“He advised an abortion?”
“A therapeutic abortion, yes,” Oppenheim said. “It was for her own safety. You can ask the doctor, if you like. Dr. Walter Owen, East Seventy-Sixth Street.”
“What happened after the abortion?” Corman asked. “You said she fell apart.”
“It was her last semester,” Oppenheim replied. “She had only a few courses to complete the degree, but I wasn’t sure she was going to make it. It was as if pieces of her mind were falling away. I’d come home and find her by the window, always by the window, looking out, like a cat.” He shrugged. “I tried to talk to her, but she didn’t really seem to be there.” He shook his head. “I knew she was in trouble, but I didn’t know how bad it was until Dr. Maitland called.”
“Maitland?” Corman asked. “From the English Department?”
“That’s right,” Oppenheim said. “You know him?”
Corman nodded.
“Well, Sarah had written a final examination for him,” Oppenheim said, “and he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He said it was very strange, and that he didn’t know what to do about it.”
“About what?”
“About Sarah’s grade, her graduation. He didn’t want to stand in her way, cause her more strain. We met, all of us, Maitland, Dr. Rosen and myself. It was all very cordial. In the end Maitland agreed to accept the paper, and that was the end of it.”
“And so she graduated?”
“Yes,” Oppenheim said. “She was quite mad by then. You could tell that by what she’d written on the examination.” He looked at Corman pointedly. “Not of this world, I’ll tell you that, not of this world at all.”
“Do you have it?”
“No,” Oppenheim said. “Perhaps Dr. Maitland does. Would you like for me to check?”
Corman shook his head. “No, that’s all right,” he said. “I’ll do it myself.”
During the next few minutes Oppenheim moved on through his brief experience with Sarah Rosen, her deterioration and disappearance, and Dr. Rosen’s odd refusal to look for her, while Corman listened feverishly, prowling through Oppenheim’s words like a cat through the night, scratching for the mystery he could drop on Scarelli’s table like a dead mouse from a vulture’s beak.
When he rose to leave, Oppenheim shook his hand and looked at him worriedly. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Corman drew his hand away, realizing that he’d begun to sweat again, as if boiling slowly just beneath the skin.
“Perhaps you’re coming down with something,” Oppenheim added.
Corman shook his head then darted away, glancing back down the corridor furtively, as if Oppenheim had discovered his nasty little secret, caught him sneaking out of some house of ill repute.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
CORMAN EASED HIMSELF down in the chair opposite Julian’s desk and waited while Julian finished up a phone call with one of his writers.
“At the most four cities,” Julian said. “New York, of course. Boston, Washington. That’s … yes … yes. No, nothing on the West Coast. It’s between Baltimore and Philly. We may sneak Atlanta in, but nothing on the West Coast.” He listened for a moment, glancing at Corman. “I understand, Bryan. Yes. I understand.” A short, mocking laugh broke from him. “Promises were made? Really, Bryan, isn’t that from Death of a Salesman? Are you playing Willy Loman now?” He looked at Corman and winked. “What? What? Bryan. Bryan, listen. Bryan, when was the last time you couldn’t have Chateaubriand whenever you wanted it? In all honesty, Bryan, when was the last time?” He waited for an answer, then drew the phone from his ear, looked at it unbelievingly for a moment, then shifted his eyes over to Corman. “He hung up.”
Corman said nothing.
Julian shook his head and returned the phone to its cradle. “Everybody feels badly used,” he said. “That’s the poison in the air.” He glanced at the phone again, then returned to Corman. “Well, I hope you’re in better spirits than he was this morning.”
Corman handed Julian a plain manila envelope. “Some pictures,” he said.
“Great.” Julian took the pictures out and began to flip through them. He looked up when he’d finished. “What about text? What have you found out about the woman?”
“She graduated from Columbia in 1988,” Corman told him. “She was an English major. Her father is Samuel Rosen, and she evidently had an abor—”
Julian’s eyes brightened. “Did you say Samuel Rosen? Dr. Samuel Rosen? The scholar?”
“Yes.”
Julian nodded thoughtfully. “Good. Very good. What happened? I mean, she certainly strayed a bit far from the old professor’s nest, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Any idea why?”
Corman shook his head. “Not yet, but I …”
“Maybe he laid the academic pressure on a little thick,” Julian suggested. He smiled excitedly. “That could be it, Corman, some kind of ‘Rappaccini’s Daughter’ scenario on the Upper East Side.” He seemed hardly able to keep from licking his lips. “Gothic. Very Gothic.”
“Maybe,” Corman said. “I don’t know.”
Julian looked slightly irritated. “Well, that’s what we have to find out, David.” He sounded as if he were talking to a small child, explaining the facts of life for the tenth time. “A story to go with the pictures.”
Corman reached for an answer, something that would satisfy him briefly. “I talked to Willie Scarelli,” he said.
“Good,” Julian said brightly, as if pleased that Corman was finally getting a handle on how things were really done. “Is he willing to work on the text?”
“He’s thinking about it.”
“He’s a good choice for this sort of thing,” Julian said. “He’s got a good, steady track record. Nothing made of gold, but steady. With a man like that, lightning could strike at any time.”
Corman nodded.
“The only thing,” Julian said. “It might complicate things financially.”
Corman looked at him quizzically.
“Well, now we’ve got two people involved,” Julian explained. “Maybe three.”
“Three?”
“Scarelli’s agent,” Julian said. “I’m sure he has one. Which means there’ll either be more money expected of us, or the three of you will have to split whatever we offer.” He smiled. “Agents these days take about fifteen percent.” He looked at Corman knowingly. “I don’t suppose you’d thought of that.”
“Not really.”
Julian returned the pictures to the envelope. “Well, that’s the sort of thing we’ll deal with when the time comes.” He handed the pictures back to Corman.
“You don’t want to keep them?” Corman asked.
Julian shook his head. “No, not now. I know enough to start the wheels turning.”
Corman tucked the envelope into his camera bag, then drew the bag over his shoulder.
“The Rosen connection,” Julian said. “That’s the real ore in this book. Check that out carefully.” His eyes squeezed together intently. “I have a feeling that if you got deep enough into that house-hold, you might really hit the jackpot.” He gathered up a stack of papers and thrust them under his arm. “That’s the real task, to get deep.”
Corman looked at him, baffled. “How do I do that?”
Julian stood up quickly and glanced at his watch. “Sorry to rush you, David, but I have a meeting.”
“How do I do that?” Corman repeated.
“Ask Scarelli,” Julian said hastily as he darted out the door. “He knows the game very well.”
Scarelli rolled the coffee cup between his two open hands. “So he said to ask me, huh?”