In Detroit it was raining heavily. A uniformed chauffeur just outside the gate ran toward them carrying a huge black umbrella.
"Mr. Johns, Mr. Johns," he shouted. Phillip was transformed. He looked like the master come back from the wars. "Good to see you, Sam," he greeted.
Then Sam, protecting them all with the umbrella, himself hatless and soaked, said, "You'd better get to the car, Miss Carol. You'll get all wet."
That would be a tragedy, Harry thought in a rankling of anger and confusion. Imagine Miss Carol all wet. Is Miss Carol ever dry?
Miss Carol said, "Hi Sam," warmly like the gentle princess she was.
It was enough for Sam. They followed him swiftly to the black limousine. In the instant before getting into the car, Phillip paused and said, "Sam, this is Mr. Gregory. Steven Gregory. He'll be our guest for a while."
"Pleased to know you, sir," Sam acknowledged, touching his cap.
Harry nodded. His expression was the same as when he had met Carol in the prison, guarded and half asleep. He was furious, furious.
It was like being denied by Phillip. But he'd have to wait. Phillip might be after a big load. Maybe they were going to be honored guests of Detroit's finest, and then leave with all the gold plumbing. Had to be patient. But Harry felt strange, separate. As if Phillip and Carol had come home and he'd turned down the wrong road.
Phillip sat up front with Sam and Carol, and Harry slipped quickly into the back seat. Phillip and Sam began talking, and Harry tried to piece their conversation into a coherent story. He heard Phillip's voice through the glass cage. "Yes, these past two years in Europe were a gold mine of information. My plans for the gardens are superb. We'll talk about it soon. Ah, to be home at last."
How sweet, how absolutely touching. Carol reached backwards and tapped Harry's arm. "Don't sulk," she mocked. "Everything will be explained to the little boy who hates the dark."
The car arrived at the gate of a huge estate in Grosse Pointe, just outside Detroit. Sam turned into the driveway that formed a huge arc in front of the main house. Another servant hurried down the steps to meet them with an umbrella. When Carol saw him, she exuded, "Dear Wilbur!" Wilbur, undoubtedly the most important of the staff, rushed Miss Carol up the steps, terrified that the honey would melt if she got wet.
"Wilbur, Mr. Gregory. Steven Gregory. He'll be staying with us a while."
After the hurried introduction, they all stood in the front hall of the house. "That's very good, sir," Wilbur approved with an eccentric nod of his head. He gathered up their coats.
The house was like a small chateau. It looked like a house Phillip would live in, retreat to. The front room had a great vaulting ceiling and a curving oak staircase. Phillip looked eagerly about him, rubbing his hands like a chilled squire after the hunt.
"Yes," he said a bit pompously, exaggerating his comfort and relaxation, "home at last. Show Mr. Gregory to the large guest room please, Wilbur. And take care that he has everything he needs."
"Very good sir. This way please, Mr. Gregory." The name sounded phony on the servant's lips. The whole set-up could be a phony.
"You'll excuse me," said Phillip to both Carol and Harry, "while I see to a few things around the place."
Carol smiled at him indulgently and Harry gave him an odd look.
Phillip followed Wilbur up the wide staircase. On the wall of the first landing, he stopped and studied a very large portrait. It was a woman in her mid-thirties, and at first he thought it was a painting of Carol.
The resemblance was striking. He could hear Carol's voice in the still lady.
"Oh, Mr. Gregory, dinner at eight, don't forget," Carol called from below. Harry smiled wanly at the picture and followed Wilbur up the stairs.
Harry walked to the blazing fireplace in the large comfortable room.
His suitcase was open on the chair and he slowly emptied it into the dresser drawer. He was in shirt sleeves, and when he got to a cashmere sweater, he pulled it over his head. He returned nervously to the fire.
On the mantle was a small ornamental stock of long unused tapers. He took one out and, leaning to the fire, lit it, and then with it, his cigarette.
He blew out the taper and put it back with the others, realizing with chilled humor that the stand was merely decorative. He stared at it for a moment, and finally standing confused with the taper in his hand, threw it in the fire. He crossed to the bed and fell back on the pillows, smoking and looking into the fire. Outside, the Michigan rain was pounding.
It was too much … too much to be in a strange house called by a strange name, with everybody else acting like everybody's father.
Harry was getting the short end of Alice in Wonderland. He'd scurried down the hole after Phillip and here he was in Never Never Land, with a nice hot fire that didn't warm him, a picture of Carol painted ten years from now, and Phillip spewing stuff about Europe and gardens.
What the hell were they doing to him? Was this some kind of initiation into hell, or perhaps hell itself. To stay in this big, comfortable, pillow-decked bed and never know what he was doing there, with those creepy servants bringing meals in, and carrying the dirty dishes out and never knowing his right name. What the hell did they think they were doing to him?
What did Phillip want? To stuff him and set him on the piano in the old family manor house? Or shrink his head for the trophy room? The house had to have a trophy room somewhere. Harry got up from the bed, trying to hold onto himself, but feeling uncanny fear creeping into his body.
He stood at the window and looked out, then walked, trapped, around the room and was about to return to the window. What the hell was this? A drink, that would make it normal. A drink. How did you get anything in this damned tomb? Or did the servants train you so well that you didn't want anything until it was time to be served? He rushed out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.
The hallway was deserted. Harry went to the nearest door, listened, and then tried the knob. It was locked. He looked desperately around him and ran down the hall. He threw open the door to an empty room.
There was no dust on the unused, obviously untouched furniture. The room lay in its invisible covers, heavy and serious and, for many years, unused by a human. He rushed for another door and found it locked.
He shook it vigorously and finally broke down, shaking the handle and shouting, "Phillip, Phillip for God's sake where are you?"
Wilbur appeared soundlessly at the end of the hall and came toward Harry. He stopped to close the open doors. Harry wanted to crouch protectively against the wall.
"I know this is a rather large house, Mr. Gregory," Wilbur said, "but you'll get used to it. Mr. Johns is in his study, awaiting dinner-call, which has been his habit for years. I suggest you join him there."
He escorted Harry back to his room. At the door he said, "If there is anything you need, Mr. Gregory, don't hesitate to ring for me."
I need to know where I am, who I'm supposed to be, Harry thought.
But to the snide servant he said, "Thank you, I will," and slammed the door. Maybe that's what Wilbur was for. To make you angry and keep you sane. Once in the room, Harry wiped his perspiring face and changed into his dinner jacket. Phillip had better start talking, and none of Phillip's attitudes about life. Just answer a few direct questions.
Harry found Phillip in the library, kneeling over a canvas, a magnifying glass in his hand, scrutinizing a painting. Harry stood silently at the door and looked from one covered wall to the other. In the midst of the magnificence was Phillip.