Reliquary

= 25 =

SMITHBACK WALKED INTO the cavernous entryway of the Four Seasons, eager to leave the heat and stench and noise of Park Avenue behind. He approached the four-square bar with measured step. He’d sat here many times before, looking enviously across the room, past the Picasso hanging, toward the unattainable paradise beyond. This time, however, he did not dally at the bar, but continued toward the maître d’. A quickly mentioned name was all it took, and now he, Smithback, was himself walking down that corridor of dreams toward the exclusive restaurant beyond.

Every table in the Pool Room was filled, yet the space seemed quiet and calm somehow, muted by its own vastness. He threaded his way past captains of industry, publishing moguls, and robber barons to one of the prized tables near the fountain. There, already seated, was Mrs. Wisher.

“Mr. Smithback,” she said. “Thank you for coming. Please sit down.”

Smithback took the indicated chair across the table, glancing about as he did so. This promised to be an interesting lunch, and he hoped he had time to enjoy it fully. He’d barely started to write up his big story, and press time was 6:00 P.M.

“Would you care for a glass of Amarone?” Mrs. Wisher asked, indicating the bottle beside the table. She was crisply dressed in a saffron-colored blouse and pleated skirt.

“Please,” Smith replied, meeting her gaze. He felt much more at ease than the last time he’d spoken to her: sitting primly in her darkened apartment, a copy of the Post lying beside her like a silent accusation. His “Angel of Central Park South” obituary, the Post’s reward offer, and his favorable coverage on the Grand Army Plaza rally made him feel confident of a warmer reception.

Mrs. Wisher nodded to the wine steward, waited until the man had poured a glass for the journalist and departed, then leaned almost imperceptibly forward.

“Mr. Smithback, you’re undoubtedly wondering why I asked you to join me for lunch.”

“It had occurred to me.” Smithback tasted the wine, found it excellent.

“I won’t waste any time sporting with your intelligence, then. Certain events are about to happen in this city. And I’d like you to document them.”

Smithback put his wine glass down. “Me?”

The corners of Mrs. Wisher’s mouth turned up slightly in what might have been a smile. “Ah. I thought you would be surprised. But you see, Mr. Smithback, I’ve done some research on you since our last meeting. And I read your book on the Museum murders.”

“You bought a copy?” Smithback asked hopefully.

“The Amsterdam Avenue branch of the public library had one. It made very interesting reading. I had no idea you were so directly involved with almost every aspect of that event.”

Smithback’s eyes darted quickly toward her face, but he could detect no trace of sarcasm in her expression.

“I also read your article on our rally,” Mrs. Wisher continued. “It had a positive tone that I found lacking in some of the other press coverage.” She waved her hand. “Besides, I really have you to thank for what’s happened.”

“You do?” Smithback asked a little nervously.

Mrs. Wisher nodded. “It was you who convinced me that the only way to get the city’s attention was to dig a spur into its flank. Remember your comment? ‘People in this town don’t pay attention to something unless you slap them in the face with it.’ Had it not been for you, I might still be in my drawing room, writing letters to the mayor, instead of putting my sorrow to good use.”

Smithback nodded. The not-so-merry widow had a point.

“Since that rally, our movement has spread dramatically,” Mrs. Wisher said. “We’ve hit a common nerve. People are coming together—people of power and influence. But our message belongs just as much to the common man, the man on the street. And that’s the person you can reach with your paper.”

Although Smithback did not like to be reminded that he wrote for the common man, he kept his expression even. Besides, he’d seen it for himself: By the time the rally had ended, there’d been plenty of them around, drinking, heckling, hoping for action.

“And so this is what I propose.” Mrs. Wisher placed her small, neatly manicured fingernails on the linen tablecloth. “I will give you privileged access to every event planned by Take Back Our City. Many of these actions will be intentionally unannounced; the press, like the police, will learn of them too late to make any real difference. You, however, will be brought into my circle. You will know what to expect, and when to expect it. You can accompany me directly, if you like. And then you can slap your readers in the face with it.”

Smithback struggled to keep from betraying his excitement. This is too good to be true, he thought.

“I imagine you’d like to publish another book,” Mrs. Wisher went on. “Once the Take Back Our City campaign reaches a successful conclusion, you’d have my blessing on such a project. I’ll make myself available for interviews. And Hiram Bennett, editor-in-chief of Cygnus House, is one of my closest friends. I think he’d be very interested in seeing such a manuscript.”

Jesus, Smithback thought. Hiram Bennett, Mister Publishing himself. He could imagine the bidding war between Cygnus House and Stockbridge, the publishers of his Museum book. He’d get his agent to set up an auction, specify a floor of two hundred grand, no, make that two fifty, with ten percent topping privileges and—

“I ask one thing in return,” Mrs. Wisher coolly interrupted his thoughts. “That from now on, you devote yourself to covering Take Back Our City. I want your newspaper articles, when they appear, to focus exclusively on our cause.”

“What?” Smithback said abruptly. “Mrs. Wisher, I’m a crime reporter. I’m hired to turn in product on a regular basis.” His visions of publishing fame quickly faded, replaced with the angry face of his editor, Arnold Murray, demanding copy.

Mrs. Wisher nodded. “I understand. And I think I can deliver you all the ‘product’ you could wish for within a few days. I’ll give you details as soon as we’ve finalized our plans. Trust me, I think that you will find this relationship to be beneficial to us both.”

Smithback thought quickly. In a couple of hours, he was due to file his story covering what he’d learned eavesdropping on the Museum conference. He’d delayed it already, hoping in vain to gain additional information. This was to be the story that got him his raise, the story to set that prick Bryce Harriman back on his heels.

But would it? The reward was getting a little stale, and no leads had panned out. His report on Mephisto hadn’t excited the interest he’d thought it would. There was no clear proof that the death of the Medical Examiner, though suspiciously coincidental, was connected. And then, there were always the unpleasant consequences of Museum trespass to be considered.

But this Wisher story, on the other hand, could be just the dynamite he was looking for. His journalist’s instincts told him it had the feel of a winner. He could call in sick, stall Murray for a day or two. When he got the final results, all would be forgiven.

He looked up. “Mrs. Wisher, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Call me Anette,” she said, her gaze drifting over his face for a moment before falling toward the menu at her elbow. “And now let’s order, shall we? I’d suggest the coldwater scallops wrapped in lemon phyllo and caviar. The chef here does them excellently.”