WELLINGTON SECURITY SYSTEMS, LTD. THE STRAND, LONDON, W1A.
There was a telephone number underneath. Holcroft had never heard of the British company. He turned the card over; on the back was scribbled ST. REGIS HOTEL. RM. 411.
«He insisted that I ring your apartment in case you’d gotten back and I didn’t see you come in. I told him that was crazy.»
«He could have telephoned me himself,» said Noel, walking toward the elevator. «I’m in the book.»
«He told me he tried, but your phone was out of order.» The elevator door closed on the man’s last words. Holcroft read the name again as the elevator climbed to the fifth floor. Peter Baldwin, Esq. Who was he? And since when was his phone out of order?
He opened his apartment door and reached for the light switch on the wall. Two table lamps went on simultaneously; Noel dropped his suitcase and stared in disbelief at the room.
Nothing was the same as it was three days ago! Nothing. Every piece of furniture, every chair, every table, every vase and ashtray, was moved into another position. His couch had been in the center of the room; it was now in the far-right corner. Each sketch and painting on the walls had been shifted around, none where it had been before! The stereo was no longer on the shelf; instead it was neatly arranged on a table. His bar, always at the rear of the living room, was now at the left of the door. His drafting board, usually by the window, was now by itself ten feet in front of him, the stool somewhere else—God knew where. It was the strangest sensation he had ever had. Everything familiar, yet not familiar at all. Reality distorted, out of focus.
He stood in the open doorway. Images of the room as it had been kept reappearing in front of his eyes, only to be replaced by what was in front of him now.
«What happened?» He heard his own words, unsure they were his at first.
He ran to the couch; the telephone was always by the couch, on a table at its right arm. But the couch had been moved, and the telephone had not been moved with it. He spun around toward the center of the room. Where was the table? It was not there; an armchair was where the table should be. The telephone was not there, either!
Where was the telephone? Where was the table? Where the hell was the telephone?
It was by the window. There was his kitchen table by the living-room window, and the telephone was on top of it. The large center window that looked out at the apartment building across the wide courtyard below. The telephone wires had been taken out from under the wall-to-wall carpeting and moved to the window. It was crazy! Who would take the trouble to lift tacked-down carpeting and move telephone wires?
He raced to the table, picked up the phone, and pressed the intercom button that connected him to the switchboard in the lobby. He stabbed the signal button repeatedly; there was no answer. He kept his finger on it; finally, the harried voice of Jack the doorman answered.
«All right, all right. This is the lobby…»
«Jack, it’s Mr. Holcroft. Who came up to my apartment while I was away?»
«Who came what, sir?»
«Up to my apartment!»
«Were you robbed, Mr. Holcroft?»
«I don’t know yet. I just know that everything’s been moved around. Who was here?»
«Nobody. I mean, nobody I know of. And the other guys didn’t say anything. I’m relieved at four in the morning by Ed, and he’s off at noon. Louie takes over then.»
«Can you call them?»
«Hell, I can call the police!»
The word was jarring. «Police» meant questions—Where had he been? Whom had he seen?—and Noel was not sure he wanted to give any answers.
«No, don’t call the police. Not yet. Not until I see if anything’s missing. It might be someone’s idea of a joke. I’ll call you back.»
«I’ll call the other guys.»
Holcroft hung up. He sat on the wide windowsill and appraised the room.
Everything. Not a single piece of furniture was where it had been before!
He was holding something in his left hand: the business card.
PETER BALDWIN, ESQ.
«… he was very agitated, you know what I mean?… he insisted I ring your apartment … your phone was out of order…»
ST. REGIS HOTEL. RM. 411.
Noel picked up the phone and dialed. He knew the number well; he lunched frequently at the King Cole Grill.
«Yes? Baldwin here.» The voice was British, the greeting abrupt.
«This is Noel Holcroft, Mr. Baldwin. You tried to reach me.»
«Thank heavens! Where are you?»
«Home. In my apartment. I just got back.»
«Back? From where?»
«I’m not sure that’s any of your business.»
«For God’s sake, I’ve traveled over three thousand miles to see you! It’s dreadfully important. Now where were you?»
The Englishman’s breathing was audible over the phone; the man’s intensity seemed somehow related to fear. «I’m flattered you came all that distance to see me, but it still doesn’t give you the right to ask personal questions…»
«I have every right!» broke in Baldwin. «I spent twenty years With MI Six, and we have a great deal to talk about! You have no idea what you’re doing. No one does but me.»
«You what? We what?»
«Let me put it this way. Cancel Geneva. Cancel it, Mr. Holcroft, until we’ve talked!»
«Geneva?…» Noel felt suddenly sick to his stomach. How would this Englishman know about Geneva? How could he know?
A light flickered outside the window; someone in an apartment directly across the courtyard was lighting a cigarette. Despite his agitation, Holcroft’s eyes were drawn to it.
«There’s someone at the door,» Baldwin said. «Stay on the phone. I’ll get rid of whoever it is and be right back.»
Noel could hear Baldwin put the telephone down, then the sound of a door opening and indistinguishable voices. Across the courtyard, in the window, a match was struck again, illuminating the long blond hair of a woman behind a sheer curtain.
Holcroft realized there was silence on the line; he could hear no voices now. Moments went by; the Englishman did not return.
«Baldwin? Baldwin, where are you? Baldwin!»
For a third time a match flared in the window across the way. Noel stared at it; it seemed unnecessary. He could see the glow of a cigarette in the blond woman’s mouth. And then he saw what was in her other hand, silhouetted behind the sheer curtain: a telephone. She was holding a telephone to her ear and looking over at his window—looking, he was sure, at him.
«Baldwin? Where the hell are you?»
There was a click; the line went dead.
«Baldwin!»
The woman in the window slowly lowered the telephone, paused for a moment, and walked away, out of sight.
Holcroft stared at the window, then at the telephone in his hand. He waited until he got the active line, then redialed the St. Regis.
«I’m sorry, sir, room four-eleven’s telephone seems to be out of order. We’ll send someone up right away. May I have your number and we’ll give it to Mr. Baldwin.»
… your phone was out of order…
Something was happening that Noel did not understand. He knew only that he would not leave his name or number with the operator at the St. Regis. He hung up and looked again at the window across the courtyard. Whatever light there had been was gone. The window was dark; he could see only the white of the curtain.