Dance Of Death

mansion's dim, ornate, and seemingly endless corridors.

It had been surprisingly difficult to secure an audience with the director. It seemed 'guests' often demanded to see Dr. Tisander, usually to announce that the walls were whispering to them in French or to demand that he stop beaming commands into their heads. The fact that Smithback had been unwilling to divulge the matter he wished to see the director about had made things even more difficult. But Smithback had insisted. Last night's dinner with Throckmorton, and the stroll around the manor house that had followed-with sidelong glances at the shuffling, empty-eyed waxworks and glum-looking fossils inhabiting the library and the various parlors-had been the final straw. Pendergast's concern was all very well, but he simply couldn't face the thought of another day-or another night-in this creepy mausoleum.

Smithback had worked it all out. He'd get a hotel room in Jersey City, take the PATH train to work, stay well away from Nora until all this blew over. He could take care of himself. He'd explain it all to the director. They couldn't very well keep him here against his will.

He followed the tiny figure of the nurse down the endless corridor, passing rows of closed doors bearing gold- leaf numbers. At some point, two burly orderlies had slipped into step behind him. At last, the corridor ended in a particularly grand door bearing the single word Director. The nurse knocked on it, then stepped aside, gesturing for Smithback to enter.

Smithback thanked her and stepped through. Beyond lay an elegant suite of rooms dressed in dark wood, illuminated by sconces. A fire flickered in an ornate marble fireplace. Sporting prints decorated the walls. The rear wall of the main room was dominated by a bow window, which afforded a view of the wintry landscape beyond. There were no bookshelves or anything else to suggest this was the office of a hospital director, although through one of the two side doors of the suite, Smithback made out what looked like a medical library.

In the center of the room was a huge desk, surfaced in glass, with heavy, eagle-claw feet. Behind the desk sat Dr. Tisander, writing busily with a fountain pen. He looked up briefly, gave Smithback a warm smile.

'How nice to see you, Edward. Have a seat.'

Smithback seated himself. For a minute or so, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire, the scratch of the pen. Then Tisander placed the pen back into its desk set, blotted the paper, and set it aside. He leaned back in his heavy leather chair and smiled confidentially, giving Smithback his utmost attention.

'There, that's finished. Tell me what's on your mind, Edward. How's the adjustment to life at River Oaks?' His voice was low and mellifluous, and the kindly lines of his face were smoothed by age. He had a domed forehead, from which white hair arose in a gravity-defying leonine shock not unlike Einstein's.

Smithback noticed that the two orderlies were standing against the wall behind him.

'Can I offer you any refreshment? Seltzer? Diet soda?'

'Nothing, thanks.' Smithback gestured at the orderlies. 'Do they have to be here?'

Tisander gave a sympathetic smile. 'One of the house rules, alas. Just because I'm the director of River Oaks doesn't mean I'm above its rules.'

'Well, if you're sure they can be trusted to keep quiet.'

'I have absolute confidence in them.' Tisander nodded encouragingly, gestured for Smithback to proceed.

Smithback leaned forward. 'You know all about me, why I'm here, I assume.'

'Naturally.' A warm, concerned smile lit up the director's wise features.

'I agreed to come here for protection, for my own safety. But I have to tell you, Dr. Tisander, that I've changed my mind. I don't know how much you know about this killer who's supposedly after me, but bottom line, I can take care of myself. I don't need to be here any longer.'

'I see.'

'I've got to get back to my job in New York at the Times.'

'And why is that?'

Smithback was encouraged by Dr. Tisander's receptiveness. 'I was working on a very important story, and if I don't get back there, I'll lose it to another reporter. I can't afford that. This is my career. A lot's at stake here.'

'Tell me about this story you're working on.'

'It's about the Duchamp murder-you know it?'

'Tell me about it.'

'A killer hung an artist named Duchamp out of a high-rise window, dropped him through the glass roof of a restaurant. This is one of those sensational stories that don't come along every day.'

'Why do you say that?'

'The bizarre mode of death, the prominence of the victim, the fact that the killer seems to have escaped all detection-it's a super story. I can't let it go.'

'Can you be more specific?'

'The details aren't important. I need to get out of here.'

'The details are always important.'

Smithback's feeling of encouragement began to evaporate. 'It isn't just my job. There's my wife. Nora. She thinks I'm in Atlantic City undercover, working another story, but I'm sure she's worried about me. If I could just get out and call her, let her know I'm all right. We've only been married a few months. Surely, you understand.'

'I certainly do.' The director was listening with utmost sympathy and attention.

Smithback, encouraged anew, went on. 'This supposed killer who's after me, I'm not concerned about him. I can look out for myself. I don't need to hide up here any longer, pretending to be some nutcase.'

Dr. Tisander nodded again.

'So, anyway, that's it. Even though I was placed in here with the best of intentions, the fact is, I can't stay a moment longer.' He rose. 'Now, if you'd be so kind as to call for a car? I'm sure that Agent Pendergast will cover the cost. Or I'll be happy to send you a check once I get back to New York. He took away my wallet and credit cards on the way up here.' He remained standing.

For a moment, the room was silent. Then the director sat forward slowly, leaned his arms on the desk, and interlaced his fingers. 'Now, Edward,' he began in his calm, kindly voice, 'as you know-'

'And no more of this Edward business,' Smithback interrupted with a flare of irritation. 'The name's Smithback. William Smithback Jr.'

'Please allow me to continue.' A pause, another sympathetic smile. 'I'm afraid I cannot accede to your request.'

'This isn't a request: it's a demand. I'm telling you, I'm leaving. You can't keep me here against my will.'

Tisander cleared his throat patiently. 'Your care has been entrusted to us. Your family has signed papers to that effect. You've been committed here for a period of observation and treatment. We're here to help you, and to do that, we need time.'

Smithback stared incredulously. 'Excuse me, Dr. Tisander, but do you think we could dispense with the cover?'

'What cover might that be, Edward?'

'I'm not Edward! Jesus. I know what you've been told, and there's no need for this pretense any longer. I need to get back to my job, to my wife, to my life. I tell you, I'm not worried about any killer. I'm leaving here. Now.'

Dr. Tisander's face retained its kindly, patient smile. 'You are here, Edward, because you are ill. All this talk of a job with the New York Times, about a cover story, about being hunted by a killer-that's what we're here to help you with.'

'What?' Smithback spluttered again.

'As I said, we know a great deal about you. I have a file two feet thick. The only way for you to get better is to face the truth, to abandon these delusions and fantasies, this dreamworld you inhabit. You've never had a job at the Times or anyplace else. You're not married. There's no killer after you.'

Smithback slowly sank back into his chair, holding on to the arms for support. A terrible chill came over him. Pendergast's words on the drive up from New York City returned to him, pregnant with ominous new meaning: The director knows all about you. He's fully informed, he has all the necessary documents. Smithback realized that, despite what he'd assumed-despite what Pendergast implied-