The Girl in the Face of the Clock (5 page)

“Then you will have to tell me what this is about.”

“I believe that Mr. Mannerback bought a painting of my father's,” said Jane. “My father was an artist. I believe they were friends.”

“And your father's name would be?”

“Aaron Sailor.”

“No, it is not a name with which I am familiar. Mr. Mannerback makes the acquaintance of many individuals during the course of his travels. His time is very valuable. I am afraid that a meeting is out of the question. Impossible. You are welcome to send us a letter.”

“I see,” said Jane, her spirits sinking. What could she write under the circumstance? “Dear Mr. Mannerback, do you happen to remember if you pushed my father down a flight of stairs eight years ago?”

“Our address is 1381 Avenue of the Americas,” said Miss Fripp, “New York, New York, 10020.”

“May I ask you a question?” said Jane.

“Certainly,” replied the chilly voice.

“Why would Mr. Mannerback give my father a ‘Get Out of Jail Free' card?”

“Get Out of Jail Free?”

“From Monopoly. The board game. Mr. Mannerback signed it on the back.”

“And you have this card?” said Miss Fripp, amazement flooding into her voice. “It is in your possession?”

“I'm looking at it now.”

“Well, why didn't you say so?” demanded the secretary. “How about tomorrow morning?”

“How about tomorrow morning for what?”

“For your appointment, of course. Mr. Mannerback takes his ‘Get Out of Jail Free' cards very seriously. Would eleven o'clock be convenient?”

The Avenue of the Americas—or Sixth Avenue, as New Yorkers still called it generations after its renaming—was one of those places, like the city's financial district, where skyscrapers had triumphed entirely over human beings.

Buildings that touched the clouds lined both sides of the busy thoroughfare from Forty-second Street all the way up to Central Park. While a few were architecturally distinguished, like Radio City Music Hall and CBS's Black Rock Building, most were just the anonymous glass cigar boxes that Corporate America required of its big league players.

The headquarters of OmbiCorp International was one of these behemoths, a towering gray structure at Fifty-sixth Street, complete with the requisite fountain-strewn pedestrian plaza in front and half-acre Frank Stella tapestry hanging in the lobby.

Jane sat on a beige suede sofa in the fifty-first-floor reception area of OmbiCorp's executive offices. Directly across from her, behind the receptionist, was an enormous window that looked out over the long green postage stamp of Central Park far below. From up here, the exclusive apartment buildings of Fifth Avenue and Central Park West looked like dollhouse furniture, and the people on the sidewalks weren't even the size of ants. That was the point of all this. A skyscraper was about perspective. This was the top of the world, or so the inhabitants of such aeries would have you believe.

Jane was dressed in her best gray Bonnie Businesswoman suit, complete with white silk blouse and a string of Jackie Kennedy-style fake pearls. Being of the theatre, she knew the importance of costume as well as OmbiCorp knew the importance of sets. From the address Miss Fripp had given her, Jane had expected something like this. The reality, however, was beyond intimidating, it was positively scary. She again thanked the hair gods that Chop Sui had managed to squeeze her in for a nine a.m. appointment.

At least she wouldn't face Perry Mannerback looking like an advertisement for bad hats or rebellious teenagers, thought Jane, gazing at her reflection in a chrome end table. Romero had assured her that Raphael Renaissance Red was the only way to neutralize the blond mess she had made of her hair, and he had been right. At the cost of a mere two hundred and fifty dollars, she no longer looked like a dandelion. Now she looked like a marigold.

Jane twiddled her thumbs and tried to move her thoughts from how stupid she looked as a redhead to what she was going to say. Unfortunately, there was no real way to plan for a situation like this. You had to let things unfold naturally. From what Peregrine Mannerback looked like, however, Jane suspected they would end up screaming at one another. She had seen him twice now in the half hour that she had been kept waiting. The first time was when he had arrived off the elevator.

He was unmistakably the man in charge here: thin, tan, and six foot four—a ramrod-straight military type, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, cold gray eyes, and thin lips. He wore a two-thousand-dollar black suit, a starched white shirt with monogrammed cuffs, and an “I take no prisoners” expression. He not only seemed perfectly capable of pushing someone down a flight of stairs, he looked like he would enjoy doing so.

The receptionist had shot to her feet in fearful silence and practically saluted when he entered. He had breezed past her without even a glance of acknowledgment, moving through the space as if he owned it and everyone in it as well. About ten minutes later, he had crossed back through the reception area with a train of deferential associates in tow, all clamoring for his attention.

This must be the chairman of OmbiCorp, Jane had decided immediately, the man who needed four levels of secretarial protection, the man who may have destroyed Aaron Sailor's life.

Jane found herself planning for the coming confrontation. Should she begin with guns blazing? “Why did you push my father down the stairs eight years ago, Mr. Mannerback?” Or should she first lull him with small talk, then take him by surprise? “My, what a lovely tie. Is that what the well-dressed murderer is wearing this season?”

And “murderer” was the right word. If Peregrine Mannerback had in fact pushed Aaron Sailor down those stairs, then he had murdered him, murdered him as surely as if he had plunged a knife into his heart. In a way, it was worse than murder. When a person was dead there was at least finality, the story was over, you could mourn. Aaron Sailor was dead, but his corpse lived on.

At that moment the man Jane believed to be Peregrine Mannerback entered the lobby again. This time he noticed Jane for the first time and stopped abruptly. Jane felt the adrenaline surging into her system as, not taking his eyes off her, he crossed to the receptionist and whispered something that Jane could not hear. The girl turned pale and whispered something back. The man listened, then turned on his heel and exited without another glance at either of them.

Jane knew she was having an involuntary fight-or-flight response. Her pulse was racing. Her hands had become cold. That would never do, she thought angrily. She took a deep breath from her diaphragm, counting to ten as she did, then let it out twice as slowly. Her center of gravity had leaped into her chest, which was absolutely the worst thing you could have going into a fight.

Jane took another deep breath. She didn't have to be thrown off balance, she told herself. Perry Mannerback couldn't intimidate her, no matter how cold his manner or rich his stage set, unless she let him. He could let her cool her heels for another hour if he wanted to. She would begin their meeting with a calm heart and a low center. She would find out the truth.

“Gummy bears, gummy bears,” muttered a voice. “Very important. Very important.”

Jane turned toward the voice in time to see a man getting off the elevator. He was a slight, wild-looking fellow, with a long, thin nose, a high forehead, and big, startled brown eyes. His tangled brown hair swept back in all directions as if he had just stepped out of a race car or a centrifuge. Under his rumpled raincoat he wore a navy blue blazer with gold buttons, a butterscotch-colored vest, and a big polka-dotted bow tie. He was about five foot seven and walked with the spastic energy of a teenager, though the bags under his eyes and wattle beneath his pointed chin suggested an age approaching sixty.

The receptionist smiled and shook her head, the way you might at the sight of a little boy with his best Sunday clothes covered in chocolate.

“Good morning, Mr. Mannerback,” she chided, as he sped by her.

“Gummy bears, very important,” said Peregrine Mannerback, the chairman of OmbiCorp International, oblivious to her greeting. “Gummy gummy gummy gummy bears.”

Jane knew she must look ridiculous with her mouth open, but she was still too shocked to have gotten it properly closed by the time he returned a few seconds later. This is what happened when you tried to anticipate! Jane had been so certain that the tall man with the military bearing was Perry Mannerback that now she had no idea what to do. Her brain had stopped functioning entirely.

“Mr. Mannerback, wait,” said the receptionist, bolting from her station and chasing after him to the elevator. She whispered into his ear and pointed to Jane. He listened intently, nodded, and marched over.

“Perry Mannerback,” he announced, extending his hand. “How do you do? Very pleased to meet you.”

“Jane Sailor,” said Jane, shaking hands. His hand was cool, his grip was firm.

“Come on,” he said. “We'll talk on the way.”

“Where are we going?” asked Jane, following him into the elevator.”

“Sailor,” said Perry Mannerback, pushing the lobby button. “I know someone with that name.”

The elevator doors closed.

“You bought a painting by my father, Aaron Sailor,” Jane said.

“Oh, yes. That was ages ago. Ages. Do you like gummy bears?”

He pulled out a large bag from one of the bulging pockets of his raincoat and struggled to pull it open.

“No, thanks.”

“Of course you like gummy bears, don't be shy,” said Perry Mannerback. “Everybody likes gummy bears. Gummy bears are very important to a person's overall happiness. That's why my secretary always makes sure I have some in my office. We're going to have a good time.”

What kind of good time could you have in an elevator? Jane was eyeing the alarm button when mercifully the car stopped at the forty-third floor and a pair of witnesses got in.

“I like the orange ones,” said Perry Mannerback, unconcerned. “The orange ones are my favorites. Which ones do you like?”

“I like the orange ones too,” said Jane cautiously.

“No, those are mine,” said Perry Mannerback. “Here. You can have a green one.”

He placed one in her hand. The elevator stopped again on its long descent. Jane's ears popped as they had on the way up. More people got in. Perry Mannerback dug into his bag and distributed gummy bears to everyone. Some people took them with amusement, others looked annoyed, perhaps because he had reserved all the orange ones for himself.

When the elevator finally reached the ground floor, Perry Mannerback grabbed Jane's hand and practically dragged her through the crowded lobby and outside to a long black limousine parked in front of the building next to a “Don't Even THINK of Parking Here” sign.

“Let's go, Leonid,” said Mannerback, closing the door. “Let's go, let's go.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Mennerbeck,” answered the chauffeur, a compact, Slavic-looking man in his thirties, who wore a well-pressed suit, a black chauffeur's hat, and a resigned expression.

“Okay!” said Perry Mannerback, bouncing up and down on the soft leather backseat with excitement. “Okay!”

“Where are we going?” asked Jane, feeling strangely calm. Her center was low. Her breathing had returned to its proper rhythm. She was ready for anything (she hoped).

“We're going to have a good time,” said Perry Mannerback again with a satisfied expression, studying her for the first time. “Who did you say you were?”

“Jane Sailor. You bought a painting from my father, Aaron Sailor.”

“Oh, yes. Very nice chap. How is he?”

“He's been in a coma for the past eight years since somebody pushed him down a flight of stairs.”

Jane had decided on going intentionally for shock value. It worked. Perry Mannerback reeled back as if struck with a fist. He placed his hand on his heart, then brought it up to his forehead. Then he leaned across the long leather seat and clasped it over Jane's with surprising gentleness.

“You poor thing, you poor, poor thing,” he declared with what appeared to be sincerity. Then he sat back. His eyes filled with tears. “Terrible to hear this. Yes, I remember him. Your father. A nice man. Very nice man.”

Mannerback wiped his eyes, then pulled out a silk handkerchief and blew his nose with a honk.

“Thank you,” said Jane, taken aback.

They stared at one another for a few moments. Up close, she could see the white-on-white pattern of his shirt and the faint age spots on his neck and hands. Part of what gave his big eyes their earnest expression was that his eyelashes were unnaturally long and silky. He leaned forward again and spoke.

“So why are we meeting?”

Jane didn't have a clue what to say. Instead, she just opened the little black purse she had brought along, took out the “Get Out of Jail Free” card, and handed it to Mannerback.

“Of course,” he said, turning it over and noting his signature. “I remember giving that to your father. The painter. Nice chap. I didn't know. Really, I didn't. So what would you like for your favor?”

“My favor?”

“Yes. I give those cards when I owe someone a favor. A big favor. Very big favor. Anything you want, just name it.”

Jane paused for a moment and studied him, wondering whether the monogrammed gold buttons on his blazer were in fact actual gold. He looked back with the eager smile of an eight-year-old.

“I'd like to know who pushed my father down those stairs,” she said softly.

Perry Mannerback's eyebrows scrunched together and his lips screwed into a frown.

“Terrible thing. Terrible thing. But I don't know how I can help you with that one. I really don't. I can only do what I can do, you know? Would you like a job?”

“A job?”

“Sure,” declared Mannerback. “I've got plenty of those. That's what people usually ask for. A job. Or money, sometimes they just ask for money. Perhaps one day someone will actually ask me to get him out of jail. Are you an accountant?”

“No. Why? Do I look like an accountant?”

“A little.”

“Please don't tell me that.”

“We're always looking for accountants. Count all our money, we've got plenty. I know, you're a lawyer!”

“God forbid!” said Jane.

“Not an accountant. Not a lawyer. No matter. We employ all kinds of people. Programmers. Analysts. Executive types. Secretaries. So what are you?”

“I'm a fight director.”

“A what?”

“A fight director. I choreograph fights. For the theatre.”

“I don't think we need any of those. No, indeed. Fight director. What a curious profession. How on earth did you get into that?”

“It's a long story,” said Jane.

“Good. I like long stories.”

“I'm sure you wouldn't be interested.”

“But I am,” protested Perry Mannerback, clenching his little fists. “I am, I am, I really am. I want to hear. Please, tell me. Please.”

“I have this funny talent,” Jane said with a shrug. “I don't know how to really describe it. It's like I can see the relationships between moving objects from different angles in my mind. Since I was a kid I've been able to do these weird things, like toss a milk bottle in the air and as it's falling back down, end over end, I can throw a clothespin right into it. You know how people make shadow animals with their fingers?”

“I love that!”