Mortimer felt the tears start and looked his gratitude. He left their next move up to Borg. He was certain it would be a good one.
Borg, taking up the speaking tube, was like a skipper ordering full steam ahead. “Police headquarters.”
The chauffeur nodded and they got under way. Mortimer’s heart lifted. He had known he could count on Borg.
Borg proved to be a man with pull. They got full and fast cooperation from the head of detectives on down. But the deeper the detectives dug, the deeper the pit Mortimer found himself in. He felt himself sink out of existence.
For a solid hour, two detectives manned phones and placed calls to the police department in Mortimer’s home city, to the city and county clerks, to names Mortimer gave them. And each call, instead of bolstering his identity, turned up another blank.
There was no record of a J. Alden Mortimer. No one had ever heard of a J. Alden Mortimer.
J. Alden Mortimer told himself with great calmness, This is only a nightmare. I’m going to wake up soon.
Dimly, through the blurry air and the blood hammer in his veins, he saw a detective hang up with finality and take Borg aside and he heard the words. “I don’t know what this guy’s game is, Mr. Borg, but I wouldn’t have anything more to do with him if I were you. Personally, I figure he’s a nut case. I’m for sending him to Bellevue.”
Borg sidewised a glance at Mortimer and gave the detective a quick hard shake of the head. “No, he’s not crazy. Upset, yes. Confused, yes. But not crazy.” He grew brisk. “Thanks for your help and your suggestion, but I can’t abandon him now.”
Tears came again to Mortimer’s eyes as Borg crossed the room to his side and took his elbow.
This time the limousine pulled up at a drab apartment house.
“Here we are.”
Mortimer stirred at Borg’s voice, eyed the building vaguely, then remembered that Borg had said something about his needing a place to stay till this was all straightened out. He moved at Borg’s touch and joined him on the sidewalk.
He stood for a moment, uncertain. Could it be that he had lost his memory of who he really was and had imagined himself a non-existent J. Alden Mortimer?
No. Borg believed in him. He turned to Borg.
“I don’t know how I can ever repay you, Mr. Borg.”
Borg brushed thanks aside. “This way.”
He led Mortimer down into a basement apartment. The way took them past a nakedness of pipes and meters and a huge boiler that rumbled. The room itself seemed little more than a cell. The furnishings were equally Spartan. But what seized Mortimer’s gaze was the heap of documents on the deal table.
He recognized his wallet, his passport, his traveler’s checks, his cruise ticket, his credit cards...
He stared at Borg, as the room whirled and brought Borg into focus. “What have you been doing to me? You knew all along that I’m J. Alden Mortimer.”
Borg gestured at the heap. “That’s J. Alden Mortimer. Birth, school, employment records, bank, social security, tax records, marriage license, driver’s license, library card. You’re not J. Alden Mortimer, because there’s nothing left in any file anywhere to say there ever was a J. Alden Mortimer.”
He looked Mortimer up and down with an undertaker’s eyes. “I see you standing in front of me, a living, breathing man. But without those papers you’re nobody — nothing!”
“But why?” Hollow voice, hollowness at the heart.
There was a thunderous silence as Borg looked deep into Mortimer’s eyes. Then it was Borg’s turn to burst forth. “My father is George Borg — the old man you found in your stateroom.” He saw Mortimer mouth the name and nodded. “That’s right, George Borg. Remember the name now? Thirty years ago, he was the school janitor in my home town — and yours.
“You were on the Board of Education. It was budget time and he was cleaning up in the hall outside the meeting room. I was twelve, and I had brought him a thermos of coffee from home, and we were standing in the hall when we heard you and the cozy group of board members decide how to cut up the pie and hand out contracts. You wanted to institute the awarding of plaques.
“One of the other members reminded you the budget was tight and the janitor ha,d been putting in for a new boiler. You said, ‘Him? What does what he wants matter? He’s a nobody!’
“I heard the others laugh, and I couldn’t look at my father. Well, the company you had stock in, and later became head of, put in the winning bid to provide plaques for athletes and good citizenship. And two months after the meeting the boiler blew up.
“It scalded and half-blinded my father. You and the others denied he had ever asked for a new boiler. You saw to it the verdict was carelessness on my father’s part. Not only didn’t he get just compensation, but the scars didn’t make him pleasant for children to look at. He lost his job and we moved away.
“But I had made up my mind even before that to get back at you some day. I made up my mind the night of the board meeting.”
For God’s sake, why? Mortimer could not voice it but he could look it, and Borg answered.
“Because that’s when you scarred me for life. You had shamed him in front of me — ‘He’s a nobody!’ — and you had wounded my pride in him.”
The chauffeur brought in Mortimer’s luggage, set it down, stood by. Mortimer noted dully that the initials were gone. He felt sure all identifying marks would be missing from the contents.
Borg had control of himself once more. He even gave Mortimer a half-smile. “I suppose I should thank you. Would I have had the will to rise in the world if it weren’t for my wanting to... rub you out? But it’s been a bittersweet rise. I’ve had to do things I’m not proud of.” Bleakness showed through for a moment. “Maybe someone hates me as much as I’ve hated you.”
His voice went flat and drove on. “Anyway, I’ve been watching you through the years, rubbing you out little by little.” He nodded at the heap of documents. “And now, here you are. No identity. No assets. True, my conglomerate gave you a good price for your company. But you no longer have bank deposits or brokerage accounts. You’re alone in the world. No friends. No wife — I saw to that. Even your daughter is lost to you.”
“You know about—?”
“Know about her taking up with a far-out religion that required her to renounce home and family? I gave generously to the sect. They were happy to indoctrinate her so that you would never hear from her again.
“And now for the end of J. Alden Mortimer.” Borg nodded at the chauffeur.
The chauffeur scooped up all the documents from the table. He toted them out to the boiler and kicked open the firebox. Mortimer’s eyes were fixed on the flames. He lowered his head to charge the chauffeur.
“No!”
Borg stepped unhurriedly between. He caught hold of Mortimer. They were no match. Mortimer stopped struggling and apathetically watched his identity turn to smoke.
The chauffeur closed the firebox and left the basement, released J. Alden Mortimer.
Mortimer spoke emptily to the floor. “What happens now?”
“Nothing. You can stay here, rent-free, for as long as you live. You’ll get a monthly allowance. But only if you answer to the name Blank. Are you listening? Do you hear me, Mr. Blank?”
Mortimer’s eyes blazed, then the fire in them died. He spoke slowly, dully. “Yes. My name is Blank.”