi, directed it to First Avenue and Sixty-third Street. There, he walked three blocks back to Sixtieth Street, making sure Klaus’s long arm was no longer reaching after him. Another cab took him west to Park Avenue. He left it one street away from the Drake. A small evasion, but he had little time for anything more elaborate. He was already ten minutes late for Joe Neill.

Neill was making his glass of beer last and beginning to worry. Renwick was always punctual. Then he saw him enter and quietly raised a hand to attract Renwick’s attention to his table against the wall. One signal was all it took. Renwick sat down to face him. The room was dark and cool, the tables half empty at this hour. By one o’clock the place would be packed.

Traffic heavy?” Neill asked, noticing Renwick’s tight face.

“Complicated.” Renwick ordered an ice-cold beer, suggested a couple of quick chefs salads, and let Neill make light conversation until they were saved.

Neill had been waiting for that moment, too. He switched to a lower and more serious tone, asked, “What’s the problem, Bob?”

“How do you get a healthy man into an ambulance—take him from a crowded lobby with few people noticing one goddamn thing?”

Neill said, “You know the answer to that.” But his interest had been aroused.

“Yes,” said Renwick, his voice intense even if it was held low. “A needle in his wrist, or a sting at the back of his neck. Sudden collapse, unable to talk, but possibly still able to walk enough—propped up by a friendly medic and a couple of ambulance attendants who just happened to be there.”

Neill studied Renwick’s face. “You? They tried it on you?” For once, his usual calm deserted him.

“They planned it. But I managed to keep a couple of steps ahead of them.”

“Where did this happen? When?”