Part 9 (1/2)

NINE.

On Doc.u.mentation It is not enough to say that you have had a hunch.

Once written down, most such inklings reveal themselves for what they are: something to be tossed into a wis.h.i.+ng well, not into a file.

The theft of November twelfth: who can think upon that black patch of the mind, lingering where a memory might be, and not feel cold, lost to it? It seeps like ink along the grooves of the fingertips. Who has not tried to scrub it away?

I was like the rest of you, Sivart wrote in his report. Sivart wrote in his report. Hoodwinked. Taken in. But then I had a hunch that morning, over breakfast. So what if hunches are against policy? I had one, clerk, and I acted on it. Lucky thing, too-for all of us. Hoodwinked. Taken in. But then I had a hunch that morning, over breakfast. So what if hunches are against policy? I had one, clerk, and I acted on it. Lucky thing, too-for all of us.

No one hired the Agency to solve the crime, because no one knew that it had been committed. Unwin went to sleep on Monday, November eleventh, and woke up on Wednesday, November thirteenth. He rode his bicycle the seven blocks to the Agency offices. He had been a faithful employee for eleven years, four months, and some-odd days, and it had never occurred to him, at this point in his career, to make unofficial trips for unofficial reasons.

On the fourteenth floor, the messengers brought no new a.s.signment for him, so he pa.s.sed the morning putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches on a case from the previous week. It still needed a t.i.tle. Unwin liked t.i.tles, even though the Agency filing system did not require them. Each case was numbered, and only the numbers were used in the official logs. Still, naming cases was a small and harmless pleasure, and occasionally useful, too. If a fellow clerk had a question about one case or another, using the name could save them both time.

Unwin was still pondering the possibilities over lunch. He had brought a sandwich with him in his briefcase. It was turkey and cheese on rye, his Wednesday sandwich. No better way to pa.s.s a Wednesday, he thought, than pondering t.i.tles over turkey and cheese on rye.

Nothing about this case had made it into the papers, so the clerks at neighboring desks had their eyes on Unwin's work whenever they thought he was not paying attention. He was always paying attention, though. Only when the file was completed, and for Unwin that meant t.i.tled, would his colleagues become privy to its contents.

As he finished his lunch, he became aware of an unusual number of telephone conversations taking place on the floor. Most of the other clerks were hunched over mouthpieces, mumbling. He sensed in their voices a mixture of fear and incredulity.

Were the families and friends of his colleagues calling to find out about his case? This was unprecedented. Unwin crushed his lunch bag and dropped it into the wastepaper basket. He knew by then what he was going to call the file-The Episode of the Facing Mirrors, after the case's most significant clue-but this show of discourtesy convinced him to delay the final processing for at least another hour.

More telephone calls came in while Unwin sorted papers and vetted old notes. Those who received the calls began to confer with one another, leaning over the aisles to whisper. If he had been deep in a case, Unwin would have found this immensely distracting.

The noise reached a crescendo when Lorraine, one of the most recent hires on the floor, slammed her receiver onto its cradle, flung back her head, and emitted a long, thin wail. As though in response, other clerks knocked stacks of pages off their own desks, rattled drawers, slammed typewriter keys, or went to the windows for air. Unwin, appalled and bewildered, threw himself over his files to protect them.

What had happened?

The overclerk's door opened, and Mr. Duden materialized for the first time that week. He jogged between the desks toward the center of the room, clutching his hair. ”Stop!” he cried.

Unwin could see in the overclerk's eyes the same panic that had seized the others. Mr. Duden had not come to calm them; he had come to join them. ”Stop everything you're doing!” he cried. ”Everything is wrong! It isn't Wednesday, it's Tuesday!”

Unwin clutched his files more tightly. Mr. Duden was right-it was was Tuesday, only two days since Unwin had woken to the ringing of the city's church bells. Yesterday's lunch had been cuc.u.mber and horseradish: his Monday sandwich. Tuesday, only two days since Unwin had woken to the ringing of the city's church bells. Yesterday's lunch had been cuc.u.mber and horseradish: his Monday sandwich.

He counted the number of times he had written the date since arriving that morning. November thirteenth: November thirteenth: it was everywhere, in his notes, in memoranda, entries of at least four indices, the master log, the ancillary log, in the final sections of The Episode of the Facing Mirrors. He tried to multiply in his mind the number of errors he alone had committed by the number of people on the floor, and that by the number of floors in the Agency office building, but his calculative powers failed him. It would take weeks to undo the damage, and traces of the calamity were sure to abide indefinitely. it was everywhere, in his notes, in memoranda, entries of at least four indices, the master log, the ancillary log, in the final sections of The Episode of the Facing Mirrors. He tried to multiply in his mind the number of errors he alone had committed by the number of people on the floor, and that by the number of floors in the Agency office building, but his calculative powers failed him. It would take weeks to undo the damage, and traces of the calamity were sure to abide indefinitely.

The story trickled in over the course of the afternoon, and the clerks gathered in circles at one desk or another, sharing new tidbits of information. Calls came in from people out of town who had noticed the discrepancy-Wednesday in the city and Tuesday everywhere else. There was chaos in the harbor: s.h.i.+ps held in port or turned away by bewildered customs officials, goods piled on the wharf with no one to accept them, longsh.o.r.emen brawling with sailors, radio officers trading insults on every frequency. Traffic on the major bridges halted as delivery trucks choked both lanes and drivers left their vehicles to huddle confused and indignant amid the mayhem. Appointment desks at beauty salons, employment bureaus, doctors' offices, and the courts were overwhelmed. At the schools children wept over examinations for which they had not studied.

Unwin remained in his own seat, trying not to listen to this news, working instead to list the corrections he would have to make. (He lost the list by the end of the day and would have to start over the next morning.) That Hoffmann was responsible came as no surprise to anyone on the fourteenth floor, though it added to Unwin's dread the weight of impending responsibility. Evidently, the magician's criminal network extended well beyond the rickety sprawl of the Travels-No-More Carnival. His agents had somehow infiltrated all the major newspaper offices, radio stations, and civic departments, just to set the calendars ahead one day. But that did not explain how an additional X X appeared on wall calendars in homes throughout the city. The biloquist might imitate any one of us, Unwin thought, but surely we are not all working for him. appeared on wall calendars in homes throughout the city. The biloquist might imitate any one of us, Unwin thought, but surely we are not all working for him.

Though the effects of the disruption were pervasive, it was at the Central Bank that the true purpose of Hoffmann's gambit was discovered. There a convoy of armored cars with a cargo of gold was slated to arrive midmorning. But because it was expected on Tuesday, and not Wednesday, no members of the bank staff were there to greet them. Hoffmann's own agents, dressed for the part, were ready to fill in. The gold went from one set of cars to another and would have left in them had Sivart not intervened.

It was all in the early edition the next day, the second issue of the city paper to bear the date of Wednesday, November thirteenth. Unwin skimmed the article in the elevator and went quickly to his desk. He had come to the office early and was the first to arrive on the fourteenth floor, except for Mr. Duden, who peeked through his office door and nodded gratefully. From the circles beneath the overclerk's eyes, Unwin guessed he had stayed through the night.

Sivart's report was already on Unwin's desk. It was improbably thin and, according to the cover page, the first and last in the series.

I don't think I really have to file a report on this one, Sivart began, Sivart began, because I wasn't working on the Agency's dime. Call it a sick day if you like. Still, I'll give you a few of the details, and you can do what you want with them. because I wasn't working on the Agency's dime. Call it a sick day if you like. Still, I'll give you a few of the details, and you can do what you want with them.

There was little in the report that had not already appeared in the papers. Sivart said he had no idea how Hoffmann managed the trick; furthermore, he did not intend to find out. Unwin was dizzied by the implication-to file a case with no true solution!-but he read on.

Sivart, acting on that hunch of his, had alerted several other detectives from his floor and called them all down to the parking lot behind Central Bank. They staked out the place and waited for an hour. Hoffmann's agents arrived, not in their usual carnival remainders but driving a column of black trucks and dressed as bank staff. Sivart paid attention to one of them in particular.

The limp, he wrote, he wrote, was familiar. was familiar.

I had my men circle the place, just to be safe. Then I s.h.i.+mmied up to the lead vehicle and opened the door. The driver was picking his teeth in the mirror. I hit him as hard as was necessary and rolled him under the cab. Then I took his place and waited.

They were quick about their work. They had rehea.r.s.ed. The one in charge got in beside me and let the hair out of her hat. ”Okay,” she said, ”that's all of it.”

”Not by a long shot,” I said.

Greenwood wasn't happy to see me. And I saw a look on her face, one I'd never seen there before. I think it was surprise, but we might need a new name for it, just because it was hers.

”That's a lot of gold, honey. What's your cut?”

”I'll show you,” she said, but I was ready for the dagger and got hold of the wrist on the other side of it.

I told her about my friends outside. I told her the game was up, goose cooked, et cetera. Eventually she came around, though neither of us was feeling good about it.

Listen, clerk. I wasn't on the job. n.o.body a.s.signed me to this case. What I did next I did as a citizen of this unfair land. I think I broke a law or two. If someone wants to come and arrest me for it, fine. I'm too tired to care.

I said, ”We're going to round up your helpers, here, and we're going to bring the s.h.i.+ny stuff inside. But you, lady, you're going to leave. I don't ever want to see you in this town again.”

”After this,” she said, ”you won't be the only one.”

I left with her and let the others clean up. They're a decent bunch of yahoos, and none of them tried to stop me. I walked her to Central Terminal. We had pretzels on the way, just like old times, except we didn't have any old times, so we had to make them up. The whole town had gone mad, but the trains were still running. I paid for her ticket, one way, and we stood together awhile down on the platform. I won't tell you what we talked about. I won't tell you what happened just before I put her on the train. What business is it of yours, what we said?

I watched the train until the tunnel ate it.

Now I'm in my office. It's dark in here, and I'm choking on my own smoke. I'm starting to wonder about early retirement. I was wrong about her, clerk. As per usual. All wrong.

Unwin scoured the report again, searching for some better explanation. How did Sivart know what had happened that morning, when everyone else was fooled? The best explanation he could find, and the only conclusion the file would ever have, was Sivart's a.s.sertion that he had simply remembered. remembered.

UNWIN'S UMBRELLA WAS FOLDED on the bed beside him, droplets of water clinging to the black fabric. The bed was made, though the blankets were soggy and rumpled, as were his clothes. His briefcase was on the floor by the bed. From the kitchen came the sound of the icebox door clinking open and closed. A woman was humming to herself, and Unwin recognized the tune from Miss Greenwood's performance the night before.

It hurt too much to move his head, so he raised his wrist.w.a.tch to his eyes. Six thirty-two-still early. But early for what? For work? They would apprehend him as soon as he brought his bicycle through the lobby door. For coffee at Central Terminal? They could be waiting for him anywhere: in line at the breakfast cart, next to the information booth, beneath the arch of Gate Fourteen. Even the woman in the plaid coat, it seemed, was in on it.

Then he remembered Edwin Moore, remembered how he had looked in the back of the steam truck, s.h.i.+vering among all those alarm clocks. They will find me, They will find me, Moore had told him in the museum storeroom, and he was right-they had found him. Would the Rooks murder him, as they murdered Detective Pith? Moore had told him in the museum storeroom, and he was right-they had found him. Would the Rooks murder him, as they murdered Detective Pith?

”Breakfast is ready,” Emily called from the kitchen.

He sat up slowly. What was his a.s.sistant doing in his apartment? The sleep drained out of his head and pooled sickeningly in his stomach. He peeled the damp socks off his feet and dropped them onto the floor next to his shoes. He would have to find Edwin Moore, and quickly.

He rose shakily and went to the kitchen. b.u.t.tered toast was piled at the center of the table, and a pair of eggs, sunny side up, were set on a plate for him. Emily was swirling more b.u.t.ter over the hot surface of a skillet. It had been a late night for her, but she appeared rested, dressed now in a gray skirt and pinstripe blouse. The pencils in her hair were freshly sharpened.

”I hope you don't mind that I let myself in,” she said. ”I found the spare key in your desk yesterday. And since I couldn't go back to the office, I came right here. I figured you'd want to start on your case first thing.”