That call was an hour and a half in coming, during which time he distracted himself thinking about the shows that were opening in the coming week. Theater remained his great love, and there was scarcely a production of any significance he failed to see. On the following Tuesday he had tickets for the much-acclaimed Lear at the National and then, two days later, a seat in the stalls for the revival of Turandot at the Coliseum. Much to look forward to, once this wretched interview was over,
At last the lift hummed into life and one of the Society’s younger members, Giles Bloxham, appeared. At forty, Bloxham looked twice that age. It took a kind of genius, Godolphin had once remarked when talking about Bloxham (he liked to report on the absurdities of the Society, particularly when he was in his cups), to look so dissipated and have nothing to regret for it.
“We’re ready for you now,” Bloxham, said, indicating that Dowd should join him in the lift. “You realize,” he said as they ascended, “that if you’re ever tempted to breathe a word of what you see here, the Society will eradicate you so quickly and so thoroughly your mother won’t even know you existed?”
This overheated threat sounded ludicrous delivered in Bloxham’s nasal whine, but Dowd played the chastened functionary. “I perfectly understand,” he said.
“It’s an extraordinary step,” Bloxham continued, “calling anyone who isn’t a member to a meeting. But these are extraordinary times. Not that it’s any of your business.” “Quite so,” Dowd said, all innocence. Tonight he’d take their condescension without argument, he thought, more confident by the day that something was coming that would rock this tower to its foundations. When it did, he’d have his revenge.
The lift door opened, and Bloxham ordered Dowd to follow him. The passages that led to the main suite were stark and uncarpeted; the room he was led into, the same. The drapes were drawn over all the windows; the enormous marble-topped table that dominated the room was lit by overhead lamps, the wash of their light thrown up on the five members, two of them women, sitting around it. To judge by the clutter of bottles, glasses, and overfilled ashtrays, and the brooding, weary faces, they had been debating for many hours. Bloxham poured himself a glass of water and took his place. There was one empty seat: Godolphin’s. Dowd was not invited to occupy it but stood at the end of the table, mildly discomfited by the stares of his interrogators. Not one face among them would have been known by the populace at large. Though all of them had descended from families of wealth and influence, these were not public powers. The Society forbade any member to hold office or take as a spouse an individual who might invite or arouse the curiosity of the press. It worked in mystery, for the demise of mystery. Perhaps it was that paradox—more than any other aspect of its nature—which would finally undo it.
At the other end of the table from Dowd, sitting in front of a heap of newspapers doubtless carrying the Burke reports, sat a professorial man in his sixties, white hair oiled to his scalp, Dowd knew his name from Godolphin’s description: Hubert Shales, dubbed The Sloth by Oscar. He moved and spoke with the caution of a glass-boned theologian.
“You know why you’re here?” he said.
“He knows,” Bloxham put in.
“Some problem with Mr. Godolphin?” Dowd ventured.
“He’s not here,” said one of the women to Dowd’s right, her face emaciated beneath a confection of dyed black hair. Alice Tyrwhitt, Dowd guessed. “That’s the problem.”
“So I see,” Dowd said.
“Where the hell is he?” Bloxham demanded.
“He’s traveling,” Dowd replied. “I don’t think he anticipated a meeting.”
“Neither did we,” said Lionel Wakeman, flushed with the Scotch he’d imbibed, the bottle lying in the crook of his arm.
“Where’s he traveling?” Tyrwhitt asked. “It’s imperative we find him.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Dowd said. “His business takes him all over the world.”
“Anything respectable?” Wakeman slurred.
“He’s got a number of investments in Singapore,” Dowd replied. “And in India. Would you like me to prepare a dossier? I’m sure he’d be—”