make his move, you don’t live to regret it.’
Her words scored. The firm, confident cut of Bill’s rugged features slowly collapsed, fragmenting into small, vulnerable shapes of helplessness and despair. His eyes beheld her through a veil of hurt. Janice despised herself for having spoken.
Their meal arrived, and they ate in silence through the entree, a veal marsala accompanied by a Bibb lettuce and rugala salad. Both finished all the food on their plates and even sponged up the delicious sauce with pieces of crusty bread, their anxieties failing to disturb their appetites.
‘I’m sorry, Bill,’ Janice said after the waiter had cleared the table. ‘You’re probably right. At this point, the police wouldn’t know what to make of all this, no more than we do.’
Bill reached across the table and took her hand in his. Their eyes embraced with compassion and understanding, reaffirming mutual trust and togetherness.
‘Let me think on it,’ Bill said. ‘There may be a way to force the issue.’
*
It was two thirty-one when Bill finally found a cab and deposited Janice into it. Even in the slush and misery of the traffic-clogged hour, there was still plenty of time to make the eight blocks to the Ethical Culture School before the three o’clock bell sounded.
Bill’s storm boots sucked noisily into wet, grimy deposits, as he trudged the several blocks back to his office, his mind fully concentrated on devising formulas and elaborating plans of action to force Sideburns’ hand.
Janice was right, he decided. Who could predict what his first real move might be? If he turned out to be a lunatic, and if Janice or Ivy were to fall into his clutches - Bill quickly manoeuvred his thoughts away-from such a horrible prospect and shifted back to ways and means of provoking a confrontation. By the time he reached his office building Bill was resolved that the very next encounter with Hoover would be the moment of truth for them both. He was finished pussyfooting around. Game time was over.
Ted Nathan was standing in the elevator when Bill entered. As the car whizzed up to the thirty-eighth floor, Bill turned to him and asked, ‘Do we keep editions of Who’s Who, Ted?’
‘Certainly,’ Ted replied. ‘We got ‘em going back to sixty-nine.’
Bill accompanied Ted back to his office and went through all three editions of the big red books. He found no Hoover, Elliot Suggins in any of them. This puzzled Bill. He had been certain that the clipping was pulled from a Who’s Who. He compared the typeface and printing format of the clipping with those in the book and found them identical. Jotting down the publisher’s name and address - The A. N. Marquis Company, 210 East Ohio Street, Chicago, Illinois 60611 - Bill returned to his own office and asked Darlene, his secretary, to put in a call to them.
‘Yes.’ Mrs Ammons’ voice returned on the other end of the line after a hold of nearly ten minutes. ‘Hoover, Elliot Suggins is listed in our 1960-61, 1962-63, and 1964-65 editions. He was dropped after the 1966-67 edition.’
‘Can you tell me why, Mrs Ammons?’
‘Well, I suppose because he was deceased.’
Bill thought about this a moment, then asked, ‘How do you generally learn about a person’s death, Mrs Ammons?’
‘We either read about it or we’re informed by the family.’
‘I see.’
‘Sometimes we know when our mailings to biographees are returned to us unopened and with no forwarding address indicated.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Ammons. You’ve been very helpful.’
Bill slowly cradled the phone and began to probe the hypnotic patterns of the Motherwell across his desk.
Accepting the premise that Elliot Suggins Hoover was alive and that he and Sideburns were one and the same person, why then had he chosen to return the correspondence from Who’s Who unopened and with no forwarding address?
Bill made two more long-distance calls.
One to the main office of the National Chapter of the
Her words scored. The firm, confident cut of Bill’s rugged features slowly collapsed, fragmenting into small, vulnerable shapes of helplessness and despair. His eyes beheld her through a veil of hurt. Janice despised herself for having spoken.
Their meal arrived, and they ate in silence through the entree, a veal marsala accompanied by a Bibb lettuce and rugala salad. Both finished all the food on their plates and even sponged up the delicious sauce with pieces of crusty bread, their anxieties failing to disturb their appetites.
‘I’m sorry, Bill,’ Janice said after the waiter had cleared the table. ‘You’re probably right. At this point, the police wouldn’t know what to make of all this, no more than we do.’
Bill reached across the table and took her hand in his. Their eyes embraced with compassion and understanding, reaffirming mutual trust and togetherness.
‘Let me think on it,’ Bill said. ‘There may be a way to force the issue.’
*
It was two thirty-one when Bill finally found a cab and deposited Janice into it. Even in the slush and misery of the traffic-clogged hour, there was still plenty of time to make the eight blocks to the Ethical Culture School before the three o’clock bell sounded.
Bill’s storm boots sucked noisily into wet, grimy deposits, as he trudged the several blocks back to his office, his mind fully concentrated on devising formulas and elaborating plans of action to force Sideburns’ hand.
Janice was right, he decided. Who could predict what his first real move might be? If he turned out to be a lunatic, and if Janice or Ivy were to fall into his clutches - Bill quickly manoeuvred his thoughts away-from such a horrible prospect and shifted back to ways and means of provoking a confrontation. By the time he reached his office building Bill was resolved that the very next encounter with Hoover would be the moment of truth for them both. He was finished pussyfooting around. Game time was over.
Ted Nathan was standing in the elevator when Bill entered. As the car whizzed up to the thirty-eighth floor, Bill turned to him and asked, ‘Do we keep editions of Who’s Who, Ted?’
‘Certainly,’ Ted replied. ‘We got ‘em going back to sixty-nine.’
Bill accompanied Ted back to his office and went through all three editions of the big red books. He found no Hoover, Elliot Suggins in any of them. This puzzled Bill. He had been certain that the clipping was pulled from a Who’s Who. He compared the typeface and printing format of the clipping with those in the book and found them identical. Jotting down the publisher’s name and address - The A. N. Marquis Company, 210 East Ohio Street, Chicago, Illinois 60611 - Bill returned to his own office and asked Darlene, his secretary, to put in a call to them.
‘Yes.’ Mrs Ammons’ voice returned on the other end of the line after a hold of nearly ten minutes. ‘Hoover, Elliot Suggins is listed in our 1960-61, 1962-63, and 1964-65 editions. He was dropped after the 1966-67 edition.’
‘Can you tell me why, Mrs Ammons?’
‘Well, I suppose because he was deceased.’
Bill thought about this a moment, then asked, ‘How do you generally learn about a person’s death, Mrs Ammons?’
‘We either read about it or we’re informed by the family.’
‘I see.’
‘Sometimes we know when our mailings to biographees are returned to us unopened and with no forwarding address indicated.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Ammons. You’ve been very helpful.’
Bill slowly cradled the phone and began to probe the hypnotic patterns of the Motherwell across his desk.
Accepting the premise that Elliot Suggins Hoover was alive and that he and Sideburns were one and the same person, why then had he chosen to return the correspondence from Who’s Who unopened and with no forwarding address?
Bill made two more long-distance calls.
One to the main office of the National Chapter of the
Similar Books
