Lafkowitz?
What kind of spelling was that?
It was clear enough. Lafkowitz, Henry J., 701. With an A. That was no good. That was useless.
Useless? Why useless? He gave his head one violent shake as though to clear it of mist. Damn it, what did he care how it was spelled? He turned away, frowning and angry, and hastened to an elevator door, which closed just before he reached it, leaving him flustered.
Another door opened and he stepped in briskly. He tucked his briefcase under his arm and tried to look bright alive—junior executive in its finest sense. He had to make an impression on Alex Naylor, with whom so far he had communicated only by telephone. If he was going to brood about Lewkowitzes and Lafkowitzes—
The elevator slid noiselessly to a halt at seven. A youth in shirtsleeves stepped off, balancing what looked like a desk-drawer in which were three containers of coffee and three sandwiches.
Then, just as the doors began closing, frosted glass with black lettering loomed before Martens eyes. It read: 701—HENRY J. LEFKOWITZ—IMPORTER and was pinched off by the inexorable coming together of the elevator doors.
Marten leaned forward in excitement. It was his impulse to say: Take me back down to 7.
But there were others in the car. And after all, he had no reason.
Yet there was a tingle of excitement within him. The Directory had been wrong. It wasn’t A, it was E. Some fool of a non-spelling menial with a packet of small letters to go on the board and only one hind foot to do it with.
Lefkowitz. Still not right, though.
Again, he shook his head. Twice. Not right for what?
The elevator stopped at ten and Marten got off.
Alex Naylor of Kulin-etts turned out to be a bluff, middle-aged man with a shock of white hair, a ruddy complexion, and a broad smile. His palms were dry and rough, and he shook hands with a considerable pressure, putting his left hand on Marten’s shoulder in an earnest display of friendliness.
He said, “Be with you in two minutes. How about eating right here in the building? Excellent restaurant, and they’ve got a boy who makes a good martini. That sound all right?”
“Fine. Fine.” Marten pumped up enthusiasm from a somehow-clogged reservoir.
It was nearer ten minutes than two, and Marten waited with the usual uneasiness of a man in a strange office. He stared at the upholstery on the chairs and at the little cubby-hole within which a young and bored switchboard operator sat. He gazed at the pictures on the wall and even made a half-hearted attempt to glance through a trade journal on the table next to him.
What he did not do was think of Lev—
He did not think of it.
The restaurant was good, or it would have been good if Marten had been perfectly at ease. Fortunately, he was freed of the necessity of carrying the burden of the conversation. Naylor talked rapidly and loudly, glanced over the menu with a practiced eye, recommended the Eggs Benedict, and commented on the weather and the miserable traffic situation.
On occasion, Marten tried to snap out of it, to lose that edge of fuzzed absence of mind. But each time the restlessness would return. Something was wrong. The name was wrong. It stood in the way of what he had to do.
With main force, he tried to break through the madness. In sudden verbal clatter, he led the conversation into the subject of wiring. It was reckless of him. There was no proper foundation; the transition was too abrupt.
But the lunch had been a good one; the dessert was on its way; and Naylor responded nicely.
He admitted dissatisfaction with existing arrangements. Yes, he had been looking into Marten’s firm and, actually, it seemed to him that, yes, there was a chance, a good chance, he thought, that—
A hand came down on Naylor’s shoulder as a man passed behind his chair. “How’s the boy, Alex?”
Naylor looked up, grin ready-made and flashing. “Hey, Lefk, how’s business?”
“Can’t complain. See you at the—” He faded into the distance.
Marten wasn’t listening. He felt his knees trembling, as he half-rose. “Who was that man?” he asked, intensely. It sounded more peremptory than he intended.
“Who? Lefk? Jerry Lefkovitz. You know him?” Naylor stared with cool surprise at his lunch companion.
“No. How do you spell his name?”
“L-E-F-K-O-V-I-T-Z, I think. Why?”
“With a V?”
“An F…. Oh, there’s a V in it, too.” Most of the good nature had left Naylor’s face.
Marten drove on. “There’s a Lefkowitz in the building. With a W. You know, Lef-COW-itz.”
“Oh?”
“Room 701. This is not the same one?”
“Jerry doesn’t work in this building. He’s got a place across the street. I don’t know this other one. This is a big building, you know. I don’t keep tabs on everyone in it. What is all this, anyway?”
Marten shook his head and sat back. He didn’t know what all this was, anyway. Or at least, if he did, it was nothing he dared explain. Could he say: I’m being haunted by all manner of Lefkowitzes today.
He said, “We were talking about wiring.”
Naylor said, “Yes. Well, as I said, I’ve been considering your company. I’ve got to talk it over with the production boys, you understand. I’ll let you know.”
“Sure,” said Marten, infinitely depressed. Naylor wouldn’t let him know. The whole thing was shot.
And yet, through and beyond his depression, there was still that restlessness.
The hell with Naylor. All Marten wanted was to break this up and get on with it. (Get on with what? But the question was only a whisper. Whatever did the questioning inside him was ebbing away, dying down….)
The lunch frayed to an ending. If they had greeted each other like long-separated friends at last reunited, they parted like strangers.
Marten felt only relief.
He left with pulses thudding, threading through the tables, out of the haunted building, onto the haunted street.
Haunted? Madison Avenue at 1:20 P.M. in an early fall afternoon with the sun shining brightly and ten thousand men and women be-hiving its long straight stretch.
But Marten felt the haunting. He tucked his briefcase under his arm and headed desperately northward. A last sigh of the normal within him warned him he had a three o’clock appointment on 36th Street. Never mind. He headed uptown. Northward.
At 54th Street, he crossed Madison and walked west, came abruptly to a halt and looked upward.
There was a sign on the window, three stories up. He could make it out clearly: A. S. LEFKOWICH, CERTIFIED ACCOUNTANT.
It had an F and an OW, but it was the first “-ich” ending he had seen. The first one. He was getting closer. He turned north again on Fifth Avenue, hurrying through the unreal streets of an unreal city, panting with the chase of something, while the crowds about him began to fade.
A sign in a ground-floor window, M. R. LEFKOWICZ, M.D.
A small gold-leaf semi-circle of letters in a candy-store window: JACOB LEVKOW.
(Half a name, he thought savagely. Why is he disturbing me with half a name?)
The streets were empty now except for the varying clan of Lefkowitz, Levkowitz, Lefkowicz to stand out in the vacuum.
He was dimly aware of the park ahead, standing out in painted motionless green. He turned west. A piece of newspaper fluttered at the corner of his eyes, the only movement in a dead world. He veered, stooped, and picked it up, without slackening his pace.
It was in Yiddish, a torn half-page.
He couldn’t read it. He couldn’t make out the blurred Hebrew letters, and could not have read it if they were clear. But one word was clear. It stood out in dark letters in the center of the page, each letter clear in its every serif. And it said Lefkovitsch, he knew, and as he said it to himself, he placed its accent on the second syllable: Lef-KUH-vich.