Dead Man's Time

she had sent up there had reported there was a DO NOT DISTURB sign
hung on the door.
    By 9.10, Roy Grace had a bad feeling. ‘I think we should have someone go in,’ he said to Lanigan. ‘We need to know he’s still there.’
    The detective agreed and spoke to the front desk again, this time formally commandeering the hotel’s manager.
    Five minutes later Grace, Lanigan and the manager, an elegant woman in her late-forties, rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, then walked along the maze of corridors. The DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the handle, along with a black bag containing today’s
New York Times.
    The manager rapped hard on the door, waited several seconds, then rapped again. Then she rang the number on her phone. Through the door they could hear the warbling of an unanswered phone.
Grace’s heart was sinking.
    Finally, she opened it with her pass key, calling out a cautious, ‘Hello, Dr Alvarez? Hello? Good morning!’
    Silence greeted them.
    A silent room with two sofas, and a dining table on which sat a solitary empty champagne glass.
    Grace and Lanigan followed her through into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, the television on, the sound muted, a white towelling dressing gown lay on the floor. Those were the only clues that
the suite had ever been inhabited. Its occupant had gone, along with his luggage and toiletries, as the empty bathroom confirmed.

106
    The rather tired black Lincoln Town Car the hotel had procured for Gavin Daly pulled up on Madison Avenue, close to a Panerai watch dealership, he noticed. The driver jumped
out and opened the door for him, and pointed at the number on the door.
    ‘Excellent,’ Daly said, jamming the tip of his walking stick onto the sidewalk, then levering himself out of the limousine, into the hot sunshine. As he stood upright he was
conscious of the heavy weight in his trouser pocket. He was tired and jet-lagged, and had slept badly, but was running on adrenalin. ‘You’ll wait for me here?’
    ‘Yes, sir. If I’m not here when you come out, just wait right here – I may have to go around the block if I get moved on.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘An hour, you think?’
    ‘An hour, give or take. Thank you.’ He stifled a yawn.
    ‘A pleasure, sir. I’ll be right here, sir!’
    Gavin Daly had arrived early, as Julius Rosenblaum had advised. It was 9.45 a.m. and Eamonn Pollock’s appointment with the rogue dealer was for 10.30. He made his way to the doorway
sandwiched between two smart shops, and studied the names on the bell panel. Then he pushed the bell for J. R. Nautical Antiquities, conscious of the camera lens above it.
    Moments later he heard Rosenblaum’s voice. ‘Come on in, Gavin. Take the elevator to the third floor.’
    ‘I remember!’ he replied. And he did, very clearly, although it had been ten years, at least, since his last visit here.
    It was a tiny, old-fashioned lift, with a sliding metal gate. He pressed the button and ascended to the third floor. A few moments later it jerked to a halt. He opened the door and stepped out
into a narrow corridor; the door directly in front of him had a spyhole and bore the name, in gilded lettering, J. ROSENBLAUM NAUTICAL ANTIQUITIES .
    Almost immediately it opened and one of his oldest and best customers stood there, beaming, tall and erect, with a military posture Daly had always admired.
    Well into his eighties, with finely coiffed white hair and smelling of strong cologne, Julius Rosenblaum looked distinguished, if a little flash and raffish. He had a hooked, Semitic nose,
hooded eyes, and a rich, full smile. He was dressed immaculately in a three-piece chalk-striped suit and a flamboyant tie, and wore an extremely ornate and showy Vacherin Constantin watch on his
wrist.
    ‘So good to see you, Gavin!’ He looked him up and down. ‘You look terrific, wow! You haven’t changed, you know!’
    ‘Nor you!’
    ‘Come on in. We’ve time for a coffee, and we have a lot to catch up on.’
    Daly entered, stepping onto plush eau de nil carpeting so deep his feet sank into it. Recessed showcases lined the hallway, displaying ship’s clocks, a nautical hourglass with a brass top
embossed with the wording ROYAL NAVY , and a mounted ship’s bell. He followed Rosenblaum into a small room with an antique Georgian table that served as a reception
desk. An elegant, elderly woman sat behind it, typing on a keyboard; a pile of antiques magazines lay beside her.
    ‘Marjorie, you remember