Through a Glass, Darkly by Helen McCloy

Author:Helen McCloy [McCloy, Helen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781471912474
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2014-10-14T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

For in the time we know not of

Did Fate begin

Weaving the web of days that wove

Your doom, Faustine.

Juniper’s reluctant tap on the door woke Basil from a few hours’ fitful sleep. Anathematizing the eccentric office hours of Septimus Watkins, he dragged himself out of bed, still sleepy, and forced his shrinking flesh into a cold shower that roused him without refreshing him. A low, dark sky blotted out the dawn. A ground mist, rolling in from the East River, veiled the city in ragged streamers of white vapour as he walked two blocks to the Third Avenue garage where he kept his car.

He knew Watkins only by reputation. The man was one of those lawyers who never appear in court, yet for over fifty years he had served as counsellor and confidential agent to half the great fortunes of New York. He administered their trust funds, drew up their marriage and divorce settlements, executed their wills, and stood guard over their investment portfolios. He was so widely known and so rarely seen that he had become a tradition, almost a legend. Innumerable anecdotes illustrated the tough suppleness of his mind and the shrewdness of his worldly judgement. But, like most people, Basil had no idea what the man behind the myth was really like.

At ten minutes to six the lobby of the great office building at the corner of Broad and Wall was empty except for an elevator man and a scrubwoman who was wearily dragging a dirty mop across a mosaic floor inlaid with brass. When Basil reached the twenty-sixth floor there was no light behind the double doors of ground glass lettered Watkins, Fisher, Underwood, Van Arsdale, and Travers. He tried the handles. Both doors were locked. He found a small button in the jamb and pressed it. After his fourth ring, he began to wonder if Watkins misled people deliberately about his habits – an ingenious way of discouraging visitors. He was turning away when the glass glowed yellow and the door was thrown open by a slight, agile man. His hair was white, but thick and springy, the cheeks below it round and pink. He looked like a man in middle age whose hair had turned white prematurely. Septimus Watkins was over seventy.

‘I understand Mr Watkins is here at this hour?’ Basil was still not quite able to believe in such unconventional office hours. ‘Will you please tell him that Dr Willing is here?’

‘I’m Watkins. Come in, won’t you?’ He spoke without ceremony. ‘You must be Basil Willing, the psychiatrist?’ The blue eyes were sharp, but not unfriendly. ‘My office is down the hall. This way.’

They passed through a reception room, large as the lobby of a small hotel. Watkins led the way down a long corridor with closed doors on either side, through three private offices, each large, dark, and empty. At last he threw open another door. They entered a corner office, larger than all the others, with windows on two sides giving a magnificent view of the harbour.

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