“It was on the radio while you’re in the back,” Al interrupted. Elliot felt somewhat awkward about keeping up the pretense with a man whom his father—by his actions—regarded Alongside Night
41
as a confidant; nevertheless he interpreted his father’s instructions to mean that no one outside the family should know the truth. “Well, I’d better get moving.”
“Keep your eyes open,” replied Al. “This is a lousy area to be alone at night. Laissez-faire.”
Everything suddenly fell into place: Al was wearing a plain gold band on his right hand and during his parley with his customer had twirled it back and forth—the same manner as the tzigane.
Elliot briefly considered asking Al if the ring twirling meant anything but felt another question would be prying. Besides, it was silly—and he had better get home quickly if he wanted a decent amount of time to pack. “Laissez-faire,” he replied. Al just smiled.
At almost ten to six, Elliot once again entered his apartment building. The reporters were gone from the lobby. At the door this time was Dominic, a small Puerto Rican man, whom he greeted on his way to the elevators. He waited several minutes before an elevator arrived, then rode it up to the fiftieth floor and fumbled for his keys while walking down the corridor to his apartment. After inserting the correct keys in the correct order, he opened the door and shouted, “I’m home!”
There was no answer. Elliot looked into his parents’ bedroom, but no one was there, so he tried Denise’s room. It was also unoccupied. Elliot then looked into his own bedroom, the guest room, the bathrooms, and even the storage closets; there was no sign of anybody, and all the suitcases were gone. He started over again, thinking that there must have been a sudden change in plans, and there would be a note somewhere. He checked from the bathroom mirrors to the bulletin board in the kitchen. It was only then that Elliot Vreeland understood that he was alone. There was no note.
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Chapter 5
On his third time around the apartment—still wearing his coat—Elliot noticed signs of visitors who must have come before his family had left. Several ashtrays held cigarette butts, and no one in his family smoked. No one except Denise—Elliot amended—and she only when their parents could not see her. Whoever it was must have stayed more than a few minutes, too, otherwise there would not have been time for more than one or two smokes.
But who was it, and what could he—or she—or they—have said to make his family leave without even writing a note?
Elliot approached the problem systematically. He first went over to the video intercom and buzzed the lobby. The doorman appeared on the small screen, answering with a thick Puerto Rican accent, “Dominic here.” Elliot Vreeland, 50L. Had he sent up any visitors in the past couple of hours? “No, sir. Nobody.” What time had he come on duty? “Five o’clock.” Had he been at the door all the time since five? Dominic looked as if he had been accused of desertion during wartime. “Yes, sir.”
Elliot thanked him, then cleared the screen.
Next, he checked across the hall with Mrs. Allen, his mother’s closest friend. She was a rather plump, jolly widow in her seventies, but when she saw Elliot, she was not very jolly. “Oh, my dear boy. What a tragic day this is! I know how hard this must be on you. When I lost my poor Gustav—”
Before she could tell him about her poor Gustav, Elliot said,
“Mrs. Allen, do you know where my mother and sister have gone?” He maintained the cover, just in case.
“Why, certainly, dear.”
“Where?” he asked anxiously.
“They’ve gone to your mother’s sister-in-law. My dear, didn’t 44
Alongside Night
they tell you?”
“Uh—yes,” Elliot replied as his stomach sank. “I guess in the confusion I forgot.” “Oh, you poor thing. Perhaps you’d come in for a cup of hot cocoa to settle your nerves.”
Elliot thanked her warmly but declined, saying that he had better go over there before they worried about him. He returned to his apartment and, after looking up the listing for Air Quebec, went to the Picturephone in his parents’
bedroom, calling to ask if there were any messages for him. He used the family code name his father had given him, saying they were supposed to leave for Montreal that evening on Flight 757 and were accidentally separated. An attractive Air Quebec reservation hostess told him with a Quebecois accent that company policy prevented accepting personal messages between passengers. However, she could have the airport page them. “Uh—no thanks.” Then, a flash of inspiration. “Is the reservation still intact?”