Reliquary Read Online Free PDF

sports jacket, locating the record button of his microcassette recorder. He could turn it on unobtrusively when the time came. He glanced at his image, reflected among countless Italian shoes in a nearby shop window: he was the very model of preppiedom, or as near as his wardrobe would permit. He took a deep breath and returned around the corner, walking with confident step toward the cream-colored awning. The closer of the two uniformed doormen gazed at him imperturbably, one “gloved hand on the great brass handle of the door.
    “I’m here to see Mrs. Wisher,” Smithback said.
    “Name, please?” the man asked in a monotone.
    “A friend of Pamela’s.”
    “I’m sorry,” the man said, unmoving, “but Mrs. Wisher is not receiving any visitors.”
    Smithback thought quickly. The doorman had asked who was calling before telling him this. That meant Mrs. Wisher was expecting someone.
    “If you must Know, it’s about this morning’s appointment,” Smithback said. “I’m afraid there’s been a change. Could you ring her for me?”
    The doorman hesitated a moment, then opened the door, leading Smithback across the gleaming marble floor. The journalist looked around. The concierge, a very old and very gaunt-looking man, was standing behind a bronze construction that looked more fortress than front desk. At the back of the lobby, a security guard sat behind a Louis XVI table. An elevator operator stood beside him, legs slightly apart, hands folded across his belt.
    “This gentleman is calling on Mrs. Wisher,” the doorman said to the concierge.
    The concierge gazed down at him from his marble pillbox. “Yes?”
    Smithback took a deep breath. At least, he’d broached the lobby. “It’s about the appointment she’s expecting. There’s been a change.”
    The concierge paused a moment, his hooded eyes checking out Smithback’s shoes, running up his sport coat, examining his haircut. Smithback waited, silently chafing under the examination, hoping he’d captured the look of an earnest young man from a well-to-do family.
    “Who may I say is calling?” the concierge rasped.
    “A friend of the family will do.”
    The concierge waited, staring at him.
    “Bill Smithback,” he added quickly. Mrs. Wisher, he was certain, did not read the New York Post.
    The concierge looked down at something that was spread in front of him. “What about the eleven o’clock appointment?” he asked.
    “They sent me instead,” Smithback replied, suddenly glad that it was 10:32 A.M.
    The concierge turned around and disappeared into a small office. He came out again sixty seconds later. “Please pick up the house telephone on the table beside you,” he said.
    Smithback held the receiver to his ear.
    “What? Did George cancel?” said a small, crisp, expensive voice.
    “Mrs. Wisher, may I come up and speak with you about Pamela?”
    There was a silence. “Who is this?” the voice asked.
    “Bill Smithback.”
    There was another silence, longer this time. Smithback continued. “I have something very important, some information about your daughter’s death, that I am sure the police haven’t told you. I feel sure you would want to know--”
    The voice broke in. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you do.”
    “Wait--” Smithback said, his mind racing again.
    There was a silence.
    “Mrs. Wisher?”
    He heard a click. The woman had hung up.
    Well, Smithback thought, he had given it his best shot. Maybe he could wait outside, on a park bench across the street, on the chance she’d emerge later in the day. But even as he considered this, Smithback knew that Mrs. Wisher would not be leaving her elegant fastness for the foreseeable future.
    A phone rang at the concierge’s elbow. Mrs. Wisher, no doubt. Eager to avoid a bum’s rush, Smithback turned and started walking quickly out of the lobby.
    “Mr. Smithback!” the concierge called loudly.
    Smithback turned. This was the part he hated.
    The concierge gazed at him expressionlessly,