He stopped in at a grocer’s on Regent’s Park Road and bought ten bottles of Coca-Cola, ten bottles of Pepsi, twenty Aero chocolate bars, three packages of sugar-coated tea biscuits, a pound of white sugar, two jars of honey, a dozen eggs, bread, butter, and jam.
He found a linen shop and bought two sets of sheets, three bath towels, and a dozen hand towels. At a small athletic shop, he bought four pairs of gym socks. An expensive little stationer’s shop provided him with an expensive little attache case with combination locks. His last stop was at the chemist, where he exchanged Ferguson’s prescription for a large plastic vial of sleeping pills.
Simon’s flat was brutally hot and stuffy, so the first thing Neal did was open the windows. Then he laid his groceries out in the kitchen and put the soda in the refrigerator. He tore the sheets up into thin strips and left them in the bedroom, then taped the towels to the sharp corners of the dresser and bedside table. He tied knots into each of the gym socks. Then he removed the bright white bulbs from the ceiling light and the bedside lamp and replaced them with low-wattage frosted bulbs. He took half of the sleeping pills and left them in the bathroom cabinet and put the rest back in his pocket.
Back in the sitting room, he removed the four volumes of Smollett’s Peregrine Pickle and placed them in the new attache case. He memorized the combination and locked it up.
By the time he was finished, it was noon, and already steamy hot out on the street. He bought a Times and grabbed an outdoor table under an umbrella at a sidewalk cafe. He had an espresso and a truly goopy Italian pastry as he scanned the paper. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for: the London Philharmonic at Albert Hall. Thursday night. Proceeds to go to the World Wildlife Fund. Prince Philip to make opening remarks. Public welcome. And a large SOLD OUT notice bannered across the ad. Buy early next time, public.
He downed another espresso and grabbed a taxi back to the hotel
An already harried concierge looked up from his list of problems. The house was jam-packed with tourists. “Yes, sir?”
“Yes. Would you have any tickets available for the Philharmonic on Thursday evening? July second?”
“Let me check, sir.” He looked into a thick book. “No, sir. Terribly sorry. All booked.”
“I’ve already booked. Name is Carey.”
The concierge sighed through his smile. “That is different, sir. Let me find you.” He went back to the book. “Sorry again, Mr. Carey. I don’t seem to find you here.”
Neal could hear impatient shuffling starting behind him. “Maybe it’s under another name. I’m with a party.”
He let the silence hang.
The concierge gave in first. “Which party might that be, sir?”
“The Henderson party.”
Back to the book.
“At this hotel, sir?”
“Wouldn’t use any other.”
“Thank you, sir.” The concierge looked over Neal’s shoulder at the next guest and gave a quick smile indicating his tolerance. Then he perused the book again. “No. Sorry, sir.”
“Oh dear. Maybe she’s using her married name.”
The concierge could not resist a two-beat comic pause before he intoned, “And if we knew what that name was, sir, we might be able to find it.”
“Zacharias. Z as in zebra, a as in appropriate, c as in choreography, h as in-”
“I think I can take it from there, sir.”
No luck.
“Sorry once again, Mr. Carey. Are you quite certain-”
“Well, maybe Susan didn’t make the arrangements, maybe Nell did. Could you look under Taglianetti?”
“Mr. Carey, we are just a bit busy at the moment. Would it be terribly rude of me to ask if you would be so kind as to look yourself and then inform me of your progress?”
“No, not at all.”
“Here you are, then.”
He handed Neal the book. Neal scanned it, looking for the names of married women who were going to the affair alone. He found five, their room numbers inked in beside them. He ran a chant several times through his head: Harris, 518; Goldman, 712; Ulrich, 823; Myers, 665; Renaldi, 422. Then he hurried to his room and wrote them down.
Now for the tedious part, he thought.
Ulrich 823 turned out to be German, so that was no good. Neal hung up as soon as he heard the “Ja?” on the phone. He tried Harris 518. “May I speak to Joe Harris, please?”
The voice was an old woman’s. “I’m sorry, dear, you have the wrong party. Ask at the desk.”
Okeydoke. Let’s give Goldman 712 a spin.
“Hello, may I speak to Mr. Goldman, please?”
“Speaking.” A man’s voice. American. East Coast. Sounds about the right age.
“Mr. Goldman, this is Mr. Panto of Consolidated Limited ringing to confirm our appointment tomorrow morning.”
“I think you have the wrong number.”
“I’m terribly sorry. Is this Mr. Alan Goldman of Schreff and Sons?”
“No, this is Dave Goldman of just plain Goldman. I’m an attorney.”
“I am sorry.”
“That’s okay. Have a good one.” Dave Goldman hung up.
So, Neal thought, I know a few things about Goldman 712. He’s a lawyer, here with his wife, and she isn’t dragging him to any damn philharmonic Thursday night, he doesn’t give a shit who’s going to make opening remarks. Maybe I’ve found my couple. Better take a look at them to make sure.
Nice-looking couple, he thought, which they better be after keeping me waiting an hour and a half in the hallway. Mid-forties, stylish, the wife an uptight brunette who puts in some time at the spa. He’s well built. Black hair just beginning to show a little silver. What used to be called a snappy dresser. Amazingly white teeth, Full range of plastic: AmEx, Diners Club. Good tipper.
He didn’t follow them out of the restaurant, but finished his own meal-an excuse for a hamburger that would have made the boys at Nick’s weep-and read the International Herald Tribune, The Yankees were in first place.
The phone woke him from a pleasant nap. It was only five o’clock and he hadn’t planned to head out until seven or so.
“You haven’t called in for three days,” Ed said.
“No news.”
“Then call and say ‘no news,’” Levine answered. “No progress at all?”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“Do better. You have four weeks.”
“Jesus Christ, Ed. You and I both know this is a fool’s errand.”
“Then you’re just the man for the job. Call in.”
Neal got out of bed and stepped into the shower. The cold water woke him up. Four weeks, he thought. A lot can happen in four weeks, Ed.
Ed levine set the phone down.
“Nothing, huh?” asked Rich Lombardi.
“Not yet.”
Lombardi set the case notes back on Levine’s desk. “Might have been too much to ask for, anyway.”
“It was always a long shot.”
Lombardi left the Friends office and went to the nearest phone booth. He had a lot of calls to make. The convention was just around the corner, the Senator was on the short list, and there was so much to make sure of. Title this story The Man Behind the Man.
21
Allie was stoned out of her gourd.
When Neal made it over to the Earl’s Court flat around eight o’clock, he found her pacing the floor, muttering a semicoherent diatribe against television game shows, particularly British ones where the contestants didn’t win any money worth mentioning.
“No Frigidaires, either. No dinette sets, no living room combinations, washer-dryers. No Toyotas. No trips to Honolulu!”
“C’mon in,” Vanessa said to Neal. “Colin’s not here, though.”
Neal knew that already. He had already placed Colin back in Leicester Square. “Where is he?”
“Taking care of business.”
Spotting Neal, Allie switched gears and launched into an assault on American men, particularly the ones from New York who think they know everything about screwing, but don’t.
“They’re pigs. Pigs! New York boys just want to get into your pants, and then they don’t know what to do there. I hate that!”