He dialed the first two numbers, and then hung up.
His dime clattered into the return chute.
He retrieved the coin, put it into his pocket, sat in the booth a moment longer, rose, opened the door, closed the door again, sat, took the dime from his pocket, lifted the receiver from its cradle, inserted the dime into the coin slot, heard the dial tone humming against his ear, and quickly dialed the number. He could hear the phone on the other end ringing once, twice, three times.
"Hello?" a man's voice said.
"May I speak to Mr. Courtlandt, please?" Sidney asked.
"This is he."
"Mr. Courtlandt, this is Mr. Simmons of Trans World Airlines."
"Yes?"
"About your European trip," Sidney said. His heart was pounding. He was certain his lie had already been detected, certain Courtlandt would instantly call his bluff.
"Yes?" Courlandt said. There was a pause. "Trans World Airlines, did you say?"
"Yes."
"I don't understand. I thought we were flying Pan Am."
"Well, there seems to be some confusion about the booking," Sidney said.
"Why don't you call the agency?" Courtlandt suggested. "I'm sure they can straighten it out."
"What agency would that be?"
"Travel Time on Madison Avenue."
"Thank you, sir."
"I'm sure they said Pan Am. How'd this happen, anyway?"
"Probably a duplicate booking. We'll straighten it out, sir, don't worry about it."
"Okay."
"Thank you, sir."
"Thank you for calling," Courtlandt said, and hung up.
Sidney immediately replaced the receiver on its cradle and sat with his eyes squeezed shut, trying to catch his breath. All right, it was true. He was their client, he was taking a trip, it was true, it was true. He would call Chickie and apologize immediately, tell her he loved her, tell her he trusted her. Well, he couldn't apologize, he didn't want her to know he'd called Courtlandt. But he'd tell her he loved her and trusted her, that was what he'd do. He found another dime in his pocket, put it into the slot, and quickly dialed the agency. Ruth McCutcheon answered the phone.
"Travel Time," she said, "good afternoon."
"Good afternoon," he said, "may I speak to Miss Brown, please?"
"She's out to lunch right now," Ruth said. "May I help you?"
"Well, no, I don't think so," he said, and was about to hang up.
"Would you like to leave a message?" she asked. "May I say who called?"
"Yes, this is…" He hesitated. She had not recognized his voice; she did not know who he was. In the three seconds it took him to make up his mind, he did not even consider the fact that he was intuitively behaving like a lawyer, putting to practical use the years of experience he had had in courtrooms, covering ground already covered, stating and restating the same point, examining and re-examining, driving for the complete truth where only the partial truth was known. He knew only that he possessed information now, he had received information from Mr. Jerome Courtlandt, and that he could use this information to learn the whole truth, three seconds to make a decision, nothing but the truth, three seconds in which to conceive a strategy.
"This is Pan American Airlines," he said.
"Yes, well, this is Miss Brown's partner," Ruth said, accepting the lie.
"I see." He hesitated again. Let it go, he thought. Leave well enough alone. "I'm calling to verify a flight," he said.
"Yes?"
"For Mr. Jerome Courtlandt."
"That's been verified already," Ruth said.
"Not according to my information."
"I handled it myself," Ruth said.
"I'm sorry, but there's obviously been an error."
Ruth sighed. "I don't know why everything always has to be done six times," she said. "All right, let's get it over with."
"Which flight is that?" Sidney asked.
"Saturday morning. I haven't got the number right before me. Don't you have the number?"
"To London, is that?" Sidney said.
"No, to Rome. Oh, boy" Ruth said. "It's four seats to Rome on Saturday morning, the nine forty-five flight. Just a minute, I'll get the flight number for you. Oh, boy."
He heard the clatter of the receiver on the desk, heard the clicking of high heels across a hard floor, heard another phone ringing somewhere in the distance, "Travel Time, good afternoon." He waited a moment longer. He could hear her indistinctly in the background. He did not know what further information he needed or required. Courtlandt was obviously leaving for Italy, they were obviously handling the trip for him, there was nothing more to know.
He hung up abruptly and came out of the booth, oddly unsatisfied.
They talked about Christmas gifts during lunch, exchanging ideas about the people on their lists, but she had the feeling Jonah's mind was elsewhere, and her own thoughts were about the little Egyptian who had come to her office that morning. They walked up Broadway afterwards, stopping now and then to inspect the wares displayed in each holiday window. There were decorated Christmas trees everywhere, and on each corner a Santa Claus despondently shook his bell at the passing crowd. On Park Place, a Salvation Army band was playing "Adeste Fidelis." The snow underfoot had turned to slush, and the weather was milder than it had been all week. It did not seem as though Christmas was only ten days away.
They walked back toward the courthouse slowly. It was only one-thirty and the trial would not resume until two. They discussed the change in the weather, and the possibility of more snow in time for Christmas — had she ever seen that movie with Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire, yes, Holiday Inn, wasn't it, yes, who was the girl in that film? They sat on a bench facing Centre Street on the smallest of the Foley Square islands. A sharp wind swept around the corner of Duane off the river beyond. Gray pigeons echoed the gray slush on the curb, nibbling for peanuts around the benches. Jonah was quiet, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets, legs stretched, head bent, dark hair moving with each fresh gust of river wind. His glasses reflected the gray pavement and the parading pigeons, hiding his eyes from view. She wondered suddenly if anyone had ever looked directly into the eyes of Jonah Willow, and just as suddenly wondered what he looked like in bed, without his glasses. There were no more Christmas gifts to discuss, and all the talk about the weather had been exhausted. They had both seen Holiday Inn and could not remember the name of the girl in it, and now they sat in silence while he thought God knew what, and she thought of the Egyptian. She took a deep breath.
"Hadad came to see me this morning," She said.
"Who?"
"Ibrahim Hadad. The man we ran into Monday night."
"The man who ran into us," Jonah corrected, and then suddenly sat erect and turned to face her. "What do you mean he came to see you? Hadad?"