removing Peter Stillman from danger so swiftly and irrevocably, that he would win Mrs. Stillman’s desire for as long as he wanted it. That, of course, was a mistake. But of all the mistakes Quinn made from beginning to end, it was no worse than any other.
It was the thirteenth day since the case had begun. Quinn returned home that evening out of sorts. He was discouraged, ready to abandon ship. In spite of the games he had been playing with himself, in spite of the stories he had made up to keep himself going, there seemed to be no substance to the case. Stillman was a crazy old man who had forgotten his son. He could be followed to the end of time, and still nothing would happen. Quinn picked up the phone and dialed the Stillman apartment.
“I’m about ready to pack it in,” he said to Virginia Stillman. “From all I’ve seen, there’s no threat to Peter.”
“That’s just what he wants us to think,” the woman answered. “You have no idea how clever he is. And how patient.”
“He might be patient, but I’m not. I think you’re wasting your money. And I’m wasting my time.”
“Are you sure he hasn’t seen you? That could make all the difference.”
“I wouldn’t stake my life on it, but yes, I’m sure.”
“What are you saying, then?”
“I’m saying you have nothing to worry about. At least for now. If anything happens later, contact me. I’ll come running at the first sign of trouble.”
After a pause Virginia Stillman said, “You could be right.” Then, after another pause, “But just to reassure me a little, I wonder if we could compromise.”
“It depends on what you have in mind.”
“Just this. Give it a few more days. To make absolutely certain.”
“On one condition,” said Quinn. “You’ve got to let me do it in my own way. No more restraints. I have to be free to talk to him, to question him, to get to the bottom of it once and for all.”
“Wouldn’t that be risky?”
“You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to tip our hand. He won’t even guess who I am or what I’m up to.”
“How will you manage that?”
“That’s my problem. I have all kinds of tricks up my sleeve. You just have to trust me.”
“All right, I’ll go along. I don’t suppose it will hurt.”
“Good. I’ll give it a few more days, and then we’ll see where we stand.”
“Mr. Auster?”
“Yes?”
“I’m terribly grateful. Peter has been in such good shape these past two weeks, and I know it’s because of you. He talks about you all the time. You’re like … I don’t know … a hero to him.”
“And how does Mrs. Stillman feel?”
“She feels much the same way.”
“That’s good to hear. Maybe someday she’ll allow me to feel grateful to her.”
“Anything is possible, Mr. Auster. You should remember that.”
“I will. I’d be a fool not to.”
Quinn made a light supper of scrambled eggs and toast, drank a bottle of beer, and then settled down at his desk with the red notebook. He had been writing in it now for many days, filling page after page with his erratic, jostled hand, but he had not yet had the heart to read over what he had written. Now that the end at last seemed in sight, he thought he might hazard a look.
Much of it was hard going, especially in the early parts. And when he did manage to decipher the words, it did not seem to have been worth the trouble. “Picks up pencil in middle of block. Examines, hesitates, puts in bag… . Buys sandwich in deli… . Sits on bench in park and reads through red notebook.” These sentences seemed utterly worthless to him.
It was all a question of method. If the object was to understand Stillman, to get to know him well enough to be able to anticipate what he would do next, Quinn had failed. He had started with a limited set of facts: Stillman’s background and profession, the imprisonment of his son, his arrest and hospitalization, a book of bizarre scholarship written while he was supposedly
It was the thirteenth day since the case had begun. Quinn returned home that evening out of sorts. He was discouraged, ready to abandon ship. In spite of the games he had been playing with himself, in spite of the stories he had made up to keep himself going, there seemed to be no substance to the case. Stillman was a crazy old man who had forgotten his son. He could be followed to the end of time, and still nothing would happen. Quinn picked up the phone and dialed the Stillman apartment.
“I’m about ready to pack it in,” he said to Virginia Stillman. “From all I’ve seen, there’s no threat to Peter.”
“That’s just what he wants us to think,” the woman answered. “You have no idea how clever he is. And how patient.”
“He might be patient, but I’m not. I think you’re wasting your money. And I’m wasting my time.”
“Are you sure he hasn’t seen you? That could make all the difference.”
“I wouldn’t stake my life on it, but yes, I’m sure.”
“What are you saying, then?”
“I’m saying you have nothing to worry about. At least for now. If anything happens later, contact me. I’ll come running at the first sign of trouble.”
After a pause Virginia Stillman said, “You could be right.” Then, after another pause, “But just to reassure me a little, I wonder if we could compromise.”
“It depends on what you have in mind.”
“Just this. Give it a few more days. To make absolutely certain.”
“On one condition,” said Quinn. “You’ve got to let me do it in my own way. No more restraints. I have to be free to talk to him, to question him, to get to the bottom of it once and for all.”
“Wouldn’t that be risky?”
“You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to tip our hand. He won’t even guess who I am or what I’m up to.”
“How will you manage that?”
“That’s my problem. I have all kinds of tricks up my sleeve. You just have to trust me.”
“All right, I’ll go along. I don’t suppose it will hurt.”
“Good. I’ll give it a few more days, and then we’ll see where we stand.”
“Mr. Auster?”
“Yes?”
“I’m terribly grateful. Peter has been in such good shape these past two weeks, and I know it’s because of you. He talks about you all the time. You’re like … I don’t know … a hero to him.”
“And how does Mrs. Stillman feel?”
“She feels much the same way.”
“That’s good to hear. Maybe someday she’ll allow me to feel grateful to her.”
“Anything is possible, Mr. Auster. You should remember that.”
“I will. I’d be a fool not to.”
Quinn made a light supper of scrambled eggs and toast, drank a bottle of beer, and then settled down at his desk with the red notebook. He had been writing in it now for many days, filling page after page with his erratic, jostled hand, but he had not yet had the heart to read over what he had written. Now that the end at last seemed in sight, he thought he might hazard a look.
Much of it was hard going, especially in the early parts. And when he did manage to decipher the words, it did not seem to have been worth the trouble. “Picks up pencil in middle of block. Examines, hesitates, puts in bag… . Buys sandwich in deli… . Sits on bench in park and reads through red notebook.” These sentences seemed utterly worthless to him.
It was all a question of method. If the object was to understand Stillman, to get to know him well enough to be able to anticipate what he would do next, Quinn had failed. He had started with a limited set of facts: Stillman’s background and profession, the imprisonment of his son, his arrest and hospitalization, a book of bizarre scholarship written while he was supposedly
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