Read Online The Faceless One by Mark Onspaugh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Onspaugh
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2003.
His assistant, Theresa Feldman, was just eating her lunch when he entered. She was a small woman with fair skin and curly hair, well into her forties but with a girlish spray of freckles across her nose.
Theresa smiled as Purcival entered, and he smiled back.
“Mr. Breckforth wants to meet at three on the Hoeniger litigation.”
“Tell him I’ll need to push that back. I have to take care of some items from Daniel Slater’s estate.”
Theresa looked at him with sympathy and regret. “Mr. Breckforth seemed quite emphatic.”
Purcival felt the weight of the briefcase in his hand. “Fine, tell him I’ll be in his office at three.”
Purcival went into his office and closed the antique mahogany door. The door had been salvaged from a mansion in Virginia—each partner had one, a mark of prestige and wealth—it closed with a comforting and ponderous click behind him.
I’m safe
.
The thought struck him as odd for just a second, then he was anxious to see his acquisition.
His office was large and tastefully furnished without being ostentatious. There was a small Hockney entitled
Pool 2
over the leather sofa and a series of studies by Seurat along one wall. The wall behind his desk was made entirely of glass, giving him a magnificent view.
Purcival surveyed the office, trying to decide where best to display the mask. It seemed to him that hanging it opposite the desk would give him the best view of it. It would mean moving the Hockney, but he could either put that above the small bar or take it home. He placed the briefcase on a small conference table surrounded by four chairs that matched the couch.
That left the mask itself.
He placed it, still wrapped in suede, on the empty portion of the conference table. Gingerly, he unwrapped it, anxious to see it again.
The mask felt cool in his hands, and its weight was comforting, like the heft of a well-balanced knife or elegant decanter.
He turned it over to see how he might hang it.
There was no cord or band for securing the mask to someone’s face. Indeed, there were no holes or eyelets to accommodate such a cord. He couldn’t drill holes into it; he might split the wood or loosen the inlaid tiles of ivory and mother-of-pearl.
He turned the mask over and looked at it, thinking.
His wife had bought several collectible plates when they were still in college. They were fairly abysmal, and she had donated them to charity years ago, but he remembered that she had displayed them with a plate hanger, a device comprised of long springs and hooked brackets for mounting round objects. Something like that, if large enough, would work.
He looked at his watch. It was just after noon. He had plenty of time to go out, find a plate hanger, hang the mask, and make his meeting with Breckforth.
Purcival placed the mask gently on his desk, using the suede wrapping as a cushion torest it on. He started out, noticed the items for Steven Slater, and called to Theresa as he left the office.
“Theresa, I’m going out for lunch and to run a couple of errands. There is a stack of documents and some other items on the conference table. Please send those out to Steven Slater in California. His address is in the Slater file.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Purcival.”
“I’ll be back by two at the latest.”
“Have a nice lunch.”
As he started for the elevator, he wondered if maybe he should go back and hide the mask. But that was silly. Theresa had worked for him for ten years. She and everyone in the firm were above reproach. Besides, he was going to have the thing on open display, wasn’t he?
Chuckling at his own foolishness, Jackson Purcival went in search of a plate hanger.
* * *
Theresa finished her lunch at 12:45. She glanced at her watch and decided she’d better pack up the documents Mr. Purcival had mentioned for the 2:00 pickup. Mr. Purcival was an ideal boss, one she had called a “real mensch.” He never gave her grief when things were stressful at the firm
His assistant, Theresa Feldman, was just eating her lunch when he entered. She was a small woman with fair skin and curly hair, well into her forties but with a girlish spray of freckles across her nose.
Theresa smiled as Purcival entered, and he smiled back.
“Mr. Breckforth wants to meet at three on the Hoeniger litigation.”
“Tell him I’ll need to push that back. I have to take care of some items from Daniel Slater’s estate.”
Theresa looked at him with sympathy and regret. “Mr. Breckforth seemed quite emphatic.”
Purcival felt the weight of the briefcase in his hand. “Fine, tell him I’ll be in his office at three.”
Purcival went into his office and closed the antique mahogany door. The door had been salvaged from a mansion in Virginia—each partner had one, a mark of prestige and wealth—it closed with a comforting and ponderous click behind him.
I’m safe
.
The thought struck him as odd for just a second, then he was anxious to see his acquisition.
His office was large and tastefully furnished without being ostentatious. There was a small Hockney entitled
Pool 2
over the leather sofa and a series of studies by Seurat along one wall. The wall behind his desk was made entirely of glass, giving him a magnificent view.
Purcival surveyed the office, trying to decide where best to display the mask. It seemed to him that hanging it opposite the desk would give him the best view of it. It would mean moving the Hockney, but he could either put that above the small bar or take it home. He placed the briefcase on a small conference table surrounded by four chairs that matched the couch.
That left the mask itself.
He placed it, still wrapped in suede, on the empty portion of the conference table. Gingerly, he unwrapped it, anxious to see it again.
The mask felt cool in his hands, and its weight was comforting, like the heft of a well-balanced knife or elegant decanter.
He turned it over to see how he might hang it.
There was no cord or band for securing the mask to someone’s face. Indeed, there were no holes or eyelets to accommodate such a cord. He couldn’t drill holes into it; he might split the wood or loosen the inlaid tiles of ivory and mother-of-pearl.
He turned the mask over and looked at it, thinking.
His wife had bought several collectible plates when they were still in college. They were fairly abysmal, and she had donated them to charity years ago, but he remembered that she had displayed them with a plate hanger, a device comprised of long springs and hooked brackets for mounting round objects. Something like that, if large enough, would work.
He looked at his watch. It was just after noon. He had plenty of time to go out, find a plate hanger, hang the mask, and make his meeting with Breckforth.
Purcival placed the mask gently on his desk, using the suede wrapping as a cushion torest it on. He started out, noticed the items for Steven Slater, and called to Theresa as he left the office.
“Theresa, I’m going out for lunch and to run a couple of errands. There is a stack of documents and some other items on the conference table. Please send those out to Steven Slater in California. His address is in the Slater file.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Purcival.”
“I’ll be back by two at the latest.”
“Have a nice lunch.”
As he started for the elevator, he wondered if maybe he should go back and hide the mask. But that was silly. Theresa had worked for him for ten years. She and everyone in the firm were above reproach. Besides, he was going to have the thing on open display, wasn’t he?
Chuckling at his own foolishness, Jackson Purcival went in search of a plate hanger.
* * *
Theresa finished her lunch at 12:45. She glanced at her watch and decided she’d better pack up the documents Mr. Purcival had mentioned for the 2:00 pickup. Mr. Purcival was an ideal boss, one she had called a “real mensch.” He never gave her grief when things were stressful at the firm
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