“But this is the Hotel Moreau, isn’t it? Room 608 of the Hotel Moreau, at Rittenhouse Square? They assured me at the desk that a party named ‘Tristram Heade’ of Richmond, Virginia, was registered for that room,” the elderly man said, bewildered. “And you sound so very like my nephew! You were to have stayed at the Sussex, and you were to have telephoned me on your first evening, so that we could arrange for a quiet dinner here at the house. Why, you spoke with me only last week, from Richmond, and you sounded quite enthusiastic about the visit! What on earth has happened since then? Are you ill? Are you some sort of captive there?”
Tristram was perspiring badly, sitting bolt upright in his enormous bed, in his (or were they Markham’s: the label boasted Harrod’s) pajamas, amid a myopic daze of light. Where were his glasses? Why were they not on the bedside table, within easy reach? He had had too much to drink the night before and his head was beginning seriously to ache. Poor Uncle Morris! Tristram had not seen the old man in several years, and had always been very fond of him, and could not understand why, now, he was so desperate to elude him; but desperate he was. He might have thought, in the confusion of first waking, that the old man’s appropriation of the telephone line prevented Fleur Grunwald from reaching him.…
Uncle Morris was saying, “Tristram? Are you there? Why won’t you answer? Your cousin Beaumont was certain he’d seen you the other day in Rittenhouse Square, headed in the direction of a hotel called the Moreau, and as you were not at the Sussex, and they knew nothing of you—”
Tristram shut his eyes. “I’m afraid, sir, as I said—”
“My boy, what is it? Are you in trouble of some kind? Do you have a woman there with you, and are concerned that I might judge you harshly? I can’t comprehend why, Tristram, you of all people, my favorite nephew, as you must know, would behave in so cruel and wanton a way toward me!”
“I know no one named ‘Heade.’”
Tristram had no choice but to be rude: without another word he broke the connection. Perhaps someday he could explain the situation to his uncle, perhaps someday he and Fleur, happily married, would dine with the old man, and all would become, if not forgivable, at least exponible.
He then dialed the hotel switchboard, and instructed the operator that no further calls were to be put through for Tristram Heade. “And what of ‘Angus Markham’?” the operater asked.
Tristram hesitated. “‘Angus Markham,’ yes,” he said. “But no one else.”
And then he remembered, with a pang of guilt, that he had left his name and number with the lost-and-found office of the Philadelphia railway station … and should the “real” Angus Markham appear, hoping to claim his luggage, he would be unable to contact Tristram.
But, as things were so rapidly developing, Tristram was no longer eager to hear from Markham.
So far as he could determine, no more pieces of luggage had been delivered to his hotel room; no more of Markham’s clothes were hanging in his closet. (Tristram had fallen into the habit of wearing both his own and Markham’s clothes, without distinguishing between them, though he rather preferred Markham’s to his own; except for the man’s custom-made shoes, which were somewhat pointed in the toes, and more conspicuously stylish than Tristram liked.) Since his initial examination of the contents of the other man’s valise, Tristram had not had time to examine them again, but a quick glance assured him that things were as they should be—the letters in their untidy packets, the scribbled-over racetrack forms, the real estate brochures. A melancholy odor as of several perfumes lifted to his nostrils.… It struck Tristram that, whatever the identity of the mysterious Markham, he was clearly a man to reckon with; not the sort of person who conveniently disappears, and clears the field for a rival.
“No. It is not like him. It would not be like me, in his place.”
As if slantwise, the thought came to Tristram that Angus Markham might no longer be living. In which case he could never come forward to make his claim … of the valuables in the hotel room, or of Fleur Grunwald.
This thought both excited and worried him. If the man was dead, there must be a body; and where was the body? Tristram knew relatively little of criminal law, which had not been his field, but he did know that, without a body, without absolute proof of death, it was enormously difficult for police to investigate a crime; for the crime, if it lacked eyewitnesses, could only be conjectured. First-degree convictions in such murder cases are rare, even when circumstantial evidence is overwhelming. And missing adults in the United States are not ipso facto suspected of being victims any more than they are suspected of being criminals, for to be merely “missing” does not constitute a crime. The category means only that a human being has for some reason become invisible to certain others: not that he is invisible to all others, and not that he has met with what the law designates as “foul play.”
Tristram could recall dimly, as if it had occurred not days but years ago, having glimpsed Angus Markham (or the man he presumed to be Markham) on the train … but he could recall virtually nothing about him. The category man; adult male; of Tristram’s general build, and, perhaps, his age; conventionally well-dressed; presumably alone. Had he been murdered on the train, and his body thrown off? If only Tristram had looked directly into his face … if only their eyes had locked.
Tristram carried Markham’s photograph in his wallet, with his own, for safekeeping, and now sought it out, and examined it thoughtfully. The handsome, arrogant face; the sweep of the blond hair; the level gaze; the firm set of the mouth and jaw. Perhaps Tristram imagined it, but the likeness had begun subtly to fade: the pale hair had grown paler, like a sort of nimbus, bleeding into the featureless background of the picture; the focus of the eyes was less distinctive than before. There was a cloudy smudge in the lower right-hand corner, like a ghostly thumbprint.
“Is he living, at this moment? Or is he dead?”
Suddenly the question struck Tristram as enormously, even urgently important. As important, in its own way, as the question of what he must do regarding Otto Grunwald.…
He could not go to the police, of course; he would have to hire a private investigator.
Already, even as the thought took shape, Tristram was at the telephone. He quickly looked up “detective agencies” in the Philadelphia directory, surprised to find so many listings, and chose one at random: Achilles Investigative Service (“Civil, Criminal & Domestic Investigations Our Specialty: All Phases Photographic Evidence—Professional Reports—Discreet Undercover Agents—Subpoena Service—Armed Bodyguards—Polygraph Service—Bonded & Licensed Agents—Affordable Fees—Free Initial Consultations—Call Anytime Day or Night”). So Tristram called, and made an appointment for later that morning, with a Mr. Handelman at the agency. He noted that, by a lucky coincidence, the office was in downtown Philadelphia, within walking distance of Rittenhouse Square.
Before setting out, Tristram made an attempt to speak with Fleur at the Delancy Street address; but could not get past a female he presumed to be her protectress, Otto Grunwald’s cousin, who informed him that there was no one there except herself, and that the whereabouts of Fleur Grunwald were unknown to her. “I am in no way connected with Otto Grunwald,” Tristram said carefully, “—I am Fleur’s friend Angus Markham, who was there just yesterday. She must surely have told you about me? ‘Angus Markham’?”
But the woman said only, “I’m sorry, Mr. Markham, Mrs. Grunwald is not here. I have no idea where she is.”
“It’s absurd to take that tone with me,” Tristram said, rather hurt. “As I said, I was there just yesterday; I have your telephone number; I am—I am in love with Fleur, and have vowed to help her, as surely she has told you? When the horror has lifted the two of us will—”
“Mr. Markham, I’m afraid I will have to hang up now.”
“Put her on the line! I insist you put her on the line! I have a message for her—put her on the line!”
There was a moment’s hesitation; then the woman said, in
a softer, yet still suspicious voice, “If Mrs. Grunwald were here—and if I could trust it that you are her friend, as you claim—what would that message be?”
Tristram said desperately, “That I love her.”
When there was no response he added, “That I adore her.”
When there was still no response he added, “That, tonight, it will be resolved. I vow that one way or another it will be resolved.”
But the line crackled dead in his ear.
“It is only that I lacked evidence,” Tristram argued, “—as to whether the tattoos are genuine, or simulated. Indelible ink stitched into the very flesh or mere vegetable dye. How is a reasonable man to know? And how, not knowing, is one to act?”
He wondered too, in the sober light of day,—for it was uncommonly light, this midday in spring, with the consequence that his much-abused head ached—if one were justified in blindly and extravagantly believing the utterances of the unconscious; if, in short, he could believe Zoe’s words, taking them as literal truth. For, apart from a single volume on the art of tattooing, amid Otto Grunwald’s crowded collection of misogynist literature, there was nothing to link Grunwald with so barbaric a practice. And though Grunwald had spoken of a certain “purgative” operation for females—the specific name of which Tristram could not now recall, except to know that it was ugly-sounding—there was no reason to suspect that Grunwald himself had plans to mutilate his wife.
But: why had Tristram drunk so much! eaten so much! listened so unquestioningly to Otto Grunwald’s arguments! And why had he so readily handed the glass eye over to the man?—when finding it was such an omen of Tristram Heade’s own good luck?
“Perhaps I will get it back, tonight.”
7
“Achilles Investigative Service” had its office on the sixth floor, rear, of an undistinguished office building on the busy corner of Eleventh and Broad streets, an unprepossessing address, like the tiny office itself, which rather disappointed Tristram in its dour, even dowdy, plainness. No romance in the colorless walls, the battered office furniture, the dust-shadowed slats of the Venetian blinds; nor in the surprising fact that Mr. Handelman, for all his air of authority, energy, and enthusiasm, appeared to be alone in the office, with no receptionist or secretary. Indeed, almost as soon as Tristram stood hesitantly at the door, debating whether to rap on the opaque window glass, or walk in (ACHILLES INVESTIGATIVE SERVICE—WALK IN PLEASE! was painted on the glass), or quietly tiptoe away, a voice inside called out heartily, “Come in!”
He must have seen my shadow against the glass, Tristram thought.
“Bud” Handelman, as he introduced himself to Tristram, gave the impression of being preceded by his quick, tight, spasmlike smile; then came his quick, hard, spasmlike handshake. Small-bodied and boyishly sweet-faced, the sort of man invariably called wiry, Handelman was, so far as types of masculine personalities go, the very antithesis of Grunwald’s nephew Hans; yet Tristram felt scarcely less uncomfortable in his presence. “Sit down! Sit down! Please sit down!” Handelman cried, even as Tristram was lowering himself into a springless leather chair, and facing the detective across an aluminum desk heaped with papers, dirtied Styrofoam coffee cups, and chocolate bar wrappers. Handelman appeared to be startlingly young, in his mid- or late twenties perhaps, but his manner was busily avuncular, gregarious, and peremptory. He wore a magenta-and-green checked sports coat, a pink-toned shirt open at the neck, and a pair of cuff links that resembled, at first glance, artificial tawny-gold eyes. His face was small, compact, and moon-shaped; his nose snubbed like a baby’s; and though his glasses had thick lenses, suggesting extreme myopia, the lenses were tinted a fashionable violet-amber hue. Behind him on the wall, conspicuously placed, were several framed diplomas, a document stamped with the seal of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, certificates of merit, plaques, and photographs of Handelman in the company of other men, presumably satisfied clients, smiling into the camera. There were cheaply lacquered little signs too, above a hot-plate burner at Handelman’s back, that read NO ‘MYSTERY’—ONLY IGNORANCE!, and NO APPETITE TOO ‘EVIL’ TO BE CULTIVATED—OR TO BE DETECTED! Both remarks were attributed to Benjamin Franklin.
“You are the gentleman who just called? About a missing person? And who is the missing person, and when and where did you see him?” Handelman eagerly began, before Tristram could draw breath to speak. It was remarkable that, small as he was, no more than five feet three inches in height, and with that babyish face, the detective exuded the authority of a man of Tristram’s size.
“—And did you bring a photograph?” Handelman added.
“Yes. Yes I did,” Tristram said, feeling suddenly rather tongue-tied and vague. Why on earth had he come here? What force had drawn him here, to this peculiar little man’s office, so far from home?
Handelman, as if reading Tristram’s thoughts, urged him to speak frankly; and clearly; without inhibition; remembering that this was a free initial consultation, with no obligations, no strings attached. “Trust that we are entirely alone in this office, and all that you say will be kept strictly confidential,” he murmured, lowering his voice.
Tristram stared at the eager little man, who smiled at him with such hope, and gave off a faint air of staleness as of hope exuded on other occasions, and insufficiently washed away; wondering why had Angus Markham not guided him to a better detective, when the purpose of the transaction was after all to locate him …?
Eventually, after a number of interruptions, including the distraction of a telephone that rang at Handelman’s elbow, and was, flatteringly, not answered, Tristram managed to explain the situation, and his request, to Handelman, to the discreet degree to which he cared to explain it. (He said not a word of Fleur Grunwald of course. Nor of Otto Grunwald.) Yes there was a missing person, and his name was “Angus Markham”; and, yes, Tristram had brought along his photograph; but Tristram knew virtually nothing about the man other than his name, and his general appearance—“He resembles me, I’ve been told”—and the fact that he seemed to be involved in real estate transactions in Florida, and frequented racetracks, and was something of a ladies’ man. Tristram thoughtfully provided Handelman with as much information as he knew of the train on which both he and Markham had been traveling, and ended with a rather vague and cursory summary of how, since that day, he, Tristram Heade, had been “mysteriously mistaken” for Angus Markham.
Nodding and murmuring enthusiastically, as if to encourage Tristram’s recitation, as one might encourage a mildly retarded child, Handelman took lavish notes nonstop; covering sheets of paper in a large, wild scrawl. It troubled Tristram’s sense of economy that only three or four lines of this scrawl could be accommodated on a single sheet of paper: surely this boded ill for the detective’s expense account, for which the client had naturally to pay?
Tristram ended by saying carefully, “I want only to know what has happened to Markham; I want to know his whereabouts, his address, telephone number, that sort of thing; maybe a few photographs of him, if you can manage.” (Handelman nodded with a happy sort of impatience: of course he could manage.) “I don’t want to get in touch with him, necessarily; and I don’t want him to know that anyone is—”
“Assuredly not, sir!” Handelman said, with an intake of breath, as if Tristram had said something both foolish and insulting.
“I want, as I said, only to know. My hope is to clear up the mystery once and for all, simply to know—”
Handelman continued to take notes. “‘Simply to know,’—‘simply to know’—As if,” he said, with a sudden wink at Tristram, his eye magnified by the thick lens like a fish that has swum up close against the glass wall of an aquarium, “—knowing were not everything.”
Tristram could not quite comprehend the wink, but allowed it to pass. He remembered something he had meant to ask earlier. “About your fee, Mr. Handelman—?”
“Ah yes my fee! My retainer, and my—fee!” Handelman said, in a suddenly airy voice. His childlike
eyes darted about Tristram’s person, as much of Tristram as he could see, both men being seated; Tristram supposed the detective was assessing the worth of the sharkskin suit he wore, the attractive silk shirt, the bright Liberty print tie. Without intending it, Tristram had dressed entirely in Markham’s clothes today; and had brought along, for some reason, the ebony walking cane.… He will mistake me for a well-to-do man and demand an exorbitant fee, Tristram thought; and then remembered that he was a well-to-do man. (Since his parents’ death Tristram had lived frugally, with no real expenses except his antiquarian collection, and had managed, over the years, to save a fair amount of money out of the interest from his inheritance. But he understood that that way of life in Richmond—monastic, celibate, “repressed”—was now a thing of the past.)
Handelman did indeed suggest a fee that seemed to Tristram rather steep, like a poker player bluffing a poor hand (for Tristram understood that the detective badly wanted the case), but the prospect of seeking out another agency at this point was disagreeable. And Tristram had little time, after all: there was the business with Grunwald tonight, which might end in Grunwald’s death … if Tristram’s courage did not fail him. So Tristram agreed, and took out his checkbook to make out the first check.
“I don’t think you will be disappointed, Mr. Heade!” Handelman said, licking his lips.
Handelman then picked up the photograph of Markham, which Tristram had laid on his desk, and proceeded to examine it with care. He was so near-sighted he had to bring it within an inch or two of his face. His smile froze; then faded. Something about Markham’s likeness so struck him he did not even notice the check Tristram was holding out to him. “Is something wrong? Do you know the man?” Tristram asked. “Or isn’t the photograph clear enough? It seems to have faded a bit, since …”
Handelman, his childlike features now tightened in suspicion, or in dread, was looking from the photograph to Tristram, comparing the two. Tristram felt a pang of uneasiness. Does he think I am that man? Does he think this is some sort of trick? he wondered. Or does he know Angus Markham, and fear him?