Shadow of a Broken Man

why everyone keeps asking me that question.'

The waitress blew me a kiss on my way out.

8

Wanting to clear Barney's laugh and the gloom of Jack's Cakewalk from my mind, I decided to walk the twenty blocks back to my apartment to check the mail. It was a mistake. The noon streets of New York were hot, filled with the stench of exhaust fumes, the tension of constant hurry. By the time I reached my apartment, my headache had evolved from a dull throb to a sharp pain that flashed back and forth between my temples like arcs of electricity.

The man sitting on my couch was short-five feet six or seven. The eyes that had looked so dark in the newspaper photograph were actually a deep, glacial blue, made to seem even larger and colder by the high dome of his forehead. His eyes were like blank screens hiding his thoughts and emotions. I'd seen eyes like that before; they were either the mirrors in front of a psychopathic mind or the result of years of training, tempered by more than a little pain. He was completely bald.

He was a man who seemed totally at ease with himself, even in someone else's living room. He wore a light blue poplin suit with matching shirt and tie. There was no bulge under the armpit, but I was certain that was due to good tailoring.

He rose and put aside the magazine he'd been reading. 'I'm Mr. Lippitt,' he said, eyeing me steadily.

'I know.'

'How do you know?' he asked quietly.

'You've changed your wardrobe. I almost didn't recognize you without your overcoat.'

'The newspaper photo,' he said. There was a hint of annoyance in his voice, and something that might have been an emotion passed quickly across the blue surface of his eyes and was gone. 'The phone number had to come out of the police file. Your brother must have given it to you; very unprofessional of him, but I'm rather glad he did it. Why do you want to know about Victor Rafferty, Dr. Frederickson?'

'You're pretty goddamn abrupt for a guy who's sitting uninvited in my living room.'

'Come, come,' Lippitt said. His voice had dropped a half octave, the whisper of silk across a knife blade. 'You indicated you wanted to talk to me and I'm here. My circumstances don't allow me to stand around on the street waiting for you.'

'I can believe that.'

'Who are you working for?' Lippitt asked suddenly. His tone had shifted again. He used his voice like a weapon: reasoning, entreating, bludgeoning.

'Why do you care that I'm investigating Victor Rafferty?'

'It upsets me,' Lippitt said evenly. There was just the slightest whisper of menace, and I had no doubt that it was intentional.

'Personally?'

'Personally.'

'Why, Lippitt?'

It took him a long time to answer. He saw me watching the dark shadows move behind his eyes and looked quickly away. 'I feel a responsibility to make certain that people who have been involved in this matter are not physically harmed.' He added pointedly: 'That includes you.'

'Is that a threat, Mr. Lippitt?' 'You might call it a warning.'

We could dance around each other's words all day, so I decided to feed him a little information. 'Rafferty may not be dead,' I said, watching him.

'What are you talking about? Of course he's dead.' The impatience and incredulity in his voice seemed genuine, and it surprised me.

'Other people aren't so sure,' I said.

He stared at me. 'What other people?'

'Myself, for one.'

'Who else?' Lippitt persisted. There was something else in his tone now, and I was sure it was fear. Of what? For whom?

'I can't tell you that,' I said quietly.

'What can you tell me?'

'My turn. Tell me about Rafferty.'

'Rafferty is dead,' Lippitt said forcefully. It seemed to me that he hadn't blinked for a long time.

'He supposedly fell off a catwalk into a furnace filled with molten metal. Did you actually see him fall, Lippitt?'

'Yes,' the bald man said calmly; 'as a matter of fact, I did. I watched the whole thing.'

'Why is it that I didn't see your name in any of the reports on the accident?'

His thin eyebrows arched slightly. 'Would you really expect to?'

'Was Harry Barnes with you?'

'The watchman? Yes.' He finally blinked. 'You've been very busy, Dr. Frederickson. And resourceful.'

'I'm a good reader; I was a Bluebird all through first grade. I'm also good in math. If I were to add two plus two in this case, I think I'd end up with a bribe. Did you set Harry Barnes up in the dirty-movie business in exchange for his forgetting the fact that you were there that Sunday?'

'All right,' Lippitt said quietly, his eyes shifting. 'I suppose that does become obvious.'

'Was Barnes even there?'

A long pause. 'No,' he said at last. 'But I was.'

'Who the hell is Harry Barnes?'

'An ex-watchman who worked in Victor Rafferty's lab, as advertised. That much is true; and the story of what happened to Rafferty is true. I simply could not afford to become involved. You see, you've reached a wrong conclusion from your otherwise astute deductions.'

'Have I? Let's take a look at it. A government agent and a world-famous architect are standing around on a catwalk over open smelting furnaces on a Sunday afternoon. You're having a pleasant chat when-whoops! — the architect falls into one of the furnaces. I'll bet that sounds silly even to you.'

Lippitt abruptly sat down in a chair, crossed his legs, and lighted a thin cigar. He didn't appear to be amused, and it occurred to me that the man could be dangerous. 'Often, what seems silly is the truth, Dr. Frederickson,' he said easily, puffing on the cigar.

'Not in this case.'

'Why not? I am telling the truth about the most important point: Victor Rafferty died five years ago.'

'Lippitt, I don't think anybody saw Rafferty fall into that furnace.' He'd stopped blinking again. 'For some reason, you and your people want the world to think Rafferty is dead. Why?' I decided to take a wild swing at a ball thrown in from the bleachers. 'Is Harry Barnes really Victor Rafferty?'

He almost smiled. 'Are you serious?'

'Yeah, kind of. I admit it would be quite a transformation from the Victor Rafferty I've heard about, but I suppose playing porno-film maker is as good a cover as any.'

'Cover for what?'

'For whatever work he actually performs for you.'

Lippitt rose, put his hands in his pockets, and walked to the window. He didn't turn around when he spoke. 'We've prepared a psychological profile on you, Dr. Frederickson. It's sketchy because of the limited time we've had, but it's fascinating nonetheless. Your karate, your Ph. D., your obvious need to achieve. You're aggressive, occasionally hostile, but I suppose that's understandable. You have the mind of a giant trapped in a dwarf's body. A pity.'