The night people were out in force. Despite the hour and the damp chill, Forty-second Street was ablaze with its garish sights. The nattily dressed Werner ignored the bizarre and grotesque people who jostled one another in front of the pornographic movie houses and bookstores. He seemed to be accustomed to the world's psychosexual perversions. For Philips it was different. It was as if the alien world willfully impaired his progress, forcing him to twist and turn and even step into the street occasionally to pass clotted groups of humanity while he kept Werner in sight. Ahead he saw Werner abruptly turn and enter an adult bookstore.
Martin stopped outside. He decided he'd give Werner an hour of this nonsense. If the diener did not go back to his apartment within that time, Philips would give up. Waiting, Martin soon discovered he was fair game for a host of solicitors, peddlers, and outright beggars. They were an insistent lot, and to avoid their entreaties, Philips changed his mind and entered the store.
Just inside, situated in a pulpit-like balcony near the ceiling, sat a lavender-haired, hard-looking woman who peered down at Philips. Her eyes, deeply set above dark circles, wandered over Martin's body as she assessed his suitability for admission. Averting his gaze, embarrassed for anyone to see him in such a location, he walked down the nearest aisle. Werner was not in sight!
A customer pushed past Philips with his arms limply at his sides so that his hands brushed across Philips' backside. It wasn't until the man was already past that Martin realized what had happened. It made him sick, and he almost shouted out, but the last thing he wanted to do was to call attention to himself.
He moved around the shop to make sure Werner couldn't be hidden behind one of the bookshelves or magazine racks. The lavender-haired woman in her crow's nest seemed to follow every movement Philips made, so to appear less suspicious he picked up a magazine, but he discovered it was sealed in plastic wrap and he put it back. On the cover were two men acrobatically coupling.
Suddenly, Werner emerged from a door in the back of the shop and walked past the startled Philips, who quickly turned away to fondle some pornographic video cassettes. But Werner looked neither right nor left. It was as if he were wearing blinders. He was out of the shop in seconds.
Martin delayed as long as he thought he could without losing Werner. He didn't want it too apparent that he was following the man, but as he exited, the woman in the balcony leaned over and watched him go out the door. She knew he was up to something.
Reaching the street, Philips caught sight of Werner getting into a taxi. Frightened that he might lose him after all his effort, Philips leaped from the curb and frantically waved for a cab. One stopped across the street and Philips dodged the traffic to jump in.
"Follow that Checker cab behind the bus," said Philips excitedly.
The cabby just looked at him.
"Come on," insisted Philips.
The man shrugged and put the car in gear. "You some sort of cop?"
Martin didn't answer. He felt the less conversation the better. Werner got out at Fifty-second and Second Avenue; Martin got out about one hundred feet back from the corner and ran up to the end of the block, looking after him. Werner entered a shop three doors away.
Crossing the avenue Martin looked over at the store. It was called "Sexual Aids." It was very different from the adult bookstore on Forty-second Street with a very conservative exterior. Glancing around, Philips noticed that it was situated among antique shops, fashionable restaurants, and expensive boutiques. Looking up he could tell the apartment buildings were all middle class. It was a good neighborhood.
Werner appeared at the door accompanied by another man who was laughing and had his arm over the diener's shoulder. Werner smiled and shook hands with the man before setting out, walking up Second Avenue. Philips fell in behind him, keeping a safe distance.
If he had had any inkling that following Werner was going to entail all these stops, he wouldn't have done it. As it was, he kept expecting the odyssey to terminate. But Werner had other ideas. He crossed over to Third Avenue, making his way up to Fifty-fifth Street, where he entered a small building huddled in the shadow of a glass and cement skyscraper. It was a saloon that looked as if it stood in a 1920's photograph.
After debating with himself, Martin followed, afraid that he might lose Werner if he didn't keep him in view. To Philips' amazement the establishment was jammed with animated customers despite the hour, and he had to squeeze inside. It was a popular singles bar, again unfamiliar turf for Philips.
Scanning the crowd for Werner, Philips was shocked to see him immediately to his left. He was holding a mug of beer and smiling to a blond secretary. Philips pulled his hat a little lower on his head.
"What do you do?" asked the secretary, shouting to be heard over the din of voices.
"I'm a doctor," said Werner. "A pathologist."
"Really," said the secretary, obviously impressed.
"It's got its good and bad points," said Werner. "I usually have to work late, but maybe you'd like to have a drink sometime."
"I'd love it," shouted the woman.
Martin pushed up to the bar wondering if the girl had any idea what she was getting herself into. He ordered a beer, and worked his way over to the back wall, where he found a spot from which he could observe Werner. Sipping his drink, Martin began to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. After all his years of education, he was in a singles bar in the middle of the night, following a bizarre individual who looked frighteningly normal. In fact, when Philips glanced around he was impressed with how easily Werner merged with the businessmen and lawyers.
After taking the secretary's phone number, the diener polished off his beer, gathered his belongings, and caught another cab on Third Avenue. Martin had a short argument with his taxi driver about following, but it was solved by a five-dollar bill.
The ride passed in silence. Philips watched the city lights until they were blurred by an abrupt downpour. The cab's windshield wipers hurried to keep ahead of the rain. They crossed town on Fifty-seventh; went diagonally north on Broadway from Columbus Circle, then turned onto Amsterdam Avenue. Philips recognized Columbia University when they passed it on the left. The rain let up as suddenly as it had started. On One-hundred-forty-first they turned right, and Philips sat forward and asked what section of town they were in. "Hamilton Heights," said the driver, turning left on Hamilton Terrace, and then slowing down.
Ahead, Werner's taxi stopped. Philips paid his fare and got out. Although the cityscape on Amsterdam Avenue had deteriorated as they'd gone north, Philips now found himself in a surprisingly attractive neighborhood. The street was lined with quaint town houses whose varying facades reflected about every architectural school since the Renaissance. Most of the buildings clearly had been renovated, others were in the process. At the end of the street, facing down Hamilton Terrace, Werner entered a white limestone-fronted building whose windows were surrounded with Venetian Gothic decoration.
By the time Philips got to the building, the lights had gone on in the third-floor windows. Up close, the town house was not in such good condition as it appeared from afar, but its shoddiness did not detract from its overall effect; it gave Philips a feeling of tarnished elegance, and he was impressed by Werner's ability to provide for himself.
Entering the foyer, Philips acknowledged that he was not going to be able to surprise Werner by knocking directly on his door. As in Denise's apartment, there was a locked foyer with individual buzzers to the various apartments. Helmut Werner's name was third from the bottom.
Putting his finger on the buzzer, Philips hesitated, not sure if he wanted to go through with the whole thing. He wasn't even sure what he should say, but the thought of Kristin Lindquist gave him courage. He pressed the button and waited.