“Oh, my God,” he said aloud. He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. The phone rang twice and an electronic voice said, “Leave… your… message… at… the… tone,” followed by a short beep.
“Message for Mr. Crown,” he said into the phone. “Contact Mr. Gold at the earliest possible moment, utmost urgency.”
“Thank… you,” the voice said.
Hickock hoped to God Bianchi was wearing his beeper. He sat back to wait for the call. A moment later, his pocket phone rang. “Yes?” he said.
“Dick, it’s Amanda. I’ve been doing some thinking and believe that before this business goes any further, you and I should sit down and talk about a new contract.”
“Amanda, we’ve just signed a contract,” he said, astonished. Then he began to see.
“Yes, but I think the circumstances call for something much more substantial, don’t you? After all, you and I have become something like partners, haven’t we?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, resignedly.
“Lunch? Twenty-One? Twelve-thirty?”
“I’ll be there.” He hung up. The phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“This is Mr. Crown. Do you wish to meet?”
“There isn’t time,” Hickock said. “Listen to me…”
“Stop, don’t talk. Same place as last time. One hour.”
“Yes,” Hickock said. The connection was broken.
Hickock struggled into his coat, headed for the door, then stopped and went back to his desk. He dialed a London number.
“Hello?” a familiar voice said.
“It’s Dick,” Hickock said. “Your son-in-law in L.A. has talked too much; he may have blown the lid off everything.”
There was much swearing at the other end of the line.
“Yes, I feel pretty much the same way. I may be able to head this off, but I thought you should know about Peebles. I’ll leave it to you how to handle him.”
“I know exactly how to handle him,” the man said.
Hickock hung up and ran for his meeting with Bianchi.
Chapter 56
Arrington saw her editor at The New Yorker, and they had lunch at the Royalton Hotel; then she did some shopping at Bloomingdale’s. It was growing dark when she got out of a cab in front of her apartment building.
“Good afternoon, Miss Carter,” the doorman said, holding the cab door for her. “We haven’ seen you for a while.”
“I’ve been staying with a friend, Jimmy; I just came by to pick up some things.”
“I’ve been keeping your mail for you,” Jimmy said. “You want it now?”
“I’ll pick it up on the way out,” she said. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Very good, Miss.”
Arrington took the elevator to her floor, rummaging in her bag for the key. She kept a key in each of her bags, and today she had taken the big one. The key was at the very bottom, as usual. She inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. To her astonishment, there was someone sitting at her desk. Then something struck her on the side of the head, and she fell to the floor, only half-conscious.
“Jesus Christ, Tommy!” she heard somebody say. “You never said she might come home!”
“I didn’t think she would,” Jonathan Dryer’s voice replied. “There’s a roll of duct tape in my bag, Charlie; hand it to me, will you?”
She was rolled onto her back, and before she could focus on the face above her, a wide strip of tape was slapped across her eyes, and another across her mouth.
“What are we going to do with her, Tommy?” the first voice said. “We can’t leave her here alive.”
“I guess not,” Tommy replied, “but we’re going to be here until tomorrow. Wouldn’t you like to fuck her while we wait to hear from the bank?”
Arrington was rolled roughly onto her stomach. and her hands were taped behind her back. She was blind and dumb, but her head was beginning to clear, and she digested what she had just heard.
“Sure,” Charlie said, and he sounded greedy.
“She’s hot stuff, take it from me,” Tommy said. “I won’t tape her feet.” He hauled her to her feet and dumped her on the sofa. “You’ll want to be able to spread her legs, won’t you?”
“Right,” Charlie said, chuckling. “Just let me finish this fax to the Luxembourg bank.”
Out on Fifth Avenue, Detective Ernie Martinez was on foot, doing a patrolman’s job. It was beneath him, but Martinez had his own reasons for working so hard that day. He saw a doorman standing outside an apartment building, at least the fiftieth he had talked to that day. “How y’doing?” he asked the man, flashing his badge.
“Pretty good, officer. Can I help you?”
Martinez produced the two photographs. “You ever seen either one of these guys before?”
The doorman looked carefully at the two photographs, then glanced back at Martinez. “Maybe, one of them,” he said.
“There’s twenty in it for you, if you do me some good here,” Martinez said.
“Yeah, I know this guy,” the doorman said, holding up one of the photographs. “He’s spent a lot of time with the lady in Nine-A, Miss Carter.”
“That’s Nine-A?” Martinez asked.
“Yeah. Pretty lady, Miss Carter.”
“You think he might be up there right now?”
The doorman hadn’t seen any money yet, so he played the detective along. “Could be,” he said.
“Thanks,” Martinez said, turning away.
“Hey, what about my twenty?”
Martinez stopped, produced a twenty, but snatched it back when the doorman grabbed for it. “You don’t say nothing to nobody about this, right? I was never here.”
“Right,” the doorman said, “you were never here.” This time he was allowed to grab the twenty.
Martinez hoofed it around the corner and found a pay phone.
“Yeah?” a voice said.
“This is Ernie Martinez. You know those two guys you’re looking for?”
“Yeah.”
“I just might have them for you.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“You’ll tell the big guy that Ernie Martinez phoned it in?”
“Yeah, sure, Ernie.”
“Ten-eleven Fifth Avenue, Apartment Nine-A. Doorman says they might be up there right now.”
“Thanks, Ernie; we’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll have to phone this in, but I’ll wait an hour, okay?”
“Yeah, that’s good, Ernie.”
“Don’t forget to tell him.”
But the man had already hung up.
Martinez found a coffee shop on Madison and settled himself on a stool with his paper, a cup of coffee, and a doughnut.
It was dark now, and Arrington hadn’t returned. Stone was getting worried. He found her diary with the name of her appointment at the magazine, and he called the editor.
“This is Stone Barrington; I’m a friend of Arrington Carter. I believe she had an appointment with you this morning.”
“That’s right,” the woman said. “We had lunch after that.”
“What time did she leave you?”
“Sometime after three. She said she was going to Bloomingdale’s.”
“Thanks very much,” Stone said, then hung up. He looked at his watch. Bloomingdale’s had been closed for forty-five minutes. She had said she was going to her old apartment, hadn’t she? He dialed the number, but only got her answering machine. He heard the beep. “Hello, Arrington? Are you there? If you’re there, pick up.” He waited a moment, but she didn’t answer. “If you get this message, call me at home.” He hung up. He’d wait a few minutes, then call again.
Richard Hickock rode up in the freight elevator, and when he emerged onto the empty factory floor it was dark. A moment later, half a dozen low-wattage bulbs came on, and Enrico Bianchi stepped from behind a column.