The Key to Midnight

nine o'clock. Though her sleep had been dreamless, she was less enthusiastic about her new freedom than she had been in the night. She wasn't certain why her attitude had changed; but whatever the reason, the mood of innocent optimism was gone. She was wary, cautious, tempered by an intuition that told her more - and worse - trouble was coming.
        Curious about the weather, she went to the nearest window and drew back the drapes. A storm had passed through during the night. The sky was clear, but Kyoto lay under six or seven inches of fresh, dry snow. The streets held little traffic.
        In addition to the snow, something else had arrived in the night. Across the street, on the second floor of a popular geisha house, a man stood at a window. He was watching her apartment through a pair of binoculars.
        He saw her at the same moment that she saw him. He lowered the glasses and stepped back, out of sight.
         That was why her mood had changed. Subconsciously she had been expecting something like the man with the binoculars. They were out there. Waiting. Watching. Biding their time. Platoons of them, for all she knew. Until she and Alex could discover who they were and why they had stolen her past, she was neither safe nor free. In spite of the fact that the bad dream no longer had the power to disrupt her sleep, the sense of security that she enjoyed during the night was false. Although she'd lived through several kinds of hell, the worst of them all might be ahead of her.
        In the morning sun, the snow was bright. The Gion looked pure. In the distance, a temple bell rang.

----

    38
        
        That morning, at eleven o'clock Kyoto time, Ted Blankenship called from Chicago. He had received detailed reports from the company's associates in London, in answer to the questions that Alex had asked two days ago.
        According to the investigators in England, the solicitor who had acted as the executor of the Rand estate, J. Compton Woolrich, was a phantom. There was no record that he had ever existed. No birth certificate. No passport in that name. No driver's license. No file under that name with the tax authorities at Inland Revenue. No work or identity card of any sort. Nothing. No one named J. Compton Woolrich had been licensed to practice law at any time in this century. Nor had anyone with that name possessed a telephone number in greater London since 1946. As Joanna had discovered on Friday, Woolrich's telephone was actually that of an antique shop on Jermyn Street. Likewise, the return address on Compton's stationery was neither a home nor a law office; it was actually that of a library that had been established prior to the Second World War.
        'What about British-Continental Insurance?' Alex asked.
        'Another phony,' Blankenship said. 'There's no such firm registered or paying taxes in England.'
        'And though by some fluke they might have escaped registration, no one there escapes taxes.'
        'Exactly.'
        'But we talked to Phillips at British-Continental.'
        'Not his real name. A deception.'
        'Yes, I suppose so. What about the address on their stationery?'
        'Oh, that's real enough,' Blankenship said. 'But it sure as hell isn't the headquarters for a major corporation. Our British friends say it's just a grimy, three-story office building in Soho.'
        'And there's not even a branch office of an insurance company in the place?'
        'No. About a dozen other businesses operate there, all more or less cubbyhole outfits, nothing particularly successful - at least not on the surface of it. Importers. Exporters. A mail-forwarding service. A couple of talent bookers who service the cheapest clubs in the city. But no British-Continental.'
        'What about the telephone number?'
        'It's listed to one of the importers at that address. Fielding Athison, Limited. They deal in furniture, clothes, dinner-ware, crafts, jewelry, and a lot of other stuff that's made in South Korea, Taiwan, Indonesia, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Thailand.'
        'And they don't have a Mr. Phillips at that number?'
        'That's what they say.'
        'They're playing games.'
        'I wish you'd tell me what kind of games,' Blankenship said. 'And how does this tie in with Tom Chelgrin and his missing daughter? I have to tell you, curiosity's got me in nearly as bad shape as the proverbial cat.'
        'It's not a good idea