He stood there quivering with his anger, trying to draw deep breaths through his open mouth.
She looked up at him timidly. “What do you want me to say?” she asked in a small voice.
He sat beside her on the couch, holding her free hand, his ear pressed close to the phone she held so he could overhear the conversation. The script he had composed lay on her lap.
Blank’s phone rang seven times before he picked it up.
“Hello?” he said cautiously.
“Daniel Blank?” Monica asked, reading her lines. There was a slight quaver in her voice.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Monica Gilbert. I’m the widow of Bernard Gilbert. Mr. Blank, why did you kill Bernie? My children and I want-”
But she was interrupted by a wild scream, a cry of panic and despair that frightened both of them. It came wailing over the wire, loud enough to be painful in their ears, shrill enough to pierce into their hearts and souls and set them quivering. Then there was the heavy bumping of a dropped phone, a thick clatter.
Delaney took the phone from Monica’s trembling hand, hung it up gently. He stood, buttoned his overcoat, reached for his hat.
“Fine,” he said softly. “You did just fine.”
She looked at him.
“You’re a dreadful man,” she whispered. “The most dreadful man I’ve ever met.”
“Am I?” he asked. “Dreadful and despicable, all in one evening. Well…I’m a cop.”
“I never want to see you again, ever.”
“All right,” he said, saddened. “Good-night, and thank you.”
There were two uniformed men outside her apartment door. He showed them his identification, made certain they had their orders straight. Both had been given copies of Daniel Blank’s photo. Outside the house, two plainclothesmen sat in an unmarked car. One of them recognized Delaney, raised a hand in greeting. Fernandez had done an efficient job; he was good on this kind of thing.
The Captain shoved his hands into his overcoat pockets and, trying not to think of what he had done to Monica Gilbert, walked resolutely over to Blank’s apartment house and into the lobby. Thank God Lipsky wasn’t on duty.
“I have a letter for Daniel Blank,” he told the doorman. “Could you put it in his box? No rush. If he gets it tomorrow, it’ll be okay.”
Delaney gave him two quarters and handed over the Holiday Greetings from Roger Kope and Family, sealed in a white envelope addressed to Mr. Daniel G. Blank.
4
After that call from Monica Gilbert, Daniel Blank had dropped the phone and gone trotting through the rooms of his apartment, mouth open, scream caught in his throat; he could not end it. Finally, it dribbled away to moans, heaves, gulps, coughs, tears. Then he was in the bedroom, forehead against the full-length mirror, staring at his strange, contorted face, torn apart.
When he quieted, fearful that his shriek had been heard by neighbors, he went directly to the bedroom phone extension, intending to call Celia Montfort and ask one question: “Why did you betray me?” But there was an odd-sounding dial tone, and he remembered he had dropped the living room handset. He hung up, went back into the living room, hung up that phone, too. He decided not to call Celia. What could she possibly say?
He had never felt such a sense of dissolution and, in self-preservation, undressed, checked window and door locks, turned out the lights and slid into bed naked. He rolled back and forth until silk sheet and wool blanket were wrapped about him tightly, mummifying him, holding him together.
He thought, his mind churning, that he might be awake forever, staring at the darkness and wondering. But curiously, he fell asleep almost instantly: a deep, dreamless slumber, more coma than sleep, heavy and depressing. He awoke at 7:18 a.m. the next morning, sodden with weariness. His eyelids were stuck shut; he realized he had wept during the night.
But the panic of the previous day had been replaced by a lethargy, a non-thinking state. Even after going through the motions of bathing, shaving, dressing, breakfasting, he found himself in a thoughtless world, as if his overworked brain had said, “All right! Enough already!” and doughtily rejected all fears, hopes, passions, visions, ardors. Even his body was subdued; his pulse seemed to beat patiently at a reduced rate, his limbs were slack. Dressed for work, like an actor waiting for his cue, he sat quietly in his living room, staring at the mirrored wall, content merely to exist, breathing.
His phone rang twice, at an hour’s interval, but he did not answer. It could be his office calling. Or Celia Montfort. Or…or anyone. But he did not answer, but sat rigidly in a kind of catalepsy, only his eyes wandering across his mirrored wall. He needed this time of peace, quiet, non-thinking. He might even have dozed off, there in his Eames chair, but it wasn’t important.
He roused early in the afternoon, looked at his watch; it seemed to be 2:18 p.m. That was possible; he was willing to accept it. He thought vaguely that he should get out, take a walk, get some fresh air.
But he only got as far as the lobby. He walked past the locked mail boxes. The mail had been delivered, but he just didn’t care. Late Christmas cards, probably. And bills. And…well, it wasn’t worth thinking about. Had Gilda sent him a Christmas card this year? He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t sent her one; of that he was certain.
Charles Lipsky stopped him.
“Message for you, Mr. Blank,” he said brightly. “In your box.” And he stepped behind the counter.
Blank suddenly realized he hadn’t given the doormen any thing for Christmas, nor the garage attendant, nor his cleaning woman. Or had he? Had he bought a Christmas gift for Celia? He couldn’t remember. Why did she betray him?
He looked at the plain white envelope Lipsky thrust into his hand. “Mr. Daniel G. Blank.” That was his name. He knew that. He suddenly realized he better not take that short walk-not right now. He’d never make it. He knew he’d never make it.
“Thank you,” he said to Lipsky. That was a funny name-Lipsky. Then he turned around, took the elevator back up to his apartment, still moving in that slow, lethargic dream, his knees water, his body ready to melt into a dark, scummed puddle on the lobby carpet if an elevator didn’t come soon. He took a deep breath. He’d make it.
When the door was bolted, he leaned back against it and slowly opened the white envelope. Holiday Greetings from the Kope Family. Ah well. Why had she betrayed him? What possible reason could she have, since everything he had done had been at her gentle urging and wise tutelage?
He went directly to the bedroom, took out the drawer, turned it upside down on the bed, scattering the contents. He ripped the sealed envelope free. The souvenirs had been a foolish mistake, he thought lazily, but no harm had been done. There they were. No one had taken them. No one had seen them.
He brought in a pair of heavy shears from the kitchen and chopped Lombard’s license, Gilbert’s ID card, Kope’s identification and leatherette holder, and Feinberg’s rose petals into small bits, cutting, cutting, cutting. Then he flushed the whole mess down the toilet, watching to make sure it disappeared, then flushing twice more.