Charles R. Nichols, who had been on Mister Ed years ago, and who had played a ghost’s voice in Crandall’s latest, as-yet-unreleased film, Winter’s Chill. Connie suggested that perhaps the Nichols they wanted was listed in the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, or Staten Island directories instead. In which case, she and Michael could run over to Penn Station and check out the phone books there.
“The police will be watching the railroad stations,” Michael said.
“Then I’ll go alone.”
“The police know what you look like, they saw you driving me away from Crandall’s office,” he said. “Connie … maybe I …”
“No,” she said.
“What I’m trying to say …”
“You’re trying to say you love me.”
“Well …”
“And you’re worried about me. That’s so nice, Michael. You say the sweetest things, really.”
“Connie, the point …”
“But I’m not afraid,” she said. “So you don’t have to …”
“I am,” he said.
She looked at him.
“Afraid,” he said.
She kept looking at him.
“The time to be afraid,” he said, “is when you don’t know what’s happening. And when you feel helpless to stop whatever is happening.”
“Then what we have to do is find out what’s happening. And stop it from happening. Then you won’t be afraid anymore and we can just make love all the time.”
He took her in his arms. He hugged her close. He shook his head. He sighed. He hugged her again.
“What was that other man’s name?” she asked.
“What man?”
“The one Crandall’s wife told you about. The one who put up all the money for his war movie.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“She told you he looked like a rabbi …”
“Yes, tall and thin and hairy …”
“Magruder!” Connie said.
“No.”
“Magruder, yes!”
“Connie, there are no rabbis named Magruder.”
“Then whose name is Magruder?”
“I have no idea. But that’s not his name.”
“Then what is his name?”
“I don’t remember. It had something to do with the movie.”
“Yes, he put up the money for …”
“Yes, but not that. Something about War and— Solly’s War! His first name is Solly! No, Solomon! Solomon something!”
“Magruder!”
“No!”
“I’m telling you it’s Solomon Magruder!”
“And I’m telling you no!”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Gruber!” she shouted.
“Yes!”
“Solomon Gruber!”
“Yes!”
“The phone book!” she said.
“Be there,” he said. “Please be there.”
There were no Solomon Grubers listed in the Manhattan directory. There were a lot of S. Grubers, but no way of knowing which of them, if any, might be a Solomon. There was, however, a listing for a Gruber Financial Group, and another listing for a Gruber International, and yet another for a Gruber Foundation, all of which sounded like companies that might have had twelve million dollars to invest in a flop movie eleven years ago. Michael tried each of the three numbers.
No answer. This was Christmas Day. But in studying the S. Gruber listings a second time—
“Look!” Connie said.
“I see it.”
“This S. Gruber has the same address …”
“Yes.”
“… as the Gruber Financial Group.”
“But a different phone number,” Michael said. “Let’s call him.”
“Let’s eat first,” Connie said.
The S. Gruber whose address was identical to that of the Gruber Financial Group lived in Washington Mews, which was a gated little lane that ran eastward from number 10 Fifth Avenue to University Place. Connie explained that they were still in what she considered downtown Manhattan.
“As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “it’s all downtown till you get up to Forty-second Street. Then it starts to be midtown. This is the Sixth Precinct here. Driving a limo, I like to know where all the precincts are, in case I get some weirdo in the back. The precincts are funny in this city. For example, the First starts at Houston Street on the north and ends at Battery Park on the south. Which means if you get killed, for example, on Fulton Street, you have to run all the way uptown and crosstown to Ericsson Place to report it. Anyway, this is the Sixth, which is mostly silk stocking.”
They were walking up what could have been a little cobblestoned lane in a Welsh village.
Doors that only appeared to be freshly painted flanked the pathway, their brass knockers and knobs gleaming in the noonday light. The cobblestones had been shoveled clean of snow. There were wreaths in the windows, electrified candles in them. The twinkling multicolored glow of illuminated Christmas trees behind diaphanous lace curtains. Classical music wafting through a street-level window opened just a crack. Swelling violins. And now a clarinet. Or maybe a flute. Dying with a dying fall on a Christmas Day already half gone. Michael wished he could identify the composition. Or even its composer. There were so many things he wished. Down in Sarasota he read The New York Times all the time, and he listened to WUSF 89.7, which was the public radio station, but he never could tell one piece of classical music from another. To him, they all sounded like somebody practicing.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Connie said.
“I was just vamping till ready,” Michael said.
“I hope you’re ready now,” she said, “because here it is.”
A black door.
A brass escutcheon on it.
Solomon Gruber, engraved in script lettering.