The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious #2)(72)

Finally, he reached for the wire. He would need to listen one more time, just to be absolutely sure. He stood and went across the room, to a collection of cabinets. He opened one, which contained a Webster-Chicago wire recorder. This machine had been outfitted with a pair of listening headphones. He inserted the wire on the reel, then sat down, put the headphones over his ears, and played the recording.

After several minutes, he switched the machine off and removed the headphones. Everything was there, all falling perfectly into place. When he added in what Margo Fields had revealed . . .

It was all very complete. It was time.

He pressed the buzzer on his desk that summoned Robert Mackenzie. Mackenzie appeared within a minute, notebook in hand. He saw Mackenzie note the open curtains.

“I am going to the yacht club,” he said. “The weather is fine and clear. I’ve asked Marsh to come with me. We could both use some time in the air. We’ve been in dark places too long.”

Albert was moved by the look of genuine pleasure that passed over his secretary’s face. Mackenzie cared for him. He was perhaps the last person who did.

“That’s a very good idea,” Mackenzie said. “Would you like me to arrange for a picnic basket for the trip?”

Albert Ellingham shook his head.

“No need, no need. Here. I wrote a riddle this morning. What do you think?”

He surprised himself with this action. The riddle was a private one, but he shared all his riddles with Mackenzie. This one, perhaps most of all, deserved his consideration. Mackenzie snatched it up, obviously happy that he was returning to his old ways.

“Where do you look for someone who’s never really there?” Mackenzie read. “Always on a staircase, but never on a stair.”

Albert watched Mackenzie very closely. Would he know the answer? Was it visible to all?

“It may be the best riddle I’ve ever written,” he said. “It’s my Riddle of the Sphinx. Those who solve it pass. Those who don’t . . .”

He reached over and took the slip of paper back, setting it neatly on the middle of his desk. Mackenzie was turning the riddle over in his mind, but Albert could see that his attention was not on it. Mackenzie was studying his demeanor for clues. Mackenzie himself was looking much older than his thirty years. He needed to get out in the world and live.

“I have something very important for you to do today, Robert,” he said, putting a paperweight over the riddle for protection. “Get out in the air. Enjoy yourself. That’s an order.”

“I’m going to,” Mackenzie said. “I have about ten pounds’ worth of correspondence to get through first.”

“I mean it, Robert.” And he did mean it. Suddenly, telling Robert Mackenzie to care for himself was the most important thing in the world. “The winter will be here soon and you’ll wish you took more advantage of days like this.”

Mackenzie shuffled awkwardly.

“You’re a good man, Robert,” he went on. “I wish you had the happiness in your life that I’ve had in mine. Remember to play. Remember the game. Always remember the game.”

This was all sounding a bit much, so Albert Ellingham put on the broadest smile he could muster.

“I promise I will go outside,” Mackenzie said, in a way that indicated the exact opposite.

“There is one other thing,” Albert said. “All the paperwork for the codicil and the trust is in my desk. Make sure that you get everything ready for the printer. I want to start running the ads tomorrow.”

“You’re really going through with it?” Mackenzie said. “And there’s nothing that I can say to stop you?”

“Nothing. Big, bold type, above the fold. ‘Ellingham offers ten million for daughter.’ I want people in passing airplanes to be able to read the headline.”

“This is a mistake.”

“That is mine to make. When you have ten million dollars, you can do with it what you wish.”

This was a bit harsh, but the point had to be made. It was time to go. No more moving commentary about the nature of the day. Now that the moment was upon him, he felt the edge of hesitation. Perhaps he should explain. Robert Mackenzie could be trusted.

“It was on the wire,” he added as Mackenzie reached the door.

“What?” Mackenzie turned.

No. Robert could not know.

“Nothing. Nothing. As you were.”

Mackenzie returned to his office.

Everything was now in place. The other preparations were already made. The materials were in the trunk of the car. The mechanism was an easy matter that he had constructed by the fire the evening before. Albert Ellingham looked around his office once more, to see if there was anything he had forgotten. He reached down and opened the lowest desk drawer. This drawer contained only a few small personal items—a bottle of aspirin, a spare pair of glasses, a deck of cards. He reached back farther and pulled out a revolver. He held it for a moment, heavy in his palm, considered it fully.

The green marble clock ticked away. When had the murdered princess last looked at it? Did she know it was the last time? The cool glass eye had watched as she had been taken from her house. It had been spared the sight of her death, her head put on a spike and paraded through the streets of Paris. The head had even been displayed at her friend the queen’s prison window, a ghastly puppet. A sign of what was to come.