telephones that had been ringing when there was no one waiting nearby to
answer them; on those occasions, he had never given them a second
glance, had never been the least bit tempted to lift the receiver and
find out who was there; it had been none of his business. Just as this
was none of his business. And yet . . . this time was somehow . . .
different. The ringing snaked out like a lariat of sound, roping him,
snaring him, holding him.
Ringing . . .
Ringing . . .
Insistent.
Beckoning.
Hypnotic.
Ringing . . .
A strange and disturbing transformation occurred in the Harlem
neighborhood around him. Only three things remained solid and real: the
telephone, a narrow stretch of snow-covered pavement leading to the
telephone, and Jack himself. The rest of the world seemed to recede
into a mist that rose out of nowhere. The buildings appeared to fade
away, dissolving as if this were a film in which one scene was fading
out to be replaced by another. The few cars progressing hesitantly
along the snowy street began to . . . evaporate; they were replaced
by the creeping mist, a white-white mist that was like a movie theater
screen splashed with brilliant light but with no images. The
pedestrians, heads bent, shoulders hunched, struggled against the wind
and stinging snow; and gradually they receded and faded, as well. Only
Jack was real. And the narrow pathway to the phone. And the telephone
itself.
Ringing . . .
He was drawn.
Ringing . . .
Drawn toward the phone.
He tried to resist.
Ringing . . .
He suddenly realized he’d taken a step. Toward the phone.
And another.
A third.
He felt as if he were floating.
Ringing . . .
He was moving as if in a dream or a fever.
He took another step.
He tried to stop. Couldn’t.
He tried to turn toward the patrol car. Couldn’t.
His heart was hammering.
He was dizzy, disoriented.
In spite of the frigid air, he was sweating along the back of his neck.
The ringing of the telephone was analogous to the rhythmic, glittering,
pendulum movement of a hypnotist’s pocketwatch. The sound drew him
relentlessly forward as surely as, in ancient times, the sirens’ songs
had pulled unwary sailors to their death upon the reefs.
He knew the call was for him. Knew it without understanding how he knew
it.
He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Detective Dawson! I’m delighted to have this opportunity to speak with
you. My good man, we are most definitely overdue for a chat.”
The voice was deep, although not a bass voice, and smooth and elegant,
characterized by an educated British accent filtered through the lilting
patterns of speech common to tropical zones, so that words like “man”
came out as “man.” Clearly a Caribbean accent.
Jack said, “Lavelle?”
“Why, of course! Who else?”
“But how did you know-”
“That you were there? My dear fellow, in an offhanded sort of way, I am
keeping tabs on you.”
“You’re here, aren’t you? Somewhere along the street, in one of the
apartment buildings here.
“Far from it. Harlem is not to my taste.”
“I’d like to talk to you,” Jack said.
“We are talking.”
” “I mean, face-to-face.”
“Oh, I hardly think that’s necessary.”
“I wouldn’t arrest you.”
“You couldn’t. No evidence.”
“Well, then-”
“But you’d detain me for a day or two on one excuse or another.”
“No.”
“And I don’t wish to be detained. I’ve work to do.”
“I give you my word we’d only hold you a couple of hours, just for
questioning.”
“Is that so?”
“You can trust my word when I give it. I don’t give it lightly.”
“Oddly enough, I’m quite sure that’s true.”
“Then why not come in, answer some questions, and clear the air, remove
the suspicion from yourself?”
“Well, of course, I can’t remove the suspicion because, in fact, I’m
guilty,” Lavelle said. He laughed.
“You’re telling me you’re behind the murders?”
“Certainly. Isn’t that what everyone’s been telling you? ”
“You’ve called me to confess?”
Lavelle laughed again. Then: “I’ve called to give you some advice.”
“Yeah?”