in which to store them.”
“She was your baby,” Leroux said softly. “She can be rebuilt-rebuilt the way you want her. She’s still structurally sound.
You know we can do it.”
Barton stared up at the ice-encrusted building by Leroux and for the first time could see nothing of him in it. It was a different building than the one he designed, he thought. There was no reason to pretend an attachment that no longer existed.
“I’m sorry, Wyn, I’m not interested.”
Leroux’s face became that of a stranger. “all right, Barton. I hope you never regret it because I’ll never take you back.”
He turned to go and had gotten about three steps away when Barton suddenly asked: “Why did you do it, Wyn?”
Leroux hesitated, then turned back to him. “Some of our interim financing fell through at the last minute,” he said calmly. “We couldn’t find additional financing in time and it was either cut the size of the building or pull in our belt as far as it would go. Too much depended on it, Barton. I didn’t build the building you wanted-but if it’s any satisfaction to you, I didn’t build the one that I wanted, either.”
Barton watched him walk across the plaza to where Thelma stood.
He couldn’t be sure but it looked as if Leroux were leaning on her as they walked away.
Jenny was at his side now and said quietly, “Was it difficult?”
“To quit?” He shook his . he . ad. “No, it was easy.” He thought for a moment. “He’s not unique, Jenny. He cut a lot of corners but then most builders do. The real tragedy is that he’s ‘not the man he thought he was.”
They walked slowly along the line of parked cars toward Infantino’s. Through the window, Barton could see Infantino dozing on his wife’s shoulder. She started to wake him up and Barton made a shushing sound with his finger, then reached through the partly opened window and gently shook Infantino’s shoulder. “Hey, smokeeater, wake up!”
Infantino shook himself awake, glanced at Barton and started to say something, and then suddenly frowned.
Behind them, Barton could hear Quantrell shouting: “Something for the wrap-up, Chief? Any indication it was arson or what might-have started the fire?”
It took a moment for Infantino to focus his eyes and then he said calmly, “There’ll be a statement from the public relations department later in the morning. If you get there early maybe you’ll be fourth in line.”
Quantrell stared at him steadily for a moment. “I’ve got a long memory, Infantino.”
He turned on his heel to leave and Infantino shouted after him: “You’ve got a big mouth, too!” He turned back to Barton. “Craig, can you make it down to the department later today? We’ll need a statement “Sure thing,” Barton said. And then: “Mario, any idea how it started?
Was it arson?”
Infantino shook his head. “I talked with the inspectors -they don’t think so. Earlier this evening, they found part of a broken brandy bottle in between some half-burned mats in one of the utility rooms on seventeen.
Funny, you would’ve expected it to be completely consumed but part of the label was even intact. Matted cotton burns, but I guess in this case, it acted partly as insulation. Anyway, they presume somebody stashed the bottle, lit a cigarette, and probably stubbed out the match on the matting before leaving the room. Just a guess, it’s hard to really tell.”
“Brandy?” Barton said slowly. “I can imagine who put it there.”
He told Infantino about Krost and his constant tippling. “Poor, stupid, incompetent bastard.”
Infantino yawned. “There’re plenty of those in the world, Craig.
It’s full of grown-up kids playing with matches. There’s always one of them ready to do the one stupid thing that ends up in this kind of disaster.”
“It could have been anybody,” Barton said. “Or any building.”
Infantino nodded. “And it could happen again. It will happen again;’ He laughed cynically and rested his head again on Doris’ shoulder. “It’s like death and taxes, Craig.
It’s inevitable.”
“And that’s why we have firemen.”
“That’s a real comforting thought, Craig. Thanks a lot.” He suddenly smiled, said, “See you around, buddy,” and signaled to the driver. The car started up and Barton could see Infantino’s head loll suddenly to one side, was asleep already.
He watched the car turn slowly into the traffic, then glanced down at Jenny. “Where to now, Jenny?”
“Home,” she said simply.
He frowned. “Southport’s a long way away.”
“I didn’t mean Southport,” she said quietly. “I mean home-any place where you are.” She looked up at him.
“The nearest hotel will be fine. We both could use some sleep and after that”-she paused-“I think we ought to try and get to know each other.”
He gripped her arm and they started walking toward the string of cabs.
The dark clouds are clearing now, The wounded building in the healing embrace of cold air and pelting snow. It is early morning and the salvage crews are seeking out the last sparks of the fire and destroying them. In one corner of the penthouse, which the salvage crews have not yet reached, a spark glows brightly in a shattered section of expensive walnut paneling. A breeze fans across it. The spark flares, touches a splintered piece of wood, and for a moment the pale ghost of the beast is, outlined against the cold morning air.
Then a chilling wind blows through the opening, driving rain and sleet before it. The small flame sputters and blackens, a tiny wisp of smoke marking where it had been.
The beast is dead.
