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.The result was that the woman collided headfirst with the half-height refrigerator that Jane had been standing in front of.Jane wasn’t sure whether the resultant thunk was the product of head meeting metal or of the same head meeting oak floor a second later.In either case, it was a sickening sound.The fight was over just as suddenly as it had begun.Jane stood for a second, dazed, considering the real possibility that her intruder was dead.You could easily break your neck colliding with a refrigerator, even if your neck happened to be as thick as this woman’s was.Then, on the other hand, she might just be stunned, ready to get up any second, really angry this time.Jane bent down and got close enough to ascertain that her attacker was still breathing.Then, very quietly—was it possible to wake someone who had collided with a refrigerator?—she walked over to the couch and opened the woman’s little Coach leather purse.Inside was the usual girl equipment.Jane riffled past a lipstick, some keys, and a comb until she found the woman’s wallet and unsnapped it.The name on the platinum American Express card inside was Melissa Rosengolts.“Oh, my God,” gasped Jane, suddenly understanding.In the London china shop, Jane had told Isidore Rosengolts that the clock was in her possession and that she was going back to New York on Monday.He had told her that he had a grandchild in America.The unconscious whale on the floor had said that she hadn’t found the clock “before.” It had been Melissa Rosengolts who had broken into Jane’s apartment during Aaron Sailor’s funeral, not Willie Bogen and Valentine Treves.Melissa Rosengolts must have seen the article with Perry’s painting in the Sunday Times and gotten Jane’s address from the phonebook.Or perhaps it had been Isidore Rosengolts who had first read the newspaper in London and who had then called his granddaughter with instructions.In either case, Jane had been no stranger to Isidore Rosengolts when she had walked into his shop last week.He must have been astounded, but he played a frighteningly good hand of poker—Jane certainly gave him that.Here, the owner of the very clock he had just conspired unsuccessfully to steal had crossed an ocean to let him know that she still had it in her possession and to present him with a nice little gift for all his trouble.Melissa Rosengolts moaned softly.It was time to call the police.The telephone on the table seemed no worse for having its answering machine forcibly amputated, but Jane wasn’t going to hang around and wait for Isidore Rosengolts’s granddaughter to wake up.Instead, she dashed out the door and down the stairs, not slowing down until she had reached the east side of Broadway, several blocks away.There she found a pay phone and dialed 911.After calmly relating the details of what had happened—including the fact that her attacker might need an ambulance—she asked to be connected to Lieutenant Octavio Folly.“You’ll have to dial that number yourself directly,” said the emergency operator.“I don’t have his number with me,” said Jane.“Try information,” said the operator.“I can’t start calling all over town.Please, can’t you patch me through to him?”“I’m sorry, ma’am.I’m an emergency operator.I can’t make personal calls for you.”“This isn’t a personal call.It’s a call to the police.”“I’ll be sending the police, ma’am, just as soon as we get off the phone.”“You get me Lieutenant Folly!” Jane suddenly found herself screaming.“Octavio Folly! Nineteenth precinct! Get me Folly or I swear to God I’ll have your picture on page one of the Daily News tomorrow!”“All right, all right,” said the voice.“Calm down, ma’am.You’re not really hysterical or you wouldn’t be able to make such a good threat.Give me the number of the phone where you’re at.”Jane read it off the battered face of the brushed steel telephone.The 911 operator instructed her to wait by the phone.Jane hung up.She couldn’t believe she had lost control like that.She had been remarkably calm in her confrontation with Melissa Rosengolts.Why was she going to pieces now that the crisis was over?She looked down and found that her hands were shaking.Her knuckles were scraped raw and there were several places on her body that were probably turning black and blue, judging from the way they were throbbing.Jane stood there for what seemed like an hour, shooing away old ladies and bicycle messengers who wanted to use the phone.In reality, probably no more than five minutes passed.Finally, the pay phone rang.It was Folly.“Where have you been, Miss Sailor?” demanded the detective.“I’ve been trying to reach you for a week.”“I had to go out of town, to England,” said Jane, afraid to laugh with relief at the sound of his voice, afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop.“Funny time to up and go on vacation,” said Folly, oblivious.“It would have been nice to let me know that you were leaving the country.”“It wasn’t just a vacation.I wanted to talk to the woman who modeled for a painting of my father’s that Perry Mannerback owns.She was living in the loft downstairs from Dad’s when he had his accident eight years ago.Her name was Leila Peach.”“Leila … did you say Leila Peach?”“Yes.”“Leila Peach was the model in a painting that Mannerback owns? Was that the painting that was reproduced in the Times? The nude?”“Yes,” said Jane.“I know that Leila’s dead.Mr.Danko told me.”“Marvelous,” muttered Folly.“Just marvelous.It would have been nice to have been aware of this little tidbit when I spoke to Mr.Mannerback this morning.And what the hell is going on with you now? Why are you threatening emergency operators?”“When I came back to my apartment, there was a woman there.We had a fight.”“So I hear [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]