Lori, p.17
Lori, page 17
"I think you already know the answer to that, Lori. Somehow, somewhere, you did hear his name, and filed it away without any need of recollection. The unconscious is like a computer: everything you feed into it is automatically retained, but we don't always find it easy to activate instant recall or a conscious printout."
"Then you think Dr. Chase, Dr. Fairmount, and this Clara are all people I heard of before? But who would have told me about them, and why? And if they were of any importance, why didn't I consciously remember them?"
"Perhaps for the same reason you didn't remember Priscilla." Dr. Leverett paused. "That's something I think we should look into a little further."
"So do I," Lori said. "But I'd be happier if we could turn up some information on them in a real computer memory bank. The one in my unconscious doesn't seem to have an automated teller."
"Don't be discouraged. We're making progress, and there are other ways-everything from birth records to death certificates. It's just a matter of checking things out. I've got a few ideas and if I can clear some time this afternoon, I'm going to follow up on them. If I do run across something, will you be free later in the day?"
"Of course." Lori glanced over at her breakfast companion before continuing. "Russ is here now, but I'll be available anytime you need me."
"Your young man? When did he get back?"
Involuntarily, Lori found herself glancing at Russ again before replying. Why was she hesitating?
Somehow the answer to this question eluded her, but she'd have to figure that out for herself later. It was Dr. Leverett's question that demanded an answer now, and a truthful one.
"He got back yesterday," Lori said.
"Good."
His response held a ring of sincerity, and Lori could only hope that she had sounded equally honest, even though what she had told him was really just a half-truth. On the other hand, it was none of Leverett's business that Russ -had spent the night here. Or was it? After all, aren't you supposed to tell your shrink everything? Maybe so-but if he insists on popping up and invading your privacy, to say nothing of your privates, at the most crucial possible moment, then what's left to tell?
"-probably be talking to you later."
"Fine." But he had been talking to her right now and she hadn't heard a word he was saying. Instead she'd been listening to her own thoughts and they made no sense whatsoever. Maybe she ought to take that computer in her unconscious mind and trade it in for a later model.
Then, as she hung up, Lori dismissed the thought. What was important now was what Dr. Leverett had told her at the beginning of their conversation.
Lori swung around, smiling up at Russ. "Did you hear that? I was right all along. Dr. Leverett found out that Nigel Chase was real, just like Dr. Fairmount. Now, if we can locate him, or this Clara I told you about, we'll have proof-"
"Of what?" Russ's tone was sharp and Lori's smile was no match for the intensity of his frown. "Even if people with these names actually existed, that doesn't matter. We've got-"
"Doesn't matter?" Lori's voice rose in an arc of indignation. "Maybe not to you, but it sure as hell does to me! If those names I heard in my dreams belong to real people, then it means I'm not freaking out, even if you seem to think so."
"Be reasonable, Lori! All I'm saying is I thought you and I were looking for Priscilla Fairmount. But now, since this Leverett character got into the act, he has you running off in all directions at once. Besides, from what you told me earlier and what I heard just now when you were talking to him, just how much proof have you actually got? He tells you he's found the names listed, but when it comes to any real information about any of these people, he runs into a blank wall. Very convenient, particularly if somebody doesn't want to move any further. For all you know, he may have put up those walls himself. Except that he doesn't seem to me like the kind of guy who'd soil his hands with manual labor."
"What have you got against him? At least what he did find out can be verified-it's all in the records. He's trying to help."
"Meaning I'm not?"
"Now you're the one who's jumping to conclusions! I'm not saying you aren't supportive, just that Dr. Leverett deserves some credit for what he did. He's relieved my mind about a lot of things."
"Too damned many, if you ask me." Russ shook his head. "According to what you've told me yourself, he's either got you running to his office or hanging on the phone every day, and when you get right down to it, he hasn't really given you much more than what a good investigative reporter could come up with in a few hours' work."
"But I haven't had an investigative reporter available during the past week." Lori tried to lighten the implication with a smile, but without much success. "You could at least give Leverett credit for trying."
"If you ask me, he's manipulating you. Feeding a little bit of information about this Priscilla Fairmount, then putting your attention on these other names instead. It's what the old-time stage magicians used to call misdirection."
"Dr. Leverett isn't a magician. He didn't plant those names in my mind. They were in my dreams, along with Priscilla's."
"But you didn't, have those dreams until you saw Priscilla's name and picture in that yearbook."
"The yearbook." Lori found herself nodding without any awareness of having willed it and now her voice continued without volition. "I've been thinking about that a lot lately, particularly after talking with Dr. Leverett and Lieutenant Metz. Both of them seem to agree that Ben Rupert probably stole it, using the duplicate key he had made for the apartment. But that doesn't explain how he knew that such a book existed and where he could go to find it." Lori forced herself to pause, told herself it would be better if she stopped completely-but again, without conscious control, the words came unbidden.
"After Nadia Hope died, only two people knew about that yearbook-you and me. I didn't tell Ben Rupert where it was. Why did you?"
"All right." Russ spoke quickly. "I phoned him, just before I left town, but I didn't tell him to steal it. I didn't even know he had a key to your apartment. Knowing that you were in the hospital, I thought it was best if somebody responsible knew what was going on, just in case-"
"And you didn't tell me? Why not? Because you thought I wasn't responsible myself?"
"Look, Lori, you were under sedation. Nobody knew exactly what to expect; even Justin wasn't sure about diagnosis or prognosis."
"So you lied to me. You did think I was wacko-maybe you still think so."
"I didn't say that."
"Not in so many words." Lori rose, and her voice rose with her. "But the way you carry on about Dr. Leverett, as if I was some kind of retarded child being led around by the nose-"
"Can't you understand? I just don't like what he's been doing to you, getting you all worked up this way."
Lori faced him, bitterness blazing in her eyes, pouring from her lips. "Since when did you become so judgmental? If it wasn't for the way you kept after me, I wouldn't have gone to Leverett in the first place."
Russ shook his head. "So I made a mistake. But I think you're making one now. This man is jerking you around. If you still think you need help, ask Dr. Justin to recommend somebody else. Just remember, Leverett's not your keeper."
"Neither are you! Just clear out of here and leave me alone!"
Russ moved forward, arms extended in the eternal masculine gesture of reconciliation. Don't worry, little girl. Daddy understands, and he's here to protect you. As if that solved anything.
Lori backed away, shaking her head. "No-I'm sick of playing games with you. Just get out!"
Russ took a deep breath, letting his arms fall, then turned and moved to the front door. It opened soundlessly, and as Russ moved out into the hallway beyond, it started to swing shut behind him. It was only then, just as the door was about to close completely, that Russ glanced back for a moment and the silence was broken.
"I almost forgot," he said. "Happy birthday."
TWENTY-NINE
Metz hadn't bothered to close his office door when he came in again around noon. As a result, everything that went on in the busy corridor beyond was audible as he sat at his desk. But he was sitting, dammit, and he just didn't feel like getting up again. Six hours' sleep might be more than enough for Philip Marlowe, but then, on the other hand, Nero Wolfe never got caught making a waste-motion. Metz wondered just how many people were still around who remembered that Edward Arnold had played the role in the old movie. Probably nobody but himself and a few senile insomniacs who still had strength enough to change channels at four a.m. God knows, he wouldn't have had the strength himself this morning; it was almost that time when he finally hit the sack at home, and the alarm had gone off promptly at ten.
It was at a time like that when he was won't to reconsider the dubious delights of bachelorhood. It would be a lot more pleasant to have a bed partner, even if she turned him off, she'd at least be there to turn off the alarm. But marriage wouldn't solve his present problem. He could hardly expect to keep a wife hanging around here in the office, just in case he needed someone to shut the door for him.
So grin and bear it. Or just settle for bearing it without the grin, going over this mess of notes and memos again. Voices and footsteps echoed momentarily from the hall and Metz glanced up, seeking their source. There was just time enough for instant identification as they passed: two rookies from Vice, yapping to each other about "the game."
Metz sighed. He wondered what it must have felt like to be a Roman who didn't care for chariot races, gladiatorial combats, or watching lions chewing on Christians.
What was that French phrase, something about how the more things change the more they remain the same? Maybe the guy who came up with that one was a fan, maybe not, but he was right either way. Today's intellectuals now resemble the bearded, bespectacled academics of the 1890s. Baseball players sport mustaches and shaggy hairdos of a hundred years ago. The serpent was devouring his own tail and Metz hoped he choked on it.
Conformity, that was the problem. The only difference between an intellectual and a professional ball player was that the baseball player no longer wore a baseball cap.
The young man moving across the doorway into his office right now had all of the qualifications needed for a career on the diamond-he wore no cap but he did have a mustache and he sure as hell looked as if he could use a haircut. It was easy to imagine him whipping out a pen and autographing a ball.
What he whipped out instead was a card, already inscribed. Metz read the print as they exchanged greetings. Russell Carter. And down below at the left, in smaller italic letters, the name of a periodical Metz scarcely recognized -one of those damned weeklies that clutter up the newsstands when you're trying to locate a copy of Art and Antiques. Not that Metz ever really tried to find one-he was perfectly content with the back issues at his dentist's office. Only dentists can afford subscriptions to something like that. And only overtired cops would let their minds wander the way his was at the moment. Back to square one; time to get on the ball. Get on the ball with a non-ball player, this Russell Carter whose card identified him as a reporter.
Tired or not, he forced himself to rise, but no effort was exerted as he mouthed the customary response to members of the young man's profession. "If you're looking for an update on anything this department is handling at the moment, contact Information down at the end of the hall, last door to your left-"
But it turned out he wasn't looking for information after all. Matter of fact, he was volunteering it.
The moment he started, Metz could have kicked himself for not recognizing the name.
Carter was the Russ that Lori Holmes had been talking about-her boyfriend, lover, meaningful relationship, or whatever they were calling them this week. And he did have information. Turned out he'd just gotten back from Mexico sometime yesterday and seen Lori last night. Just how much of her he'd seen or for how long he didn't specify, but Metz reminded himself that was none of his damn business. Not unless it would help shed some further light on the Rupert case.
Trouble was, Russ Carter didn't seem to know anything about Rupert except what Lori had told him. And most of what Lori knew of that was what Metz had told her himself. It must be tough for serpents, having to devour their own tails as a steady diet.
But there was a tidbit for dessert. Some business about an old college yearbook that Lori Holmes had gotten hold of after her parents died, and which both she and the boyfriend seemed to think could have been stolen from her apartment during her stay in the hospital.
"And you think Ben Rupert was the guilty party?" Metz said.
The young man shrugged. "You're the one who told Lori he had a duplicate key." He shrugged again. "And I'm the airhead who told Rupert about the yearbook and where it was at the moment. He must have latched on to it right away. And since it didn't turn up anywhere after his murder, chances are he gave it a free trip through his shredder."
"Do either you or Miss Holmes have any idea why he would be so interested in getting his hands on that yearbook?"
"Nothing definite, no." Carter hesitated. "It's a long story, and I'm not quite sure that all of it makes sense."
"I've got time." Metz reached for pad and pen.
It was a long story, and quite a bit of it didn't seem to make sense-not in the light of present knowledge, which was pretty dim.
But this young man was far from dim himself, Metz decided, or at least not as dim as he pretended to be. Only the occasional slight pauses before answering questions gave him away. Over the years Metz had probably conducted more interrogations than Johnny Carson, and he could recognize the symptoms of stalling or the hesitancies preceding omissions.
All that stuff about the Bryant College yearbook was interesting but he noticed that Carter still avoided mentioning just when and where Lori Holmes had found it. The business about Priscilla Fairmount being a ringer for Lori Holmes in the photo might mean something, though he was damned if he could figure out just what.
He did see how such a coincidence could shake the girl up, given her state of mind after what she'd just been through, and the book's disappearance wouldn't have helped to quiet her apprehensions.
But exactly what was she afraid of? And where did she come up with those names Carter was talking about now?
Royal S. Fairmount, M.D., was an obvious enough possible connection, but how did this Dr. Chase figure into all this, along with Clara-without-a-last-name, who might
or might not have been a nurse at a clinic which no longer existed?
Metz eyed his visitor, then summed up his uncertainties in a single question. "Just what the hell are you talking about?"
This time Russ Carter's hesitation was apparent, but worth waiting out. Evidently he'd decided to open up.
Which, according to what he was saying now, Lori had decided when she went to see Dr. Leverett. She'd heard those names in dreams-nightmares, bad enough to send her off to a shrink.
Metz augmented his notations as he listened to what Carter had learned about the results of Leverett's investigations. All very interesting from a clinical psychiatrist's point of view, but there was nothing here for him, nothing that could explain what Ben Rupert's interest might have been.
Lifting pen point from notepad, he glanced up at his visitor. "Anything else you can say about the dreams?"
Russ Carter shook his head. That's it. Remember, I was out of town when those sessions with Leverett took place. Maybe there's something she missed up on or forgot about-I'm just telling you what she told me this morning."
Metz put his pen down beside the pad. There were other questions he could ask, but no point writing them down when he knew he wouldn't be getting a straight answer. Questions like Why are you telling me this? and If you said you saw Lori last night, how come she didn't mention any of these things until this morning?
Besides, he already had the answers. Young Mr. Carter was here on a fishing expedition, volunteering unprivileged information in hopes of finding out a few things for himself. And it would be for himself, Metz figured, because he had a strong hunch that Carter hadn't come here with his girlfriend's blessing. Or even her knowledge. If Lori Holmes hadn't been willing to come forward with the yearbook story herself, there was no reason to suppose she'd entrust her whatever-he-was with the mission. And the interval between their meeting last night and his departure this morning could be easily and obviously accounted for. He had a hunch the two of them may have quarreled, but for what reason? Could it be about giving this stuff about the yearbook to the police? Somehow it didn't seem that anything had happened which might cause Lori Holmes to break the silence she had been at such pains to preserve the other night. And it didn't seem logical that Carter would go against her wishes unless there'd been some kind of an argument. Over what?
Sometimes, if you're lucky, you just open your mouth and the answer comes out. This time it came as a question.
"Do you agree with Dr. Leverett's interpretation of those dreams?"
"I don't know anything about that part of it. All Lori said was that she'd told him those names and he checked them out later. I could have done the same thing if I'd been here."
Metz nodded, more to himself than in response to his visitor. So there had been a hassle. Some kind of cat-and-dog fight with Dr. Leverett serving as the bone of contention.
"What do you think of Dr. Leverett?"
This Carter character was really into evasion. Big on pauses, big on shrugs. This time he chose the latter, but Metz had learned to understand body language without need of an interpreter.
"All I really know about him is what Lori tells me."
This was an angry young man, but it was becoming easier to see where his grapes of wrath were stored.
"You think he's helping her?"
"Maybe. But all this psychobabble about dreams doesn't seem to be doing her much good."
Now came the pause, just as Metz had anticipated, and he took advantage of it to break in. "You don't approve of him in particular, or is it just shrinks in general?" A clumsy way to phrase it, but it brought the response Metz had been waiting for.
