First Deadly Sin Page 5

  When he entered his office, she was ready to hang away his coat and hat in the small closet. His black coffee was waiting for him, steaming, on a small plastic tray on the table, having been delivered by the commissary on the 20th floor.

  “Good morning, Mr. Blank,” she said in her watery voice, consulting a stenographer’s pad she held. “You have a meeting at ten-thirty with the Pension Board. Lunch at twelve-thirty at the Plaza with Acme, regarding the servicing contract. I tried to confirm, but no one’s in yet. I’ll try again.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I like your dress. Is it new?”

  “No,” she said.

  “I’ll be in the Computer Room until the Pension Board meeting, in case you need me.”

  “Yes, Mr. Blank.”

  The embarrassing truth was that, as Mrs. Cleek was probably aware, he had nothing to do. It was true he was overseer of an extremely important department—perhaps the most important department of a large corporation. But, literally, he found it difficult to fill his working day.

  He could have given the impression of working. Many executives in similar circumstances did that. He could accept invitations to luncheons easily avoided. He could stalk corridors carrying papers over which he could frown and shake his head. He could request technical literature on supplies and computer systems utterly inadequate or too sophisticated for Javis-Bircham’s needs, with a heavy increase of unnecessary correspondence. He could take senseless business trips to inspect the operations of magazine wholesalers and printing plants. He could attend dozens of conventions and trade meetings, give speeches and buy the bodies of hat-check girls.

  But none of that was his style. He needed work; he could not endure inaction for long. And so he turned to “empire building,” plotting how he might enlarge the size of the Circulation Department and increase his own influence and power.

  And in his personal life he felt the same need for action after the brief hibernation following his divorce (during which period he vowed, inexplicably, to remain continent). This desire to “do” dated from his meeting with Celia Montfort. He punched his phone for an outside line, then dialed her number. Again.

  He had not seen her nor had he spoken to her since that Sunday he was introduced at the Mortons’ and she had napped on his bed. He had looked her up in the Manhattan directory. There it was: “Montfort, C.” at an East End address. But each time he called, a male voice answered, lisping: “Mith Montforth rethidenth.”

  Blank assumed it was a butler or houseman. The voice, in spite of its flutiness, was too mature to be that of the 12-year-old brother. Each time he was informed that Mith Montfort was out of town and, no, the speaker did not know when she might return.

  But this time the reply was different. It was “Mith Montforth rethidenth” again, but additional information was offered: Miss Montfort had arrived, had called from the airport, and if Mr. Blank cared to phone later in the day, Mith Montforth would undoubtedly be at home.

  He hung up, feeling a steaming hope. He trusted his instincts, though he could not always say why he acted as he did. He was convinced there was something there for him with that strange, disturbing woman: something significant. If he had energy and the courage to act …

  Daniel Blank stepped into the open lobby of the Computer Room and nodded to the receptionist. He went directly to the large white enameled cabinet to the right of the inner doors and drew out a sterile duster and skull cap hermetically sealed in a clear plastic bag.

  He donned white cap and duster, went through the first pair of swinging glass doors. Six feet away was the second pair, and the space between was called the “air lock,” although it was not sealed. It was illuminated by cold blue fluorescent lights said to have a germicidal effect. He paused a moment to watch the ordered activity in the Computer Room.

  AMROK II worked 24 hours a day and was cared for by three shifts of acolytes, 20 in each shift. Blank was gratified to note that all on the morning shift were wearing the required disposable paper caps and dusters. Four men sat at a stainless steel table; the others, young men and women, sexless in their white paper costumes, attended the computer and auxiliary data-processing machines, one of which was presently chattering softly and spewing out an endless record that folded up neatly into partly serrated sheets in a wire basket. It was, Blank knew, a compilation of state unemployment insurance taxes.

  The mutter of this machine and the soft start-stop whir of tape reels on another were the only sounds heard when Blank pushed through the second pair of swinging glass doors. The prohibition against unnecessary noise was rigidly enforced. And this glaring, open room was not only silent, it was dust-proof, with temperature and humidity rigidly controlled and monitored. An automatic alarm would be triggered by any unusual source of magnetic radiation. Fire was unthinkable. Not only was smoking prohibited but even the mere possession of matches or cigarette lighters was grounds for instant dismissal. The walls were unpainted stainless steel, the lamps fluorescent. The Computer Room was an unadorned vault, an operating theatre, floating on rubber mountings within the supporting body of the Javis-Bircham Building.

  And 90 percent of this was sheer nonsense, humbuggery. This was not an atomic research facility, nor a laboratory dealing with deadly viruses. The business activities of AMROK II did not demand these absurd precautions—the sterile caps and gowns, the “air lock,” the prohibition against normal conversation.

  Daniel Blank had decreed all this, deliberately. Even before it was installed and operating, he realized the functioning of AMROK II would be an awesome mystery to most of the employees of Javis-Bircham, including Blank’s superiors: vice presidents, the president, the board of directors. Blank intended to keep the activities of the Computer Room an enigma. Not only did it insure his importance to the firm, but it made his task much easier when the annual “budget day” rolled around and he requested consistently rising amounts for his department’s operating expenses.

  Blank went immediately to the stainless steel table where the four young men were deep in whispered conversation. This was his Task Force X-l, the best technicians of the morning shift. Blank had set them a problem that was still “Top Secret” within this room.

  From his boredom, in his desire to extend the importance of the Circulation Department and increase his personal power and influence, Blank had decided he should have the responsibility of deciding for each magazine the proportion between editorial pages and advertising pages. Years ago this ratio was dictated in a rough fashion by the limitations of printing presses, which could produce a magazine only in multiples of eight or 16 pages.

  But improvements in printing techniques now permitted production of magazines of any number of pages—15, 47, 76, 103, 241: whatever might be desired, with a varied mix of paper quality. Magazine editors constantly fought for more editorial pages, arguing (sometimes correctly, sometimes not) that sheer quantity attracted readers.

  But there was obviously a limit to this: paper cost money, and so did press time. Editors were continually wrangling with the Production Department about the thickness of their magazines. Daniel Blank saw a juicy opportunity to step into the fray and supersede both sides by suggesting AMROK II be given the assignment of determining the most profitable proportion between editorial and advertising pages.

  He would, he knew, face strong and vociferous opposition. Editors would claim an infringement of their creative responsibilities; production men would see a curtailment of their power. But if Blank could present a feasible program, he was certain he could win over the shrewd men who floated through the paneled suites on the 31st floor. Then he—and AMROK II, of course—would determine the extent of the editorial content of each magazine. It seemed to him but a short step from that to allowing AMROK II to dictate the most profitable subject matter of the editorial content. It was possible.

  But all that was in the future. Right now Task Force X-l was discussing the programming that would be necessary before the computer could make wise
decisions on the most profitable ratio between editorial and advertising pages in every issue of every Javis-Bircham magazine. Blank listened closely to their whispered conversation, turning his eyes from speaker to speaker, and wondering if it was true, as she had said, that she occasionally rouged her nipples.

  He waited, with conscious control, until 3:00 p.m. before calling. The lisping houseman asked him to hang on a moment, then came back on the phone to tell him, “Mith Montfort requeth you call again in a half hour.” Puzzled, Blank hung up, paced his office for precisely 30 minutes, ate a chilled pear from his small refrigerator, and called again. This time he was put through to her.

  “Hello,” he said. “How are you?” (Should he call her “Celia” or “Miss Montfort”?)

  “Well. And you?”

  “Fine. You said I could call.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been out of town?”

  “Out of the country. To Samarra.”

  “Oh?” he said, hoping she might think him clever, “you had an appointment?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Where exactly is Samarra?”

  “Iraq. I was there for only a day. Actually I went over to see my parents. They’re currently in Marrakech.”

  “How are they?” he asked politely.

  “The same,” she said in her toneless voice. “They haven’t changed in thirty years. Ever since …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Ever since what?” he asked.

  “Ever since World War Two. It upset their plans.”

  She spoke in riddles, and he didn’t want to pry.

  “Marrakech isn’t near Samarra, is it?”

  “Oh no. Marrakech is in Morocco.”

  “Geography isn’t my strong point. I get lost every time I go south of 23rd Street.”

  He thought she might laugh, but she didn’t.

  “Tomorrow night,” he said desperately, “tomorrow night the Mortons are having a cocktail party. We’re invited. I’d like to take you to dinner before the party. It starts about ten.”

  “Yes,” she said immediately. “Be here at eight. We’ll have a drink, then go to dinner. Then we’ll go to the Mortons’ party.”

  He started to say “Thank you” or “Fine” or “I’m looking forward to it” or “See you then,” but she had already hung up. He stared at the dead receiver in his hand.

  The next day, Friday, he left work early to go home to prepare for the evening. He debated with himself whether or not to send flowers. He decided against it. He had a feeling she loved flowers but never wore them. His best course, he felt, was to circle about her softly, slowly, until he could determine her tastes and prejudices.

  He groomed himself carefully, shaving although he had shaved that morning. He used a women’s cologne, Je Reviens, a scent that stirred him. He wore French underwear—white nylon bikini briefs—and a silk shirt in a geometric pattern of white and blue squares. His wide necktie was a subtly patterned maroon. The suit was navy knit, single breasted. In addition to wrist watch, cufflinks, and a heavy gold ring on his right forefinger, he wore a gold-link identification bracelet loose about his right wrist. And the “Via Veneto” wig.

  He left early to walk over to her apartment. It wasn’t far, and it was a pleasant evening.

  His loose topcoat was a black lightweight British gabardine, styled with raglan sleeves, a fly front, and slash pockets. The pockets, in the British fashion, had an additional opening through the coat fabric so that the wearer did not have to unbutton his coat to reach his trouser or jacket pockets but could shove his hand inside the concealed coat openings for tickets, wallet, keys, change, or whatever.

  Now, strolling toward Celia Montfort’s apartment through the sulfur-laden night, Daniel Blank reached inside his coat pocket to feel himself. To the passer-by, he was an elegant gentleman, hand thrust casually into coat pocket. But beneath the coat …

  Once, shortly after he was separated from Gilda, he had worn the same coat and walked through Times Square on a Saturday night. He had slipped his hand into the pocket opening, unzipped his fly, and held himself exposed beneath the loose coat as he moved through the throng, looking into the faces of passersby.

  Celia Montfort lived in a five-story grey stone townhouse. The door bell was of a type he had read about but never encountered before. It was a bell-pull, a brass knob that is drawn out, then released. The bell is sounded as the knob is pulled and as it is released to return to its socket. Daniel Blank admired its polish and the teak door it ornamented …

  … A teak door that was opened by a surprisingly tall man, pale, thin, wearing striped trousers and a shiny black alpaca jacket. A pink sweetheart rose was in his lapel. Daniel was conscious of a scent: not his own, but something heavier and fruitier.

  “My name is Daniel Blank,” he said. “I believe Miss Montfort is expecting me.”

  “Yeth, thir,” the man said, holding wide the door. “I am Valenter. Do come in.”

  It was an impressive entrance: marble-floored with a handsome staircase curving away. On a slender pedestal was a crystal vase of cherry-colored mums. He had been right: she did like long-stemmed flowers.

  “Pleath wait in the thudy. Mith Montfort will be down thoon.”

  His coat and hat were taken and put away somewhere. The tall, skinny man came back to usher him into a room paneled with oak and leather-bound books.

  “Would you care for a drink, thir?”

  Soft flames flickering in a tiled fireplace. Reflections on the polished leather of a tufted couch. On the mantel, unexpectedly, a beautifully detailed model of a Yankee whaler. Andirons and fireplace tools of black iron with brass handles.

  “Please. A vodka martini on the rocks.”

  Drapes of heavy brocade. Rugs of—what? Not Oriental. Greek perhaps? Or Turkish? Chinese vases filled with blooms. An Indian paneled screen, all scrolled with odd, disturbing figures. A silvered cocktail shaker of the Prohibition Era. The room had frozen in 1927 or 1931.

  “Olive, thir, or a twitht of lemon?”

  Hint of incense in the air. High ceiling and, between the darkened beams, painted cherubs with dimpled asses. Oak doors and window mouldings. A bronze statuette of a naked nymph pulling a bow. The “string” was a twisted wire.

  “Lemon, please.”

  An art nouveau mirror on the papered wall. A small oil nude of a middle-aged brunette holding her chin and glancing downward at sagging breasts with bleared nipples. A tin container of dusty rhododendron leaves. A small table inlaid as a chessboard with pieces swept and toppled. And in a black leather armchair, with high, embracing wings, the most beautiful boy Daniel Blank had ever seen.

  “Hello,” the boy said.

  “Hello,” he smiled stiffly. “My name is Daniel Blank. You must be Anthony.”

  “Tony.”

  “Tony.”

  “May I call you Dan?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you lend me ten dollars, Dan?”

  Blank, startled, looked at him more closely. The lad had his knees drawn up, was hugging them, his head tilted to one side.

  His beauty was so unearthly it was frightening. Clear, guileless blue eyes, carved lips, a bloom of youth and wanting, sculpted ears, a smile that tugged, those crisp golden curls long enough to frame face and chiselled neck. And an aura as rosy as the cherubs that floated overhead.

  “It’s awful, isn’t it,” the boy said, “to ask ten dollars from a complete stranger, but to tell you the truth—”

  Blank was instantly alert, listening now and not just looking. It was his experience that when someone said “To tell the truth—” or “Would I lie to you?” the man was either a liar, a cheat, or both.

  “You see,” Tony said with an audacious smile. “I saw this absolutely marvelous jade pin. I know Celia would love it.”

  “Of course,” Blank said. He took a ten dollar bill from his wallet. The boy made no move toward him. Daniel was forced to walk across the room to hand it to hi
m.

  “Thanks so much,” the youth said languidly. “I get my allowance the first of the month. I’ll pay you back.”

  He paid then, Blank knew, all he was ever going to pay: a dazzling smile of such beauty and young promise that Daniel was fuddled by longing. The moment was saved of souring by the entrance of Valenter, carrying the martini not on a tray but in his hand. When Blank took it, his fingers touched Valenter’s. The evening began to spin out of control.

  She came in a few moments later, wearing an evening shift styled exactly like the black satin she had been wearing when he first met her. But this one was in a dark bottle green, glimmering. About her neck was a heavy silver chain, tarnished, supporting a pendant: the image of a beast-god. Mexican, Blank guessed.

  “I went to Samarra to meet a poet,” she said, speaking as she came through the door and walked steadily toward him. “I once wrote poetry. Did I tell you? No. But I don’t anymore. I have talent, but not enough. The blind poet in Samarra is a genius. A poem is a condensed novel. I imagine a novelist must increase the significance of what he writes by one-third to one-half to communicate all of his meaning. You understand? But the poet, so condensed, must double or triple what he wants to convey, hoping the reader will extract from this his full meaning.”

  Suddenly she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips while Valenter and the boy looked on gravely.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  Valenter brought her a glass of red wine. She was seated next to Blank on the leather sofa. Valenter stirred up the fire, added another small log, went to stand behind the armchair where Anthony coiled in flickering shadow.

  “I think the Mortons’ party will be amusing,” he offered. “A lot of people. Noisy and crowded. But we don’t have to stay long.”