He was a legend by then, and there was plenty of copy about him for the columnists and the press agents to run, so that in spite of his prominence, his absence was only gradually felt. But gradually the questions asked in the niteries and on the graveyard shifts at newspaper offices began to tell. Too often reporters came back empty handed when assigned to a new R. E. story—any new R. E. story. An item in the “Man About Town” column led to a few readers’ letters, mostly from women, asking his whereabouts; and then there was a landslide of queries. It was worth a stick or two on the front pages, and then it suddenly disappeared from the papers when all the editors were told in a mimeographed letter that Mr. English’s business would be handled by his law firm, which had on proud exhibition a complete power of attorney—and which would answer no queries. All business mail was photostated and returned, bearing Robin’s rubber-stamped signature and the name of his lawyers. All fan mail was filed.
The categories of men who can disappear in New York are extreme. The very poor can manage it. The very rich cannot; but those richer than the very rich can manage it, with care. Robin did it.
And then the rumors started.
The role of “Billy-buffoon” which he had taken in his musical was a mask-and-wig part, and it was said that his understudy didn’t work at every performance. English was reported to have been seen in Hollywood; in Russia; dead; and once even on Flatbush Avenue. Robin’s extraordinary talents, in the gentle hands of idle talk, took on fantastic proportions. He was advisor to three cabinet members. He had invented a space drive and was at the moment circling Mars. He was painting a mural in the City Morgue. He was working on an epic novel. He had stumbled on a method for refining U-235 in the average well-equipped kitchen, and was going crazy in trying to conceal that he knew it. He was the author of every anonymous pamphlet cranked out to the public everywhere, from lurid tracts through political apassionatae to out and out pornography. And of course, murders and robberies were accredited to his capacious reputation. All of these things remained as engagingly fictional as his real activities had been; but since they had nothing like books and plays and inventions to perpetuate them, they faded from the press and from conversation.
But not from the thoughts of a few people. Drs. Wenzell and Warfield compiled and annotated Robin English’s case history, with as close a psychological analysis as they could manage. Ostensibly, the work was purely one of professional interest; and yet if it led to a rational conclusion as to where he was and what he was doing, who could say that such a conclusion was not the reason for the work? In any case, the book was not published, but rested neatly in the active files of Mel Warfield’s case records, and grew. And then there was one Voisier, himself a mysterious character about whom little was known except his aquiline features and unbuttoning eyes and his wealth, all of which were underestimated. Voisier thought about Robin a great deal; and because he was Voisier, he was able to gain scraps of information not available to most people. The conclusions he drew from two or three of these, one afternoon, led to the ringing of Peg’s phone.
“Dr. Wenzell?”
“Yes?”
“Voisier speaking. Do you know Robin English?”
“Voisier, the producer? Oh, how do you do? Yes, I—have met Robin English.”
“Do you happen to know where he is?”
“Does anyone?” she countered. “I understand that his lawyers—”
Voisier’s soft chuckle slid over the wire and came out of the receiver like little audible smoke rings. “I have encountered his lawyers. Dr. Wenzell, I have to find out where he is.”
“What has that to do with me?” Peg asked cautiously.
“There is some connection between you and Robin English,” said Voisier smoothly. “Just a moment—I’m not trying to find out what it is, and I don’t care. I know only that it is a matter of professional interest to you and a Dr. Mellet Warfield; and I don’t care what it is. I’ll be frank with you; I must see him purely on a business matter. It will be to his advantage—all of his dealings with me have been, you know. After all. I discovered him.”
“You discovered him the way the atom bomb was discovered by the mayor of Hiroshima,” said Peg tartly.
Voisier laughed urbanely. “Very good.” Peg was figuratively conscious of the swing of his boom as he changed his conversational tack. “Please, Dr. Wenzell—let’s not get off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry if I seem to pry. Will you take lunch with me tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry. I’m busy tomorrow.”
“Dinner this evening, then. That would be better.”
“I am completely tied up, thank you,” said Peg, over the rustle of silk in his voice. “And besides, I do not know where Robin English is or what he is doing. Good-b—”
“I know what he is doing,” said Voisier quickly.
“You—”
Through a smile, Voisier’s easy voice said, “Of course. I don’t know where he is, that’s all. I thought that with what I know and what you know we might be able to locate him. For his own good, of course. I gather that you would like very much to know where he is.”
“What’s he doing?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone!” he said, in the voice in which one says “You mustn’t play with Daddy’s watch!”
“I wish you—” said Peg sharply, and then sighed. “When can I see you?”
“Thank you very much, doctor,” he said abjectly, and was that a touch of relief in his voice? “Dinner tonight, then—unless you are busy, in which case… ah… cocktail time is practically here. I could meet you this afternoon, if you could—”
“Thank you,” she said, and startlingly, she blushed at the eagerness she heard in her own voice. “How soon can you get here?”
“Very soon. I know where it is. I’ll see you in a moment. And thanks again.”
He hung up, and Peg sat looking at the bland cornerless bulk of her cradled telephone. Robin, Robin English. She formed his name with silent lips, and smiled a little. “Robin,” she whispered, “I’m going to catch you by the ear and stand you in a corner for doing this to me.” Robin was a child—such a child.
Her assistant came in. “A Mr. Voisier to see you doctor.”
“Thank you, Helen. Ask him—Voisier! Good heavens, I didn’t expect him so quickly! Yes, show him in. Show him right in!”
Voisier appeared at the door, rather as if he had been projected there. He looked over the office, more rapidly than he appeared to be doing it, and then let his gaze slide to rest on her face. He smiled.
“Mr. Voisier?”
“‘I am very glad to meet you, doctor.” He came forward, and she noticed that the Homburg he carried was not black, but a very dark brown. Like his eyes.
“You got here very quickly, Mr. Voisier.”
“I was just downstairs when I called.”
She frowned briefly, realizing that she had been told that he had come to the hospital perfectly confident that he could talk her into seeing him. She wondered why she didn’t mind too much. “Sit down a moment,” she said. “I’ll be ready to leave in a second.”
He thanked her, and surprised her by not taking the chair she indicated at the end of her desk and close to her, but one in the corner. He sat down, ignoring the magazines on the end table next to him, and rested a part of the weight of his eyes on her as she worked, stacking the reports on her desk and putting them away.