CHAPTER 1

Corrie Haynes touched bumpers with Tom Edsel’s station wagon to

give herself maximum clearance from the hydrant, got out and locked up.
Maybe Pat Murphy wouldn’t tag her, or maybe she could sweet-talk him
out of it. Anyway, what was a girl to do when the staff of the New
Hampton Chronicle filled the street as well as the parking lot with their
cars?
She went through the side door of the brick and stone Chronicle
Building and waved at the press gang when she took the big elevator to
the newsroom floor. Her desk was in a fenced-off segment labeled CITY
NEWS that held four other desks, file cabinets, a water cooler, coffeepot,
and a clothes tree. An aisle beside it ran past other sections to the editor s
office at the end. Mike McManus was the name of the city editor and he
fancied himself a member of the old school. Corrie thought he was too,
including his name. All city editors should be called Mike.
She went around the fence to her desk. Bob Fessel and Ken Stabler
were roaring over a joke at the coffeepot but cooled it when she appeared.
She hung her coat on the tree and dropped her notebook on her desk.
“You don’t have to stop,” she said. “I’m a big girl.”
They broke it up anyway and Bob sat down with his paper cup at the
desk nearest hers. “How was the Halloween party for the elderly?"
She made a face at him. “Lovely," she said. “It was so good I’m asking
Mike to let you cover the Thanksgiving one."
“You're all heart, kid," Fessel answered. “Yes, sir, heart and brains."
 She noticed that the heart he was looking at was her well-shaped
bosom. That was the way it always was. A girl could become a newspaper
reporter and she might get good enough and accepted enough to think of
herself as one of the boys. But they never thought of her that way. The
boys looked at her bust more than her face and, regardless of the
conversation, one part of their minds would be wondering what she
looked like underneath her clothes and what fun it would be if she
showed them. Well, it wasn’t her fault she was so well endowed, and she
wasn’t sorry either. Maybe it was hard to make it as one of the boys, but if
she had to be a flat-chested hag to succeed, she wanted no part of it,
women’s lib notwithstanding.
But she did wish Mike would give her demanding assignments. The
only choice bits that came her way was when nobody else was available.
Like that gory three-car turnpike collision with four smashed bodies and
five bloody survivors. Mike had hated to let her go on that one, but she
hadn’t vomited or fainted. She’d clenched her teeth and fought her way
through the whole thing. That should have separated the men from the
boys, but here she was, back covering the city’s Halloween party for the
elderly. She grimaced at her notes and started pounding out the story.
Mitch Rennie came by as she pulled the copy from the carriage. He was
on the sports desk across the aisle and he had two tickets for the fight.
Did she want to go?
Corrie wasn’t that crazy about fights, but it was another of those events
men liked and if it’d been Bill Clayton or Steve Nucks, she’d have said yes.
But Mitch was another of those who could hardly lift his eyes above her
bra. She’d gone to a wrestling match with him her first week on the
Chronicle and ended up in a wrestling match herself. It’d cost her a couple
of bad bruises and a tom dress. So much for being one of the boys. And it
turned out Mitch Rennie had a wife. Well, you live and learn.
He'd been trying to make it up to her ever since—the old “I didn't
know you girls cared about chastity any more. If I had dreamed—'' Like
hell.
“Thanks, Mitch, but no thanks.”
“When are you going to give me another chance?”
“Why don't you take your wife?”
“You know Helen doesn't go in for sports.”
Corrie felt like saying, “Have you ever asked her?” but it wasn't her
business. She shook her head. “Look, I'm not going to get involved. It's a
great fight, I'm sure, but it's not worth it.”
 He gave up and went into the sports section. Mitch was really a
colorful guy and she enjoyed him as a fellow reporter. If only he'd stop
trying to make it more than that Bob Fessel said, “Hey, Mitch, if Corrie
doesn't want it, I'll take that extra ticket.”
Rennie said, “I'm not that hard up yet.” He was grinning, but he was
mad.
Corrie stuck her story on the spindle for the copyboy and headed down
the aisle to Mike's office. High school kids could write up Halloween
parties as well as she could. She was never going anywhere if she didn’t
get off that beat. She turned the knob to the pebbled-glass door that said
“City Editor” and walked in before she could think better of it.
The office was small and all that gave it status was its cheap fiberboard
and pebbled-glass partitions, which provided a semblance of privacy and
lessened the noise a little. There was a desk for Mike with enough clean
space on it to mark up copy, a chair for the desk, and another desk and
chair for a nonexistent assistant editor, both piled high with stuff Mike
didn't know what to do with, plus one battered straight chair for
important visitors—the kind who should be offered a seat. Three of the
walls were of green-painted fiberboard with frosted glass topping, held in
place by two-by-four supports, the middle one containing the door. The
fourth wall, behind the desk, was the back of the building with a window
overlooking the parking lot, all but the window covered with fiberboard
panels on which were thumbtacked whatever had caught the fancy of
Mike McManus. These included anything from witless poems to cartoons
about editors, to gatefold nudes, to curators standing in the gape of the
fossilized jawbones of prehistoric sharks.
Mike was on the phone. Mike was always on the phone. That was the
trouble. You went to Mike with a pitch, or a complaint, or an idea, and
either he was on the phone or he got on the phone. Either way, the visitor
was left with time to rethink his case, to lose his momentum, to lose his
nerve. Many visitors left without explaining their purpose, never to bring
it up again which, to Mike’s mind, was just as well. Mike was always there,
always approachable, and he almost never said no, but it was awfully hard
to have your way with him.
And there he was on that damned phone just when Corrie had worked
up her nerve. Well, she wasn’t going to lose it. She sat down in the
straight-backed chair and looked at the thumbtacked items on the
fiberboard behind him. All she had to do was keep thinking about the
Halloween party to stay steamed up. She had seniority on Bruce Napier.
Let him do the kid stuff.
Mike, swinging his chair the quarter-turn between giving Corrie a
profile and a full back view, finally swung around full front and put the
phone back in the cradle. Corrie said, “Listen, Mike,” but he waved her to
silence, dragged over a pad and wrote a note to himself. He was stocky,
white-haired, and a tiger. He chucked the pencil aside, clasped his hands
behind his head and tilted back his chair. “How the hell many girls do we
have on our staff, kitten?” he asked disarmingly.
“Six.”
“Six. And you’re the most gorgeous of the lot You light up the whole
office.”
He was giving her the full once-over but his attention lingered most
where everybody else’s attention lingered. Very flattering, but that wasn’t
what she was all about. And it was he who had sent her to that Halloween
party. “Thanks,” she said, “but that has nothing to do with being a
reporter.”
“Of course it does. It’s your charm and looks and manner that puts you
across in any gathering. People talk to you. People want to talk to you.
Hell, if I had the time, I could spend all day talking to you.”
“You mean looking at me.”
He sat forward and spread his hands. “That's just what I mean.
Anybody with your looks—people are going to open up to you just to
keep you around. That's the art of being a woman."
“Then from now on you’d better send a man to the city's parties for the
elderly because most of the elderly in this city are women."
“And nobody understands a woman better than another woman."
“Mike, any kid can cover half the assignments you give me. You’re
wasting my talents and the paper's money—unless you don't think I’ve
got any talent."
Mike laughed chidingly. “Of course you've got talent—as you damned
well know. And you also know I'm not so dumb I don’t know it too."
“Then what are you giving me Halloween parties for the elderly for?
Why don’t you give them to somebody like Bruce?"
“Because the mayor was going to be there and the mayor likes you. He
asked me personally to have you cover the party."
Corrie wasn't flattered at all. Typical McManus soft soap. “If he likes
me so much, why is Bob Fessel covering city hall?"
 Mike McManus sighed with regret. “Seniority," he said. “He knows the
whole picture."
Corrie knew he did and she wasn’t seriously asking. But she had to get
out of her rut. “How about police reporting, Mike? I can spell Ken. It's too
much for one man."
“Yes, yes, we can think about that." Mike leaned forward and pushed at
some of the papers on his desk. “I'll tell you one job I want from you," he
said. “You want to be challenged? Well, this will challenge you. Let's see
how you handle it." He couldn't find what he was looking for and sat
back.
Corrie waited. Then she said, “What do I do?"
“Go to the hospital and interview Jefferson Wainwright."
“Who's Jefferson Wainwright?"
“A patient there, of course. Godalmighty, don't you know who
Jefferson Wainwright is and why he’s there? Don't you read the papers?"
He was conning her, the creep. “No, I don’t know who Jefferson
Wainwright is. I've never heard of him."
“Explorer, adventurer. Disappeared two years ago in the Amazon
jungles. Was supposed to be dead?”
She shook her head.
“Was found alive six months ago. White god of the tribe. Just came
back to the States. His family lives only twenty miles from here, over in
Fairport or Barnstable.”
“I think I did read something about that.”
“You should have. We ran a syndicated feature on him when he arrived
in Miami. You ought to be up on these things. He's a local celebrity.”
“But if you've already run a feature, what. . . ?”
“Because Jefferson Wainwright came to visit his family last week and
Friday night drove his car off a cliff up in a little town named Loftus and
he is now in the intensive care unit of our local hospital, badly burned,
badly injured, and in danger of losing what has been, up till now, a
charmed life.”
Corrie was sitting straighter. “And you want an interview?” “While he
lasts. That's right. I told Max to get to him over the weekend but they
aren't letting anybody but close relatives see him. At least that's the
excuse Max gives me for failing to carry out the assignment”
“Excuse?” Corrie was loyal. “He tried to see him.”
“He didn't try,” Mike snapped. “That's my complaint against these
modern-day, effete, unimaginative newspapermen. They don’t go after
stories, they only knock on doors and politely ask for interviews and if the
other person says no, they tip their hats and say, ‘Perhaps another time,'
and they go away and then tell the editor they failed. When I was a young
reporter and I went out on a story, damn it, I came back with the story. I
came back with it whether the guy wanted to give it to me or not I didn't
just push buttons, I did things. I played telephone repairman, salesman,
even a shoeshine boy. One time, believe it or not, I dressed up as a hotel
maid to get to a visiting general who wouldn't grant interviews. We
scooped every paper in town with that one. Another time I was hiding
under a bed when a couple of crooks were planning a kidnapping. You get
what I’m talking about? I didn't just sit still, I used my imagination! Not
like Max. He hasn't got any imagination.”
Mike focused on Corrie again. “So maybe that's your good luck, kitten.
You think you're a great big enterprising reporter who's being kept under
wraps? You want to show what you can do? All right, let's see you get that
interview."
 CHAPTER 2

She'd asked for it, Corrie thought to herself as she left Mike's office.
She wanted tough assignments and that's what Mike had given her. A guy
was critical—maybe dying—and Mike wanted her to interview him. Max
Sternchuss could have done it, if the hospital had let him. Jefferson
Wainwright could die under the grilling and Max would write a progress
report. All Corrie could wish was that the poor man be left alone, either to
live or die. Reporters shouldn't harass a critical patient to get a headline.
Except that was why Mike had given her the job. He knew she'd quit
on it. Then let her complain about covering Halloween parties and taffy
pulls.
So Mike didn't think she had the guts? If she didn't, she'd damned well
grow some.
Background was the first step and Corrie went straight for the morgue
files in the basement. It was a vast area with shelves upon shelves filled
with large folders, boxes, and other containers. The Chronicle files were
supposed to be kept up to date, with all items pasted into the giant
scrapbooks according to subject matter. However, pasting wasn't one of
the high-priority items and the file room was understaffed. The scissoring
was up to the minute, but the pasting was years in arrears and loose
articles and stories grew yellow in boxes and envelopes.
Maude Higgins was the head of files and had her desk inside the door.
She was plump and matronly and had been nicknamed “the Dragon Lady”
so many years before that nobody was left who had the faintest idea why.
“Down at the far corner, dearie,” she said to Corrie, pointing. “That’s
where the W’s are.”
Corrie followed directions and had no trouble. Clippings on people
named Wainwright were in a shoebox and most were about General
Jonathan Mayhew, 1883-1953. There were a number of other Wainwrights,
however, their items in thin envelopes with penciled identification: Elliot,
Patricia, Garth and Lucia. Jefferson’s envelope was the bulky one and
Corrie emptied it on a neighboring table, arranging the clippings in
chronological order.
Jeff’s parents (details under Garth and Lucia) were killed in an
automobile accident thirteen years before, when Jefferson was twelve and
his twin siblings, Elliot and Patricia, were nine. His bachelor uncle,
Richard Wainwright, who was associate professor of art at New Hampton
University, would oversee the rearing of the children.
Jeff next made news four years later when an oceanographic ship, with
a number of summer students aboard, went down in the Gulf of Mexico.
Jefferson was found, barely alive, floating on a raft twenty-one days later.
The bodies of four who didn’t make it were on the raft with him.
The experience didn’t daunt him and there were mountain climbing
expeditions in various parts of the world thereafter, including an ill-fated
attempt in the Alps in which two were killed by an avalanche. His
mountain-climbing career culminated with an unsuccessful assault upon
one of the still unconquered Himalayan peaks. Jefferson was the youngest
member of an international team which was turned back by storms and
disasters and the loss of three men.
At the age of twenty, as part of a university project, he was on an
archaeological expedition in Central America that was plagued by death
and disease and he spent two years after college digging in the Middle
East with a scientific expedition seeking evidences of Noah’s Ark.
From there, it was halfway around the world to an ark of his own. He
and three other young men were crew on a large raft experimenting on
primitive South Pacific voyages of colonization. The raft, however,
smashed on a reef and Jeff and the expedition leader, lashing themselves
to logs, were the only ones to survive.
Then there was the plane trip to the Amazon jungles with a party of
five to study the savages. When the group, sponsored by the National
Geographic Association, the U. S. Geographic Society and the Society for
the Study of Alien Cultures, had not been heard from in two months,
rescue parties moved into the area. The plane and its equipment was
found safely landed but battered and beaten by clubs, spears and arrows.
Part of a skeleton was found and there were stories of natives wearing
clothing that came from the flying devils in order to chase away spirits,
but nothing was ever learned about the fate of the group. It was assumed
that all had been lost
Until twenty-two months later, when Jefferson Wainwright stumbled
into a missionary post, starving, insect-ridden and delirious with fever,
telling tales of captivity by a cannibal tribe which had devoured the
others, but had kept him to be their god. The missionaries, a family
named Davidson, with the help of friendly natives, nursed him back to
health and returned him to the outposts of civilization where, little more
than a month ago, he had flown back to the United States. His trip north
from Miami had been a succession of meetings with his sponsors, other
scientific and exploration groups, as well as editors and publishers, all
seeking information, lectures, articles and books. His experiences were
regarded of vital importance to the understanding of primitive cultures.
Alas, Jefferson Wainwright, having endured all manner of natural
calamities, now fell prey to one of the commonest catastrophes produced
by civilization. Home to visit his family at Hampton House in Fairport for
a few days, he ran his car off a cliff near the family summer lodge in the
small upstate town of Loftus. The accident should have killed him three
times over but, miraculously, he was still alive, although, according to
reports, he had suffered third-degree bums over 70 per cent of his body,
had two broken legs, one broken shoulder and internal injuries of
uncertain extent. Though the accident happened eighty miles away he
was presently in New Hampton Hospital with its specialists on burns,
where his condition was listed as critical.
So much for the background. Now she had to conduct an interview.
Corrie gritted her teeth, returned the cardboard box to the shelf and
walked out.
At her desk she called the hospital and asked for a progress report on
Jefferson Wainwright. A nurse replied that he was resting comfortably.
That said nothing.
“Can you tell me the extent of his injuries?”
“I'm sorry, you would have to speak to Dr. Michaelson.”
Dr. Michaelson, however, wasn’t there.
On the subject of visitors, Max had been accurate. Only the immediate
family.
How about someone from the press? Sorry, there can be no exceptions.
“Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome, I’m sure.”
 CHAPTER 3

At four-thirty that afternoon, Corrie Haynes, wearing a white nurse's

uniform under her coat and carrying a paper bag, took the visitors'
elevator to the eighth floor of the hospital and, in the ladies' room off the
elevator hall, changed into a pair of white shoes and stockings and
fastened a small nurse's cap to her well-kept hair. She might not be
dressing as a hotel maid, but she was borrowing a page from Mike
McManus' book. She was thorough, too. Everything had been purchased
at a nearby hospital supply store and it was all hospital authentic.
She crossed the hallway to the visitors' waiting room, hung her coat on
a tree there and put the bag containing her stockings and shoes beside it.
She had found out Jefferson Wainwright's room number from the
reception desk in the lobby and the hospital maps there had told her
where it was.
She pushed open the swinging door from the elevator hall into the
intensive care unit wide enough to see that the two nurses behind the
adjacent counter weren't ready to pounce, then she walked through and,
keeping her eyes front and her steps steady, stalked briskly past the
counter and down one of the polished, branching halls. Nobody called
her, nobody did anything, and she didn't look back.
Wainwright's room was just past the midpoint and she opened the
noiseless swinging door and slipped inside. Well done, she thought, but
got a start when she turned. The patient was facing her, his arms and
head, except for his mouth and chin, swathed in bandages. But he was not
alone. Beside him, his back to Corrie, his bedside manner fitting perfectly,
was his attending doctor. The doctor was making soothing sounds as he
poured a glass of water from a carafe, plucked a packet from the
misshapen pocket of his tweed jacket, and deftly poured its powdery
contents in with the water.
“Here you are,” he said and held the glass for the patient to sip. “Drink
it all.”
 Corrie held her breath. She didn't want the man in the tweed jacket to
know she was there and she was afraid to move. But now poor Mr.
Wainwright was sipping and gulping and the doctor's attention was
totally on him. Corrie pushed the door ajar and backed out unnoticed.
Damn the luck. She had thought she was home free. Now she had to
do it all over again and those nurses, back at the counter, would wonder
who she was.
Maybe not! Corrie walked briskly farther up the hall looking at name
tags. Ha! There was a room on the opposite side with no names in any of
the four marker slots. She opened the door and peeked. The beds were
empty. She slipped inside and, by holding the door ajar, could look down
the hall at the main desk and watch the door to Wainwright's room. All
she need do now was wait until the doctor ... It suddenly dawned on her.
That couldn't be a doctor. Doctors on duty wear white smocks, not tweed
jackets. The man inside must be a close relative then—Uncle Richard
Wainwright judging by the graying hair. It was the family mentor in there
with Jefferson. Corrie was glad indeed she hadn't been seen.

The wait was a short one. In no time the door to Jefferson

Wainwright's room opened and the man in the tweed jacket stepped out,
carrying an overcoat and hat. His back was to her, his graying hair long on
his neck, full and shaped. She caught a glimpse of beard and wire
spectacles before he started down the hall.
Corrie waited till he was gone from sight and the guardian nurses
otherwise involved before she ventured from her haven and re-entered
Jefferson Wainwright’s quarters.
It was another four-patient room, but kept as a private suite. The
Wainwright millions could afford the luxury of separation. Nevertheless,
her heart went out to the poor man lying quietly in the bed. The millions
were of little help to him. He was so covered with bandages, splints, casts,
and traction that only his exposed fingertips, mouth, and stubbly chin
gave evidence that a human being lay beneath.
He looked asleep and Corrie felt guilty at disturbing him, but he’d had
a visitor so his condition couldn’t be too critical. She detoured to the far
side of the bed so that, unlike the other visitor, she could see the door.
The pathetic patient breathed heavily but was otherwise motionless.
“Mr. Wainwright?”
He didn’t answer.
 She raised her voice a little and touched his unbroken shoulder. “Mr.
Wainwright?”
This time he moved and, with an effort, grunted.
“How are you feeling?”
It was hard for him to talk. He strained to indicate the words, “All
right,” but they were almost unintelligible.
It was rotten, Corrie thought, Mike sending her on a job like this. The
man was heavily sedated and there was no way he could co-operate in a
worthwhile interview. All she could describe was his agony. Is that what
the paper wanted? Well, it wasn’t what she wanted.
“Can you talk at all?”
He spoke with an effort and the words were, “A little.”
“Was that your uncle who was just here?”
“Huh?” Again the exertion and the follow-up panting.
“Richard Wainwright? That was Richard Wainwright who was just
with you?”
“Huh.” It sounded as if he meant that it was.
She took his left hand in hers, feeling the half-exposed fingers. He
didn't wince so she wasn't hurting him. “Press my hand once for yes,
twice for no," she said.
“Wa-er."
“Did you say you want some water?"
“Uh."
She leaned close. “I can't understand you. Press my hand once if you
mean yes, you want some water."
He comprehended enough to press her hand. She was getting through
to him. She reached with her free hand for the glass and set it so she
could pour from the carafe. “Did you say it was Richard Wainwright who
was visiting you? Press once if you mean yes."
She got another press. Maybe she could work up an interview yet. She
poured the water. She thought of Richard Wainwright and the powder he
added. “What do I put in the water?"
“Uh?"
She untracked herself. “I mean, do I put something in the water?"
“Nuh."
She freed her hand and used both to guide the glass carefully to the
man's swollen lips. The lower half of his face had escaped burning but she
wondered about his eyes. Was he blind? “Your uncle put something in the
water," she said as he sipped.
 He stopped. “Huh?"
“Richard Wainwright," she said patiently. “He gave you some water. He
put something into it. Some medicine, I guess."
She fed him the water again, but he choked. “Whazza?"
She had wondered about it herself and she wanted young Wainwright
to know. “I'm saying he took a packet of powder out of his pocket and
poured it into your water.”
His response was immediate. He became extremely agitated, so much
so that his unbroken arm knocked the glass from her hand before she
could pull it back. His words were a jumble that told her nothing. Then
he controlled himself. “Muz—muz." The bandaged arm moved, groping
for her.
“Yes," she answered quickly. “I'm here." She gently took his hand in
both of hers.
"Save,” the man said thickly, pleadingly. “Save.” He nodded, trying to
make her understand.
“Save?” she said uncertainly.
He shook his head. “In house. Mur—murna. Room—murer. He's got it.
Save.”
“Yes,” she said. “In a-in a safe?”
He nodded vigorously. “Eszz. Murer. Room, murer.”
“Behind a mirror?”
“Nnh. Room. Mur—room.”
“Yes. A room in the house? With a mirror?”
“Murh. Room.” He leaned back, exhausted, but his teeth were
clenched. “Save,” he whispered weakly. “Get me.” He panted. “Get him.”
He was spent and his head lolled against the pillows. Corrie bent over
him. “Are you all right? Do you want a doctor?”
“Prease,” he said. Then he said, “Murer room.”
The man was troubled. He seemed to want help. Corrie took hold of
his bandaged hand and leaned close. “I’ll get someone,” she said and
tucked her notebook into her pocket.
She left him there and hurried down the hall. Interviewing was useless
anyway. She could not draw from him an in-depth analysis of what made
him the driven adventurer he was. She couldn’t even find out how he’d
managed to drive off a cliff. All she could write about was the array of
bandages, the casts, and the legs in traction. It would have to be a piece
about the fallen hero, now a helpless being under sedation, the great
white god on a bedpan.
 “Patient in 811 is calling for the doctor,” she reported to the head nurse
and slipped out into the elevator hall and visitors’ room to throw on her
coat and gather her things.
 CHAPTER 4

It was hard work developing a two thousand-word story out of a

moment's interview with an all but inarticulate, totally helpless subject,
and Corrie Haynes labored well into the night on it in her small
apartment. The outcome was a blending of the background material she
had picked out of the shoebox with the present aroma of hospitals and
the pitiful, white-swathed creature who had lain before her. She
contrasted the stalwart, strong-jawed man that even poor-quality
newspaper reproductions could not conceal with the prone, enfeebled
figure on the hospital bed with its strength of jaw diluted by the power of
pain and a thick growth of stubble. She relied heavily on the contents of
the shoebox, but her article couldn't have been written without an actual
visit to the hospital room and Mike McManus would know she had seen
the patient. It was almost as if she had smuggled in a camera and come
out with a picture.
She took it to his office the next morning to let him read it. This wasn't
news copy to be stuck on the outgoing spindle. This was for Mike to
approve of personally—perhaps for a feature in the Sunday magazine
section, which was bonus land. Interviewing hospital patients wouldn't be
so bad if she could make it into a Sunday feature.
For once Mike was not on the phone. He was at the desk editing copy
with his lightning-quick eyes and equally rapid blue pencil. He glanced up
and said, “Yeah?” as if he’d never seen her before. That was Mike. Like as
not he’d forgotten he’d given her the assignment.
She held it out to him. “My story.”
He took it and skimmed the first two pages, making only one
correction. “Yeah, all right,” he said and tossed it back at her.
“You didn’t finish it.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s canceled.”
“Canceled?” She was outraged. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. Nothing. It’s a great story. But we can’t use it any more. It’s
passé. It’s history.”
 “What do you mean? I just talked to him. I got the interview—”
“Yeah, but he died last night. Now if you want to rewrite that into a
three-paragraph obit—”
Like hell she was going to rewrite it. She snatched the sheets up and
stalked out of the office. Throw out all that effort and go do a
“Parents—who; Did—what; Born—when; School—where; Died— how;
Left—whom?” Not on Mike’s life. Let somebody else do the obit.
Halfway to her desk it hit her. The guy was dead!
He was alive when she saw him less than eighteen hours ago. He was
in distress and pain and he was upset, but he was alive and alert when she
left him. Thank God she hadn’t tried to pry more information out of him.
It must have been serious.
She sat down heavily at her desk. Bob Fessel, dragging deeply on his
cigarette, was beating out copy. Half a dozen other typewriters were
chattering, but Corrie never noticed. Newspapermen could write stories
under any conditions short of an actual earthquake and she was one of
them, even if she had her doubts.
What was dawning on her was that Jefferson Wainwright was dead. He
had actually died!
It seemed funny somehow.
Those files on him—they were full of death and threats of death. Yet
he was the lone survivor when that research ship went down. In the Alps,
two others were killed by the avalanche, but not him. Three died in the
Himalaya failure, but he was unharmed. Then the archaeology digs: some
had died of disease, but not Jefferson Wainwright. He didn’t even get sick.
Then there was the fatal raft voyage. Two survived—the captain and Jeff.
And the most recent experience: that trek to the wilds of the Amazon and
the unknown tribes that inhabited the dense inner jungles. Everybody
else had been killed in that attempt and Jefferson himself had long been
given up for dead. Yet he still had come through. Sick and emaciated, but
still alive, he had worked his way back to civilization.
The indestructible Mr. Wainwright! More lives than a cat!
Then he returns to the States, and the safety of home and family, only
to crash his automobile and kill himself in the most prosaic form of death
modem man has devised for himself.
The irony of ironies. It seemed wrong, somehow. It was too inelegant.
Maybe heroes did die of infected hangnails, but it wasn’t proper.
And Jefferson Wainwright was supposed to be improving. He was still
serious, but no longer critical. He didn’t have nurses with him around the
clock, or doctors on a standby status. He could have his relatives visit
him. He was well enough for that. And with the money his family had,
wouldn’t there have been a round- the-clock nurse watching him breathe?
And what about his uncle, Richard Wainwright, the man in the tweed
jacket who dumped the contents of a packet into the glass of water he fed
his nephew?
The unbidden thought came forward. Could man have done what
nature could not? Could Jefferson Wainwright’s death have been
unnatural? It was a ridiculous idea. Just because a non-doctor fed a
patient some whitish powder and the patient died didn’t mean murder.
And the non-doctor was Richard Wainwright, whose credentials were
impeccable. She must be losing her marbles even to think of such a thing.
Corrie called the hospital and asked for Dr. Michaelson. It was the
press, she explained, wanting to speak to him about the death of Jefferson
Wainwright.
The word “press” had magic powers and Dr. Michaelson did come to
the phone and did answer politely. He confirmed that yes,
Jefferson Wainwright had died. It was at eleven twenty-six the previous
evening, and the death was supposed to have been reported to the
newspapers. Had there been a mix-up?
No, no, the report had come through. The press was seeking additional
information. For example, what was the cause of death?
Dr. Michaelson had a ready answer. It was the result of his injuries.
But the latest information from the hospital was that Mr. Wainwright
was gaining strength.
Michaelson explained it. Mr. Wainwright had suffered a relapse late in
the afternoon. He was put in an oxygen tent, he was worked on by a team
of doctors. He was given stimulants, heart massage, everything possible. It
was to no avail. He had lapsed into a coma at nine-fifteen and died two
hours thereafter.
“Can you be specific as to which particular injuries were the cause of
his death?”
Dr. Michaelson could not. The medical opinion was that it was the
cumulative effect of burns and injuries. Perhaps his body had not
completely recovered from the illness and disease he had suffered in the
Amazon. In any case, his death was not unexpected.
“You will be conducting an autopsy, I suppose. “I’ll be most interested
to learn the exact cause of death.”
“I’m sorry,” Michaelson said coldly. “There will be no autopsy.”
 “No autopsy?” Corrie was using the power of the press. She put
surprise in her voice as if no sane man would let Jefferson Wainwright go
to his grave without a precise determination as to what had sent him
there.
Dr. Michaelson was not impressed. “No autopsy,” he repeated firmly.
“May I ask why not?”
“His family is not interested in having an autopsy performed and
neither, I might add, is the hospital.”
Corrie sputtered a little. “But I would think-—”
“You may think what you wish, but there will be no autopsy.”
“Doctor, I would think that when a man seemed to be improving and
then, suddenly—”
Corrie was from the Chronicle and one did not deliberately antagonize
the press, no matter how irksome and prying the press might be. Dr.
Michaelson was just able to remind himself of the fact, and kept his
self-control. “Miss Haynes, I appreciate your interest, but you must
recognize that the hospital has neither the space nor the staff to autopsy
everyone who dies. If the family wished an autopsy and were willing to
pay for it, I'm sure one would be conducted. The family has not expressed
such a wish. In fact, the family has expressed just the opposite. The body,
meanwhile, has been released to the family and is being prepared for
burial by a funeral home of their choosing. If you have any further
questions, I suggest you contact the family.”
That was that.
Corrie hung up the phone, tilted back her chair and stared glumly at
her desk top. If she hadn't seen the old man put that powder in the water,
she'd buy it herself. But what the hell had he been doing? It wasn't
something Jefferson knew about for he couldn't see. He drank the water
without realizing there was anything in it. In fact, he had become
extremely upset when she told him there was. He talked about saving
or—safe? A bedroom safe perhaps? He seemed to be trying to get her to
help him. And a doctor. He wanted the doctor right away.
It made one wonder. What Uncle Richard had put in the water wasn’t
hospital medicine. It was something Uncle Richard had brought in from
outside. It was something the hospital didn't know Mr. Wainwright had
ingested. If they'd taken a stomach pump to him would he still be alive? If
they did an autopsy on his body would they find poison in his system?
But it was his uncle. It wasn't some enemy. Wasn't she getting
melodramatic? After all, hers was not to reason why.
 But she had done a nice story on Wainwright. It should have seen the
light of print. It's too bad Wainwright picked that particular time to die.
That particular time.
It nagged at her. She tried to concentrate on other things. The
newspaper housecleaning had to be done—organizing all those items
about church bazaars and meeting notices, editing stories that people had
submitted about affairs the press hadn't covered. It was more of that stuff
she was stuck with, more of the bits and pieces that were dumped in her
lap because she was a woman. Bob and Ken seldom got caught with that
garbage. Tom Edsel never did. He was almost always off on a story. And if
he wasn’t, he made damned well sure he was about to go on one if the
chores came in. Woman’s role again.
But why did Uncle Richard put something in Jefferson Wainwright’s
glass and not tell him? If she had been a male reporter and said, “What do
you mean you aren’t planning to do an autopsy?” would that have made a
difference?
She pushed her papers aside. Quite obviously she was going to
have no peace until her mind was set at rest. She got up and
headed down the aisle back to Mike’s office.
 CHAPTER 5

Mike was on the phone when she entered, and twice thereafter, but in
between he listened with a poker face while she told about Uncle
Richard's powder, Jefferson’s distress, and her own upset at the hospital
refusal to do an autopsy. The telling made Corrie feel foolish, but Mike
listened attentively.
When she was through, Mike spoke. “Did you tell Dr. Michael- son
what you saw?”
“No.”
“Then why would you expect the hospital to do an autopsy? They don’t
know there’s anything in Jeff’s system that they didn’t put there.”
“I thought—I thought they’d be curious as to why he died, since he
seemed to be recovering.”
“Obviously they aren’t curious. And even if they were, I doubt that
they could do anything against the family’s wishes.”
At least Mike wasn’t scoffing at her. He might even believe there had
been dirty work at the crossroads. She was becoming convinced herself.
“And that’s suspicious right there,” she exclaimed.
“Why is it?”
Of course it wasn’t, really. Plenty of families didn’t want autopsies.
“Anyway,” she answered, “I think it’s vital that they do one.”
Mike smiled at her, finally. “Is that so? And who’s going to make
them?”
She paused. “Well, maybe you—the newspaper—?”
Mike laughed. “Why would the newspaper get into it?”
“Because—because—I think a man may have been murdered.” Mike was
still amused. “Because you happened to see his doting uncle give him
some kind of powder? Do you have any motive for Jefferson’s close
relative, who’s raised him from boyhood, to slip him poison? Are you
prepared to go to the police about it? They’d be the ones to insist on the
autopsy, you know. They’re the ones you’re going to have to convince.”
 Mike took another phone call, listened at length and made comments,
then authorized the use of a photographer. He hung up and smiled
benignly at Corrie again. “I don’t really think you’ve got a case there that’s
going to interest anybody. Nobody’s going to listen to you.”
“You listened.”
“That’s my business. That doesn’t mean I believe you.”
Corrie persisted grimly. “Look, he became alarmed when I told him his
uncle had slipped something into his drink. That’s when he started
talking about safes—”
“I thought you said he said ‘save.’ ”
“He was having difficulty mouthing words. I really believe he said
‘safe.’ And there’s one other thing. I think he knew he was going to die.”
“Oh?”
“After he talked about the safe and seemed so distraught, I asked him
if he’d like me to call a doctor. What he said was ‘prease.’ It sounded like
‘please,’ but I’ve been thinking about it and I’m convinced he wouldn’t say
‘prease’ for ‘please.’ If he was going to have trouble pronouncing the l, he
wouldn’t pronounce it at all. The way he’d say ‘please’ would be ‘peas.’ Or,
maybe, like baby talk, just plain ‘pea.’ ”
She leaned forward intently. “So what I think he was trying to say to
me was ‘priest.’ I asked him if I could get him a doctor but he knew it was
too late for a doctor to do anything for him. He knew his uncle had
poisoned him, that he didn’t have long to live, and so when I said ‘doctor’
he responded ‘priest.’ He was trying to say, ‘No, I don’t want a doctor, I
want a priest.’ ”
She thought she was onto something big, but then Mike said, “Was
Jefferson Wainwright a Catholic?” and she was helpless. His background
was Methodist.
“He might have been converted,” she answered lamely.
“So he might, but I don’t think that’s going to bring the police running
to your aid.”
He was putting her down, but Corrie fought back. “All right, damn it,
what do you think Jefferson’s sainted uncle was putting in his glass? Do
you have evidence that Richard couldn’t bear to have his nephew die?”
Mike only grinned and shook his head. “Me? No, I don’t have any
evidence about anything. I don’t know what he put into his nephew’s
water. It might very well have been poison. Jefferson was in pretty bad
shape; he probably never would have been right again. So maybe uncle
was practicing a little euthanasia. It’s done all the time.”
 Corrie’s pulses quickened. “You think, then, that there really could
have been a murder?”
“Unless you were seeing things, it very well might be.”
Excitement tingled Corrie’s spine. “What are we going to do about it,
Mike?”
Mike was ice-cold water. “Nothing.”
“But it might be murder.”
“Sure it might.”
“And you’re just going to sit there?”
“Of course I’m just going to sit here. What do you think I am, a
detective?”
“But the paper—if we could start something—”
Mike sat back. “Have you heard of the laws of libel, Corrie? If you
haven’t, the paper has, and to its sorrow. So maybe the old man really did
kill his nephew. What of it? It’s done all the time. More murders than not
get covered up.” He waved a quieting hand. “Now hold up, Miss Justice
Personified. So you haven’t been a reporter long enough to become
cynical. Well, here’s lesson one for cynicism. In this business you’re going
to see a lot of things happen that you won't like. You're going to see
people get away with things that you think they shouldn’t get away with,
but you're going to have to sit on the sidelines and watch because there
isn't a damned thing in the world you can do about it. And I'll tell you
something else. There's one thing you don't do—if you want to stay
healthy and if you want the paper to stay healthy—and that's point
fingers of suspicion at people without evidence. And I mean ironclad
evidence. And particularly, you don't point fingers at people in high
places. That's asking for it." He snapped his fingers at her. “Pay attention.
Do you have any evidence of wrong-doing in the death of Jefferson
Wainwright? Answer yes or no."
Corrie said, “No," in a small voice.
“Then forget it. Leave speculation to the fiction writers. You're a
reporter. Now get out of here and get reporting." He started
blue-penciling copy again.
Corrie rose, but paused. “I still think he killed him," she said.
“You have no evidence," Mike said without looking up.
“But if we investigated quietly—if we started to dig, we might come up
with some evidence."
Mike looked up sardonically. “You got somebody in mind who might
want to conduct a quiet investigation free of charge for this newspaper?"
 “I was thinking of our reporters. We have a staff and we might—you
know—"
Mike sat back and stared at Corrie as if for the first time. “I don't know
why I didn't think of it before," he said. “You've been wanting to get your
teeth into a story. You've been wanting a job that would really challenge
you. Well, now, this one is made to order. You think this guy Richard
Wainwright murdered his nephew Jefferson, right? Well, I agree with you.
No matter how I look at it, I can't come up with any reason why old
Richard would put anything into the water he feeds his blinded nephew
unless it was a poison. He thought nobody would know, but you opened
the door and you saw him. But he doesn't know you saw him. He thinks
he’s gotten away with murder. But you're onto him and you're going to
investigate him and you're going to come up with the crucial piece of
evidence that will bring him in for trial.” He grinned at her. “How does
that assignment grab you?”
He was pulling her leg and she knew it. He didn't believe there was a
murder. Mike never believed anything until it had been documented and
attested to by all the involved parties. That's what he was always saying:
“Check your sources. Don't take somebody's word for it. Go to the horse's
mouth. Verify everything. Because if you don't, you're never going to be a
reporter, you're only going to be a fool. And you damned well aren't going
to work on this newspaper.”
She looked at him levelly. “You don't believe a word of what you're
saying.”
“No,” he said, “but you believe it. You believe something funny's going
on, isn't that so?”
“That's what I've been trying to tell you.”
“And I'm trying to tell you, investigate it. See if something funny is and
has been going on.”
“But you were just telling me to leave it alone.”
“I was trying to tell you you can't tell the hospital to autopsy a body
because you suspect something. You've got to have evidence that poison
was administered before you can buck somebody like Richard
Wainwright. So, go and find the evidence. You want tough assignments
and you want to see justice done. There's an assignment. Let's see you
handle it.”
“How would I go about it?”
“Did Stanley ask his editor how to find Livingstone?”
 Her chin went up. “You're making fun of me. You don't think the uncle
did anything and you wouldn't care if he did. You're doing this to shut me
up, to get me out of your hair and to laugh at me behind my back.”
Mike threw up his hands. “For Christ's sake, will you stop acting like a
woman? You want to find out if a murder's been committed and I'm in
the market for a story. If you can get murder or anything else on the old
son of a bitch, you’ll get banner headlines on the front page over your
own byline.” He sobered and sat forward. “You want me to say it without
a smile? I like stories. There just may be a story there. That family didn't
come by all its wealth without some damned interesting happenings
going on. And that family isn’t just sitting on the family money like it’s a
velvet cushion. Money explodes. Money rocks. Money builds up all kinds
of tensions and temptations in the people who are close to it. And I’m not
excluding murder. So maybe there is something in the old man’s safe that
might throw some light on what went on in that hospital room. So if you
want to know, go find out. Because I wouldn’t send anyone else out on
such an assignment. They wouldn’t have your motivation. But I don’t
mind telling you, I’d kind of like to know myself what’s in the old man’s
safe.”
He sounded sincere, but you never knew about Mike. He’d sell his
grandmother for a story, and if he’d do that, there was no telling what else
he might do for a lot of other reasons besides stories. There was only one
way to be sure. “Suppose I undertake the assignment,” she said. “How
much backing will you give me?” “You mean expense money? Just hand in
your chits. If it’s going to cost the paper over a couple of hundred, you’re
going to have to clear it with me first.”
“I don’t mean just that. How much support will you give me—if I need
help?”
“I’ll give you anything I can.” %
She pointed a finger at him. “I’ll hold you to that.”
He pointed a finger back. “I’ll tell you one thing. If you get
caught, I never heard of you.”
 CHAPTER 6

Loftus, where the Wainwrights had their summer lodge and where
Jefferson had suffered his accident, was a tiny town of a thousand
population, a two-hour trip north into the mountains. Corrie drove up
there the next morning accompanied by a bright October sun and the
orange brown of falling leaves.
The center of town was a crossroads surrounded by a small congestion
of buildings and honored by the only stoplight within six miles. There
were the necessary stores, fire department, two gas stations, three
churches, a doctor’s office and a real estate firm. The roads were curbless,
but a hydrant was in front of the largest church and there were sidewalks
for a quarter of a mile in all directions.
Corrie parked in front of the real estate office which bore the name H.
V. Pitkin on the door, because Mr. Pitkin doubled as Loftus’ part-time
police officer and he was the man she wanted to see. The fact that “H. V.
Pitkin, Real Estate,” was also police headquarters was attested to by a
small metal sign in a corner of the large front window beside the door.
Inside was a counter with two desks beyond. One was occupied by a
secretary and the other by Mr. Howard V. Pitkin, a busy little
white-haired man with a prominent nose, narrow chin and efficient
manner.
“Oh yes, Miss Haynes,” he said when she gave her name. “You’re earlier
than I expected. But it’s not that hard a trip once you get used to the
winding roads we have around here.” He introduced his secretary and
explained that Miss Haynes was a reporter up from the big city to hear
about the accident that had cost young Jeff Wainwright his life.
“Do you know,” he said, taking his hat and coat from a tree on the
customer side of the counter, “he went off that road at the exact same
spot his folks did. You’d think they’d put up a fence there or something.”
He brought Corrie outside and insisted they ride in his car, which was
out back. They went around the small building to a new model Chevrolet
and, when Mr. Pitkin had helped Corrie in and got behind the wheel, he
took a sign from the glove compartment that said POLICE and leaned it
against the windshield, then entered the mileage reading in a notebook.
“Unless you’d be interested in some property up here, we’re on town
business,” he said. “And we’ve got some pretty nice pieces. Prices are good
too, not like where you come from. Loftus hasn’t been discovered yet. Too
far north still. It will be, though. It’s a pretty little town just becoming
aware of the outside world. If you want to make a good investment, you
should think about buying up here. If I were you, I’d sink everything I’ve
got in land right here in Loftus. The price has got to go up. There’s no
other way.”
He ran the car out the drive, waited at the light and turned east. Corrie
made agreeable noises about land but it wasn’t what she had come about
“The same place where his parents were killed, did you say, Mr. Pitkin?”
Pitkin said it was. He waved at a woman across the street, and a little
farther up pulled into a gas station for a refill and a few words with the
proprietor.
“Police business today, Howie?” the man said, looking at the placard in
the middle of the windshield.
“That’s right Lady here’s a reporter up from the New Hampton
Chronicle. Wants to know about the Wainwright accident last week.” He
turned to Corrie and explained that the serviceman was one of those who
had come to the rescue. “Bertha Colladay phoned in the alarm,” he said.
“Happened lessen half a mile from her. Flames lit up the sky, she said.
Dan here’s assistant fire chief so he was one of the first ones on the
scene.”
Dan finished doing the windshield and came around to her side to
explain that the car had gone off that bad bend in the road to the
Wainwright lodge, rolled down the hill and ended up half in the river
down by Pedlar’s Road, which was where the Colladay farm was. “The boy
was half in the river too, otherwise he would have been burned alive. I
don’t know if he got out or got thrown out, but I was surprised he was still
breathing.”
The road, Corrie learned, went up into the hills to the lodge and was
on the Wainwright property. They owned three hundred acres and part of
a lake. Dan had driven the fire engine but there wasn’t much to be done.
The river, heavy with rapids, was fifty yards from the road, and the
smoldering car and badly injured man were on the other side. Dan and
two others had forded the stream with backpack extinguishers to take
care of the small brush fires that had started and to cool down the hot
steel of the wreck.
That was when they found Wainwright. He was at the edge of the river
with his clothes bloody and half burned, his body the same way. “He was
bleeding pretty bad,” Dan said, “and his skin was charred in spots. One of
his ears was gone.” Dan realized he was talking to a tender young lady
and quickly said that Doc Loebel got to the scene just then and tended to
the man until the ambulance came. They had to carry him back up the
hill on a stretcher.
Pitkin had the gas put on the tab and started off again. “Dan forgets
himself when he’s talking about fires,” he said. “He makes it sound worse
than it was. Wainwright wasn’t about to bleed to death and he was only
burned bad in a couple of spots. With skin grafts and things, they
probably could’ve made him pretty presentable if he’d lived.”
Corrie said, “Do you know what he was doing at the lodge?” Pitkin
shook his head. “Not really. His uncle thinks it’s because he always loved
the place as a kid and might have wanted to take a look at it—see how it
was faring—or maybe get something out of it that he wanted. But that
doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“His uncle was here?”
“Day before yesterday. Middle of Monday morning. He wanted to see
the scene and hear the story.”
“Why doesn't his theory make any sense?”
Pitkin snorted a little. “Who's going to drive two hours each way to
come up here and look at a lodge? And why wouldn't he bring his keys?
The only keys he had were the car keys in the ignition.”
“He might have had one hidden up there.”
“He might, but I looked the place over the next day and it was locked
up tight and I couldn’t find a spare key in any of the places people usually
hide spare keys. And he wasn't up there to get anything for there was
nothing in the car and all he had in his pockets was his wallet, a
handkerchief and some loose change.”
“Could he have crashed before he got to the lodge?”
Pitkin shook his head. “The tire marks show the car was coming down
from there.”
Corrie asked about the family then. How long had they had the lodge,
how much did they use it, how well known were they to the people of
Loftus?
 Pitkin told what he knew. The Wainwrights had bought the property
before his time. She could look up the exact date if she wanted, but the
old man, Jeff's father, probably bought it about thirty years before, back
about the time he got married. They used to spend their summers there,
the whole summer, with Garth Wainwright coming out on weekends.
That was until the accident that left Jefferson and the twins, Elliot and
Patricia, orphans. It happened when Jeff was twelve and the twins nine.
Pitkin could remember the ages well for he was one of those who went to
the lodge to break the news of the accident. Mr. Wainwright's brother,
Richard, was staying with them that weekend, and he was the one who
answered the door. It was an event Pitkin had never forgotten.
“And Richard became their guardian?”
“So I understand. We didn't see much of them after that. I guess the
place had bad memories. Except, when Jeff got older, he’d come up alone
some, or with some friends, and they'd batch it for a few days. The others
never showed and I thought they'd sell. I could’ve got them a fancy profit
on it. But no, they just let it stand there and deteriorate.”
The site of the accident was some twelve miles out of town along
winding, narrow Pedlar’s Road. Pitkin pointed out the Colladay home
when they went by. It was on the left and the large, rushing stream
twisted and turned, sometimes near, sometimes far, on their right. There
was the smell of clear air around, and the silence of the woods, with only
the sound of the stream challenging the throbbing of the car.
Finally Pitkin pulled to the side of the road. “Right over there,” he said,
leaning across Corrie and pointing out her window. “Across the stream
there. You can still see some of the charring. We had one time getting the
car out of there, I can tell you. Had to take that up the hill too. You can
see the marks over the grass and rocks. That’s where it was dragged up,
not where it came down.”
“Could we get closer?”
“It’s private property, but since you’re with me—” Pitkin drove on
ahead. They went another half mile, then turned onto a dirt road invaded
by weeds. They crossed a small wooden bridge over the rushing stream,
turned to the right and started along a narrow, rocky roadway that
twisted and rose with the terrain. This was the Wainwrights’ road, Pitkin
explained, and it obviously had seen no traffic in recent years. Weeds
grew thickly in the middle and sparsely in the tire ruts. Only occasionally
was it possible for two cars to pass each other.
 As they progressed upward, the ground fell away more sharply, and in
the brief open areas Corrie found herself looking farther and farther down
steeper and steeper embankments to the winding waters below.
Ultimately Pitkin stopped at the crest of a large open area, laced with
rocky outcroppings, that dipped precipitously down two hundred feet to a
bare leveling-out at the water’s edge. The shoulder of the narrow road was
broader there but the incline was steeper and the bend more abrupt. It
was the obvious danger spot of the drive, a matter of small moment if one
drove reasonably, but threatening to anyone reckless.
“This is it,” Pitkin said, turning the nose of the car toward open space.
Corrie's breath caught when the car moved forward to the edge and
backed up. But it wasn't that perilous. There were small shrubs the car
would have had to go through, then a bit of slope, before the ground
dipped to the point where the car would go out of control.
Pitkin put on the brake, got out and came around the hood to open
Corrie's door. “You can see it's not going to be easy to walk away from a
wreck down there,” he said and helped her out.
They went off the road, down through the shrubs to the edge so Corrie
could get the feel of the site. There was nothing dangerous about it to a
person on foot: just a steep overgrown slope to crab- walk down, with
scattered rocks to clamber over. It was not, however, something a car
could maneuver.
“He must have been in a hurry,” Corrie said when Pitkin pointed out
the marks where the car had failed to make the turn and breeched the
shrubs. “I wonder why.”
“We'll never know,” Pitkin answered. “Not that it matters any more.
But do you get the view from here? It's better than at the lodge. You put a
house up right about here—”
“What's that thing out there in the middle of the rapids?”
“Caught on that branch? That's Jefferson's sister's scarf.”
“It's what?”
“She lent it to him. That's what Richard told me. He's the one who
identified it. Jeff came up from the South and didn't have anything warm.
That's the one handicap about building in the North-”
Corrie couldn't identify the scarf as anything for it was too far away.
“How did the family get along?” she asked.
Pitkin reluctantly switched back to his police hat. “You mean when the
real parents were alive? Things seemed O.K. Weren't any complaints. But
that was a long time ago. I wasn’t chief of police then. We didn't have any
police department. We called on the resident state trooper in Lindwich if
we needed a policeman. I had the real estate office, of course, and I saw
them now and then, mostly with regard to did they want to sell, or did
they want to buy. They had the money. But they weren't looking for
anything.
When they bought the property, of course, that was before my time.
They must’ve got it for practically nothing. Not that values are that much
now. Not in this area. If I was smart, I’d go down to the southern part of
the state where the values are higher and there’s more mobility. Reason
land’s so cheap here is it doesn’t move. Nobody wants it. Now if your
paper was to put in a branch office—” Id
Corrie asked what the Wainwright family was like after Uncle Richard
took over. Pitkin didn’t know. And, he said, if he didn’t know, nobody
would know, because he’d been in real estate and knew all about every
property owner in town, and if that wasn’t enough, he’d been chief of
police five years and that was another position that got you all the gossip.
The point was, those Wainwrights just hadn’t been coming around—at
least to anyone’s knowledge.
Since she had come this far and since Chief Pitkin didn’t mind putting
mileage on the car when the town was paying for it, Corrie asked to see
the lodge itself and he drove her on up. It was in a clearing, a
heavy-beamed building boasting a two-story front section with a gabled
roof and a one-story ell extending out behind to an attached, one-car
garage. The first-floor windows were shuttered, there was a narrow porch
along the ell and a heavy storm door protecting the rear entrance. Beyond
it was a lake, a streak of bright blue against the dying leaves, and Corrie
would have liked to look at it. But Jeff Wainwright’s accident was a
quarter of a mile back down the hill, she’d already taken up an hour of
Pitkin’s time, and if she showed any interest in the lake, he’d try to sell it
to her. She just looked out at the barren, sparsely grassed area around the
lodge, the rising land on the one side, the heavy woods on the other, and
said it looked very interesting and maybe Jeff hadn’t been around in so
long he forgot how dangerous that unfenced curve could be.
They drove back to town, Pitkin trying to sell her a controlling interest
in it, she trying to pick up what Wainwrght lore she could. There were
feelings about the family that Pitkin could report. He was reluctant,
because feelings weren’t facts, but when he was assured that he wouldn’t
be quoted, he allowed as how Jeff seemed to like the lodge, but neither
Richard nor the twins had any use for it. The twins were identical and the
opposite of their elder brother. Anything he liked, they didn’t. Among the
townspeople, young Elliot and Patricia were regarded as spoiled brats,
and Richard as a snob. The townspeople didn’t mind the lodge being
empty. They didn’t mind at all. In fact, Pitkin wrote the Wainwrights
every year to see if they’d sell. The family had scarcely been seen since the
parents died and Jeff’s last appearance was when he was in college.
“What could he have come up here for?” Corrie asked herself aloud, for
she didn’t accept Richard’s suggestion that it was out of love any more
than Pitkin did. “What would he want with a place he hadn’t been to in
six years? And why would he come with no key, trusting only that a
hidden key was still there? And why would he hurry back so fast he’d
mishandle that turn?”
And Pitkin, putting the POLICE placard back in the glove
compartment, said, “I’m not a detective, Miss Haynes, I’m only a
real estate agent.”
 CHAPTER 7

The funeral was held on Thursday in the Methodist church in Fairport,

a wealthy town of three thousand, some twenty miles east of New
Hampton on the turnpike.
Corrie Haynes was there in body as well as spirit and, with a large dark
hat and a pair of dark glasses, was well established in one of the rear pews
by the time the family was guided down the aisle to the seats in front. So
that was what Richard looked like head-on, middle height, a little portly,
gray, well-trimmed beard, glasses, wavy, graying hair. Très distingué all
right. Impressive was the word.
And the others with him? One was Bamaby Sills, the tall, gray,
distinguished New Hampton lawyer. Corrie knew him by sight. The rest
of the party was composed of two young blonde women and a
sullen-looking young man. The man, brown-haired and soft- faced, must
be Elliot Wainwright, the younger brother. He was handsome in spite of
his sullenness, his hair wavy like his uncle's, his manner diffident and
impatient.
And the first blonde, the one whose arm he held, the hard-bitten one
with the sour mouth, that must be his wife. What was her name—Isolde.
Gad, who would name a girl Isolde? And the other girl, the wan blonde
with the long straight hair who looked as if she's strung out, that must be
Patricia, the twin sister.
They’re all so fair. Jefferson was so dark. Jefferson was so different. He
was an adventurer, spending his money researching and exploring all over
the world. Those other two don’t look as if they’d go outdoors in the rain.
She left as soon as the service was over, jumped into a car manned by
Chronicle photographer Don Wallace, and scored a beat to the cemetery.
She wanted pictures of the family and she wanted a better view of the
family grief.
Don located himself at a distant point with a telephoto lens and Corrie
sat in the car until the procession of automobiles wound its way through
the narrow cemetery roads to the gravesite and the mourners emerged.
She had binoculars but her glimpse of Uncle Richard was fleeting and
uninformative. He looked properly solemn, that was all. She saw even less
of the others, for the position they took at the site was with their backs to
her.
Corrie sighed. There was no help for it but to go to the graveside and
join the mourners. She put the car in gear and drove around to the end of
the twenty-car parking line as the last arrivals were disembarking. She got
out and tagged behind.
A canvas canopy had been set up to shield the mourners, for the sky
was leaden, the wind gusty, and the threat of snow was in the air. The
grave was an oblong hole beside a pile of mat-covered dirt, enclosed by
tent poles and guy ropes, with a green-and-white- striped canopy over all,
its scalloped fringe snapping and whipping in the wind.
Not all could huddle under that feeble shelter and Corrie crowded in
outside, pressing against those around her, trying for a vantage point that
would give her a full-face view of the four relatives of the deceased.
At the head of the grave the minister uttered prayers before the silent
throng. Richard Wainwright stood with his hands clasped in front of him,
head half bowed, hair fanned faintly by the eddies of air that whirled
under the canvas covering. He looked remarkably innocent and sincere.
There was nothing of the murderer about him.
“But you did it,” Corrie muttered to herself. “I know you did it.”
Beside the uncle stood estate executor Bamaby Sills, tall and stout, the
only one of the group who, as best Corrie could make out, seemed really
to regret young Jefferson's death. But it was hard to see. The day was dim
and dull and the only excuse for the dark glasses Corrie wore was to hide
her questing eyes. Under the canopy, however, the daylight was as
twilight and it didn't do much good to study faces that she could hardly
see. She stepped behind a large nearby man and removed the glasses.
Barnaby Sills didn't know her and neither did the family, so what
difference did it make if they did see her face?
She moved to the other side of the large man and took up a position
that gave her a better view of the family faces. Richard was at the velvet
rope just in front of the coffin, looking down. Could he see the
spade-chiseled sides of the hole? Could he see to the bottom where the
polished coffin and the corpse it held would come to rest? Could not
Corrie make out a secret triumph in his face?
She looked at the others. On Richard's right, forlorn and listless, stood
the wan, blonde sister. Her eyes were downcast too, but they were empty
eyes. She was there as an obligation, but her mind was far away. Her mind
was in never-never land.
Elliot, on the other side of the lawyer, stood as Richard stood, hands
clasped in front of his camel's hair coat, his weak, soft face hanging slack,
his eyes shifting from the coffin to the bouquets of flowers on its lid, to
the green matting over the pile of dirt, at things, but not at people. He
was thinking nothing, seeing nothing. There was no regret, no sense of
loss, no personal connection with the affair. He, like his sister and his
uncle, was obeying the rules of a ritual, nothing more.
She let her gaze pass on to Isolde, the in-law. She was on the end, as
Patricia was on the end. The hair was brassy against the black of her hat.
She was behaving with the same propriety as the others, but without as
good grace. Though she affected the sobriety of manner, the equal
composure of her face, Corrie couldn't help wondering if she weren't
drunk. She didn't sway, she didn't hiccup, she didn't give any signs. And
yet. . . ?
Corrie shifted her gaze back to Richard again. He was looking at her.
Their eyes met for that moment and she looked away, making it
appear that hers was but a sweeping glance, but she felt a chill. It was the
first time he had ever seen her, the first time a murderer had ever gazed
into her eyes, and she found it unsettling. How long had he been
watching her? Had he seen her concentration upon Isolde?
She slowly moved behind the large man again so that Richard could no
longer view her face. Nor did she reveal herself again, even when the
minister started to speak. Richard’s eyes, she sensed, could read her soul.
Then the service was over and she slipped away as quickly as she came,
replacing the dark glasses as she went. What with the glasses and her
brimmed hat, she should remain an anonymous figure whom nobody
would remember. That was the role she wanted for herself—the fly on the
wall, overlooked, but overlooking.
Corrie drove first out of the line, sliding by the other cars on the
narrow roadway well before they were loaded up and starting. She went
left at the nearby fork, up the slight rise to Don Wallace’s vantage point.
It was a poor location, for it only gave him a view of the backs of the
principals.
He went around the front of the car and opened the door on the
passenger’s side. Behind them, forking to the right, the first cars were
moving away. “Well, we guessed wrong,” Wallace said as Corrie started
up.
 “Didn’t you get anything?”
He nodded. “I got a few family shots getting out of the car. And I have
a lot of other faces—in case there’s any need to know who cared about
Jefferson.”
“I’ll take a look at them.”
“What’s this all about, anyway? What’s your interest in the Wainwright
clan? You doing a feature?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Corrie said sullenly, and it was the
truth. For all the effort she had put forth trying to investigate Richard
Wainwright, she had got nowhere.
Up in Loftus, not only Pitkin but nobody else knew anything about the
man, and she had gone all over town asking. The morgue files had only
superficial information about the others in the family and no envelope at
all on Richard. It was as if he didn’t exist. She had spent the morning at
the university trying to research the man and had discovered no one there
knew him either. He had resigned from the faculty when Garth and Lucia
died and that was thirteen years ago. He had bought a huge home in
Fairport named Hampton House, moved there with the children, and it
was as if he had dropped into a bottomless pit.
Now the funeral was another dead end and where did she go from
there? She was investigating what she believed was a murder, but no one
took her seriously. Nobody offered her help. Nobody had help to give her.
No wonder she was mad and frustrated. She felt like a damned fool.
Mike would be laughing his head off. He knew better than to go tilting
against windmills. And unless she could come up with some positive way
of getting answers, she'd have to eat crow, let murderers be murderers,
and go back to covering garden-club meetings and kindergarten
Christmas pageants.
She was not going to let that happen.
 CHAPTER 8

Mike McManus was on the phone, standing by his bulletin board,

when Corrie opened the door the following morning. She had her
notebook with her, her pencil, and her best avant-garde manner. She shut
the door behind her, took the customer's chair, and ignored both Mike
and the articles and papers that cluttered his desk. The notebook notes
were more important.
Mike finally finished and dropped the phone in its cradle. He grinned
at Corrie's determined face. “How're you making out?"
She looked up and crossed her legs. “There're some problems. As if you
didn't know."
Mike sat down. “What're you working on?"
She glared at him. '‘What do you mean, what am I working on? The
Wainwright thing. What else?"
He smiled crookedly and picked up his dead cigar. “Oh, I thought you
might have—" He let the words die.
“No," she said, “I didn’t might have. It beats covering club meetings
and lectures by unknown authors to unknown writers' groups."
She was a spunky kid and Mike liked that. Give her something she
could get her teeth into, and she could be a bulldog. He flicked his lighter
and set his cigar going again. She might be a good gal, but he wasn’t going
to spoil her. And it was about time she got back to business. “I should
have known you'd do anything to get out of the routine assignments,” he
grinned. “But don't forget, they're important too. They're the meat and
potatoes of reporting, you know."
“I know, and I wouldn't mind," she retorted, “if I got some of the gravy
to go with it."
Mike magnanimously said, “Which is why I gave you this assignment."
“You didn't give it to me, you just didn't say I couldn't take it."
“Which is the same thing. So, how's it coming? Have you got Uncle
Richard ready for jail yet?"
 “I haven't even begun," Corrie answered sourly. “I feel like the little
match girl looking through a bakery window. Everything you could want
is there, but you can't get anywhere near it."
“Like what, for instance?"
“Like the family." She leaned forward seriously. “Mike, the answers to
that family aren't going to be found by interviewing the help or poking
around from the outside. You can't really get at them till you get in with
them. You've got to see them in action, see how they behave around each
other, see what things upset them, see how they respond to pressures,
find out who controls what. They all live in one house—all except
Jefferson. He's the only one who got out. And that's the interesting thing.
He got way out. He was never home. He was never around more than he
absolutely had to be. Do you know something? When he was lost in the
Amazon jungles for two years, that family didn't so much as send a plane
down to look for him. That family sat around in its big mansion and said
what a shame it was."
Mike nodded sympathetically. “So there was no strong feeling there.
That doesn't mean they go in for murder."
“No, but it means it's a strange bunch of people and if you're going to
study them, you can't do it from outside. It’s got to be done from the
inside."
“I agree that that's the best way." He chewed his cigar. “What do you
propose to do about it, get yourself hired as an upstairs maid?"
He was being facetious, but she didn't take it that way. “No, no," she
answered impatiently. “They aren't taking on any help."
“You checked?”
“Of course—I mean, not as a reporter. I said I was the employment
agency and they had asked for domestic help. It was some maid or
housekeeper I talked to and she finally came back and said there was a
mistake.”
Mike permitted himself a small smile that Corrie wasn't supposed to
see. She certainly touched all bases. She was dogged all right. But she was
starting to learn there were limits to what could be done. She was going
to have to acknowledge some bitter truths. “Well,” he said, “I guess that's
it, then. There's no way to infiltrate the family and, as you say, without
having an in, there’s no place to go, eh?”
Corrie shook her head. “I didn't say that.”
Well, well? Did she have still another iron in the fire? Mike removed
his cigar and let his mouth form a circle. “Oh?”
 “That’s not the only way to skin a cat”
“You have another?”
Corrie was a little breathless and there was hidden excitement in her.
She opened the notebook she was clutching so tightly, withdrew a folded
sheet of paper, and handed it across the desk to him.
It was a photocopy of the feature story of Jefferson Wainwright’s
return to the land of the living, the story of his stumbling into the
missionary encampment and his five months' stay with the Davidson
family being nursed back to health.
Mike skimmed it. “Badly written,” he said, handing it back. “Is it
supposed to mean something?”
“It most certainly does!” She was flushed and her eyes sparkled. “It
gave me the idea how I can infiltrate the household!”
“Oh?” Mike held still, cigar smoke wafting into his eye. “How's that?”
She straightened triumphantly. “I go up to Hampton House, the family
mansion in Fairport, in a taxi, with a suitcase and a trunk, knock on the
front door, and tell the maid or whoever answers that I am Jefferson
Wainwright's widow!”
Mike McManus stared at her. “You do what?”
“Well, not his widow,” she amended. “I go up and pretend I don't know
he's dead. I haven't seen Jeff since our marriage—I had so much to
do—and this was the first chance I'd had to come join him.”
Mike put his cigar in the tray and looked at Corrie for a long time.
Finally, when he was able to speak, he said, “You are absolutely out of
your mind.” And then, because, God damn it, she was completely serious,
he added, “That's the most incredible suggestion I have ever heard a
supposedly sane person make!”
Corrie loved it. So he was such a hotshot editor, eh? Well, she really
had him on that one. He thought she'd have to give in, did he? Smoke
that, Mr. Editor. Now who wins? “I don't see anything incredible about it
at all,” she said with an angelic expression on her face. “Really, I think it's
the only way.”
“Oh, you think it's the only way, huh? It's not any way at all. It's not
even a dumb idea. It's a stupid idea. Why, you wouldn't get past the cop
on the beat with a story like that.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Mike thundered at her and came half to his feet, “everybody
knows Jefferson Wainwright wasn't married.”
 “I beg your pardon. Nobody knows anything about Jefferson
Wainwright. If you picked up a paper that announced Jefferson
Wainwright had a wife, you wouldn't be the least bit surprised and you
know it.”
“That's because I'm not related to him.” Mike was full on his feet now.
“If I was his brother or sister or his uncle, I'd be flabbergasted.”
“Would you, Mike?” Corrie’s voice was calmly querying. “Would you
really? He's gone from the house for weeks and months at a time.
Remember, he was lost in the Amazon for two years and they never lifted
a finger to find him. Too bad he died—that sort of thing. They might be
surprised, Mike, but they wouldn't find it unbelievable.”
“And where did you marry him?” Mike asked sarcastically. “In the
Amazon jungles? What are you, the tribal princess tracking down your
lost god?”
She shook her head gently. “Of course not. My name is
Davidson—Corrie Davidson. My mother, father and I nursed him back to
health for those five long months when he was so deathly sick, back
before we returned him to civilization. Think of it, Mike.
How beautiful it was. He and I—those months together—with me
nursing him—those romantic nights—”
“Stop it, you're breaking my heart. Where’s your violin obbligato? So
you married him in the jungle, eh? How are you going to prove it, show
the family a wedding ring?”
“And a marriage license.”
“And where would you get a marriage license?”
“You’ll get it for me.”
“I?”
She nodded. “That’s right. A big newspaper editor has all kinds of pull
in all kinds of places. You can work it. It would have to be in Portuguese,
of course. After all, in Brazil they speak—”
Mike threw up his hands. “Stop it, stop it—”
“Did I say anything wrong?” Corrie asked innocently.
“Only about twenty-four things wrong. It won’t work, so that’s that.
You understand? Forget it.”
“It will too work,” she replied. “I thought it all out last night.” “How
much Portuguese do you know, you missionary’s daughter? You give
smart Uncle Richard five minutes and he’ll have you uncovered as an
imposter. In ten minutes you’ll be in front of a judge and in fifteen, you’ll
be in jail—in a mental ward, if you ask me.”
 She shook her head. “Not if you help me.”
“Help you? Help you connive and scheme at deception? You don’t
want to go to jail by yourself, you want me to go with you?” Corrie
uncrossed her legs and put her fingertips on her knees. “Didn’t you just
tell me the other day how effete and unimaginative newspaper reporters
had become? Didn’t you tell me how you dressed as hotel maids and how
you hid under beds to get the stories you were after? Was that true, or
were you making it all up to con me?”
“Now listen,” Mike growled, “what I did in my day and what gets done
today are two different things—”
“That’s what you were complaining about. You said nobody had any
enterprise any more.”
“I was talking about reporters. Men reporters.”
“That’s what I thought. You don’t want me to do anything because
you’re a male chauvinist pig. Right? Can I quote you to the publisher and
the federal government and the Civil Liberties Union and allied interested
parties?”
Mike sighed and sank back in the chair. This damnable female was not
going to be put off with mock arguments or a show of outrage. This was
war: she against him. She wanted a place in the sun and damned if maybe
she wasn’t entitled to it. He mused for a moment, wondering how far
she’d take it if he told her to go right ahead, pose as Jefferson’s wife and
be damned—except she had it rigged so he’d have to be a party to the
scheme.
God, though, that would be fun, wouldn’t it—posing as a dead man’s
wife to get inside the family? That was equal to or better than anything
he’d ever done. How he would have loved a challenge like that! She was
cut out of the same block of wood he was. The mold hadn’t been broken
after all.
And think of the challenge of setting up the cover so Uncle Richard
wouldn’t expose her five minutes after she put her foot in the door—a
Portuguese marriage license, some intercept along a private detective’s
tracing route to “verify” that the Davidsons did have a daughter named
Corrie who did marry Jefferson. . . . With all the newspaper and wire
service contacts he had, he could work it—
He caught himself. “Corrie,” he said, sitting up straight again and fixing
her with a stern eye, “you show a great deal of commendable enterprise
and I’m sure you could pull it off if anybody could. But you’re forgetting
one thing—one very important thing.” “What’s that?”
 “When I dressed up as a hotel maid—and I assure you I didn’t make
that story up—it was to get an interview with a general who didn’t want
to give an interview. I got the story and he was mad as hell, but there
wasn’t anything he could do about it.”
“But I can go to jail? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, my pet, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you’re forgetting
that you aren’t going to the Wainwrights to get an interview. Your plan is
to try to find evidence that the old man poisoned his nephew. If Uncle
Richard found that out, he’d be mad as hell too. But I wouldn’t be so sure
he wouldn’t be as unable to do anything about it as the general was. You
could find yourself in some real hot water, is what I’m saying. That’s the
big difference.”
“If those kidnappers had looked under that bed, you’d have been in
some pretty hot water too, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, but that’s a risk I was willing to take.”
“How about your editor? Was he willing to let you take such risks?”
“Well, my editor—he was the kind of guy who would have got under
the bed with me if he could. Things were different in those days.”
“And you’d like to pose as Jefferson’s wife too, if you could. It sticks out
all over you.”
“But you’re a girl. With a man it’s different.”
“You’re being a male chauvinist pig again.”
Mike threw up his hands. “All right, all right. I’ll give it some thought,
O.K.?” Then he added casually, “And, meanwhile, why don’t you tell Ken
Stabler to take you over to police headquarters and introduce you around.
If you’re so hot to be a Sherlock Holmes, you might as well see what you
can pick up from the real Sherlocks.”
“You mean it! The police beat?” She was so excited she rushed
around the desk and kissed him, then fled so fast she forgot her
notebook.
 CHAPTER 9

When Corrie got back from lunch, there was a note on her desk saying
the publisher, Anton Soedlak himself, wanted to see her. She scowled and
turned to Bob Fessel, for it was in his handwriting. "Is this for real?”
Bob nodded and he wasn't smiling. "Yeah. Mike called up ten minutes
ago. As soon as you come in, he said."
Corrie swallowed. Nobody ever saw the publisher. Nobody hardly even
knew what he looked like. Except Mike, of course, since Mike was the city
editor. He met with Mr. Soedlak, but he was the only one. Mr. Soedlak did
not circulate. He came and went from his office on the first floor, straight
in, straight out and, unless you happened to be in the way, you’d never
see him.
But he was summoning her? That was bad news. She couldn’t recall
anybody ever being summoned to see Mr. Soedlak, no matter what they’d
done. Anybody going to be fired, reprimanded, or given something good,
like a bonus or a promotion, got the word from Mike McManus. Mike was
Mr. Soedlak’s liaison with the help. Mr. Soedlak gave the orders and Mike
carried them out.
"Did Mike say what it’s about?’’ Corrie asked.
Bob Fessel shook his head. Corrie would have to go before the
owner-publisher without a clue in the world. Was it because of her kooky
idea of posing as Wainwright’s wife? Did someone object that she should
even suggest such a thing? Or was it the police beat? Did Mr. Soedlak
think it wasn't a proper job for a woman? But Mr. Soedlak would tell
Mike, he wouldn’t call her in.
Corrie couldn't imagine what it was about, but she knew it had to be
serious. She must have committed a crime too horrible even to be fired
for. She started toward the elevator like a sleepwalker and didn't hear the
good-luck wishes Bob Fessel called after her.
Mr. Soedlak's private offices were so remote from Corrie’s own
experience that she had to ask the receptionist at the front door how to
get there. It was more or less under Mike’s office, two floors lower, and
was a dark-paneled, heavily carpeted sequence of rooms as unlike the rest
of the building as a good motel was from a kennel.
A secretary-receptionist in a spacious outer office recorded her name
on a pad and phoned the inner sanctum. Then she nodded toward a
closed door behind her which said PRIVATE in quiet gold letters. Corrie,
telling herself not to be awed, but being awed nevertheless, opened the
door and entered.
The office was spacious, elegant, richly appointed, and smelled of
leather and spice and everything nice. On one side, an open door led into
an even larger meeting room, equipped with a giant table and a dozen
chairs. The whole back of the building seemed to be Mr. Soedlak's
quarters.
Corrie didn't get more than a passing glance at the meeting room, for
Mr. Soedlak himself was sitting behind a giant desk with his back to the
windows, while standing nearby was Mike McManus, and both were
watching her.
Corrie only gave Mike a fleeting look as she approached the desk, but
she wondered still more what she had done. Mike looked as somber as
Mr. Soedlak and the atmosphere was dark and serious. Instead of
“Private,” the outside door should say, “Enter here and be intimidated.”
Corrie stopped in front of the desk, her shoulders square, and she
looked straight at Mr. Soedlak. This was not, after all, the Inquisition.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “You wanted to see me?”
Mr. Soedlak did not devour her after all. He rose with stately mien and
invited Miss Haynes to a chair instead. Was it to be good news instead of
bad?
When she was seated, he took his own chair again, swung it away from
Mike, and faced her. “Miss Haynes,” he said, “Michael passed an
interesting remark to me at lunch. He said you thought a young man
named Jefferson Wainwright might have been murdered. Is that correct?"
Where this was going Corrie did not know, but she had no choice of
answer. She nodded. “I think it's possible."
“Michael indicates you seem to regard it as more than a possibility."
“That is true."
“And the murderer is his uncle, Richard Wainwright?"
“If a murder was committed."
“And do you think it is likely, Miss Haynes?"
How far should she go? What was she committing herself to? Was this
conversation being recorded? Could she be sued? She swallowed. “I am
only drawing possible conclusions from what I saw take place, Mr.
Soedlak. I have no evidence about anything. I could be completely
wrong."
Mr. Soedlak wasn't interested in her hedgings. “What attracted my
attention," he said, “was not your beliefs, but your proposal. Since there is
no evidence of any misdoing outside of your own, uncorroborated
testimony, you proposed to look for evidence. You wanted to investigate
the Wainwright family."
“Yes, sir."
“And you suggested, Michael tells me, a most unusual tactic to gain
admittance to the family. You would attempt to pass yourself off as the
late Mr. Wainwright's widow. Was that, indeed, your suggestion?"
She had to nod again.
“Were you serious, Miss Haynes?"
Corrie wished she knew what he was leading up to. “Serious?" she
stalled.
“Were you putting this forward as a serious attempt to see justice
done, or were you seeking to elevate yourself to the police beat as an
assistant to Mr. Stabler?"
That was nasty. “No, I did not suggest it to get on the police beat.”
“Then your proposal was serious?”
Her morning session with Mike had given Corrie second thoughts and
she wasn’t sure now how serious she really was. “Let me put it this way,”
she explained. “If Richard Wainwright did poison his nephew, I don’t
think it will ever be known unless someone can get access to family
relationships, papers, files—their private matters. I felt that this might be
a way to do it.”
“And you would be willing to undertake that as an assignment?”
This time Corrie gulped. She cast a quick glance at Mike and, though
he couldn’t express an opinion, she thought he was trying to will her to
say no. Was it that he worried about her, or that he felt a woman couldn’t
do such things, or that he didn’t believe it was a tactic that could bear
fruit? She turned to Mr. Soedlak and her voice sounded funny. “Is that
what you want me to do?”
“I’m asking you if this is something you want to do.”
She stammered a little. “I guess so, if it would help anything.”
“I want you to be sure,” he said. “Because only you can make the
decision. You witnessed an action by Richard Wainwright in the hospital.
You think it was a murderous action. How seriously you think so is
something only you can decide, for only you were the witness. How
seriously the matter should be pursued is also a matter only you can
decide. The police, the hospital, the family—none of them are going to
pursue it. So if a murder was committed, the only person in the world
who can bring that fact to light is you. So it’s a question of how much you
really believe Richard Wainwright murdered his nephew and, if you
believe it, how really serious you are about doing something about it.”
He was really putting it to her. She looked at him. “Do I have to make
up my mind this minute? I mean, what would happen if I should say yes?”
Mr. Soedlak leaned forward and he spoke very seriously and sincerely.
“If you should say yes, Miss Haynes, this newspaper is prepared to
underwrite the operation. All details would be worked out to give you an
airtight cover, to give you all the information, advice, and financial
backing necessary. We would give you legal support and anything else the
position might come to require. We would, at its conclusion, give you a
bonus, we would give you such other promotions as we feel are consistent
with your effort. We would require, of course, that all stories developed
from this operation would become the property of this newspaper. If you
can produce evidence of murder and make it stick, then you can pretty
much write your own ticket. If you can do that, every paper in the country
will be after you. You would probably win the Pulitzer Prize. You would
probably write a best seller and become the most famous
newspaperwoman of the century.”
He eased the pressure a little. “On the other hand, you might find
evidence of something other than murder—they might be guilty of other
crimes. Your reputation might be built even if you can't produce a
murderer.”
Corrie stared at him bluntly. “What you're saying is you want
somebody planted in that family to find something on them, and you
don't care what it is?”
Mr. Soedlak was instantly soothing. “No, no, Miss Haynes. You totally
misunderstand. On the basis of what you witnessed, I think, with you,
that a murder has been committed. And, like you, I want to see justice
done. Jefferson Wainwright was too valuable a member of society to be
cut off like that. We think he was killed and we want to see the killer
punished. But, meanwhile, suppose, during your investigation into
murder, you uncover evidence of other wrong-doing—which might have
contributed to the murder but, even if it didn’t, is wrong iii
itself—stealing, cheating, stock manipulations, things like that, I do not
think we should turn our backs on such matters. Here might lie the
motive for murder. We never know, and we must not forget it.”
Corrie felt mollified, but realized he was talking as if she had already
said yes. “Could I have a little while to think about it? Could I have over
the weekend?”
Mr. Soedlak sat back with a stern and thoughtful frown. “I myself think
time is of the essence, Miss Haynes. I do not want the trail to get cold. I
was hoping we could start on Monday.” “It's only two days, Mr. Soedlak,
and I don't feel I can really give you an answer right this moment.”
Mr. Soedlak glanced once at Mike McManus. He was obviously not
pleased at being denied instant gratification. “I will give you over the
weekend,” he finally said, “but so as not to waste precious time, I will go
ahead with plans for your cover—background on the missionary family,
passports, things like that. When you leave here, by the way, I’d like you
to have Don Wallace take a passport photo of you that we can use.” He
rose to his feet and the interview was over. “I’m proud,” he said, shaking
her hand, “that we have people on the paper with the sense of
responsibility and public service you have. This is what makes the
Chronicle a great newspaper.”
She made the proper responses and then was out of there, past the
secretary-receptionist and out from the rich, warm, luxurious quarters
wherein the air was cloying and the obligations were heavy. She could
breathe out here, she could feel more alive and almost free again. Except
that Mr. Soedlak didn’t let anybody go free. She could spend the weekend
thinking whatever she wanted, but on Monday she was going to have to
come in and say yes. She was going to have to try to infiltrate the Richard
Wainwright family. Not that maybe she shouldn’t, if she really believed in
justice, but she wasn’t being given any choice. That was the trouble. Mr.
Soedlak was, if anything, more eager than she to pin a murder rap on
Richard Wainwright. Was he after the Pulitzer Prize for his paper? Did he
want headlines? Did he have a circulation problem? Or was his desire to
see justice done the equal of her own?
Mike caught up to her at the elevator. “I didn’t try to sell him on the
idea, Corrie,” he said, as if apologizing. “I just happened to pass a
remark—your idea of how to infiltrate the family. I thought he’d be
entertained. I didn’t know he was going to take it seriously.”
“Meaning that you didn’t take it seriously?”
 Mike looked embarrassed. “Well, hell, I couldn’t authorize you to do
something like that. If you say you’ll do it, you’re going to have to sign all
kinds of legal documents keeping the Chronicle out of it.”
“And you don’t want me to do it. You never did.”
Mike backed off from that one. “Don’t look at me, kid. Anton Soedlak
is my boss and I’m not going to tell somebody not to do something he
wants them to do. All I can say is, think about it very carefully and don't
do anything you don't think you ought to do. What I mean is, don't be too
sure Soedlak is weeping real tears over Jefferson Wainwright. In fact,
regard it as possible that Anton Soedlak doesn't give a good God damn
what happened to Jefferson Wainwright."
And Corrie said, “I not only regard that as possible, Mike, I regard it as
probable. And I further regard it as probable that there isn't a single
human being in the whole world who gives a good God damn about what
happened to Jefferson Wainwright—
“——except me."
 CHAPTER 10

Mike McManus wasn't present when Corrie reported to Mr. Soedlak's

office first thing Monday morning, but there was a message on her desk
when she got back that he wanted to see her.
He was on the phone when she entered his office, and he sounded in a
nasty, Monday-morning temper. He looked at Corrie over the phone and
nodded to the customer's chair. Then he hung up and the sharpness was
still in his voice when he turned in her direction. "You see Soedlak?"
Corrie nodded.
"You going to do it?"
She nodded again.
"You know you're crazy, don't you?"
She kept on nodding.
"Can anything change your mind?"
This time she shook her head.
Mike sighed as all the wind went out of him. He slumped into his
chair. "I knew how it was going to come out," he said in a distressed voice.
"Your future with this paper would be zilch if you turned him down and
you knew it. Besides that, there's just enough women's lib in you to want
to match skills with the boys. I hid under beds and played parlor maid
and risked my hide to get stories and you think you've got to prove that
you can do it too.
You’ve been conned and stampeded and egged into this job and now
you’re stuck. You might even be glad, but I’ve got a hunch you’re scared. I
think you secretly wish I’d never sent you on that hospital interview.”
Corrie smiled a little. “You’re pretty good at reading the lady’s mind,
Mike. To tell the truth, I am scared, and I do wish you hadn’t sent me on
that interview. I wouldn’t even complain about covering Halloween
parties for the elderly—for a few months at least. But it’s not true that I’ve
been conned and stampeded and threatened into saying yes. I wouldn’t be
afraid to say no to Mr. Soedlak if I thought I’d be making a mistake. I
know he’s pressuring me and the pressure is great, but the real reason I
decided to say yes is because it’s right. I saw a murder committed. I know
I did. I wish I hadn’t. I wish it was somebody else. But it was me, Mike,
and I can’t hide from it. I’m the only one who can do anything about it.
I’m the only one who can pose as Jeff’s wife, the only one who can
infiltrate die family. It’s got to be me.”
“You’re not the only one. Soedlak can hire an actress. She’d play the
widow better than you. He doesn’t need you.”
“If he hired an actress, all he’d have is an actress. Getting accepted as
Jeff’s widow is only the starting point, not the whole game. An actress
couldn’t investigate.”
“Private detectives could.”
Corrie shrugged. “I guess if Mr. Soedlak wanted to sic a bunch of
private detectives on Mr. Wainwright, he might be able to find out
something. And I suppose your editor could have hired a private detective
to hide under die bed. I guess, though, private detectives don’t hide under
beds or pretend to be somebody’s widow. They pretend they’re from the
phone company or the water company or something more logical. And
somehow I have the feeling it wouldn’t work. And somehow I’m surprised
that you’d think that way. I have the feeling you wouldn’t have let
somebody else take your place under that bed for anything in the world.”
Mike said, with a touch of vehemence at the thought, “Of course not. It
was my story!”
“And, among other things, I guess this is mine.”
Mike sighed again. “The trouble with you, Corrie, is you’re a
newspaperwoman.” He got up and pulled his coat off the tree. “It’s ten
o'clock in the morning,” he said, “which is a hell of a time, but I need a
drink. So do you. Come with me.”
Corrie, who had never before been called by Mike a newspaperwoman,
rose and floated out of the office after him.

Harkey's Bar and Grille, around the comer from the Chronicle
Building, was a hangout for reporters, but seldom at that hour of the day.
A couple of drifters were at the bar, but the tables and booths were
empty. Mike hailed the bartender as he guided Corrie through the door.
“Scotch on the rocks, Charlie. Better make it a double.” He consulted
Corrie and said, “Gingerale for the lady.” They took a booth at the back
where Mike hung up their coats and peeled himself a cigar. He said to
Corrie, “All right, honey, what's Anton Soedlak got going for you?”
 “Oh, he's taking care of everything,” Corrie said confidently. “I don't
have to do a thing, except go to the house.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, late afternoon. He's got it figured with the airlines'
schedules. I don’t even have to be seen on the planes. He's going to have
me on all the right passenger lists. He’s supplying me with two suitcases,
made in Brazil and packed with all the things I ought to have, health
papers, passport, and I don't know what all. And clothes. All he needed
today was my size. He'll take care of the rest and give me a list. They’ll be
waiting for me at the airport. And background. He's given me six
typewritten pages I have to know cold by tomorrow afternoon. All about
the family. Richard is a collector—paintings, coins, antique silver, and
God knows what else, and writes articles. He's an authority. Jeff's
twenty-six and a half—or was when he died. The twins are twenty-three
and a half and they get their money when they're twenty-five. Up till then,
Richard's the trustee or whatever, and uses the interest in their behalf.
But that's only page one. And he's got it all there about the missionary
family and how they found Jeff. He was weak and dying of disease and
being followed by the cannibals he was trying to get away from. They
were getting closer because he was so weak.
“And we nursed him back to health, my mother and father and I—plus
the friendly natives of our village. But we were so far up the river that only
one boat every four weeks got up that far, and it was five months before
Jeff was well enough and the boat came that could bring him back down
to civilization. And we were married in the village by my father—the
missionary, that is.”
“It sounds like he’s touching all bases,” Mike said wryly.
“Oh, he tells me it’s going to be ironclad. If Richard Wainwright should
hire detectives to make inquiries, they’ll be given all the right answers.
He’s got contacts in all the right places.”
“You don’t mean ‘if’ detectives, you mean ‘when’ detectives.” She
looked at him. “I do?”
“You’d better remember something, kiddo. When you show up on the
family doorstep, you’re not just Jeff Wainwright’s unexpected widow,
you’re heir to his share of the family fortune. I can tell you the family’s not
going to take that one lying down.”
Charlie served the drinks and they were quiet for a moment. Mike took
a good dose of scotch and Corrie sipped gingerale slowly. “Yes,” she finally
said. “There is that angle.” She sipped more of the gingerale and
brightened. “But Mr. Soedlak would know all that. He says I’ll be well
covered. There’s no way they’ll find out it’s make-believe.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mike said impatiently. “That’s his angle. What about
yours? Tomorrow afternoon you’re going to ring the Wainwright’s
doorbell and start a charade. You won’t get past the butler if you go in
there cold.”
“It won’t be a butler, it’ll be a maid. See? Mr. Soedlak even has a
briefing report on the family—the kind of stuff a new wife would be
expected to know.”
“That won’t get you past the maid then.”
“You mean, do I know what I’m going to say and do?”
“That's right. You land at the front door and the maid answers. What
are you going to do?”
“I’m going to tell her I’m Jeff’s wife.”
“That’ll lay them in the aisles.”
“Well, what else do you think Jeff’s wife would tell her?”
“And you put the maid in shock, right? I’m the maid and I say”—Mike
lapsed into a falsetto—“ ‘But you can't be. He's dead.' ” He went back to
his normal tone. “And you'd better have a good answer for that one.”
Corrie said, “I've already worked it out. In the first place, I'm not going
to ask for Jeff. I’m going to tell the maid I'm Mrs. Jefferson Wainwright
and say I want to see Richard.”
“You're not going to want to see Jeff? I thought you weren't supposed
to know he's dead.”
“Jeff signed contracts on his way up here to do articles and a book on
this native tribe he played god for. I'm going to pretend he's told me he'd
be holed up working on them and wants me to come stay with the family
until he gets back.”
Mike had to admit that might do it. “All right,” he said gruffly. “You
provoke a response that gets her running to Uncle Richard to say”—again
he went to the falsetto—“‘Mr. Wainwright, Mr. Wainwright. Mr. Jefferson
has a wife! She's right inside the front door this very moment wanting to
see you. What'll I do?' ”
Corrie clapped in applause. “You're great, Mike. You should be in
pictures.”
“I used to be a drama critic. So we have Uncle Richard following the
maid to the front door and there you are with your suitcases. And he'll say
something like this.” Mike spoke gruffly: “ ‘Now then, my girl. The maid
tells me you represent yourself as my eldest nephew's wife. Explain
please.' ”
Corrie hammed it herself. “You mean—you mean—Jeff hasn't told
you?”
“No, he most certainly hasn't.”
“But he knew I was coming before he got back. The last time I talked to
him—he called me when he was in New York—he told me to wait for him
here. He must have told you. He said everything would be all set. I was to
come here and meet the family and stay till he got back.” Her voice was
trembly and she was nearly in tears. It was very well done.
Mike said, “Yes, yes, well, er, uh—you haven't read the papers?” “Not
except for today’s papers. You see, I didn’t leave Brazil until this
morning.”
“Brazil?”
“Yes, yes. That's where we were married." Her voice got a little
hysterical. “Hasn't Jeff told you anything?”
“Well, I, ah-"
“But please, aren't you going to invite me in? I was hoping I could go to
my room—our room—and freshen up after my long trip."
Mike sighed and shook his head. “With that line, I have to believe it.
You're in. Along about now, Uncle Richard would be apologizing for not
having the room ready and be taking you up there himself. He might even
let you do your freshening up without asking you any questions. But
when you come downstairs again, he's going to be ready."
“Well, if he tells me Jeff's dead, I faint. I'll take to my bed. His bed. Our
bed."
“I don't mean that. Uncle Richard is going to want to know about the
courtship and marriage."
“Oh, I have a marriage license and an article from an American-
language newspaper encased in plastic which describes the marriage."
“What if he wants you to talk Portuguese?"
Corrie shook her head. “I don't. That's why it's an American- language
newspaper. I grew up in a native village. We talked their language."
“And I'll bet Soedlak even has a few sentences for you to memorize."
She nodded. “Just in case."
“But that’s not going to satisfy Richard Wainwright. Remember, if
you’re legitimate, you’re heiress to a good third of the family fortune.
Richard isn’t going to take a marriage license and wedding announcement
as proof you’re Jeff’s widow."
 “I know. But I’m not going after the family jewels. That’s the point. At
least that’s what Mr. Soedlak’s lawyer told me. Legal proof would have to
be established, which we can’t do. But that's business between the
Wainwright lawyers and Mr. Soedlak's lawyer, who would pretend to be
mine if anything legal comes up."
“And speaking of legal things that come up, what kind of papers did
Mr. Soedlak's lawyer have you sign?"
“Oh, just something to the effect that this is my own free will, it’s not
at the behest of the newspaper and, in fact, I hold the paper in no way
liable for anything that might happen.”
“Who was your lawyer?”
“Mr. Soedlak's lawyer acted for both of us.”
Mike put his hands to his head. “Well, there's no use talking, I guess.
And you still want to go through with it?”
“I don't think I ever really wanted to go through with it, but I feel I
have to.”
Mike glanced around, then quietly withdrew something from his
pocket and, keeping it as well covered as possible, put it on the table. He
removed his hands and revealed a .38-caliber revolver. “I'll let you go on
two conditions,” he said. “One, keep that in your purse. And the second is
that you report to me at least once every forty-eight hours. Here, put it in
your purse.”
Corrie smiled at him. “Thanks, Mike, but it wouldn't fit. And I already
have a gun.”
“You do?”
She opened her purse and took out a small, pearl-handled, woman's .22
automatic. “See? Mr. Soedlak gave it to me.” She took out the clip to
display the bullets. “He even showed me where the bullets go. And it will
fit in my purse much better.”
Mike had to concede the point. “He thinks of everything,” he said, and
slipped his own gun away again.
She put a hand on his. “But thanks, Mike, anyway.” She smiled at him
again. He was really worried about her, the old bear. No wonder he was so
grumpy on the phone. She'd bet he wasn't nearly as scared for himself
when he went off on his own wild missions. Of course guns wouldn't be
necessary, but it was nice that Mike and Mr. Soedlak were concerned.
 CHAPTER 11

Richard Wainwright, gray, intellectual, thick-maned, with wireframed

glasses and a neatly trimmed beard, rolled his Lincoln Continental to a
stop in front of the steel and stone, pseudo- Gothic mansion known as
Hampton House. It was a broad-faced, two-storied edifice with a
second-floor outdoor balcony behind a battlement rail, stone towers at
the comers, and a mansard roof over the attic. The shaded, scraggly grass
was kept mowed, but the profusion of untended trees and plantings gave
a ragged, unkempt appearance to the place, at the same time so shielding
it that the mansion seldom got the direct rays of the sun. As a result,
there was mold and black stain on the stone, especially along the front of
the building, which faced to the north. It had once been a magnificent
structure, but it had pretty well gone to seed by the time Richard bought
it and he had done little to improve matters. He had made the purchase
shortly after inheriting, by virtue of being next of kin, three children and
the money to raise them. It was trust-fund interest that paid the mortgage
on the gloomy, gray, towered mansion, but its purpose was obviously
more as a museum for his collections than as a home for children.
Richard was wearing a gray tweed suit and only a light gray topcoat
for, though the early November weather was raw, the environment inside
the Continental was summer. A man was beside him, a young man in
cheap clothes who had dark hair, ugly eyes, and a hard-bitten mouth. He
turned his black gaze on the massive, gloomy mansion, set deep in dense
woods, and scowled.
“It's better than jail,” Richard said to him, his own face darkening at
the lack of enthusiasm in the youth. "Just so long as you mind me and
don’t step out of line, it can be your home. Remember, I am the power
here. It is what I say that matters. It is not what anyone else says. I expect
you to show proper respect for the other members of my family. I don’t
want to hear complaints about you from the other help. We’re a
close-knit group. I run a tight ship. But I want you to understand that I
expect you to be the first mate on this ship. But that’s just between you
and me.” Richard gave his companion a malicious twinkle and the young
man became a little less tense. "Yeah?” he said. "I don’t know that I get
you.”
"I’ll make it simple for you, Clyde. I need a right-hand man. The more
you can prove yourself my right-hand man, the more you can write your
own ticket. Just prove yourself, Clyde. Just prove yourself.”
Clyde was even starting to relax. The huge mansion was losing some of
its frightening air. He had a friend there. He would make himself into a
good right-hand man. He’d like being the first mate. "Yes, sir, Mr.
Wainwright,” he said. "I’ll sure do that.”
"Fine. Get your suitcase out of the back and follow me.”
Clyde retrieved a cardboard suitcase from the rear of the car and
ascended the stone porch area where Richard was ringing the doorbell.
The large oak door was pulled inward and Clyde followed his master
through into a great, dark, paneled and polished entrance hall that
needed bright lights at high noon. There was a massive staircase on the
left to an overhead balcony, but more to the point was the reasonably
pretty, reasonably well-shaped young maid in short black dress and white
apron who opened the door. She wouldn’t be hard to take and maybe the
first mate was the one for the job.
"Fancy,” said Mr. Wainwright to the girl, "this gentleman is Clyde
Holworth. He’ll be taking George Kroll’s place. Clyde, this is Fancy
Hedges. Fancy, show Clyde to George’s old room.”
There was a sound on the balcony and Elliot Wainwright started down
the stairs. The two men below looked up and Richard said, “Oh, yes,
Clyde, and this is my nephew, Mr. Elliot Wainwright. He's part of the
family. Elliot, I want you to meet Clyde."
Elliot, weaving a little, steadied himself with a hand on the rail at the
halfway mark. His glance passed over Clyde and focused on Richard. “Is
he another one of your thieves?" he said.
Richard's face took on an unhealthy shade of red. He said, in strained
tones, “When I introduce you to someone, I expect you to respond
properly."
Elliot came down another couple of steps, holding himself carefully.
“The last one stole your silver collection. What do you want to lose this
time?"
Richard eyed him narrowly. “You’ve been drinking."
“After Kroll took off, I've been sleeping nights. Now you bring in
another."
 Richard turned on Fancy with an ugly voice. “Haven't I told you to
keep the liquor supply locked up?"
Fancy, white-faced, drew back. “But I do, Mr. Wainwright. I do."
“How much did he pay you? Answer me!”
“N-nothing. Honest."
Elliot sneered. “Behold. The lord of the manor speaketh."
Richard's manner became urbane again, but his voice didn't. He said to
Clyde, “That's one of the first jobs you have in this house, Clyde. You are
to make sure that Elliot, here, does not get hold of any liquor. If I were
you, Clyde, I would search his room frequently."
Elliot, clutching the rail, leaned forward toward the older man, his
mouth forming silent, unbeautiful words, but Richard, a nasty look in his
eye, was talking to Clyde. He sent Fancy off with the new man, telling her
at the same time to hurry because it was nearly five-thirty. He turned his
back on Elliot and strode to the sliding doors of the drawing room at the
rear of the entrance hall.
The drawing room, dark and paneled, looked out through leaded
windows onto a courtyard shaped by the U of the building and bordered
at the rear by formal gardens beyond the greenhouse and barn. It was too
dark now to see anything except the lights in the servants7 quarters. That
was the left wing, where Clyde would be settling in. Clyde was young and
strong and tough. Richard, standing in front of the couch to gaze out the
windows, was pleased with his choice.
Elliot entered the room through the now open sliding doors. “Very
cute scene,” he said to Richard’s back. “You and your new number-one
boy.”
Richard didn't look around. “We have cocktails at five-thirty. You will
do your drinking then, not before.”
“I’ll do what I please.”
Now Richard turned. “No,” he said. “You will do what I please. You will
do it when I please and how I please.”
“There are times when I wish to hell Jefferson was still alive.”
“Oh no there aren't. There are only times when you forget how lucky
you are he’s dead.”
“Correction. There are times when I wish to hell it was you who was
dead.”
“Wrong again,” Richard said smoothly. “Those are the times you forget
that if I were dead, you might as well be dead too.”
“And one of these days, maybe I’ll decide it just might be worth it.”
 Richard gave him a contemptuous smile. “That’s one of the reasons you
are not to drink. It gives you delusions of grandeur. Do you really think
you have the guts to murder anyone?”
“You’re damned well going to stop ridiculing me in front of the
servants. You're not going to go telling that new man he can walk into my
room whenever he wants, right in front of the other help. That’s
degrading.”
“If that is what it takes to make you behave, then it's you who's
degrading yourself. If I must have Clyde search your room, it's your fault.”
“Clyde is not going to set one goddam foot in my room.”
“Clyde is going to do exactly what I tell him to do. That's what he’s
here for.”
“He's not going into my room.”
“He will do whatever I say he shall do. You don't issue ultimatums in
this house, my dear nephew. I do. Do you understand that?”
“I'm not trying to issue ultimatums. I'm just saying—',f “I said, do you
understand what I just said?”
“Yes, I understand what you just said.”
“Who issues the ultimatums in this house?”
“Look, Richard, that's Isolde's and my suite. It's the only place in the
house we have to ourselves. We have our things there. I don't want some
stranger pawing through our belongings. How would it look? How can I
explain it to Isolde? Besides, we’ve got valuables there, and he’s a jailbird.
He'll rob us blind. Look at Kroll. He stole half your silver collection. You
said he could be trusted, but he couldn't. And it's the same with this guy.
You can't guarantee that he won't rob us. You can't leave us worried like
that. You've got to let us have some privacy. We're entitled to it.
Everybody's entitled to some privacy.”
Richard's voice became sharper. “I asked you a question. I said, ‘Who
issues the ultimatums in this house?' Answer it. Who issues the
ultimatums around here?”
There were tears in Elliot's eyes. “We're entitled to privacy. You've got
no business telling Clyde to search our rooms. Especially in front of the
help!”
Richard said in a suddenly oily voice, “You are pressing me close to my
limit. If answering my questions doesn't please you, perhaps you would
rather discuss how I shall punish you. Shall we talk about punishment, or
shall we talk about ultimatums?”
 Their eyes met, steel for steel, hate for hate. Then Elliot’s gaze turned
to water. He could only lose. He swallowed his anger and his hate. “You
do,” he said.
“What do I do?”
“You issue the ultimatums around here.”
“That is right,” Richard replied harshly. “And I expect that I’ll not have
to ask you that question again. You're getting too cavalier, my dear
nephew. There's room for only one head of the family in this household.
So if you and Isolde ever feel the urge to run things, you are at liberty to
leave and go run whatever it is you wish to run with whatever you’ve got
to run it with. By the way, Elliot,” Richard went on in sugary tones, “have
you got any wherewithal to run something with?”
“All right, all right-”
“You didn't answer my question. Have you got any wherewithal?”
“You know I haven't.”
“Well, then, there's no reason for us to argue about anything, is there?”
The question wasn't rhetorical. Richard didn't ask rhetorical questions.
He expected answers. Elliot gritted his teeth and said no.
Richard could smile. “That's better.” He changed the subject. “It's
cocktail time. Where're Isolde and Patricia?”
Elliot, still stinging, said, “How should I know?” and went to the
windows.
Richard wouldn't leave him alone. “I asked you a question, Elliot. I am
waiting for an answer.”
“I don't know where Patricia is. In her room, I think. And I think
Isolde's in the greenhouse.”
Richard looked at his watch. “It's twenty-five minutes after five. If they
are being forgetful of the time, it might be well for you to summon them.”
“They’ve got five minutes. Besides, Fancy hasn't brought in the bar.”
At that moment the buxom young Fancy Hedges appeared, pushing a
portable bar that ran on silent, rubber-tired wheels, but which clinked
with the rattle of bottles. She wheeled it to its traditional spot against the
side wall near the windows and removed a tray of hors d’oeuvres from a
lower shelf which she put on the coffee table in front of the low, large
leather couch.
Richard said, “I do believe Fancy has brought in the bar. Perhaps you
will now make an effort to see that the girls get here on time? You have
four minutes.”
 Elliot left the room without a word and Richard, when he had gone,
withdrew a pipe from a pocket case and carefully filled it with a special
tobacco mixture he carried in a leather pouch. He lighted it and turned to
view the darkness of the courtyard beyond the windows.
Patricia came listlessly into the room. She had that wan, nothing air
about her. Nothing excited her. Nothing pleased her, so far as Richard
knew, except the secret meetings of that strange cult of hers. It called
upon the dead. It tried to raise the dead. It smacked of spiritualism and
mediums, but it was something else. There were secret robes and secret
rituals and hints of witchcraft. Richard didn't glance with favor upon such
activities, but he put up with them. He was partial to Patricia. He ruled
her but the destruction of her pride and dignity was not, as with Elliot,
intentional.
“Good evening, Patricia.”
Patricia said, “Good evening, Richard,” and sank into a leather chair
within reach of the coffee table. It was the chair Richard thought was best
for her. It gave her a good view of the courtyard and her face was to him
while he poured. Isolde had the chair with her back to the bar. Her
expression was less pleasing and Richard preferred beauty.
Isolde was the next to arrive, with thirty seconds to spare, and she was
wearing an elegant white dinner gown.
“Ah,” Richard said, “good evening, Isolde. My, that gown does become
you.”
Isolde was a sour beauty, her lips too red and starkly outlined, her hair
too brassy. But she had a figure and the gown enhanced it. Richard had
known it would when he had her buy it. If her face wasn't that strikingly
beautiful, her body made up for it.
“Thank you, Richard,” she said. She might have had other things to say.
In an earlier time, she would have been tempted to remark that, after all,
it was he who made her buy it and insisted that she wear it, so what did
he expect it to do but become her. But that was not proper behavior with
one who controlled her husband's income. She said, “Thank you,” instead,
but she didn't smile. Neither she nor Patricia were much on smiling.
She took the accustomed chair and Richard, standing by the bar and
looking at his watch, said, “Where is our wandering boy tonight? He's half
a minute late.” He made it sound jocular, but there was an edge in his
voice.
Elliot reappeared, looked around guiltily, and said to the girls, “Oh,
there you are.”
 “And where were you?” Richard asked, turning now to the business of
preparing cocktails.
“Looking for the girls, like you wanted me to do.” Elliot took the empty
chair between both Isolde and Patricia.
“I wanted you to find them in order to get them here on time,” Richard
reminded him. “I did not mean for you to be late.”
“I couldn’t help it,” Elliot said petulantly. “It takes a little while to get
around this barn, you know.”
“I do not appreciate your humor,” Richard said, using tongs to lift
cubes from ice bucket to glass. “This house is not a bam, nor is its size or
anything else an excuse for failing to live up to your responsibilities.
You’ve kept the ladies waiting. I think you owe them an apology.”
“I apologize,” Elliot growled.
“Please. The ladies are not barmaids. One is your sister and the other is
your wife. I think you should address them in a tone befitting their
station, don’t you?”
“I apologize,” Elliot said, more sweetly.
Richard finished the fourth highball and set it on a tray with the
others. “That’s better,” he said with more charm. “That’s a more proper
way to start a pleasant occasion. We don’t want people in grumpy spirits.
This is the time of day we get together and enjoy each other’s company. It
should be a joyous experience.” He made the rounds with the tray, serving
each of the ladies, then Elliot, then setting his own glass in the spot on
the coffee table in front of the couch. The others waited while he returned
the tray and took his own seat. He raised his glass. “A toast. Now, whose
turn is it today?”
“It’s yours,” Elliot replied.
“Oh, my, so it is. Well, then, to us all. May these friendly occasions
continue without interruption as long as I live.” He sipped and smiled. “I
only say that,” he explained, “because I should, by all expectations of
nature, be the first among us to depart this world. So I am really wishing
you all good health and happiness in hoping that my departure will be the
first break in the chain.” He reached forward for the tray of hors d’oeuvres
and passed it to Patricia. Thereafter, once it had made its rounds and
been returned to the table, anyone could help himself.
The doorbell rang as Richard, taking his own cream cheese and caviar
cracker, set the tray down and was about to speak. He frowned slightly at
the unexpected interruption, then went on smoothly as if it hadn't
happened. “Well, who's done what today?" He looked around smilingly at
the other three, all of whom were white and unmoving. Finally he focused
on Patricia. “We'll start with you, my dear."
Patricia's hand began to shake. She sipped three swallows of her lightly
colored highball and the glass rattled against her teeth. Elliot and Isolde
looked at her with empty faces, and Richard waited with interest.
She put the glass down and clutched her hands between her knees.
Her face was flushed and she took a breath. “I arose at six- thirty this
morning, dressed, then joined the family for breakfast at seven-thirty.
Then I, uh—"
Richard interrupted. “Be precise, Patricia. Know what you're going to
say before you say it. The first sentence was good. It was clear and
explicit. The only trouble is that it's the exact same sentence you used last
night. Just because you get a sentence right doesn't mean you should keep
on using it. I expect you to show imagination. I'm trying to teach you how
to handle yourself comfortably in public, and if you try to use crutches, it
indicates an unwillingness to co-operate in being taught. Start over again,
please."
Patricia, flushed and tremulous, said, “I, uh, got up—"
“ 'I got up,' not, 'I, uh, got up.'"
“I, uh, got up—I mean—I got up. Then I, uh—then, I mean, I got
dressed—"
“I think you're a little confused," Richard said patiently. “I'm sure you
can do better than that. Start again."
Patricia kept her hands tight between her knees, but her shoulders
were trembling. She swallowed. “I, uh—" She stopped and bit her lip. “I
got dressed," she said quickly. “Then I had breakfast—"
“What time did you get up?" Richard interrupted.
“Six-thirty."
“Then tell us that.”
“Uh, didn't I. . . ?"
“No you did not. Now concentrate, Patricia. We don't have all night.
Dinner is at seven. You don't want to miss dinner again, do you?"
Patricia shook her head. Her eyes were very frightened.
“Don’t just shake your head. You’ve got a voice box, haven’t you?
When I ask a question, I expect an answer.”
“No,” she said faintly.
“Very well—” Richard paused when Fancy Hedges pulled the
drawing-room doors open, came in and closed them again. She hurried to
Richard. “Listen, Mr. Wainwright, you aren’t going to believe this. But it’s
the gospel truth. There’s a dame outside with a couple of suitcases.”
“A dame?” Richard smiled. “Fancy, please.”
“A lady, then. With two big suitcases.” Fancy used her hands to show
their size. “Right out there in the front hall. She come in a taxi, and as
soon as I opened the door, she had the taxi take off. So now she’s in the
hallway and you know what she says to me? She says, big as life, ‘I’m Mrs.
Jefferson Wainwright. I believe Richard Wainwright is expecting me.”
 CHAPTER 12

Elliot Wainwright was the first to speak. “She’s a damned liar! That’s
what she is, a damned liar. Throw her the hell out of here, Fancy.”
“Who, me?”
Patricia and Isolde were carved in stone. Only Richard remained calm
and unruffled. “She’s waiting in the hall right now, with two suitcases?”
“That’s right, Mr. Wainwright. And she claims she’s Mrs. Jefferson
Wainwright and that you’re expecting her.”
“She’s a fraud,” Elliot said, leaning forward. “Jefferson never had a wife.
I’ll throw her out. How about it, Richard? Want me to throw her out?”
Richard raised a gentle hand. “Let’s be calm, everyone. Let us not run
around like headless chickens. I think we ought to keep our heads very
tightly in place.”
“It’s a put-up job,” Elliot insisted, rising to his feet. “It’s blackmail. I
don’t care about you, Richard, but I won’t stand for it.”
“Be quiet,” Richard told him, and turned to Fancy. “Does this woman
know that Jefferson Wainwright is dead?”
“I didn’t tell her, if that’s what you mean.”
“Did she tell you?”
"She didn't say nothing about that. She just said she's Mrs. Jefferson
Wainwright and you were expecting her."
"She didn't ask for Jefferson, she asked for me?”
"That’s right.”
Elliot said, "She knows Jefferson's dead. That's why she's here. She's
trying to cheat us out of his money.”
"I doubt that,” Richard said thoughtfully.
"It's a con game, you fool! Can't you see what she's up to?” He took a
step toward the phone. "The thing to do is call the police!” "Stop being so
noisy,” Richard said, gesturing irritably. "We have to give this unexpected
innovation a little thought.”
"Thought? What’s there to think about?”
 "It would be well, for one thing, to think about what would happen to
us if we followed your advice and it turned out that she really was Mrs.
Jefferson Wainwright.”
"That’s ridiculous. We all know Jefferson wasn't married.”
"As a matter of fact,” Richard said, "I don’t know any such thing. We’ve
always—”
"You know damned well Jefferson wasn’t the marrying kind. Look at
the life he led. Did he ever talk girls? Did he ever look at them? She’s a
fraud, I tell you.”
"If she’s a fraud,” Richard said, "we will know how to deal with her. In
the meantime, it would be well to reserve judgment.”
"I say we throw her out.” He turned to Patricia and Isolde. "How about
it? Do we throw her out and let her make the next ^ move, or do we let
her infiltrate and rob us?”
The girls hesitated, looking from Elliot to Richard. Elliot was
belligerent and daring. Richard was evasive-eyed and wily, glancing only
once at the girls before stuffing his pipe.
Finally Patricia said, "I—I don’t know. I think maybe we should do
what Richard says.”
Isolde gave an agreeing nod and Elliot sputtered. Richard said, "A wise
decision. Elliot has a tendency to act without thinking.” "I'm not going to
let her steal our money!” Elliot said defensively.
"Whose money?”
"It belongs in our family. It's not hers. She knows he's dead and she's
after it.”
Richard said, “According to Fancy, this woman acts as if she thinks
Jefferson is still alive.”
“Well she's not going to act that way long, because I'm going to tell her
he's dead the minute she sets foot in this room. I'm going to tell her he's
dead and buried, good-bye! You want to see Jefferson, go to the
cemetery.''
Richard raised a cautionary hand. “Elliot, if you would pause to reflect
for perhaps ten seconds, it might occur to you that this woman could, just
possibly, be legitimate. And if she should really be Jefferson's wife, having
her alive would be exactly the same as having Jefferson alive. Do you
understand that, Elliot? It would be the same as Jefferson rising from the
dead. If it were Jefferson out there in the front hall, you'd be very nice to
him, wouldn't you? You'd lick his boots, wouldn’t you? So I would
suggest, for the health and welfare of us all, that you lick this young lady's
boots as well, until we find out more about her.''
“Yeah?” Elliot growled. “Maybe. But first I want to see what happens
when I tell her her darling husband is dead.”
“But, my dear nephew, that is exactly what you are not going to do. No
one is going to tell the young lady that Jefferson is dead. No one will say a
word about Jefferson. Because no one but me will do the talking. I will
handle things. I will handle them entirely by myself. You will all speak on
cue and only on cue. Is that understood?”
He looked at the girls and they nodded. He looked at Elliot and Elliot
looked back. “She's after money, I tell you.”
“Of course she's after money,” Richard said sharply. “Don't you think
we all know that? But she isn't going to get any. The point is you will keep
still and let me handle things. Is that understood?”
Elliot said, “The only way to handle things is to send her away. I still
say if we let her in we'll be sorry!”
Richard said, “I asked you if you understand me, Elliot. I do not want
to have to repeat myself.” His eyes stared unwinkingly. “Do you
understand me?”
Elliot thought of punishment and finally growled, “Yes, I understand.”
Richard looked around. “All of you—you give away nothing. You speak
when spoken to. You say nothing whatever about Jefferson. You ask the
woman no questions.” He turned to Fancy. "The same goes for you and
the rest of the help. The young lady is to be told nothing. Now go show
her in.”
 CHAPTER 13

Corrie stood by her suitcases, keeping her handbag tightly clutched,

feeling the hard outlines of the small automatic through the leather. At
last the girl named Fancy reappeared through the sliding doors and said,
“They’re in there. They’ll see you.” Fancy was anything but the kind of
parlor maid Corrie would have expected. She had a coarse kind of beauty,
a hard-bitten, savvy look, and the kind of manners one would expect from
a bored and disagreeable counter girl in an all-night diner. Corrie had
thought she would gain an edge with her “Mrs. Jefferson Wainwright”
statement, but the maid had only stared at her with narrowed eyes and
said, “You’re who?” And though she carried the message dutifully, she
carried it suspiciously. If the maid didn’t react more defensively, Corrie
could expect real trouble with the family. And now she was summoned to
appear before them. She trembled, closed her eyes in momentary prayer,
then forced her feet to take her to the doorway. She stepped into the
room and faced the foe.
The family foursome was standing opposite, side by side, shoulder to
shoulder, their eyes baleful, their expressions malevolent, and Corrie
could feel the hate that issued from every pore. She knew her arrival
would cause a shock, she knew she would be regarded with suspicion, but
she had not expected the engulfing sense of unreasoning hate. They had
never seen her before—to their knowledge—yet she could feel them
willing her to drop dead on the spot. They did not want her in this room,
they did not want her in this house. They wanted her to die—not just to
be gone, but to be dead. They wanted not only Jefferson's wife but anyone
calling herself Jefferson's wife to be wiped from the face of the earth. It
was a horrifying feeling that coursed through Corrie as she stood there,
waiting for some sign from the stalwart, motionless foursome that was
ranged against her. She had thought she could pull off her gambit, that it
was a question of acting ability, of knowing her lines, her cues, her six
pages of typewritten information, but she hadn't known about the hate
and the evil that would surround her. Even the gun in her purse seemed
useless. It had given her such a sense of strength, now she felt like
throwing it away. Now she felt like turning and running for her life.
Still she stood waiting, forcing a trembling smile to her lips, trying to
think what Jefferson’s wife would do in such a situation. But all she could
think was, They killed him, and now they want to kill me.
She forced herself to look at the gray-haired man with the pipe, the
one who had put poison in Jefferson's water. She would have to speak
since they did not She opened her mouth, but no words came out. They
stuck in her throat. They were jammed by the heart that was beating
there. She tried again and words did come, tremulous, uncertain words
that bespoke her terror. “You—you must b-be Richard. . . . Jefferson’s
uncle—I-I'm sorry—to—be— late—so late."
Would they not speak? Would they all remain frozen like that, with
their ominous, devouring eyes, their fangs all but bared, their shoulders
touching, their skins equally white? What was it she had said to herself
when her knees began to tremble at the thought of her role? What was it
that stiffened her spine and gave her the strength to keep going? “You're
nothing but a pack of cards!" That was the motto she had devised. Go
boldly forth. Stride into their midst. They can't hurt you. They're nothing
but a pack of cards.
She tried it now. “You're nothing but a pack of cards," she said to
herself, but when she'd said it, they didn't go away, they didn't diminish,
and the concentrated threat that emanated from their center didn't
lessen.
Corrie tried to muster courage. It was all she could fall back on. It had
looked so easy when she burlesqued it with Mike. It was very easy when
you were in control, when you were dominant. It was awful being the
kindergarten child explaining herself to the principal. But she was
trapped. There was no backing out now. She had to go forward. “Y-you
are—Richard—uh—Wainwright, aren’t—you? I—am—in—the—the
right—house?”
Now it was Richard’s turn. He had to do something with this trembling
girl. Scared out of her wits, she was. But was she or wasn’t she for real? If
she were a fraud, wouldn’t she handle herself with more assurance?
Wouldn’t she put on a better act? On the other hand, could Jefferson . . . ?
Well, no getting around it, Jefferson could do anything.
Still, what about her? Could she be attracted . . . ? Of course she could.
Jefferson, if he set his mind to it, could probably induce devotion from
Medusa. This slight, fair, very luscious young girl couldn't resist Jefferson
for five minutes if he wanted to charm her.
Never mind, it didn’t matter what arguments could be mustered for
either side. As long as the possibility existed that Jefferson Wainwright
had a wife, and this young girl were she, a very careful game had to be
played. She must not be antagonized by the family’s hostility. She must
not believe that the family had any but the deepest affection for her
departed husband. She must not know she was hated.
“I’m sorry,” Richard said in smooth, oily tones. “We are somewhat
taken aback. Are we to take it that your name is Wainwright? You are
Mrs. Jefferson Wainwright?”
His tones reeked with suspicion, but at least he had answered. At least
Corrie was acknowledged as being alive, as someone to be addressed and
not just hated. She carried on, trying her best to remember the sequence,
to sound legitimate. “Yes,” she nodded. “Mrs. J-Jef-Jefferson
W-Wainwright.” She couldn’t help choking over the words, and she knew
she had flushed purple. She trembled, certain that they all could read her
feeble attempts at deceit. She struggled on. “Y-you don’t
seem—to—be—expecting—me?”
Richard was watching her closely. She was obviously terribly
frightened and that was the way to keep her. “No,” he said, leaving her to
flounder alone. “Frankly we weren’t.”
Corrie fell back upon the drill, the practice, the rehearsing. “Oh, I’m so
sorry,” she blurted out. “I didn’t—uh—have any idea. I mean I—uh—that
is—Jeff told me a week ago—uh Friday—or was it—Thursday—uh when I
talked to him—I mean when he telephoned me, that is, that I should
come up here this afternoon. It was—it was to be early afternoon, as early
afternoon as I could, and everything would be ready. I mean that you
would have everything ready. He—ah—wished he could have me where
he was going—go where he was going, that is, but it was out of the
question and he told me to come here, that he wouldn’t be on hand—that
even if he couldn’t be on hand, you’d take care of everything—I mean,
even if he couldn’t introduce me personally, everything would be ready.”
She’d done a terrible job, she knew, but at least she’d got through it
and she was sure she hadn’t left anything out. Then she gave the key line,
the one that was supposed to have been done plaintively but, in actuality,
was done breathlessly: “Didn’t he tell you?”
Richard, his eyes hooded, his face expressionless, said, “I’m afraid not,
Miss—ah . . . ?”
 Corrie just saw the trap. “Mrs. Wainwright,” she said more firmly.
“Corrie Wainwright.” She went on with it, getting the knack a bit better:
“You mean he never told you I was c-coming this afternoon?” She tried to
look incredulous.
The look had little effect on Richard. No sympathy came into his voice.
There was only that oily, smooth, silky tone. “I’m afraid we know nothing
about your arrival. In fact, not only did Jefferson not tell us about that, he,
very strangely, neglected even to tell us about you.”
He was dripping poisoned sugar and Corrie, her heart pounding,
stepped carefully. “But he called me,” she said. “Just before he went off to
work on the book he’s got to write.” She could face Richard now, look him
in the eye, though something in those eyes could make her shiver. She
stumbled a little less and was able to build some sort of defense against
the concentration of hate that came from the foursome. Either it was
abating or she was becoming inured. “He has to do this book. Didn't he
tell you about that too? All about the tribe he was with—it was a Stone
Age tribe—and the Geographic Society, or some society, wanted him to
do it right away. All about the tribe and its customs and how they till the
soil and make weapons and pottery and all. He had to do it right away,
and he called me when he was getting ready to leave. But I couldn't get up
here until today. I didn't leave Brazil until this morning. But he said it
would be all right, that you'd be expecting me and he'll come back here
next weekend.” She looked from Richard to the others and went on
rapidly, “I suppose I should have wired you from Miami or phoned you
from New York, just to let you know I was on my way, but he was so
insistent that you’d be ready for me, and I had so little time that—I just
didn’t I just can't understand what got into Jeff! How could he have failed
me like this? It’s not like him!”
There, she’d gotten through it, and she could only hope they wouldn’t
jump in and tell her right away that he was dead. She’d like to be more
solidly entrenched before that happened. Now she waited breathlessly for
what would come next. She’d done everything she could to establish
herself. Now she and the others were waiting for Richard and she felt her
fate hanging in the balance.
Richard tried to be casual and offhand, but his eyes watched her like a
snake watching a bird. “It must have slipped his mind. You know how
careless he was.”
 Was that another trap? Corrie couldn’t imagine an adventurer being
careless. “No,” she said, her heart pounding. “I didn't know.” Then she
protected herself. “But then, I haven’t known him very long.”
That got the subject around to where they met and how this all had
happened. Corrie had rehearsed it well and, though she felt like a public
speaker reciting in front of a hostile audience, she did know what she had
to say and even if it sounded stilted, she could at least get the words out.
They had met, she told them, when Jeff came stumbling out of the jungle.
One of the village natives, a young man who had become Christianized
and worked as a servant of God in the mission, came upon Jeff when she
and he went gathering fruit, not fifty yards outside of the village. She had
run for help and Jonathan, which was the Christianized name of her
companion, and two other young men from the village bore the ill and
feverish Jefferson in to the mission and put him to bed. She and her
parents, with the help of the natives, restored the sick, thin and worn
stranger to health and, over the course of his recovery, they had fallen in
love. “We were married by my father and everybody in the village came to
the ceremony,” she said, “and they’d still be celebrating if my father
hadn’t made them go back to work.”
The family foursome, a tight-knit unit, leaning toward her as they
listened, eying her like Dracula, showed no change of expression during
Corrie’s recitation. She was left with no sense of having made any
impression whatever.
But now Elliot was speaking for the first time and the tone of his own
suspicious voice was more chilling than Richard’s. “What you are telling
us,” he said, “is that you and Jefferson got married in a small jungle
village, far away from civilization, before the world discovered he wasn’t
dead?”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Where, conveniently, they have no records and no wedding rings?”
She had been waiting for that one. “Yes,” she said again. “But we aren’t
all that far from civilization. A small packet boat delivers supplies once
every four weeks and brings anybody out, or takes anybody back who
needs to go.”
“And isolated village, I repeat,” Elliot went on, his words fraught with
meaning, “where conveniently, no records are kept and nobody wears
wedding rings.”
Corrie noticed that Richard’s eyes had shifted to Elliot. Was he sending
warning signals? Many things were fermenting under the surface and
Corrie wasn’t sure what approach she should use. Should she express
righteous anger at being doubted, or should she overlook their suspicions
as natural? She decided on a neutral course. “Oh, my father kept records,”
she said. “We have marriage licenses in Aiama. My father and mother
have made many converts among the Indians there and we keep complete
records.” Elliot’s mouth wore a sneer. “Only those records are down in
Aia—whatever the name of the place is, where nobody can get at them.”
“Oh, but not only there. Jeff and I have copies of our marriage license,
with all our signatures on it, my father's and mother's, Jeff's and mine,
and all the witnesses. As for rings—' She looked at her left hand, which
strategy had dictated should be ringless. “Jeff has ordered an engagement
and a wedding ring—so he tells me. We were married only ten days
before he took the boat out and I haven't seen him since."
Elliot's voice became sourer with Corrie's quick answers. “Apparently
you failed to realize—when you got involved in all this—that nobody calls
Jefferson 'Jeff/ ”
Corrie inclined her head. “I call him Jeff," she retorted. “In fact, I've
never heard anybody call him anything else."
That had an effect, she felt. The family didn't go for familiarity. They
called each other Elliot and Patricia and Richard. No nicknames around
here. No such close ties. It gave her status to call Jefferson “Jeff," and it
put Elliot down as well. It was good to be the aggressor. It strengthened
her claim.
Elliot still persisted, probing for a flaw. “Is that how he signed the
marriage license you say you've got?"
Now she decided to take righteous offense. “He signed it 'Jefferson,' "
she answered coldly. “Here, just in case you doubt me, I'll show it to you."
She opened her large purse, holding it so the gun didn't show, and
fumbled for the forged document. “Here it is," she said, noting that Elliot
was flushed and watching Richard, and that Richard and the women were
eagerly eying the license. They gathered around for a look, ignoring the
Portuguese wording and concentrating on the signatures, most especially
Jefferson's. She let them pass it around and could only hope that whoever
had signed Jefferson's name knew his business. Richard, especially, was
frowning over it. He wasn't nearly as subtle as she had expected and he
was taking so long it worried her.
She produced the blue-green passport folder to attract attention and
let some sarcasm into her voice. “And here's my passport. Do you want to
see that too? And my airlines' tickets? I've got those as well!"
 It had an effect. The women only stared at her and Elliot continued to
breathe fire, but Richard looked away from Jeff's signature and changed
his manner. His smile was as pained as it was insincere, but it was a smile.
His manner was unctuous, but it was directed at her and it was directed
in welcome.
“Not at all, my dear,” he said to her, folding the marriage license and
handing it back. “Put them away at once.” He made introductions and
apologized for the gaucheness of the family. “It’s just that we were taken
by surprise. We had no idea Jefferson was married and it’s—well, it’s quite
a shock to us. Here, let me get you a drink so that we may toast your
arrival. Then, perhaps, you'd like to go to your room and freshen up for
dinner?”
 CHAPTER 14

It was nearly eleven that evening when the family gathering finally
broke up and Corrie was free to return once more to her room. Richard
had led her to it personally some five hours before, after she had had a
cocktail and the maid had had a chance to unpack her things. It was
Jefferson's room (naturally) Richard had told her, and had led her up the
staircase and down to the middle bedroom in the left wing of the great
house. It was, quite obviously, the largest and best-appointed bedroom
suite of the three in that wing and she had been undeniably impressed.
There was a fireplace at the right-hand end with space for a couch, a
table and two chairs before it A great fourposter was against the opposite
wall, beyond which, on the other side of a connecting dressing area, was a
spacious bath. The room was over the servants' quarters and looked
across the courtyard to the opposite wing with its greenhouse at the end.
There were two bureaus in the dressing area, a tall one for Jefferson, a
lower, more delicate one (probably hastily recruited) for her. A thick,
shaggy rug covered the floor, there was a window seat in the bay window,
and a floor-to-ceiling draw curtain to block it off. It was a cozy room, but
barren. It was Jefferson's room, but there was no Jefferson. It looked as if
there had never been a Jefferson.
Richard had turned the lights on from beside the door and scanned the
surroundings with a critical eye. Yes, the room had been made up
properly, the bed redone, the heavy drapes drawn back. He had not
sought to enter, but said he hoped she’d be comfortable, and would she
see if soap and towels were in the bathroom?
She had, on that occasion, accepted things as they were, had taken
time to change and brace herself for what would come after, and she had
been glad of the chance. The dinner and evening that had followed were
not so much nerve racking as they were tedious. The meal itself had been
served in the giant dining room, which was at the front of the house on
the same side as her bedroom. Fancy had served, starting precisely at
seven, and Fancy was still an enigma. The room itself was a dark one, but
the brocaded window curtains, the gold-framed portraits, the bright fire
in the fireplace, and the silver and crystal place settings gave it elegance
and splendor. The dishes that Fancy set in front of them were as rich and
special as the blue and gold plates they were served on; the wines were
superb. The family itself, Richard, Patricia, Elliot, and Isolde, in all of their
finery, became the setting, and it was only Fancy who seemed amiss. It
was her gait, her noise, her crudity of behavior. Being a maid was
obviously not her forte, and it seemed that she couldn’t have cared less.
Coffee and liqueurs had followed and were served in the living room,
an equally spacious and equally elegant room on the opposite side of the
foyer. There was the same dark paneling, another fire in another great
fireplace, there was a piano near the front windows, and more oil
paintings in gold frames, except that these were the works of lesser
masters.
But if the family setting was elegant, and if the family’s dress was
elegant, the family itself was not. In such surroundings should not
scintillating conversation abound? There was not a trace. What talk there
was throughout the evening was instigated by Richard. If he let the matter
lapse, the others fell to silence. Nor were the subjects anything but
puerile. While Corrie sensed that the others were waiting the chance to
ply her with hostile questions, Richard treated her as queen of the realm.
In honor of her presence, he focused the conversation on Jefferson, kept
the questions away, and compelled the others to reminisce. That the topic
obviously galled them almost beyond endurance made no difference.
Richard was playing the generous host trying to make a newcomer feel at
home and he would have his way.
It was, of course, far better to have Richard's family driven to the wall
than to have the bunch of them tearing at her. She had a chance to relax
and wonder at what she saw and experienced. For example, the oils on
the walls were not the only pictures in the room. In silver frames atop the
piano were photographs of Patricia in graduation gown, of Elliot and
Isolde in wedding garb. On a side table was a large studio portrait of
Richard and oh, how handsome and grand he looked! He knew just the
pose to strike, just the way to come across; so commanding and in
command, so self-assured, yet sensitive. This was the master of Hampton
House, the collector of good art, the man of taste, discrimination, and
letters.
Elsewhere in the room were scattered smaller photographs: Elliot in a
cap and gown, Richard on a rostrum receiving an award, Isolde in a studio
profile, a thirteen-year-old Patricia holding a turtle. That was the extent
of the collection. There were no further photographs. All present and
accounted for, except Jefferson.
Now, back in her room once more, she paused and looked about her.
No pictures of Jefferson were here either. There were pictures around the
house of everyone else, but none of the young and deceased adventurer.
Had they removed every sign of his existence as soon as he died, wiped
him out of sight as well as out of mind? Or had it always been like that,
Jefferson the wanderer, the outcast, the dispossessed, with no place in
anybody's heart or home?
She went to the large dresser. One drawer held two clean shirts, a top
drawer held five pairs of socks and three handkerchiefs. Others contained
some underpants. The clothes closet disclosed a garment bag with one
suit. That was all. It was a token layout of clothes, an attempt to make
Corrie think Jefferson Wainwright would really be coming home. She
shook her head, wondering what to make of it.
There were bedtables on either side of the fourposter, with reading
lamps on each. The little table by the windows also contained an electric
clock, the near one a telephone.
The phone was what caught her eye. It pulled her with magnetic force.
It was her connecting link with freedom. It was her escape from the
hostility of the family and the oppressiveness of the house. She could feel
the burden of them both—the hate and the luxury—upon her. They were
suffocating, smothering, and frightening. Yes, deep down she was
frightened. She was not as bold and fearless as she pretended. She was
human and maybe in over her head and she felt very much alone. But that
phone was company. It reminded her that there was a world beyond. She
wasn't as isolated as she felt. She could pick it up and call Mike McManus
any time she wanted. She could call anybody. She put her hand on its
smooth surface and stroked it with her fingers. She was tempted to call
Mike right then. Just to say hello. Just to let him know she had arrived
safely.
But that would not do. What had she been taught in her briefing? You
don’t act the role, you live it. She was Mrs. Jefferson Wainwright, a
missionary’s daughter. She had never heard of anyone named Mike
McManus.
But who would know? She could pretend it was a friend of Jeff’s—if
someone should be on the extension. Except Mike would ask questions no
friend of Jeff’s would ask, and she’d be finished before she began. There
were two buttons on the phone, one for house, she guessed, and one for
outside. Which was which, and was pressing a button all it took to reach
the outer world? These were things she would have to find out.
The temptation was strong, however, just to hear the dial tone. She
lifted the receiver from its cradle and put it to her ear. A light went on
under one of the buttons and the comforting quiet hum of the dial tone
came to her ear.
Why not dial Mike’s number—or part of it? It wouldn’t hurt. She
wouldn’t let the call go through. It was only to know she could.
She tried the first digit and the dial tone disappeared as the connection
started. She dialed the second and the third. But the third digit didn’t
register. She tried the fourth but that didn’t register either. Something
was wrong. She listened to the silence on the line, then strained to hear.
There was the slightest of sounds, a faint, rhythmical, familiar . . . She
caught it then. It was the ticking of a wristwatch. And there was
something else—the sound of someone breathing.
Corrie started. She was being monitored on an extension. She stared at
the phone in her hand for a frightened moment and quietly replaced it.
She went to the windows, parting the heavy curtains. There were lights
in two of the bedrooms in the opposite wing, but none in the middle
room opposite hers. Who was in which of the others she did not know,
but she could guess Richard's bedroom was the one at the head of the
stairs, above the drawing room, looking down the length of the court. But
there were no lights there, and it disturbed her. Had they all not said
good night? Had they all not moved toward the stairs? She had gone on
ahead, just a little ahead, of the others. She had to get away. She had been
smothered by their presence until she thought she would die. The tension
of being on display, of being in jeopardy, even if the only threat was hate,
had been getting to her. This bedroom—Jeff's bedroom—was her refuge.
Only here could she unwind.
Except that she didn’t know where Richard was. She didn't know what
he was up to.
Corrie shivered in fear and closed the drapes. She was in danger and
surrounded. And there was no way out. The phone, with someone waiting
for her to pick it up, was not a contact with the outside world. Everything
she said would be reported—if she could get through in the first place.
 CHAPTER 15

Corrie awoke slowly in the total darkness of the night and her first
thought was to wonder where she was. Never could she remember such
blackness. Slowly it came to her. She was in Jefferson Wainwright’s bed in
the great Wainwright mansion. She was in the bed he slept in. But he was
dead. She was lying in a dead man’s bed, on his sheets, under his blankets.
But that wasn’t what had wakened her. It was something else. Was it
the sense of a presence in the room? Was it the faintest of sounds? She
did not know.
She lay silently in the blackness, the covers clutched over her chin so
that only her eyes and nose peeked above the fold of the sheets. She
didn’t move, she hardly breathed, and only her eyes, bright and wide,
showed signs of life. Was someone in the room with her? She tried to
determine by smell, but there was only the faintly scented aroma of the
pillow.
Was it the curtains? Had a late night breeze stirred them to life? She
moved her eyes in their direction but they covered the windows and not
so much as a sliver of the outside night came through. The air in the room
was cold, for the windows let the November freeze seep over the window
seat and out from under the curtains to build and build like an invisible
snowdrift She could feel it against her nose. The weight of the blankets
kept her totally warm and it was only the touch of cold against her face
that told her how low the temperature of the room had fallen.
There was no sound and Corrie had only the sense of nothingness. The
room was empty of all but her. When she felt sufficiently sure of that, she
turned her head a little to check the clock. She could not read the dial.
She looked a little harder, but there was no radium dial to be seen on the
little table beside her. Yet she was sure the clock had been facing her.
She raised herself and groped for the table, found the edge, and
reached for the clock. She touched something that fell to the floor with a
flopping thud and the face of the clock was suddenly visible, its hands
brightly pointing to twenty past three. Something had been on the table
blocking the clock and she couldn't remember what she'd put there.
Corrie sat up, fumbled for the reading light, and blinked in its glare.
She looked around warily, but it had all been imagination. No one was
there. Nothing had been touched. The room seemed pedestrianly
ordinary.
She leaned over the edge of the bed and groped with one arm for what
had fallen, and when she brought it up, her heart stopped. What had been
blocking her view of the clock was a man’s wallet, a wallet that had not
been there when she went to sleep.
Even as she held it, her eyes darted again to the shadows, to the
corners. Was there someone behind those window curtains, crouching on
the window seat? Was the closet holding Jeff's garment bag with the
single suit still empty? What about the bathroom beyond the deep wall
behind her? What about the connecting dressing room past the closets?
She put the wallet back beside the clock and edged across the bed to
the other table, where her purse sat beside the telephone. She took out
the gun and gripped it, experiencing tremors of nervousness at the feel of
it, knowing that, small as it was, it could kill.
She waited until she had the gun adjusted to fit well in her hand, then
slid quietly from the bed, her eyes darting, her breathing shallow. Softly
she tiptoed to the drawcord beside the first window and, with her gun at
the ready, pulled it hard. The curtains came back and the cold wind came
in, but there was no one on the window seat and the window was as she
had left it. And, through the glass, everywhere she looked the rest of the
house was black and slumbering.
She drew the curtains closed, then went around the bed and tried each
of the closets. Nothing was out of place and no one was there. She went
through the dressing area and into the bathroom, flicking the lights in
advance, but she knew before she entered that it was as empty as the
bedroom.
All right, at least the room was safe. Her sanctuary was again a
sanctuary. She tiptoed to the door to the outside hall, turned the knob
silently, and pulled that open.
The night lights in the hall were dim and peaceful. The hall itself was
as empty as if no one had trod its thick-piled carpet since Richard had
deposited her in the room.
But the wallet had not come down from the sky.
 She closed the door gently, listening carefully. It swung on oiled hinges
and latched with the faintest of clicks. No wonder she hadn’t heard a
thing.
She turned the key to lock it and wondered why she hadn’t done it
before. She had been a fool, but she wouldn’t be again.
She got back under the covers, tucked the gun into her purse, and left
it on the bed beside her. Then she picked up the wallet.
It was stained and stiff and empty of money, but there were cards and
identification in the pockets. There were two credit cards, a suit-pressing
receipt, a driver’s license, and a name and address card. The address was
Hampton House and all the cards and papers were made out to and
signed by Jefferson Wainwright
And all the cards and all the papers were stained and smeared and
dyed a rusty brown.
And the money that had once been nestled in the bill compartment?
That would have been soaked and stained and dyed just like the cards,
and like the wallet that held them.
For Corrie suddenly didn’t have to sniff the foul leather folder to know
what had caused the stains. Her instincts told her.
It was Jefferson Wainwright’s blood.
She dropped the wallet with a shriek.
 CHAPTER 16

For a long time Corrie stared at the hideous thing as it lay on the
blanket beside her. She bit her knuckles to fight down the horror and
revulsion. Who could have done such a thing? And how?
She got the message, though. Never mind Richard's welcoming
manner; she was supposed to leave. Jefferson was dead and she was to be
told it in unmistakable terms.
And the entry into her room at night? That was to enforce the
message. That was to let her know that the room was not a sanctuary
after all, that nowhere in Hampton House was she safe.
And the boldness of it. That was as horrifying as the wallet itself. That
bloodstained warning hadn't been left on the floor just inside the door. It
wasn't even put on the nearest bedtable, the one with the phone. This
intruder had circled around the bed and stood it on the table on the side
where she slept, where it would be the first thing to greet her in the
morning.
The aim was terror. If she was an imposter, the wallet said, “We know.
You go." And if she were the wondering innocent, it was saying, “Now you
know. Now you go."
Nor did understanding bring peace of mind. She was supposed to be
terrorized and she was. She wanted to run screaming and panting to the
safety and sanity of the city.
She fought down the nausea of fear and horror and closed her eyes in a
feeble prayer. Then, because she was tired and overwrought and too
much was happening too fast, she rolled over, buried her face in her
pillow, and wept. She didn't want to be a hero.
At last, exhausted, she raised her tear-streaked face and wiped her
eyes. The release of crying had eased her distress, but it hadn’t changed
anything. She sat up and the bloodstained wallet was still there, a
reminder that someone could have killed her as easily as he had left the
wallet, but a reminder also that a dead man’s blood was on it and, while
the blood had been shed in an accident, the death he had suffered was
not an accident
At least she could look at it now without shuddering. She could view
the situation without terror. Oh, but they had petrified her all right. They
could laugh all night about the way she screamed—had they been around
to hear. But they hadn’t been. They didn’t know and she wasn’t going to
tell them. They had intimidated her, they had made her cry. But they’d
never know they had and they’d never do it to her again.
She made herself pick up the wallet and put it back on the table by the
clock. Better yet, back on the floor where she’d knocked it. She would
pretend she hadn’t found it in the middle of the night. She’d appear in the
morning with the wallet—she found it as she was dressing, on the floor
beside the bed. It must have been overlooked. Jefferson—damn it, it’s
“Jeff!” Call him Jeff! Don’t let them intimidate you like that. . . . Jeff must
have left it behind—but what was this—it looked like blood. It couldn’t
be, but . . . Then there was her unexpected arrival—Jeff hadn’t prepared
them. Why? Everything was so strange. Were they keeping something
from her?
That would be it. She’d be upset and worried and let them play it from
there. But she’d be watching. She’d see the way they looked at her and at
each other. Whoever had crept in with the wallet would give himself
away. She suspected Elliot, but whoever it was, she’d find out.

The sun rose slowly and coldly in dry, bitter air, but it did not
penetrate the room where Corrie was. The room grew a little less black,
but that was all. It didn't matter. Corrie wasn't asleep. Corrie hadn't gone
back to sleep all night. She had tried. She had told herself it was
necessary, that she needed sharp wits, that she had to be bright and smart
this morning.
But for all that, she couldn't shake the fear. A thousand times
she had visualized herself walking in to join the family at breakfast.
It would be eight o’clock—promptly at eight, Richard had told her.
She kept seeing it in her mind, kept going over it, kept rehearsing
her lines, her manner, kept hearing their responses and preparing
herself for whatever those responses might be. She should leave it
alone, but she couldn't. She was too tense and nervous to sleep,
too wrought up. Sleep wouldn't come.
 CHAPTER 17

Corrie stirred and looked at the hands of the clock. It was lighter in the
room, but they still glowed. Half-past ten? She leaped from the bed and
pulled open the curtains. Sunlight was dazzling in the courtyard below
and on the opposite wing. Fool that she was, she had dropped off to sleep
after all and missed breakfast. Now what was she to do?
She dressed quickly and picked up her purse. For a moment she
debated putting the bloodstained wallet in it, but now there would be no
use for it until the cocktail hour. She put it in a dresser drawer instead,
hiding it beneath her underthings.
The hall outside was bright with sunlight patterns on the walls and
carpets, shaped by leaded windows facing east. It was the first time the
interior of the house had appeared anything but dingy, mysterious and
uninviting. It even gave a little warmth to the otherwise chill air. To her
right were back stairs at the end of the hall. They went down to the
servants' quarters. To her left, around the comer, were the front stairs,
and the sound of a buzzing vacuum cleaner. It was a mundane noise on
carpets that had known the quiet tread of an intruder's feet the night
before. She shivered at the thought and then headed toward the sound.
Around the comer, before the staircase, near the door to one of the
tower rooms, she encountered the source of the noise. It was a heavy,
middle-aged woman in maid's uniform and cleaning smock, vacuuming
the carpet with mechanical aplomb. She gave Corrie a cool, unhurried
look of appraisal and kept on with the cleaning, saying nothing, not even
nodding.
Corrie didn't pass her by. It was important, she felt, to win the favor of
the household staff. “I'm Mrs. Wainwright," she told the woman and was
rewarded with the briefest of nods. “And what is your name?" Corrie said,
raising her voice against the determined noise of the machine.
The woman gave her an almost insolent stare. “Clara Potter," she said,
sweeping the cleaner near Corrie's feet. She was beefy and neither awed
nor concerned about the addition to the Wainwright family.
 So much for making friends. Corrie raised her voice again to ask if any
of the family were around. To that, Clara shook her head and turned her
back, leaving Corrie no choice but to go on to the stairs and down to the
foyer. From there she looked first in the dining room, then the living
room, and finally entered the drawing room. She'd drunk cocktails there
the night before, but now all was neat and tidy and pristinely aloof.
What was she to do? She had come to the house to find out things.
With the family gone, the field was open. She could prowl around as
much as she wanted, find out whatever she needed to know. But what was
she after? The only thing that was in any way concrete had been
Jefferson's dying reference to the contents of a safe. But where would the
safe be, and what if she found it—-behind the traditional oil painting, no
doubt—she wasn't a safecracker.
/The help would know. Clara Potter had probably dusted it. And there
was Fancy Hedges, and who knew how many other servants the
household boasted? But they wouldn't tell strangers. One had to win their
confidence and, judging from Clara's surly disinterest, this wasn't to be
done overnight.
What was more, the contents of the safe, damning as they might be,
might well have no meaning if one didn't know the family background.
Before evidence, did one not need motive? Might it not be important to
find out why Richard needed Jefferson dead before finding evidence that
he killed him?
Corrie, standing in the drawing room, staring through the windows at
the courtyard beyond, suddenly realized the depth of the task. Unless the
safe held self-incriminating evidence (and who would keep such a thing
around?) whatever was there would only be relevant if one understood
the family and its relationships.
Corrie felt suddenly overwhelmed with frustration. It was so much
more than she had thought. It was so hopeless! She had a perfect
chance—an empty house to prowl in—and she didn't know where to go
or what to do.
She shook her head in dismay. What had she got herself into? The
paper had faith in her and thought she could produce. What could have
given Mike and Mr. Soedlak such an idea?
Well, nothing was going to be accomplished by standing and moping.
The house was there, she might as well explore it. She might not open any
safes, but she could at least try to learn her way around and discover who
slept where.
 She started with the little room back of the living room and across the
corridor from the drawing room. It was a library, small but chilly, its rows
of inset shelves heavy with leather-bound volumes and first editions, well
dusted, well displayed, never used. It should have been a warm and cozy
place but it was drab and dreary. Since the windows faced west, there was
no sun, but even in late afternoon very little of the sun's rays could filter
past the heavy shading of bush and tree that shielded its little window.
From there the pathway led into the lower level of the right wing, and
when she entered it, Corrie blinked. The wing might once have been
constructed as a ballroom, for the windows were floor to ceiling on both
sides and the room was large enough. Richard, however, had made it his
art gallery and everywhere there were paintings, a fortune in oils. They
varied in size and subject and, while there were no Rembrandts or
Leonardos, Titians or Rubens included, there were a number of works by
lesser masters and many paintings by modern unknowns who would, in
all likelihood, become renowned.
Though sunlight flooded the east side of the wing, drawn curtains kept
the light subdued and the gallery needed artificial light if the paintings
were to be appreciated. Without it, they hung as dull, unobtrusive wall
decorations, a profusion of background, and the eye was caught by the
more noticeable items in the room: a grand piano, a harp, soft couches,
and large matching chairs. It was a room for musicales and music as well
as art, except that it bore the look of a museum. Corrie had the sense of
being an intruder, as if ropes should bar the doors and visitors only peer
in to view the dead-and-gone Wainwright Museum: Do not touch, do not
sit, do not look at the pictures, do not listen to music. It is a setting, it is
not real. It is all for show. But no one looks. Maybe not even Richard
Wainwright.
Beyond the gallery was the hallway, with a back staircase, an outside
door to the courtyard, and a connecting door to the greenhouse. Corrie
opened the latter door and stepped into the warm, moist, verdure-scented
air of the glass enclosure. Though the greenhouse was untended, the rows
of potted plants on long planks across sawhorses were well weeded and
carefully nurtured. Corrie wandered down the rows briefly, admiring the
display and enjoying the rich, earthy smells that filled the air. The
greenhouse was the only place she had been that did not smell of must
and decay. Here was loam and life instead of dust and death. Here, for the
first time since she had set foot inside the mansion, her spirits lifted.
Unfortunately, there was much to be seen and she could not tarry.
 She returned to the entrance and was about to take the small step up
from the moist earth of the greenhouse onto the wooden floor of the
stairway hall when her eye was caught by crumbs of dirt on the floor
beyond and a moist spot on the dry wood that showed half the outline of
a man's shoe. She stopped with one hand on the doorframe and looked
more closely. The shoe print was pointing halfway between the door itself
and the stairs inside.
Had it been there when she came? But it was fresh. It was still wet.
And if its maker had left the greenhouse only just before she came, she
would have disturbed its markings. And what man would leave the
greenhouse in a backward fashion? She looked at the dirt floor around
her. Yes, there, near the comer, where a dripping hose lay, the ground was
very wet. She could see half a footprint from where she stood. Someone
had entered and left while she was down at the other end, someone who
had left while looking behind him. Had it been at her?
She stepped into the hall, closing the greenhouse door behind her.
There was the entrance back to the gallery, the stairs to the floor above,
the door to the courtyard at the rear of the stairs and, back by that door, a
heavy, creaky door that revealed the ominous black depths of the cellar.
But no one was around and there was no sound to be heard. Nor could
Corrie, bending to look, find further signs of footprints.
She put the matter out of her mind and mounted the stairs to the
second floor. Didn't greenhouses have gardeners? Doubtless he had
entered, seen her and backed out again. Meanwhile, she had to get on
with her own business.
The second-floor corridor was the mirror image of hers but lacked the
warmth of the sun and the brightness of its light. Like the rest of the
house, it was old, moldy, and dingy. On the walls the paint was peeling
and a daddy-longlegs still climbed among the cobwebs on the ceiling. As
in her wing, in the wall were three oak doors to three bedroom suites.
She tried the nearest door but it was locked. There had been a light in
that suite the night before but she still didn’t know whose it was.
The middle door, to the room that had been black last night, opened
readily and Corrie found the room mirrored her own. There was the same
fireplace, fourposter bed, and wall which served as closet space and
partitioned off the dressing room and bath. Like hers it was more
spacious than the others and she was surprised to find the furniture
covered with sheets and the mattresses bare except for a cover. It was the
best room in that wing and she didn’t expect it to be unused.
 The third room, which had shown lights, was unlocked, but, as Corrie
expected, it did not belong to Richard. The toilet articles on the vanity
and the initialed combs and brushes on the dresser told her it belonged to
Elliot and Isolde.
She closed that door and rounded the comer to the front of the
building. Clara and her vacuum cleaner were nowhere in sight or sound
and Corrie had the place to herself. She tried the door to the tower room
that occupied the space above the living room, but the door was locked
and there was no key. A locked door? And what lay behind it? Surely this
wasn’t one of those secret rooms that old mansions were supposed to
have, that it was worth one’s life to enter? Corrie didn't believe it, but she
was curious all the same and while the door didn't have a key, it had a
keyhole. She stooped and put her eye to it.
It was only for a moment. The door was alcoved and did not point into
the room. All she could see was the bare wall beside it and the small
Gothic window directly opposite. She sighed and stood up.
Next was the doorway on the balcony that gave entrance to the
suite above the large drawing room. This was the one she was
sure was Richard's, the one that had shown no lights and had
made her worry. Corrie held her breath and twisted the knob. The
door opened.
 CHAPTER 18

Even before she crossed the threshold, Corrie knew it was Richard's
room. Not only was it larger and grander than any of the others, with the
best location and the best view, but it bore the marks of the man. The
furnishings, the accouterments, the paintings on the walls clearly pointed
to Richard, the collector and appreciator of things beautiful. The bureau
and bed belonged in a museum and, with their exquisite carvings, their
gold and gilt, must surely have graced the royal bedroom of a palace. The
writing desk and slender chairs were of nearly equal beauty as was the
inlaid table with its carved ivory chess set and the abundance of delicate
porcelain figurines. It was breath-taking and Corrie stood for a moment in
awe.
But what about safes?
Corrie turned from the beauty, closed the door lest Clara come
prowling, and set about her business. First she looked behind the pictures
on the walls. Safes were always behind pictures on walls. But not in
Richard's bedroom. Nothing was behind the pictures but the panels they
rested against.
What next? She tried the drawers of the bureau. The top left was,
surprisingly, filled with an assortment of tools, nails, wire and paints. It
was a veritable repair kit used, Corrie gathered, to service his collections.
She closed that drawer and went on. The rest were routine, revealing
carefully folded layers of clothing, the socks, shirts, and customary items
that were stored in bureaus, and though she felt through them quickly
and deftly, she uncovered no alien objects. She slid the drawers back,
adjusting each to leave no sign.
Now where?
The writing desk. Of course!
Corrie opened the folding lid which flattened into the writing area and
lifted the leather-framed blotter. A piece of paper under it bore faint
scribblings in pencil. She took it to the windows for a better look, trying
to decipher the markings. It seemed to be initials or abbreviations
followed by figures.
It was meaningless and she replaced it carefully. Next she went
through the pigeon holes in the compartment section, taking out the
scraps and notes. Who knew—there might be the combination of a safe
among them.
The notes, however, contained nothing useful and after replacing them
Corrie tried the drawers, looking through and digging under the stacks of
blank writing paper, the envelopes, the other ingredients of letter writing.
The results were frustratingly innocuous.
She folded up the desk a little frantically. How long had she been in
the room? How much longer dare she stay? How much more was there to
look at?
The closets! She slid open the doors, revealing a vast amount of storage
space and a vast amount of storing. Suits by the dozens were on the racks,
shoes of various persuasion were clustered in neat rows on the floor, a
number of hats and hatboxes were on the shelf. What else was up there?
She reached, but could only feel across the well-dusted front half.
She was desperate now as she hurried to the desk and got the light
chair for a stool. She held its back, rested her other hand against the
sliding door, put her foot on a slender rung and raised herself.
The rung snapped in two, the chair fell, and Corrie very nearly fell with
it. The shock completely unnerved her and she was trembling when she
picked up the chair again. A look at the damage made her feel worse. The
rung was ruined. “What have I done? What have I done?” she groaned to
herself, sinking to her knees to examine the situation. There were
fragments on the floor and the ends didn't fit any more. No matter what
she did she couldn't keep it from sagging in the middle. With tape and
wire she might be able to brace it, but the fractured rung would cry out at
Richard no matter how well it had been repaired.
There was nothing to do but go on. She put the rung together as best
she could, braced herself, and this time climbed directly to the seat of the
chair. At least the whole thing didn't collapse under her weight.
Now she could see over the top of the shelf. Now she could reach and
move the hats, hatboxes and whatever around and explore every inch. It
was in vain. There was nothing there that was any more suspicious than
what she found everywhere else. All for nothing had she broken the rung.
She returned the chair and closed the closet door. Where else was
there to look except under the bed and under the mattress? She might as
well try them both. By now she was resigned to failure and the certainty
that Richard would know she had trespassed. What matter now if she got
caught? What matter if she found nothing? She no longer expected to.
After the bed, there was the cushion on the window seat, the folds of
the curtains, the pockets of some of the suits. Then she gave up and made
a final tour of the room trying to see that everything looked
untouched—except for that unfortunate chair rung. She'd give anything if
only—
She put her ear to the door, turned the knob, and opened it a crack.
The balcony and hallway were empty. At least luck was with her part of
the time. Her hopes began to rise. Maybe Richard wouldn't look at the
desk chair too closely. Maybe he'd put an accidental foot on the rung and
think he broke it himself.
Corrie slipped into the hall and, when she had the door closed and her
hand off the knob, permitted herself a sigh. Now she could be merely
wandering around the upstairs halls. Nobody could accuse her of
anything.
She was eager to get back to her own room while her luck held, but
curiosity made her take one last look around the corner and down the
hall whence she had come. She wanted to be sure that no one was there.
The hallway was empty, dim and grayish. She was still alone.
Except—down at the end? She peered harder. Wasn't that first door, the
locked one, now open a crack? Then the room hadn’t been empty after all.
Whose room was it, and who was in the room, since Clara had said the
whole family was away?
She squinted in the dimness to see if she were mistaken, but she could
make it out clearly. The door was ajar. And was someone peeking from
behind it, looking down the length of the hall at her?
Corrie felt a wild desire to flee, but she fought it down. She had to find
out. She clenched her teeth and made herself walk back up the hall. The
door didn’t shut. The gap remained, and when she got to it, there was
nothing visible except a black-painted wall inside.
She rapped gently and got no response. She rapped again, then gave
the door a push and stepped inside.
The walls were black and so were the hangings on the single fourposter
bed. Under the hangings the spread was bright yellow. There was a yellow
chair, a yellow bureau, and no mirrors. A grotesque abstract picture in
black and green hung on one wall, looking like a gaping, hungry mouth
with wild, avid eyes. On the dresser was a black, pointed witch’s cap and,
leaning against the wall beside it, was a broomstick.
The impact of the room was like a physical blow and Corrie stopped as
if stunned. She stood there, trying to regain her wits, trying to look away
from the painting, from the witch’s hat and broomstick, trying to make
herself see what else was there—the lack of furniture, the lack of any
visible toilet articles. It was a bare, spare room, as barren as a jail cell and
twice as frightening. It was Patricia’s room, but what did she do in it?
How could she stay in it?
Then Corrie looked down at the black carpeting at her feet and started.
Were those not grains of sand and dirt standing out clearly on the nap
inside the door, sand that had been tracked from the greenhouse? Was
there really a gardener, or had someone else stepped in the wet spot by
the flower benches where the hose leaked and backed out of there while
she was at the other end?
An eerie sensation came over her, the uncanny feeling that she
was not alone. She wheeled, and there in the doorway behind her,
his face as grim and foreboding as the room itself, stood Richard.
 CHAPTER 19

For a moment, Corrie Haynes panicked. There was something about

the way he filled the door, about the expression on his face, that gave her
the claustrophobic feeling of being slowly squeezed, suffocated, and
crushed. The drapes kept the sunshine from the windows and Richard's
form blocked the light from the door. Corrie had the wild feeling that she
would never see light again, that she would never leave the room, that
Richard would advance upon her and take her by the throat, that he
would clamp down upon her windpipe until all her life was gone.
“I—I—1” she tried to say by way of explanation but all she could think
of for an explanation was that she hadn't known he was home. “You—you
startled me," was what finally came out, and she knew she revealed
herself not only as startled but as terrified.
“I—was—looking around," she explained, wishing her voice didn't
sound so queer, trying to straighten up a little and stop shrinking from
him so obviously.
He can't come in and kill me, she reminded herself. He can't murder
people recklessly. And it was true. He wasn't coming into the room. He
only stayed where he was, blocking escape, seeming to shut off light and
air. If only he would move away. If he would let her out, she'd be able to
think more clearly and give him a better explanation. If she had a little
time, she could think up some kind of explanation. “Jefferson—” she went
on, and paused. She should have said “Jeff.” That was another mistake.
She tried again. “Jeff—I was told—he said to—make myself—-at—home.”
It still didn’t sound very good, but she didn’t know what else to say. She
pulled herself together at last. “I thought I would look around.”
“What have you seen?”
She gestured weakly. “This—Patricia’s room? The—ah—downstairs.
Some of it.”
“And upstairs?” He was still barring the door.
“Here—.” She gestured toward the hall. “The front room—it’s locked.”
 Abruptly he stepped aside. “You want to see that?” He beckoned.
“Come.”
He led the way down the hall with strong strides and Corrie followed
behind, weak and breathless. He took her around the corners to the foyer
balcony and beyond to the far tower on her side of the mansion. The
alcove door there was not locked and Richard showed her inside. “This is
my collection of musical instruments,” he said, letting her view the
jumbled array of pianos, disassembled harpsichords, three harps, and a
large assortment of smaller instruments. “It is not in order.”
He held the door to keep her from tarrying, closed it after her, and
pulled out his keys as he led her to the opposite room. “My silver
collection is here,” he said. “I keep it locked up because a large number of
items were recently stolen.” He opened that door and let her through
again, waiting behind as she went inside. Like the other tower room it was
less dingy than the rest of the house for it had more windows, but without
the lights on it still bore an air of gloom. The silver collection in this room
was properly housed, lying in glass-topped display cases or standing on
tables. It was thin, however, and in over half of the spots there were
identifying placards beside empty spaces.
Corrie could not help but feel regret at sight of so many empty places
and said in genuine consolation, “Oh, I’m so sorry!”
“Fortunately,” Richard said from the doorway, “the thief was ignorant
and left the finest pieces, but the loss is still better than fifty thousand
dollars, according to the insurance company.”
“Yes, I see.” Corrie had her brief look around and Richard let her out
again, locking the door behind.
“And this is my bedroom,” Richard said, starting to lead her to the
balcony again. “Surely you'd like to see my bedroom?”
“No,” Corrie said reflexively, before she could even think. Her knees
started to tremble. If he opened that door, he would surely see the broken
chair rung. “No, it's perfectly all right.”
“I have some very splendid pieces there.” He leaned toward his door
temptingly.
Corrie's face stung with the flow of blood that flushed it. “No, no,
really.” She couldn't bear to be found out just then.
“These—exhibits”—she gestured to include the tower rooms—“are fine.
And the gallery—downstairs. Uh—all those paintings.”
Richard finally came away from the door. “The gallery?”
“Yes, downstairs. That's—a—very fine collection.”
 “I have a book collection—”
“In the library? Yes, I saw that.—It's beautiful. I was interested
in—seeing all your collections. Uh—Jeff mentioned—them.” Richard was
close to her now, too close. She felt crowded, confined, threatened, but
she didn't dare draw away. “And the best collection of all . . . ?” he said, a
strange light coming into his eyes, a growing eagerness creeping into his
voice. “Did Jefferson tell you about that?”
She swallowed and held still. “I—don't—think—so.”
“Corrie with me.” He turned down the hallway, beckoning her to
follow. “It’s in the—cellar.”
They went down the back stairway, around to the door that led into
the pitch-black pit she had looked down earlier. It was so deep and dark
she had trembled when she was alone. With Richard beside her, her fears
were still greater. What was in his mind? Wasn't he supposed to have
gone away? Who beside her knew he was in the house?
There was a light switch on the inside wall and the view that it
revealed didn't increase Corrie’s comfort. A long flight of plank stairs
went sharply down a descent of fifteen feet or more to where a dim bulb
at the bottom threw light on a floor of dirt and ledge rock that trailed off
between damp walls of rough-hewn fieldstone. It was depressing down
there and it was scary.
Corrie took one look down the long steep steps and drew back. She
could break her neck falling down that unyielding flight, and there was
Richard, waiting for her to precede him. She knew she must not go first.
“What's down there?" she asked.
“My dungeon," he told her with that same unholy light in his eyes. He
gave her a strange grin and leaned forward conspiratorially. “I call it my
murder room."
Now she knew she wasn't going down those stairs. Rising up from
those depths was a fetid air that warned her her bones could be left to
mildew in the clammy darkness and no one would ever know. It might
not all be jest, his calling it a “murder room."
“Murder room" did he say?
What was it Jefferson had talked about in the hospital? He said to look
in the safe and he said it was in the “murh room" or “murer room." He
had shaken his head when she said, “mirror?" had given up and finally
settled for “safe" and something inside the safe. It had sounded as if he'd
said “murder room" but she had put it out of her mind. She had not been
thinking of murder at that moment and even if she had, she would not
have believed a murderer would have a “murder room" in his house.
But Richard did. It was down in the blackness of the cellar. And
Jefferson knew about it. He even knew a safe was kept there.
“Murder room?" Corrie asked quizzically.
“Yes," he said, a slight hiss to the word.
Corrie changed her mind. Dark or not, scary or not, dangerous or not,
this was a room she had to see. But Richard must go first. She stepped
back to let him lead the way.
They went down the steps in single file together, slowly, and at the
bottom Corrie could feel the change in temperature, the dankness of chill
air, the soft damp dirt, the beaded moisture on the walls.
Another switch threw on dim flicker bulbs in sconces down a narrow,
winding corridor and Richard led the way. He had had the whole area dug
out, he explained. It was not part of the original cellar.
Corrie nodded in silence and followed his looming figure. Though he
was not a tall man, he was bulky and strong and still towered four inches
over her own height. Following behind him, she grew all too well aware
that in physical combat he would master her completely.
They rounded a turn and, over his shoulder, Corrie could see a rusted
iron door blocking the way. Richard paused in the moldy dankness and,
by the flickering light, smoothed the door's moist surface. “Do you have
any idea, my dear,” he said in fiendish delight, “where this door comes
from?"
Corrie shook her head nervously.
“From Eversham Castle in Surrey." He leaned too close and whispered,
“It is the actual door to Sir Walter Raleigh's dungeon in the bowels of that
castle. He was there for a fortnight, you know, before he was confined to
the Tower." He lifted the latch, pulled the door open, and smoothed his
hand over the rough inside plates. He leaned close again and his voice
was awed. “Do you realize that my hand is passing over surfaces that his
hands have touched? Perhaps," he went on, staring at his palm, “I am
picking up molecules of his very skin."
Corrie nodded and swallowed. She was more concerned with the utter
blackness of the cavern beyond the door. The air in there was dry, but it
bore a stagnant smell.
Richard took a final look at the reddish stains on the palm of his hand,
then stepped through the entrance and touched the switch inside. The
interior of the room did not, to Corrie's surprise, burst into light. Rather,
the darkness mellowed. Tiny blue-white glows appeared in shielded spots,
traces of red showed up, and some of the black glistened. It would take
time for the eyes to become adjusted, for the lights were small, the
wattage low, and the walls themselves were black enamel, broken up by
trim the color of blood.
“Yes," Richard hissed softly, gazing into the dimness, his profile alive in
the dim, reddish flicker of the tunnel. “My pride, my joy." He didn't seem
aware of Corrie now, and his voice was malevolent, his eyes drinking in
the semidarkness hungrily. “Corrie here." He took Corrie's arm suddenly
in a viselike grip and drew her over the threshold.
The floor inside was dirt and uneven, the atmosphere smelled like a
morgue. Movable partitions broke up the space into a maze and Corrie
could only see the first section and pathways to the beyond. Just to her
right stood a large rolltop desk with stacked papers and a gooseneck lamp
on its working surface and an old swivel chair in the kneehole. Beyond
the desk, facing it from the side wall, stood a great, old seven-foot safe
with double doors and faded gilt lettering. To her left, in front of a
partition, stood a work counter with a few tools on it and a squat,
fifteen-inch-high idol of some kind. Ahead, in front of the facing
partition, stood an open iron maiden with a tiny bulb inside it to reveal its
teeth, beside which rested a coffin-sized linen chest adorned with two
brass candlesticks and a jewel box resting on what looked like a
gold-woven altar cloth. Through passageway gaps Corrie could see display
cases and part of a hanging rifle.
Behind her, Richard latched the door and switched on a vent fan.
“What do you think of it?” he whispered close to her ear.
“I don't understand,” Corrie answered, shrinking from his nearness.
“My murder room,” he said softly. “See my iron maiden? There’s real
blood on those spikes.”
He dragged her closer to let her look, but she didn’t want to look. All
she was aware of was “murder room” and that it contained a safe. The rest
she could do without.
Richard would not let her go. “See this chest,” he said gloatingly,
pulling her to it. “It’s a century old and absolutely airtight. Young Roger
Dumaine made it that way,” he whispered. “Roger lined it with lead and
then sealed his mother in to suffocate. There are catches on the side. And
the candles and the cloth, and her jewel box—” Richard dropped Corrie’s
arm and feverishly gathered up the items and put them on the desk. “He
kept them there for decoration. Except at night. At night he ate his dinner
on that chest. Every night for twenty years. And no one knew. Not until
he died. Then they found her—perfectly preserved.” Richard bent and
fondled the smooth cover and edges of the chest, and then he raised the
lid.
Corrie looked and screamed. There was a man inside.
Richard stood up. He was watching her, grinning at her. Corrie was
shattered. She leaned against the desk. “What—who?” She made herself
look again at the well-dressed reclining figure. His face was white and he
had a mustache that was painted in place. So was his hair painted. So was
his face. It wasn’t a man. It was the stuffed cloth figure of a man. Corrie
looked at Richard, too shaken even to feel the rage that was starting to
grow.
 CHAPTER 20

“Yes,” Richard said. “He does give one a start. But he’s not poor Mrs.
Dumaine. He is a figure of importance in his own right. This is Mr. Gerald
Fitzpatrick. Or rather, this is the dummy of Mr. Gerald Fitzpatrick which
was so lovingly made of him by his devoted daughter and her forbidden
boyfriend.” Richard seized Corrie’s arm again. “Corrie look,” he said and
drew her forward. “See the cuts and tears in his nice suit? The daughter
and her boyfriend had a lot of fun making those holes. Some of them are
bullet holes, like this one and this. Others were made with knives, both
girl and boy taking turns in an experience of true sharing. And the
smallest ones? Those were made with an ice pick. But they didn’t just
make all those holes for fun, my dear. They were practicing. And when
they felt they had practiced enough, they made similar holes in Mr.
Fitzpatrick himself. Only they made more of them.” He grinned at her
with that strange light in his eye and dropped the lid. Then he set about
replacing the altar cloth, the candlesticks with their half-burned candles,
and the dead woman’s jewel box.
Corrie watched, trying to stop her heart from pounding, trying to get
over the fear she had of Richard that kept her from feeling anger.
Now he was through and close to her again. “But that is only a sample,”
he said, leaning too near, frightening her with his nearness. “Wait till you
see the rest." He had her arm in his viselike grip again. “Never, never so
many weapons of murder in one place.” His voice was growing avid and
his eyes were glowing. “Many, many, many.”
He took her around the corner of the first black partition to where
other partitions formed niches along the walls, passages from place to
place, and little cubby holes, all equipped with dimly lighted display
tables and exhibits. There was a guillotine blade hanging by a cable, its
bloodstained edge gleaming in the beam of a pencil-sized spot. “Its edge
is honed razor sharp. Don't you want to feel it too?” There was an electric
chair: “Isn't it magnificent? It fried the spark of life out of forty-four
people, including the Reverend Farley Manley, gangster Luciese Lucano,
and Alice Ware and David Sigletti. Remember that pair, how they
dissolved her mother in a bathtub full of acid?”
He took her through aisle after aisle, exhibit after exhibit. “This is a
dress Ruth Snyder wore at her trial—expensive, but well worth it. . . . See
this—it's the knife Mrs. Belotti used on Mr. Belotti’s sweetheart. It was
right in the middle of dinner. First the knife carved the roast, then it
carved sweet Adeline. That was Mr. Belotti's sweetheart. And here—”
Corrie gazed as she went and shivered not only at the array of
gruesome horrors but at the man who collected them. What kind of
morbid—
“—and this tooth. See how it's broken? It has no roots. That tooth was
knocked out of the head of the prettiest young—”
Corrie shuddered and felt faint. “I never saw so many—items—a
collector—”
“Not just items,” he said, tightening his grip. “People as well!” She
looked up at him. “People?”
He chuckled. “You didn't know? Why yes, my dear, I collect people
too. The girl who let you in last night, Fancy Hedges, remember? She was
convicted of manslaughter in the death of one Lawrence Grinley five years
ago next month.” His voice grew richer with his relish. “But I daresay, if
the truth were known, the killing was not an unintentional misfortune.
Mr. Grinley died in the process of giving Miss Hedges the air, which she
thought a rather unflattering reflection upon her charms. He died with
the indentations of a steam iron in his skull. The steam iron is, in
fact”—he looked for a moment, then pointed—“in that case over there.
But, as I say, the jury chose to regard her actions as manslaughter and she
is now out on parole and undergoing rehabilitation in this household so
that she may, when her term is up, rejoin society with her lessons well
learned.” He gave Corrie a glisteningly sadistic smile.
Corrie shook her head. She was stunned. “You mean Fancy—that
girl—is a murderess?”
“Crudely put, but that’s the essence of it.”
“And the others? Clara?”
“Yes, she’s out on parole too, though murder wasn’t her forte. She was
only an accessory after the fact. She helped her boyfriend get rid of the
bodies of his wife and children after he did them in. He used an
unromantic weapon, a gun, but I’ve got three of the bullets. And there’s
Nora, of course, our cook. She and her male partner used to take pictures
of prominent people in compromising positions and then blackmail them.
They taught her cooking in prison and she is really very good. Then there
was Handsome Kroll. He was only a murderer because he carried guns
when he went out robbing and, unfortunately, he didn’t have any
compunction about using them. But a most capable man in so many
ways—nobody could have been more sensitive to automobiles.”
“But how did you—get these—people?”
“Didn’t Jefferson tell you crime is my specialty? In fact, I’m chairman of
the State Prisoner Rehabilitation Council so, you see, I not only can help
parolees, I can know everything about them before I take them on.”
“Then you rehabilitate criminals?”
“Exactly. Should not one practice what he preaches?” He turned. “But
enough about me. Corrie see this piece of blouse that came from one of
Jack the Ripper’s victims. It’s been thoroughly authenticated. And a
button that was torn from the burial gown of Agnes St George as she lay
in her coffin. That was in 1856—one of the most celebrated European
murder cases of the nineteenth century.”
In and out they wound through the divided passageways of the large
room and the array of artifacts left Corrie numbed with their number and
nature. There was a pike, a pitchfork, stocks, a rack, a longbow, some
mounted rifles and a bunderbuss, a machete, a sewer cover, each with its
own special story, each with its special meaning to Richard, who rubbed
his hands over them all, until finally the array was exhausted and they
were back at the front of the room again.
“I don’t believe it,” was all Corrie could say, but by now she could.
Whatever invested this man with his interest in murder gave her good
cause for unease. She did not know if he had taken her on this tour to
frighten her or to gloat in front of an audience. In any event, she knew she
must not antagonize him. He needed to be handled with care. Now, with
her heart still pounding, with her arm still in his grip, she flattered him.
Never could she have imagined such an exhibit she told him, and then
indicated the rolltop desk and chair. “Those—those papers?”
“Ah yes,” he said, grinning and showing his teeth. “Those are my
papers. My articles. My studies. I am an authority on crime.”
“This is where you work?”
The teeth gleamed even more brightly. “Can you think of a more
appropriate place?”
“Were the—ah—desk and chair—did they have anything to do with
crimes?”
 Richard nodded with appreciation. “Of course. Everything in the room
has. It was in that chair that fat old Armand Tempkin was trussed and
beaten and shot to death in his store when he wouldn’t reveal the
combination to his safe.”
“And was that the safe?” She indicated the massive steel giant in the
corner.
“Oh, no. That’s the safe the little Ledlowe children were locked in by
their governess when they threatened to reveal her sadistic methods of
punishment. She tucked them in there and they weren’t found for six
months.”
“Is it—empty?”
Richard chuckled. “The children’s remains have been removed if that’s
what you mean. But it’s not empty. Like the desk and the chair, I put it to
use.”
“I see,” Corrie said, and she saw indeed. That was the safe
Jefferson was talking about in the hospital. That was where some kind
of vital evidence lay. “What's inside?”
“My papers,” he answered in a way that indicated he did not intend to
show her. “But look,” he said, turning to the worktable behind him. He
lifted the fat, squat idol that had been sitting there and showed it to her.
“My newest acquisition. The god Tzechlan that Jefferson brought me.”
Corrie sensed the difference in Richard's manner. He was watching
her, smiling at her, and waiting. She was expected to say something.
“Tzechlan?” she answered uncertainly.
“Yes—that Jefferson brought me from the Amazon. Surely he showed it
to you?”
Corrie's heart pounded. Had Jefferson really brought that idol up from
the Amazon? Had he carried it with him from the native village, through
the jungles and all? If he did, the Davidson family must have seen it. But
why didn't Mr. Soedlak have that information for her? Nothing had ever
been said about an idol. But if she pretended to know the idol and it
wasn't from Jefferson, then she would have betrayed herself. Which was
the right answer? Corrie decided to rely on Mr. Soedlak's information
sheets. “No, I don't remember it,” she said.
“You don't?” Richard persisted. “Here, let me show you.” He came to
her with the ugly, potbellied god figure. “Jefferson told me Tzechlan was
the god of prophecy and the answers to native prayers would be found
inside.” Richard pulled and the front of the figure's stomach opened,
revealing a deep, black-painted cavity in the hollow interior. “The priests
would put messages inside and the worshiping native would open the
figure to receive the message. Except that—here, you see these rotted
thongs?—the priests would rig a poisoned dart inside for those they
wanted to destroy so that the tension on the thongs when the door was
pulled open would fire the arrow into the worshiper's chest.” He grinned
at her. “Very clever those Brazilian natives. But I suppose you know all
about it. I presume the natives of your village also had such a worship?”
Corrie could see the rotted thongs in the interior of the box, the
eyeholes where the thongs were laced, and the broken parts of the release
mechanism, but she wasn't paying attention to them. She was studying
the fat shape of the idol and the facial characteristics. She pretended to
follow where Richard's finger pointed, but it was the gilt paint that
interested her, the polished wood where it showed through, the head of
the god and its features. Especially those features. They didn't look South
American Indian. They looked African.
She shook her head. “No, I've never heard of that kind of
worship."
 CHAPTER 21

Corrie ate her noon meal in the dining room alone, for Richard, with a
deadline to make, was having his at his desk. Relieved as she was to be rid
of his company, she was left with the question of how to get to his safe if
he were going to be constantly beside it.
She toyed with her food for she had no appetite. Partly it was because
of her tour through Richard’s museum and partly because she couldn’t
forget that Fancy, who served her, had killed her lover with a steam iron.
She knew she ought to try to gain the girl’s confidence but, try as she
might, she couldn’t open her mouth. She was too appalled by her.
Perhaps she could find Clara. Clara had been an accessory after the fact
but she hadn’t actually killed anyone. A non-murderer would be easier to
relate to. And there was Nora in the kitchen. Corrie felt she should make
her acquaintance too.
She braced herself over a second cup of coffee and stood up. She must
overcome her horror and her reluctance. There was a job to do. Corrie
gripped the edge of the table hard for a moment, tightening all her
muscles, then relaxed, turned and headed for the pantry. Her footsteps
were silent on the carpet and the swinging door was well oiled and when
she swung it to go through, she experienced the shock of all but bumping
into a man she had never seen before who was leaning against the sink,
gnawing on a toothpick and looking into the kitchen, where he was
making a concentrated study of Fancy's derrière. He was black-haired,
clad in sweater and pants, and when he turned, he was neither startled
nor embarrassed. He looked her over in a slow leering way and then said,
softly, with an ugly twist in his smile, “Yeah, man. The closer you get, the
better you look.”
He was good-looking, but in a kind of nasty, obscene way, and his
smile was the same whether he was looking at Corrie’s front or Fancy's
rear.
Corrie had to fight down a moment of nausea at this new encounter
and the sinking sense that nothing in the house got better, it all got
worse. She pulled herself together and essayed a retort. “I beg your
pardon,” she said, trying to sound like the mistress of the manor, “do you
belong here?”
“Well, you might say that,” he answered, losing none of his aplomb and
none of his smile. “At least Uncle Richard tells me I do. And I hear that
when he says it, that makes it true.”
Corrie realized with a sinking heart that she had forgotten Richard had
a handyman. This must be the one who was so great with cars, the one
who was the armed robber, the robber who didn't mind shooting people.
She shuddered. “Then you're Hands— I mean, your name is Kroll?”
He laughed. “You ain't been here long have you? Kroll skipped. He's
gone.”
Corrie said mechanically, “He's gone?”
“Ain’t you heard about the missing silver? You think it left by itself?”
“You mean—Kroll stole the silver?”
The man nodded. “But never mind him. I'm Clyde. You can call me
Clyde for short.”
His eyes had zeroed in on the thrust of her breasts and the tip of his
tongue was nibbling his lips. Corrie trembled. She had a sudden flash. He
had been jailed for rape. Maybe rape and murder. Yes! She was sure it was
both. And the way his fingers twitched! He wasn't just undressing her
with his eyes, he wanted to do it with his hands—even with two women
in the kitchen.
“What do you do, Clyde?” she said, struggling to regain authority.
"I guess you'd call me the handyman." He took the toothpick out of his
mouth, lounged back against the sink, and looked her over from shoulder
to knee. “I’m real handy. Any time you want to try me."
Corrie flushed and dropped her gaze. She noticed his shoes. Was there
sand on them from the greenhouse? She thought there was. And had he
been in Patricia's bedroom? She wouldn't put it past him. She wouldn't
put anything past him.
But he was Richard's handyman? Like Kroll, then, he must handle the
cars. She looked up. “Very well, Clyde. I'd like you to have a car ready for
me in half an hour. I want to go into New Hampton."
“Well, that's fine," Clyde said, grinning as she started to turn on her
heel. “Except I’ll have to drive you. Mr. Richard's give me strict orders.
You aren't to go no place alone."
Corrie had a fleeting vision of Clyde kidnapping and assaulting her, but
she got hold of herself. She did have a gun, and it was either go with him
or accept Hampton House as her jail. “All right, half an hour," she told
him and stalked out.
There was no trouble. The ride to the city went easily. It was in a large
Lincoln Continental with jump seats, a television, and a window, which
was controlled on her side, separating the front from back. She let it down
only to tell Clyde her destination and the rest of the time rode in silence.
She got off at Drake's, the largest department store in New Hampton,
telling Clyde to pick her up in an hour. It made a good front, for it was
only a block from the Chronicle Building and it was Mike she wanted to
see.
Once the Lincoln was lost in traffic and she had made it back to the
familiar ground of the newspaper offices, her blood ran freely again, the
shadows receded, and the panics of the past seemed like foolish
nightmares. Safety and security were hers now, and how easily they had
been obtained. One night in that gray and grim mansion had seemed an
eternity, the great stone pile a prison. Yet escape had been for the asking.
How foolish she felt.
Mike greeted her with what seemed like genuine relief and she had to
smile. He was like a father over his daughter’s first date, but there had
been nothing to worry about. Monsters didn't live in the castle after all.
Strange people, yes, but not dangerous if properly handled.
So she played down the fright she had felt and concentrated on the
successes; on gaining admittance, on locating the safe. Mike had hidden
under beds to eavesdrop on criminals. She couldn't let him think she had
jumped at boogeymen. Even the part about someone stealing into her
room to leave the wallet she made little of, and it was Mike who showed
the most concern. She was never to let her bedroom door stay unlocked
one moment while she was in it! She was to promise.
Sweet Mike! She had never thought of him as sweet before, but his
concern was touching. And he needn't worry. No power on earth would
keep her from locking her door from then on.
She told him about Richard's hiring of parolees as servants and was
disappointed to find he already knew it. She thought she had scored a
coup, and it wasn't a secret. “Well, why wasn't I told?" she said to him,
miffed at the needless shock she had undergone. “And his murder
collection? You knew about that too?"
But Mike could only shrug and guess that those who had devised her
information sheets had, in their wisdom, decided that this would be a
thing new-wife Corrie wouldn't have been told. “It probably made your
response all the more natural," he said.
And she had to concede it was natural, all right.
After Mike had heard her story, he took her in to see Mr. Soedlak and
she told it again. Mr. Soedlak said very little. He nodded and thought it
was worthwhile so far, but the main efforts lay ahead: getting into the safe
to learn the important evidence Jefferson had talked about, finding out as
much as possible about the family, and exploiting whatever family
tensions she could in order to play the members against each other. He
was sure she could manage it.
As for the sudden appearance of the wallet, he felt that could be taken
not just as a hint that Jefferson was dead but an attempt to scare her as
well—the aim being to make her withdraw if she were an imposter,
dissuade her from making claims against the estate if she were not.
That she might be scared and want to withdraw did not occur to Mr.
Soedlak. It was, instead, his recommendation that Corrie show the family
the wallet and see what they did. She might learn who it was and whether
the action had been authorized or not. With Corrie playing the innocent,
exploitable rifts might develop either way.
Mike said little, other than to agree with the publisher. When they got
outside, however, and it came time to part, he said, “Soedlak doesn’t
know I know this, but our contacts in Brazil reported this afternoon that
an inquiry was made about a marriage between a Jefferson Wainwright
and a Corrie Davidson. Since it’s been sneaked into the records, the
answer would be that such a marriage did take place.” Mike glanced back
in the direction of Soedlak’s office. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell you,
but since he didn’t say I couldn’t, I’m telling you.”
“It doesn’t mean anything does it?”
“It means Uncle Richard is checking into the matter. If that’s as far as
he goes, we’re all right. If he digs much deeper, of course, he’s going to
come up with the right answer. What happens then, we don’t know. What
happens in any case, I don’t know.” He looked at her. “Are you worried?” 4
“I’m all right.”
“If anything goes wrong, throw in the sponge. Close the door behind
you and walk out of the place. And always remember, I’m at the other end
of the phone any time you want to pick it up.”
“I know, Mike, and I appreciate it.”
“And keep your bedroom door locked!”
 Corrie just had time to pick up some paperbacks and gobble a hot
sandwich at the department store before being picked up. She ate every
crumb, for she wasn’t sure how long away her next meal might be.
Darkness was falling when Clyde dropped her off in front of the house
and Fancy let her in. She went right to her room, for cocktail time was on
the dot of five-thirty and she only just had time to change.
She slipped quickly into another dress and ran a comb through her
hair. Then she opened the dresser drawer and felt among her underthings
for the bloodstained wallet that would be exhibit A for the defense.
She felt again and again, then hunted through the drawer. It had
disappeared as it had come. There was no wallet any more—in that
drawer or any other.
She straightened the drawers again and sat down on the bed. What
were they trying to do? She knew she shouldn't have been surprised, but
she was shaken all the same. It was the intrusion rather than the removal.
She could tell the family about the wallet even if she couldn't show it. But
the idea of people wandering into her bedroom and poking through her
things incensed her. It wasn't enough for her to lock the door when she
was in the room; it now appeared she'd have to keep it locked all the time.
Which one of them was it? She was determined to bring the matter up
at cocktails and she was also determined to keep a hard, sharp eye on
everyone present and listen carefully to everything that was said. The
people in the family were pushing her around too much. It was time she
did a little pushing back.
She rose and checked herself one last time in the mirror, looked
at her watch, and timed it so that when she came down the stairs
and made her entrance through the sliding drawing-room doors,
nodding and smiling to Richard, Patricia, Elliot, and Isolde, it was
exactly five-thirty.
 CHAPTER 22

It was a ritual, Corrie realized, as she watched the cocktail procedure,

the participants taking customary seats, Richard mixing at the bar and
passing drinks. Judging from his manner, he hadn't yet discovered the
broken chair, so she could relax and watch the family for signs of
giveaway signals rather than guard against them herself.
She had been assigned the seat on the couch next to Richard's spot, so
that he had to circle the table to avoid stepping across her, and she
watched his techniques carefully. She noted how, through it all, he led the
conversation with little chit-chat while the rest of the family sat woodenly
and sullenly, making the proper responses like puppets on a string. They
seemed to be waiting for something unpleasant to happen and were
powerless to prevent it. Richard's control was so total, Corrie noted, that
they didn't even make faces behind his back. It made her wonder if
Richard had played games whereby children were rewarded for tattling.
Richard circled the table at last to take his seat on the couch. He raised
his glass and turned. “To our new bride," he said. “Our lovely new
addition to the family went into town this afternoon to do some
shopping. We should start our cocktail conversation with her tonight. I'm
sure we cannot wait to hear what she bought."
Corrie was aware of a relieved sigh from the others and an immediate
focusing of their attention. Not worrying about the chair rung and still
euphoric from her afternoon of freedom, Corrie didn’t mind. She was
much more able to say to herself, “You’re nothing but a pack of cards,”
and she was quite relaxed in this, her second cocktail hour.
So he knew she went shopping, she thought. His spies were
everywhere—those parolees who, but for him, would be still in jail; they
were beholden. Do what Uncle Richard says or he’ll complain to the
parole board and back to prison you’ll go. He ran a tight little ship, and on
his poker deck all the aces were up his sleeve. There must be signal flags
everywhere and if he caught her in Patricia’s bedroom, it must only have
been because he couldn’t quite get there in time to catch her in his own.
She had best forget about befriending the servants. She could trust no
one.
“It was nothing,” she said, dismissing his question. “I couldn’t find a
thing I liked. I didn’t have enough time.”
“You could have taken as much time as you wanted,” Richard
reminded her. “Clyde is there for your convenience.”
She accepted that and decided that, since she had the floor, she might
as well plunge in. “But it was an interesting day all the same,” she added.
“A very unusual thing happened, and perhaps it is important that I tell
you.”
Aha, that had them interested. Everyone’s attention was riveted and
nobody was more alert and armed than Richard. He looked braced and
baffled. “What is so important?” he said.
“Well,” she said, hiding a pounding heart behind a puzzled expression,
“in the first place, I found something very strange in my bedroom this
morning.”
Her eyes were darting as she spoke. Elliot was looking away from her.
He was pretending not to watch, but he was watching closely. Patricia
had that far-out look, as if not comprehending what she was being told.
Isolde was sitting straight up and, unlike Elliot, was staring sharply at
Corrie. Only Richard was subtle. He leaned forward blandly, looking at
her, listening to her, being most interested. Yet, behind those eyes, one
could only wonder where his thoughts were.
“It was only a miracle I found it,” she continued. “It was half under the
bed. I don't know how long it had been there—”
“What was it? What did you find?” Richard was inquiring with
apparent interest.
“An old wallet of Jeff’s,” she said. “All stained. It looked as if it might
have blood on it.”
Did Richard flinch? He wasn’t ready for that one, or was he? Around
the circle, the others were stony faced and silent. No change of expression
could be noted.
Richard said slowly, “A wallet of Jefferson’s?” His eyes also went
around the circle. “Are you sure?”
“Oh yes,” she continued innocently. “It had his name in it. Of course
there was no money. As I say, it was obviously an old wallet. Old and
stained. It must have been from one of his trips, where he had one of his
accidents.”
 “Yes,” Richard said slowly. “I daresay.” He was eying the others as he
spoke. No one else had moved. “Where is the wallet now?”
“That’s the point of interest,” Corrie said, and she was stern now. “It’s
been stolen.”
Richard really started at that one. That was the last thing he was
expecting. “You can’t be serious?”
“I certainly am serious. I put it in a drawer with some of my things this
morning and just now, when I went up to change, it was gone.”
“You must be mistaken,” Richard said. “You looked in the wrong
drawer.” His mind was going a thousand ways at once. Corrie could see
the wheels spinning.
Elliot broke in suddenly. “That’s right. Nobody around here steals
things!”
“No, I am not mistaken,” Corrie said, “and I looked in all my drawers.
That wallet was stolen from my room this afternoon. Not that it has any
value. As I say, there was nothing in it—a few stained papers. But
someone went through my things. That’s the important point. My
belongings have been tampered with, Richard. I don’t want to suggest
that one of the maids or somebody—” She left it hanging.
“That new man,” Elliot said. “Clyde Holworth.”
“Nonsense,” Richard snapped.
“He’s a thief,” Elliot insisted. “He’d be just the one. He only came in
yesterday. The last guy, Kroll, steals your silver, and now this new one is
going through our bedrooms—”
“Shut up,” Richard said in a way that cut Elliot off in mid-sentence. It
was an effect that was not lost on Corrie. Mr. Soedlak had said the family
might squabble. Right then, though, Richard’s command stopped
everything. Corrie tried to get it going again. “It couldn’t have been
Clyde,” she said. “He’s the one who drove me this afternoon.”
Elliot, with Richard staring at him, only chewed his lip. Isolde, on the
edge of her chair and ramrod straight, was like a statue. Patricia seemed
out of it.
“The point,” Richard said, still looking at Elliot, “is not who stole the
wallet, nor is it the kind of servants I hire—*”
“Hire?” Elliot erupted in spite of himself. “Is that what you call it?”
“ I a m speaking, Elliot. Is there something the matter with your
hearing? Did you not know I was speaking?”
Richard waited and Elliot had no choice but to say that he knew.
 “And you interrupted me, Elliot. That is very rude. I think you owe me
an apology.”
“Damn it, Richard, all I said was—”
“It doesn’t matter what you said. What matters is that you interrupted
another person who was speaking. I said I expected an apology. Did you
fail to hear me say that before?”
“I apologize.”
“I asked you a question. Did you fail to hear me ask for an apology
before?”
“No. I heard you.”
“But you failed to make the apology. I had to ask you a second time.”
“I’m sorry I made you ask a second time. Is that all right?” Richard
shook his head. “I’m surprised that a man your age still hasn’t learned the
simple rules of etiquette. I have tried very hard to instill them in you.
What is Corrie going to think of you?”
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” Elliot said, paying his obeisance. “But I
don’t like thieving servants and I’ve got a right to say so.”
“You were not listening to me,” Richard said. “You were too busy
interrupting. If you had paid attention, you would have heard me say that
the kind of servants I hire is not the question. And where the wallet went
is not the question either. The question is, where did the wallet come
from?”
There was a long moment of silence as Richard waited for Elliot to
reply. The younger man fidgeted, then blurted out, “Well, what do you
ask me for? You heard her, didn't you? She said Jeff dropped it out of his
pocket. It fell under the bed.” Richard regarded him pityingly. “Jefferson
was carrying around an old stained wallet that didn't have any money in
it? Is that what you're saying? And then he left without checking to make
sure he still had it? And the maids clean the room but they don't find it?
Instead, Corrie finds it? The very first night she sleeps in Jefferson's bed
she finds the wallet the maids don't find? Is that what you would have us
believe?”
Elliot managed a gesture. “Well, I don't know how else to explain it.”
“And someone took it, Elliot. Can you imagine someone going through
Corrie's belongings behind her back and doing nothing but steal her
husband's wallet—an old, empty, stained wallet?” “Maybe his ghost
dropped it off and picked it up again.”
 The reaction was instantaneous. Corrie started, Richard blinked, and
in the farther chair, Patricia sucked her breath in as sharply as if she had
been punched in the stomach. Only Isolde remained like stone.
Richard made no move to rise against Elliot this time. He only said, in
his soft, inviting voice, “Elliot, I think you had better explain yourself.”
Elliot’s temper let go. “That's what I've been doing. I told you not to
fool around, but you wouldn't listen. You let this dame come in here with
a lot of baloney about being Jefferson's wife and you don't even try to stop
it. You'll let her flash a marriage license in front of your face and you
think that makes it legal. Well, I'm saying it doesn't make it legal for me.”
“We were talking, I believe, about ghosts, Elliot, not marriage licenses.”
“That's right. I'm talking about ghosts!” Elliot came to his feet and
pointed. “I’m saying to this phony dame that Jefferson Wainwright is
dead. And what's more, I’m not telling her anything she doesn't already
know. Do you really want to believe this dame hasn't known that all
along? Do you really think she's so dumb she doesn't read the papers? She
thinks she’s going to cut herself in on a piece of our estate. She thinks
she's going to sell you a bill of goods with that wide-eyed 'I’m Jeff's wife'
crap. And you're falling for it" He waved an arm. "Why don't you ask her
some questions, for Christ's sake? Ask her where his birthmarks and scars
are. She's supposed to be married to him. She ought to know. So ask her!"
But Richard could not ask Corrie such a question, for it was at
that moment that she upset her sherry glass and fell to the floor in
a faint.
 CHAPTER 23

There was a long moment of silence as Corrie lay there and it was
finally broken by Isolde. “Very good, Elliot,” she said scathingly. “That’s
very good.”
“She had it coming to her” was his sour retort.
Then Richard was beside her, slapping her hands. “Corrie, Elliot, help
me,” he snapped. Elliot obeyed reluctantly and they lifted her to the
couch. Then for a period she was left untouched and all there was were
voices. Patricia and Isolde blamed Elliot and he replied sullenly, “I only
told the truth.”
“What’s that going to get us?” Isolde answered bitterly. “Why don’t you
use your head?”
“It’s no secret. Everybody knows he’s dead.”
“Richard said-”
“Richard doesn’t know everything.”
“He knows more than you. If she’s Jefferson’s wife and you—” “That’s
the whole point,” Elliot said angrily. “She isn’t Jefferson’s wife. She’s a
fake. She’s faking right now. I’ll bet you she’s faking right now.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You don’t know that she isn’t.”
“No, but Richard says—”
“I'm tired of what Richard says. She's a fake and I say expose her.”
“Shush, will you? She's right here."
“And hearing every word, I'll bet. If she's Jefferson's wife, make her
prove it"
“If she ever does, you'll be really sorry."
“Why, what does it matter whether she's got the money or Richard's
got it?"
“Why don't you stop talking so much?"
“Yes," Patricia's voice chimed in. “Why do you always interfere?"
 There was silence for a bit, then Richard's voice sounded, approaching
and coming beside her. “Now, then, this will fix you up, my dear."
Corrie felt his arm slide under her neck to raise her head. She opened
her eyes a crack. He was holding a glass of water to revive her with. He
put it to her lips. “Here, now swallow like a good girl."
But he'd been out of the room. The others had talked behind his back.
He hadn't got the water from the pitcher on the bar. He’d gone out of the
room to get it and he didn't have to. Corrie thought of Richard stirring
powder into the water he'd given Jeff.
It was enough. She coughed and flailed with her hands and sent the
glass and its contents spilling from Richard’s grip. “I'm awright, I'm
awright," she mumbled as if fighting her way back to consciousness. She
opened her eyes and looked around. Richard was splashed with water and
his eyes were raging. The others were gathered behind him, taken aback
at her sudden outburst. She looked around wildly. “Where’s Jeff?" She
looked at Richard accusingly. “What have you done with him?" She
looked at the others. “Where is he? Where has he gone?"
Richard climbed to his feet and produced a handkerchief with which to
wipe away the splashes of water. The fury had fled from his eyes and now
they were veiled and told her nothing. The others stood frozen, waiting
for guidance.
“Oh, Jeff, oh, Jeff," Corrie wailed. She burst into sobs and buried her
face in her hands, rocking to and fro, forcing real tears.
She was as certain as if she had watched him that Richard had
poisoned that water. Had she really been unconscious, she would never
have awakened. There would have been the same coma Jefferson had
slipped into, the ultimate death, and some doctor would be found who
would agree that shock could have done it. There would be no autopsy,
just another grave beside the one in which Jefferson lay.
It remained for her now to put on the act of her life. Elliot believed her
a fraud. If he did, one could bet that Richard did. But if she couldn’t
persuade them she was genuine, she had, at least, to make them wonder a
little.
She looked up with real tears on her cheeks. “I was going to meet him
here,” she cried. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
The others still stood like statues, not one with an idea what to do, and
it was up to Richard to initiate the action. He sat down beside her,
pushing the handkerchief into a jacket pocket. “My dear, my dear,” he
said, taking one of her hands to pat, “we didn’t know how to tell you.”
 “What am I going to do?” Corrie moaned. “What am I going to do?”
“I know, I know,” Richard soothed. “It’s been a terrible shock. No
matter how we told you, it would have been a terrible shock.”
Corrie, rocking, letting the tears fall unimpeded, letting her eyes
wander, noted that the three bystanders didn’t really have their eyes on
her, they were watching Richard. They were like birds watching a lizard.
“What happened?” she moaned, deciding she might as well hear their
version of the story. “He was so fine, so healthy—so—beautiful.” She
shook her head and managed new tears. “We had such a short time
together. He can’t be dead.”
“It was an accident,” Richard said. “An automobile. He ran off the road
at night.” He shook his head and squeezed her hand. “A terrible tragedy.”
He sounded so sincere. Nobody in the world had ever sounded so
sincere. He oozed compassion. He oozed conviction. It was all he could
do to keep from sobbing himself.
“When?”
“Only two weeks ago. We're still living with the shock ourselves. And
then you came to the door—so young, so vibrant—so—"
“Please stop!" Corrie turned her head away to hide the increased
agony. “Oh, what am I going to do?"
It was at that moment that Fancy walked in and said, “Dinner
is—is—ah—served?"

Corrie did not go to dinner. Sobbing and weeping, she was helped to
her room by a solicitous Uncle Richard, who offered her anything she
might wish. She said she only wanted to be alone, but he didn't leave her
until he had fetched her a sedative, which he insisted she take—and he
would prepare it for her himself. She thanked him between tears, but kept
the doorway blocked. She could prepare her own sedatives, she assured
him, and would in due time, but she didn't want one yet. She made him
give it to her instead and saw him start back down the hall before she
locked herself in.
The curtains were drawn and she turned on the lights. The sedative
was a small bottle of pills, properly labeled, and they looked to be exactly
what he had claimed they were. Nevertheless, she wouldn’t have taken
one if she were dying and she dropped the bottle into her purse to show
Mike and Mr. Soedlak. Next she went carefully through the whole suite,
looking to see if the wallet had been returned, if any of her things had
been touched in her absence, or if anything about the room had been
changed. She had left it locked, but she couldn't be sure she had the only
key. All, however, seemed to be as she had left it.
Satisfied on that score, she then obeyed her injunction to live her role,
not just act it. She undressed and slipped into bed with the lights out, as a
stunned and grieving widow should. She lay there, glad of the sandwich
that afternoon, but wishing she could have a light on to read in bed. It
was tiresome doing nothing, but she knew a light in the room would show
a glow through the heavy curtain.
She spent an hour tossing in bed, becoming increasingly fretful,
wondering if she couldn't risk the bedlamp. Then she thought of the
bathroom. She could read in there. She rose from the bed and, armed
with pillows and paperbacks, went in and made herself comfortable. Even
Mr. Soedlak couldn’t complain about that solution to the problem.
Corrie read until well past midnight before she began to grow sleepy. It
wasn’t that the books were so stimulating, it was the pressure and the
tension of the big house and its inhabitants. She might be safe in her
suite, but she could not live in it. For now she could stay bottled up in its
security, but the duration would be short. There was a limit to how much
a young bride should grieve for a scarcely known husband, and there was
an even narrower limit to how much she herself could stand being cooped
up.
She left the light on when she returned to the bed. She must buy more
books the next time she saw Mike. The room was elegant, but it was
unbearably lonely and she had to do something to make the time go by.
She climbed into bed, pulled the covers up, and lay back on the pillow.
The glowing hands of the bedside clock were pointed at ten minutes of
two. Oh, well, she didn’t have to get up for breakfast.
She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper under the covers, then
opened her eyes again. Had she heard something? She lay very still and
listened very hard.
All was still for a while and then she picked out, very faintly, the sound
of a moaning voice. It rose and fell in a singsong and then stopped. Corrie
raised herself on an elbow and waited. In a moment it came again, as if
chanting some incantation, and once again it faded out.
Corrie looked around in the darkness. She could not make out where it
had come from. She dared the light at last, blinking in its sudden
brightness, but there was nothing to see.
 She heard the voice again, as faintly as before, but other voices had
joined in. It sounded like five or six or more. They would moan in unison
in a tuneless chant, then they would stop.
Corrie climbed from her bed and returned to the bathroom. All was
serene and quiet. The voices could not be heard from there. She listened
long and then returned. The voices came again, rising and fading. She
could only hear them in the bedroom.
She went to the door, unlocked it quietly, and pulled it open. The
night light burned steadily and there was no sound of life. The moaning
could not be heard in the hallway either. Only in the bedroom.
She frowned. The servants lived in her wing of the house, but it didn’t
sound like them. And Richard didn’t have that many servants.
Was it a trick? Could the family be piping sounds from a tape recorder
into her room to frighten her? With the Wainwrights, anything was
possible.
She started to close the door, and just before she shut off her view of
the hall she saw a figure come around the comer from the front of the
house. It was only a glimpse, but she knew who it was tiptoeing silently
through the passages in the dead of night. It was her chauffeur of the
afternoon, Clyde Holworth.
He hadn’t seen her, for she got her door closed in time. She locked it
too, then quickly went back and turned off the light.
She got it out in time for, in the following darkness, she could see the
thin crack of hall light under the bottom of the door and it was only after
that that Clyde’s shadow cut across the thin yellow line.
The shadow stopped dead center in front of her door and instinctively
Corrie pulled the nearest cover up in front of her. The shadow didn’t
move. It stayed like a silent wraith. Then, ever so softly, there came to
Corrie’s ears the sound of the knob turning.
But the door was locked. Thank God the door was locked.
After a moment she heard the knob turn back. Then the shadow
moved away, on toward the stairs at the rear.
Voices through the walls of the old house didn’t scare her, but the new
handyman did. He frightened her to death.
 CHAPTER 24

Richard Stuyvesant Wainwright threw back the covers restlessly and

got out of bed. The clock read short of six and he seldom rose before
seven. But this night he hadn't been to sleep at all. He opened the curtain
and looked over at the curtains in the bay windows on the left of the
court. She was there. She was behind those curtains in that double bed.
He turned away, letting the curtains fall back in place and picked up the
chair from in front of his writing table. She had broken that rung. She had
fractured a valuable piece of a valuable chair. He knew she had done it as
certainly as if he had watched.
And that report from the detective agency: '‘Superficial investigation
indicates Wainwright-Davidson marriage took place as claimed. More
thorough investigation is necessary, however, to confirm. Recommend
authority to proceed with confirmation proceedings to assure that fraud is
not taking place."
First Jefferson rises from the dead. Then his wife appears from the
blue. Did any man ever suffer so much in this worst of all possible worlds?
A wife! Who could have conceived of such a thing? She would prove
out. Richard was sure of it. Fraud? He wouldn’t be lucky enough to have
her a fraud.
It was hard enough that Jefferson had to exist, that his being, no
matter how remote from Richard’s world, was always the cloud no bigger
than a man’s hand, latent in the background, but fraught with horrifying
possibilities. Even with him gone, the little black cloud refused to
disappear. Now it had returned in the form of Jefferson’s wife. Jefferson’s
powers would transfer to Corrie, and what he could have done, she could
still do. Nor did she seem disposed to travel to the ends of the earth like
Jefferson and make the cloud seem smaller. She was planted solidly on
the family hearth. Right now she was new and she was grief-stricken. She
probably didn’t even know the extent of her empire. But she’d find out in
time. Old Barnaby Sills, the family counselor, would make it clear to her.
And then the new regime would start. But that would be intolerable. That
must not happen.
Which was why Richard had not slept the preceding night He had
been busy determining how it would not happen.
Richard dressed quietly and, before leaving the bedroom, took a final
peek at Corrie’s windows. The heavy curtains were still in place and there
was no more to see than before. Elliot and his foolishness with the wallet!
Probably it was just as well that Corrie knew of Jefferson’s demise—if she
really were as innocent as she pretended—but he had docked Elliot two
weeks’ pay for acting on his own. That would make Elliot hurt, and Isolde
would make him hurt a lot more. She never took kindly to scrimping.
When Richard left the bedroom he wore muffler, overcoat, hat, and
gloves and he walked around to the other wing, past Corrie’s door, and
down the back stairs beyond the servants’ quarters to where the erstwhile
stables had been converted to a garage. He took the red sports car. It
handled well and, though it seemed a little flashy for a conservative man
of his age, he always fancied it.
The trip to Loftus, which was his goal, was achieved from Fair- port in
a little less than two hours and it was not quite eight o’clock when he
turned east at the traffic light and headed for the family lodge. How many
years had he stayed away? And now two visits in a row!
The other, of course, was the Monday after Jefferson’s accident. He’d
gone up to meet with the chief of police and view the site and learn what
Pitkin thought had happened. Jefferson’s car had been removed by then,
but the marks were still there, the scorched areas of the fire. He and the
chief had speculated on why Jefferson had gone to the lodge, and had
driven up to the place themselves. But the lodge was locked and the only
key under the well-house eaves was gone so they could not get in.
It didn't matter. Chief Pitkin believed Jefferson had paid a visit for an
unknown reason and had gone off the road coming back—going too fast
no doubt. That was that, as far as Pitkin was concerned and Richard was
pleased with his simplistic interpretation. That and the scarf in the
middle of the rapids—the one Patricia had lent Jefferson—put his mind at
ease. They didn't answer all of Richard's questions, but they did tell him
what he most needed to know.
On this day he did not stop in to see the chief of police. Howard
Pitkin's real estate office wouldn't open for another hour and Richard
wasn't anxious to be seen. That was one of the reasons he was driving the
sports car. The last time he'd taken the Lincoln.
 He brought the car up the side of the mountain, along the winding
roadway that led to the lodge, and it was twenty past eight, with a bright
sun in the sky, when he pulled onto the dry, grassy flat area back of where
the lodge stood facing the lake.
Jefferson had always liked the place. But he was the type—camping,
outdoors, privation. Richard couldn't stand it. People were made to
surround themselves with fine and beautiful things. Keep out the ugly.
Live with the beautiful—objects, people, everything. That was what
money was for. The lodge was an abomination. Richard would have sold it
years before if Barnaby Sills would have let him. Nobody ever used it but
Jefferson, and Jefferson was never around.
Richard got out of the warm, comfortable confines of the car and stood
for a moment gazing with distaste at the ugly building with its boarded
windows and barren garb, the log supports and stained shingled siding.
There was a moaning wind and a cold that cut and Richard shivered. It
was bad enough in summer, but it was like Valley Forge in a November
freeze. There was no snow yet, but the ground was frozen and snow was
forecast.
Richard's moment of assessment was brief. The place was intact and
solid despite the lack of attention it got. He left the car, but he did not go
toward the lodge itself, nor to the connecting one- car garage at the rear.
Instead, he went around to the right side, to the narrow patch of ground
that bordered the woods, past the tool shed which had once been an
outdoor privy, to a second, square-shaped structure with a peak roof. It
was the well-house and was neater and newer than the shed and garage.
The well was a surface well, dug a millennium ago, and had once been
lined with stones. When Garth and Lucia bought the place, the well was
its water supply and the water was raised from the depths by bucket. They
had opted for running water, however, and one of their first
improvements had been the installation of a pump and pipes and
protective coverings. Now the well was a four-foot shaft with sides of
concrete pipe protected by a wooden cover lying flush with the
surrounding concrete floor. The small pump was in the opposite comer
and saved the use of hand power.
The bucket wheel had been preserved, however, and still hung from
the rafter above. The bucket was there too, stowed in the other comer,
and its rope went over the wheel to the coil inside the door, its end tied to
a cleat The rope had black markings and a ribbon on it to measure depth.
When one depended on a well, one wanted to keep track of the water.
 Some light and air came through louvers around the sides of the
well-house, under the eaves. There was also an electric bulb, but Richard
made do with the light from the door. The power had been cut off years
ago.
Richard bent and lifted the lid from the well, tilting it so that it leaned
against the farther wall. He was at the edge of the smooth, neat, circular
hole and looked into its depths. The water level could not be seen in the
blackness of the pit. Nothing could be seen.
He picked up the bucket and dropped it into the hole with its open
side down. After a moment it splashed and the rope stopped paying out.
He jerked on it a couple of times, helping the bucket fill, then let it sink
till the rope was fully extended and the ribbon hung even with the top of
the hole.
He hauled the bucket up, bringing it onto the flooring by his feet. He
emptied its contents back into the hole, returned the bucket to its comer,
and picked up the rope. The depth was what he was interested in and the
rope markings below the ribbon told him. There it was, wet at the
ten-foot mark. The surface of the water was ten feet below ground level.
That was about normal. And the shaft was eighteen feet altogether. There
was eight feet of water down there and if a young girl should fall into that
shaft, her head would be ten feet below where Richard was now standing.
She would be in a shaft with absolutely smooth sides. In no way could she
get out by herself. She could scream, but no one would hear. She could
struggle, but to no avail. It wouldn't take long. The temperature of the
water would be such that she couldn't survive more than five to ten
minutes, depending on how warmly dressed she was. In fact, if she were
very warmly dressed, she might not be able to keep herself afloat even
that long against the weight of her waterlogged clothes. Or, of course, if
she couldn't swim, she might not even come back to the surface a first
time.
It would be interesting, Richard thought, to see which of the
possibilities became the actual one. He hadn't planned to stay around
waiting for the end to come, but the idea was starting to tempt him.
He shook his head. He wasn't really interested in watching people die.
That was sick. Admittedly, people sometimes had to be disposed of for
one reason or another, but he had always regarded that as an unpleasant
necessity, something he wanted to have as little to do with as possible. It
was like those murderers in prison that he felt such a kinship to. They,
too, would have preferred not to kill. It was just that circumstances made
it necessary. It was unfortunate, but what else could one do?
In this case, however, Richard did have an urge to make an exception.
Jefferson's wife, be she real or fraud, was the kind of shock to his nervous
system that couldn't really be completely assuaged by death. A little
enjoyment of her suffering might be in order—might not be so much
"sick” as justified.
That, however, was not for the here and now. The present was to
prepare properly for the future. And over the long sleepless hours of
night, he had thoroughly worked it out. The first thing was to leave the
well lid up, leaning against the opposite wall. When she walked into the
well-house, there was to be nothing in front of her but a yawning hole.
Richard stepped back outside, closed the well-house door, and
refastened the padlock. All would be well. Corrie's remains might pollute
the water for a while, but nobody would be using the place in the
foreseeable future so what did it matter?
There was one thing he did regret. It would be so tidy, after she “fell”
in, to put the lid down in place, quietly lock the door, and leave. Except,
that if there were ever some question about the purity of the water, and if
the well ever had to be pumped out and it was discovered that someone
was down there at the bottom, it would be a little hard for him to explain
how whoever it was got there, what with the lid in place, die well-house
door all locked and such. For his own protection, he would have to leave
the lid up and the door unfastened. It was dark—some prowler got in—
that sort of thing.
He returned to the red sports car and started down the hill. It hadn't
taken long, it was only half-past eight, and he could be home before
ten-thirty. But how would he explain missing eight o'clock breakfast, he
who was such a stickler for promptness?
Well, he had two hours to come up with an answer.
 CHAPTER 25

Corrie went down to the dining room for lunch at twelve. She had
hidden long enough and it was time to brave the family. Perhaps she
might even glean some information from its members. Except that right
then she was only hoping she could stand up under the ordeal. It was
hard to be one against four. It was hard for her, the examiner, not to be
examined.
The large, barren room was empty, but the great table was set for five.
This did not mean, however, that five would appear. It might be like the
preceding noon when Corrie had eaten all alone. She circled the table,
sniffing the smell of lamb chops from the kitchen. She wasn't sure of what
place was hers but took the spot Richard had guided her to—assigned
her, she suspected—two nights before. It was the seat to the right of his
position at the head of the table. Patricia had been on his left with Elliot
beside her. Isolde had sat on Corrie's right and Corrie wondered if she had
been demoted.
That night the smells of food had been rich and overpowering and the
lights in sconces around the walls had thrown a ruddy sheen on the
panels, making the great room seem dark and warm and elegant. The
diners had looked elegant too. They were dressed for it, the women
wearing long gowns. Fancy, serving in her black short-skirted dress with
white apron and cap, had even lent grace to her role as well and it had
been an effective affair. But that had been before Corrie learned Fancy
had killed a man.
Now, as she circled the table in the dull gray light of day, the room had
a tawdry look. The curtains were old and worn, the gilt was off the tassels,
the panels were starting to warp and, without a fire in the fireplace, the
room was impossible to heat. The house was really drab and dingy and
even the smell of the lamb chops was a thin, unfulfilling odor.
She sat down at her place and wondered if anyone would join her or if
she should press the buzzer under the rug at Richard’s feet to summon
Fancy.
 There was a step outside and Richard entered. He paused at the sight
of her, then hurried forward. “My dear,” he said, pressing her hands. “My
poor dear.”
Behind those glasses were real tears, Corrie noted. He seemed to be
experiencing genuine grief at her loss.
“But why did you come down?” he was saying. “I was just going to have
something sent up.”
She murmured a thank you, shyly, and said that she was all right.
She did not look all right. She was so pale and sober. “I’ll never forgive
Elliot,” Richard said, slipping into his seat, still squeezing Corrie’s nearest
hand. “It must have been a horrible shock.”
Corrie shook her head. Elliot wasn’t to blame. Rather, she was the fool
for having to be told. What must they think of her?
Fancy came through the pantry door and Richard let go of Corrie’s
hand to say, “There will only be two for lunch today.”
Corrie looked up. “Where are the others?”
“Patricia,” Richard said with a certain distaste, “is sleeping late. She
was up most of the night.”
“Not ill, I hope?”
Richard dismissed it. “A meeting of some kind of group she belongs
to.”
“And Elliot?”
“He’s at the university doing errands for me. Elliot assists me in my
collecting. It is his occupation. It keeps him out of mischief and gives him
a chance to earn some money. And Isolde went into town with him. She's
doing the beauty parlors and the department stores or whatever it is she
does when she goes into New Hampton."
Fancy served the soup and waited while Richard tasted it and approved
its temperature, consistency and flavor. When she departed, he turned
again, leaning too close, and said, an unpleasant, gloating look creeping
into his expression, “But he’s being punished for his bad behavior toward
you. Never fear about that."
Corrie flushed and said she wouldn’t want him to be punished. She
had to find out about Jeff’s—Jeff’s—about Jeff—sometime.
“Elliot was cruel to you, my dear. He must learn."
Corrie toyed with her soup. It was good and she was famished, but
newly formed widows weren’t supposed to think of food. She again
protested Elliot’s punishment and apologized for her own upset. “I’ve
been selfish," she said, “thinking of my own grief. You’re the ones who
have had to bear the real suffering. You’ve known him all his life. I only
knew him half a year."
Richard smiled at her sadly. Damn, but she was an attractive woman. If
only she were a fraud! If only he could expose her and send her packing.
He wouldn’t even seek revenge. He’d forgive her the mental anguish he’d
been through, he’d forgive her the broken chair.
But she was too obviously the real thing and he mustn’t let her suspect
what that meant. He must be as doting to her as to the others. He must
talk to her of Jefferson. He must develop an empathy—he and she.
“Would you rather not talk about it?"
And Corrie shook her head. On the contrary, she would like to talk
about it. She’d like to talk about Jeff. “You know so much about him," she
said, “and I know so little."
“But you knew him best."
“Best, but not well." She laid down her spoon when Fancy came in to
collect the plates, turning to Richard as Fancy went away. “There are so
many things that I never knew," she told him. And there were so many
things she wanted to know: What kind of a child he was, all about the
scrapes he got into, the themes and letters he had written. What was the
source of his wanderlust? What things and acts of environment helped to
make him what he was? She smiled a sad smile and said, “The kind of
things that would make him want to marry a girl like me.”
Richard pooh-poohed that last. No one but a fool wouldn’t want to
marry a girl like her, and Jefferson was hardly a fool.
“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean it like that” Corrie flushed. “But I do want to
know the man I married. What can you tell me about him?”
“I?” Richard was hesitant, but willing. It was the first time he had
departed from his veiled ways and Corrie held her breath. Now he was
going to become more open. Now, perhaps, Corrie would begin to learn
bits and pieces about the family that would, when put all together,
explain why Jefferson had died and why Richard—if this was what he had
done—had killed him.
Fancy served the lamb chops and through the rest of the lunch Richard
obliged Corrie with Jeffersonia. He went through the odds and ends, the
little things he could remember—few that they were. And he tried to
make them sound good, rather than evil, tried to make Corrie believe that
Jefferson had been a fair-haired boy, a much-loved and sorely missed
member of the family.
 But there was so little. Corrie was hardly starting dessert when Richard
was at a loss for material. He smiled and shook his head. “He was away at
school much of the time after I took charge of rearing the children,” he
confided. “After his mother and father died, he seemed to change. The old
ways—the way he had lived with them—didn’t suit him any more. He
didn’t like the house they had had, he didn’t like the neighborhood, the
friends. I think their death must have affected him deeply. Ever after he
seemed to be fleeing from something. And he was so young! Elliot and
Patricia, they got over it and resumed a normal life—or as normal as it
could be with a bachelor uncle replacing their real parents.
Corrie was interested and tried to probe that aspect. Were Patricia and
Elliot really normal? Any more normal than Jefferson? There were depths
in here and if she could just keep Richard talking. . . . “How did it
happen?” she asked. “How did Jeff’s parents die?”
“It was at the lodge—the summer lodge they had outside of Loftus,”
Richard said, his eyes drifting backward in time. “I was there. I was
visiting for the weekend. There was a party. They were going to a party,
one of those roisterous affairs that wasn't to my liking. I said I'd stay with
the children. They went off, and something happened. Nobody knows
what, but Garth didn't make a sharp curve on the road down from the
lodge and went tumbling down the hill. I didn't hear about it until the
state trooper came up to the lodge. It was about ten o'clock. The twins
were asleep, but not Jefferson. I don't know where he was, or where he
had been. We looked for him, we called and shouted. And he came in and
said he'd been canoeing on the lake. That was against his parents'
regulations, absolutely. He could have been drowned. But I couldn't say
anything. And he knew something was wrong because of the trooper and
we had to tell him there’d been an accident. And he knew the worst
before we told him. It was in his eyes. He knew they weren't just hurt. He
knew they were dead."
“How did he take it?"
“Without a whimper. Without any change of expression. He was
twelve then and, now that I think about it, I haven't seen him cry since he
was very little. He listened very soberly to what the trooper told him, and
he said he understood, but that was all.”
“How horrible," Corrie said. “I can imagine it did terrible things to
him."
“It did terrible things to all the children. But at least they were not
disadvantaged."
 Richard explained what had happened thereafter, how he had sold the
old house that they no longer liked, and bought Hampton House in its
place, decorating it in ways that would encourage their appreciation of
truth and beauty. As for the lodge, he would have got rid of that ugly
reminder of the past if he could, but the will left it to Jefferson in trust
and Jefferson absolutely would not part with it, and Bamaby Sills, the
trustee of the estate, would not let him do away with it So it just sat
unoccupied and untouched.
“How strange," Corrie said of Jefferson's refusal to part with the lodge.
“Could it be because that's where his parents died?"
“I am not a psychiatrist," Richard answered solemnly, “but you might
be right. One does not know the depths of the mind."
“And the accident?” Corrie went on. “When Jeff died? He ran off a
road, you said?”
“He went off the road to the lodge,” Richard said, leaning close. “Just
like his parents. The very same spot.”
Corrie said numbly, “Just like his parents? The same spot? There was
no—railing?”
Richard’s face was near her face. “There was no need. There were no
other accidents. Only those two.”
“But the same—parents and son—almost as if it was foreordained.”
“Or a curse—except that there would be no reason.”
Corrie looked at Richard. “But what did he go there for? At night,
alone, when he hadn’t been there in years?”
Richard shook his head. “I don’t know, my dear.” He paused for a
moment and looked into the distance. “Except—”
She was instantly alert. “Except what?”
“Possibly—the attic.” He looked at her. “That’s the only thing I can
think of.”
“The attic? What about the attic?”
Richard wasn’t sure. “He kept it locked. That’s all I know. It was from
when his folks—when my brother and his wife—first bought the lodge.
The attic was his. They never made him say what he did there or what he
wanted it for. And I could never find out.” Richard’s voice trailed off and
he stared at the table thoughtfully. “After they died,” he went on slowly,
“we didn’t go to the lodge any more. The other children didn’t like
it—and I—I never had cared for it. But when he was older, and had a car,
he would go up there. Alone, most of the time but sometimes with other
people.”
 “Friends?”
Richard shook his head. “I don’t know who the people were. I don’t
know what they did. Jefferson would never say.”
“To do with the attic?”
Richard shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never been into the attic I don’t
know what’s up there.”
“If we went—” Corrie hesitated She didn’t want to push too hard. She
didn’t want to sound unduly eager.
Richard looked at her. “Went to the lodge?”
“Is it far?”
He said it wasn't too far.
“Maybe it might be—worth looking—into?”
Richard didn't seem averse to the idea. Corrie said she wouldn't want
to trouble him, she could go alone. Richard said no, he wouldn't hear of
that. She'd never be able to find it He would have to show her.
“You wouldn't mind?”
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I'd forgotten about the attic. The
police—didn't know why he had gone to the lodge and neither did I. It's
possible we might find the answer if we looked inside.”
Corrie, feeling growing excitement, was careful to restrain herself. She
took a final mouthful of peach cobbler and patted her lips. “When could
we do it?”
Richard stroked his beard idly. “I don't have anything scheduled for
tomorrow. Thereafter, Saturday won't be good—and Sunday-”
“Tomorrow would be fine with me.”
“Tomorrow then.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “But you
must not tell any of the others. They've been wanting to go through
Jefferson's things there ever since his death and I've said that no one must
touch anything until after the estate is settled.” He looked around to
make sure Fancy wasn't coming into the room and added, “They've fought
me hard on this, my dear. They don't want the judge of probate to know
what's in the lodge because it all belongs to him.”
Corrie assured Richard she wouldn't say a word to anybody and he left
her on that to go back to his work. She lingered to finish her coffee alone,
and she shivered. The room had become very dark and clammy all of a
sudden, as inhospitable as a coffin, and the coffee was cold.
She left as quickly as she could.
 CHAPTER 26

Richard worked it very well, Corrie observed. He announced over

cocktails that evening that he would be spending most of the day at the
university, and that Corrie, to get her mind off things, was being sent into
New Hampton for a day of outfitting herself in more appropriate clothing.
It was Clyde who drove her in that following morning and his
instructions from Richard must have been specific for he behaved with
proper politeness, made no suggestive remarks, and gave no sign that he
had tried to get into her room two nights before. On the other hand, he
would allow no variation in his orders, and Corrie’s efforts to get an
earlier start (so she could report to Mike McManus) made no impression.
The boss had said ten-fifteen and ten-fifteen it would be. As a result, it
was nearly eleven when she got to the store and the best she could do was
get into a phone booth at Drake’s and try to reach Mike from there. But
Mike’s line was busy and she had to meet Richard without cluing the
demon editor in on her plans for the day.
Richard was waiting for her, impatiently she thought, when she
emerged from the department store. He was in the red sports car and
eager to be off. She sat beside him as he maneuvered through New
Hampton traffic and she noted again how capable he was, how muscular
and strong. He was supposed to be a soft, effete collector of art objects
but the appearance was a deceit. Corrie persuaded herself, however, that
it didn’t matter. If it came to combat, she carried, a .22-caliber equalizer
in her purse.
They made the two-hour trip in virtual silence. Richard did not want to
talk above the sound of the car, and he kept his attention closely on the
winding northbound road. Besides, there was little to say. The answers lay
in “Jefferson’s room.”
At the outskirts of Loftus, Corrie was assailed by the sudden fear that
Richard would want to pay his respects to Chief of Police H. V. Pitkin and
she spent several uneasy minutes devising and discarding stratagems to
prevent the chief from discovering that last week’s “Chronicle reporter”
was this week’s “Jefferson’s widow.” The worry went for naught, however,
for Richard had no more desire to see Chief Pitkin than Corrie did. He
obeyed all the traffic rules, said nothing when they passed Pitkin’s office,
made the right turn at the light, and then went sailing on to the east past
the fields and farms and forests of outer Loftus.
Then they came to the dirt drive to the lodge and crossed the rushing
stream on the old plank bridge. Corrie said nothing for fear that any
comment might, in some way, reveal the fact that it wasn’t the first time
she’d been up this drive, seen the dangerous curve where son and parents
had died, or knew the outer appearance of the lodge on the side of the
lake. Instead, she let Richard remark on the extent of the property and the
nature of the scenery and she noted that he did not indicate the point of
the tragedy. He was being thoughtful of the bereaved widow.
They reached the top and came to a halt back of the lodge where
whipping gusts of wind swept across the lake and eddied around the back
comers of the old building. It was a barren, cold and empty place and
Corrie felt a sudden chill. She had forgotten the desolation. She had come
with the warming thought of finding clues, and now she realized that the
hunter might be the hunted, that in this uninhabited stretch of space
there was no one to turn to in case of need. She suddenly realized that no
one in the world, excepting only Richard, had any idea where she was. In
fact, no one had any idea where he was, or that they were together.
How beautifully he had cut her off. What did he plan to do?
Throw her in the lake? Or would he kill her in the attic and lock up the
house forever? If only Mike’s line hadn’t been busy! He would have told
her not to go. If only, if only—
Richard stopped the car, shut off the engine, and stared through the
windshield at the weathered, two-story building with its extended ell.
“There it is,” he said without fondness. “Jefferson’s lodge. And no one else
knows what’s inside.”
Corrie wasn’t listening. She was gripping her purse, feeling through the
leather for the comfort of the gun. She didn’t want to think about what
might happen—to her or to him—if she had to take it out. She wished she
had a less brutal weapon, something that would hurt but not maim. She
looked through the windshield herself, her heart pounding. “Jefferson’s
lodge,” she said and couldn’t think of anything else.
“It must have given him painful memories,” Richard said. “I know it did
me.”
 “I can understand.” Corrie smoothed the purse but kept it closed. She
mustn’t panic. The thing to do was go along with him. She must be
agreeable, keep from provoking him. Let him think he was having it all
his own way. Meanwhile, if she could find another weapon—
Richard slipped the car key into his pocket, opened the door and got
out. “Corrie on,” he said. “Let’s take a look around.”
He sounded harmless enough but, nevertheless, she unfastened the
catch on her bag as she got out on her side. That way she could hold the
bag closed but pull out the gun in a moment any time she needed to.
“Yes, I’d like to look around,” she told him. The longer they stayed
outside, the better. The longer she could postpone a confrontation, the
more ably she could master it.
He started around the rear of the ell to the wooded side. He was going
to the front, then, to look at the lake and then enter through the front
door? That was good. Let him lead the way.
He did lead, but not really with his back turned. He was a guide, not a
leader, only a little in front of her, and all but holding out his hand to her.
They were along the side of the lodge now, where the two small
outbuildings stood. The first was a toolshed. Corrie didn’t know what the
other was. Out front a gap of water was visible. It looked blue and frigid.
Gusts of wind came around the comer, carrying away her voice. Richard
was talking about the loneliness but he couldn’t catch her answer.
Now he was pausing at the second little shed, pulling out his keys and
unfastening the padlock. Corrie, with a finger in the opening of her purse,
looked around at the sandy, sparsely grassed ground. There were twigs
and scattered sticks but nothing large enough to serve as a weapon. There
was a fair-sized rock lying out past the front porch. Maybe she could pick
it up as a “souvenir.”
Richard pulled open the shed door and gestured, smiling. “Here, you
can see how we operate.”
She stepped forward. Maybe there were tools inside. Perhaps she could
pick up a hammer. ... A gun was so—so final.
Too late she saw the pump, the pipes, the yawning hole. She was in the
doorway, the board cover was against the wall, the open well was just in
front of her and Richard just behind. All he had to do was push.
She, who would be so careful, had fallen into the simplest trap.
Nor could she lift a single finger to save herself. Her legs sagged
and her mouth fell open. She knew she was going to die.
 CHAPTER 27

Richard smiled to himself. It was a piece of cake. Just a little planning,

a little preparation, and a smooth, innocent manner. There was nothing
to it. One quick shove, shut the door, and go back to the car. Her screams
might even be ended by the time he backed out. The water was below the
frost line, but it would be mighty close to freezing. She wouldn't last long.
Not long at all.
Richard moved, coolly and briskly, his hands aiming for just the right
location, timed to catch her while she was still staggered with dismay.
Could it be she knew what he was about?
The pump motor kicked in.
Richard froze in mid-shove, his hands bare inches from Corrie's back.
The pump motor?
But the power had been off for years! The pump couldn't start
operating. It was impossible.
But it was purring quietly, doing its job as efficiently as if it were some
long-ago summer. The power was unmistakably on. Not only that, the
water in the house was being used. The pump kicked in because
somebody was using water. Somebody in the house was using water.
Nobody was supposed to be there, but somebody was in the house.
And that somebody might have heard or seen the car pull in, watched
them get out. Somebody might be watching him right that minute,
somebody who would hear Corrie’s screams, who would rush to throw her
the bucket and pull her out.
Richard’s own legs trembled. He took a step backward and struggled to
keep from fainting. He had never been so frightened in his life. “Don’t get
too close, my dear,” he said in a voice that quavered.
For Corrie, the reprieve was almost more than she could bear. Her legs
were so weak she was all but ready to fall into the well without a push, so
certain was she that the push was coming. Now Richard was telling her to
come away? She stayed as she was, shrunken and frozen, waiting, not
daring to turn around, not daring to believe.
 “Corrie? Are you all right?” His voice was stronger now.
“Yes,” she said feebly, and backed out of the well house. “It’s a—it’s
a—” She didn’t know what to say, she didn’t know what she was trying to
say.
Richard looked past her, into the doorway. “Why, who did that?” he
said, letting anger show. He stepped forward, past Corrie and into the
well-house. “Whoever left that well cover up? Why, anybody could fall
in!” He pulled it forward, letting it drop with a crash. “Why,” he said,
turning to Corrie solicitously, “that must have frightened you to death.”
“Well, I was—it did—startle me.” She was leaning her back against the
side of the house, as white as death, her heart barely functioning. One
piece of her mind was saying, He could have killed me so easily. But he
didn’t. He could have but he didn’t. Maybe he never intended to. Maybe
it’s my imagination. Maybe it wasn’t poison in Jefferson’s medicine.
Maybe it’s all a mistake.
“You wait here,” Richard said, and patted her hands. “You’ve had a
start. With that cover up, I don’t blame you.” He tried a laugh. “And that
water, if you fell in, would be awfully cold. So you wait here, while I get
the key.”
He left her and went quickly around to the front of the house. The
storm door and the shutters on all the downstairs windows were gone.
They’d been taken down and put away. Someone had got into the lodge
and, since no windows were broken, that someone had found the key—or
had known where it was. And that someone had turned on the
power—either by getting the power company to do it or by breaking the
seals and throwing the switch. And that someone was living there, and
had been living there for—who knew how long?
And suddenly Richard had an overpowering urge to flee. He didn't
want to see who was there. He didn’t want to know anybody could be
there. He didn’t want anybody to know he was there, or Corrie was there.
He didn’t want witnesses to the fact he had ever brought her to the lodge.
And, particularly, he didn’t want the person inside the lodge to know. Not
that person!
Fortunately he hadn’t done anything. Thank God he hadn’t revealed
his intentions. Corrie still thought him solicitous. Everybody had to think
him solicitous until he could get home and reshape his plans. But the first
order of business was to get home, and to get home as quickly as possible.
He couldn’t even unlatch the gates in the latticework that connected the
lodge supports and kept animals from getting under the building. He
couldn’t even look to see if what he had hidden there was still in place. He
couldn’t do anything lest watching eyes from inside be a witness to his
actions.
He returned to the side of the house and Corrie had not moved. She
was frozen with fear. Richard could sense it. She thought he was going to
push her down the well. But why? What had he done that led her to
suspect?
"How stupid of me,” he said briskly. "I feel so miserably and totally
stupid.”
"Oh?” she said, staring at him with still stunned eyes.
"I forgot the house keys. I came all the way up here without the house
keys. And the extra key we always keep in a special hiding place is gone
for some reason. I can’t understand what happened to it, but I’m afraid
there’s nothing to do but go back and try again another time.”
Richard discovered, interestingly enough, that Corrie didn’t mind
making the long trek for nothing. She seemed just as anxious to leave as
he was. She nodded and turned numbly back to the car.
He started the motor, swung around, and couldn't wait to get down
the winding drive and around the first bend so that the lodge and its
faceless inhabitant were gone from view.
And when he got down to the highway, he didn't go back to
Loftus. He turned east and took Corrie home by way of Lindwich.
 CHAPTER 28

Corrie woke and tossed and looked at the clock. Now it was three in
the morning. Why was she having so much trouble sleeping in this
horrible, fearful house? Even a sleeping pill had only allowed her fitful
respite. She was dozing and waking, dozing and waking, and the hours
went creeping by.
It was the lodge, of course. She couldn't get it out of her mind. Over
and over she relived that excruciating, unbearable terror that assailed her
when she looked into the black depths of the well and waited for the push
from behind.
But the push had never come. Instead, Richard had warned her away.
He had guided her out of the well-house, back to safety, and acted angrily
at finding the well lid up.
Had she misjudged the man? Was he kind, not cruel, the victim rather
than the villain? That was one of the questions that had been raging
through her mind. There were others.
One was the whole question of Jefferson. What and who was this
strange being whose wife she pretended to be? Richard tried to speak
kindly of him. Richard was very careful not to disparage his late nephew
in front of the nephew's wife. But it had not been lost on Corrie. Where
had the twelve-year-old Jeff been on the night his parents went over that
cliff? Out rowing a boat on the lake as he claimed? In the black of night,
against all rules and sanity? It was an unlikely story. But if not that, then
what had he been up to?
It disturbed her greatly for she had been thinking about him the one
time she had ever seen him, lying in traction in a hospital bed, all of him
except his mouth and unshaven chin swathed in bandages. It wasn't much
to judge a man by—just his mouth and chin, and she hadn't sought to
make such judgments at the time. But had there not been a cruel twist to
that mouth? Not much, not something striking, but a little something
that she made herself ignore? That was all she had to go on, for the
newspaper photos that were in the files were of Jeff in groups or under the
brim of a pith helmet—poor quality pictures that didn't permit character
analysis. And nowhere in the house was a photograph on display. Not
anywhere. And that fact itself bespoke a strange story in itself.
And what was it he had at the lodge? What did he do there? What lay
behind the locked door of the attic that no one had ever seen? What
attracted him to its raw, deserted, post-season emptiness the moment he
returned from two years of being dead?
Most importantly, what had made Richard flee the place? She had
been so horror-struck by her near death and so frantic to get away that
she had not realized how equally desperate Richard had been to get her
away. It wasn't until now, tossing and turning and reliving the experience,
that she was able to recognize that Richard didn't want her to go inside
the lodge.
It was baffling. Such weak excuses he produced—alibis about
forgetting keys, about no keys being hidden at the lodge. You don't drive
for more than four hours for nothing. Couldn't he have forced a shutter or
something? That was the strangest thing of all—his behavior.
She tossed restlessly and went through it again, trying to fathom it.
Could it have been that Richard suddenly remembered something about
what was in the lodge at the last moment, something he didn't want her
to see? That didn't seem logical, but she could think of nothing else. In
any case, it was obvious that the lodge held some of the keys to the
puzzle. And to find those keys, she would have to go back to the lodge.
And to do that, she would have to have a key to the place and she
would have to get a key to one of the cars. And she couldn't ask anyone in
the family for either, for no one was to know where she had gone.
She lay back on the pillows and pondered the matter. Where would
the keys be and how could she get them?
Let's see, Richard claimed to have forgotten to bring the key to the
lodge. That would mean he didn't carry it on a key chain—certainly not a
key he never used. And what if Jefferson came home from one of his
adventures? Wouldn't the key have to be accessible to him, or to Elliot
and Patricia? No matter how one looked at it, there would have to be
spare keys. And they would be kept somewhere with other keys. And the
keys to the cars? She didn't even know how many cars there were—the
red sports car and the Lincoln were two. And wouldn't Elliot and Isolde
have a car—maybe one apiece—and Patricia as well? And the servants
had to get the groceries and run errands. Clyde was in charge of the cars
and he'd have keys to them all. But would everyone who wanted the use
of a car have to go through Clyde? Was there not at least one car available
at the whim of whoever in the family wanted it? If so, anyone in the
family should be able to take the keys off a hook somewhere, climb in and
be gone. So the keys would be in an accessible place—not out where
anybody, guests and visitors for instance, could help themselves—but in a
convenient, unobvious place. And wouldn't they be labeled?
The only likely place, she thought, would be in or near the servants'
quarters. Why clutter up the family space with the mundane? On the
other hand, a key rack wouldn’t be kept in somebody's room. It would
have to be in a public place. The kitchen or the pantry were the spots to
try first.
Corrie sat up and swung her legs resolutely over the side of the bed.
She donned her robe and slippers without turning on lights and went to
the bedroom door. Her heart was pounding and she felt anything but
steel-willed. If the truth be known, she would rather have buried her head
under the covers. But she had a job to do and she had already got it under
way. There was to be no turning back.
The hall was empty and quiet, bathed in the faint, dim glow of the
night lights. Thank God for those lights, Corrie thought as she closed the
door behind her and looked around. Should she go via the familiar front
stairs and through the dining room, or should she dare the nearer back
staircase and travel through the strange, still passages of the servants’
area?
She decided on the former and moved quietly down the hall and
around the comer to the great front staircase. There was a night light
below and it made her feel better. Her heart would be in her mouth if she
had to grope her way in total blackness.
She crept carefully down the stairs to the large foyer and paused at the
open doors to the drawing room. Through the windows beyond, she
could see the blackness of the outside night. No lights and no signs of
light anywhere in the house. That was the way she wanted it.
She stole quietly into the dining room, felt her way around the
furniture to the pantry door, pushed it open and paused just inside,
groping for the light switch. The brightness of fluorescent tubes flickered
and exploded and she looked around. There was the food larder on the
right—a walk-in alcove surrounded by loaded shelves upon loaded
shelves. To the left were side-by-side sinks in a broad counter with
underneath drawers.
 Corrie scanned all available wall space looking for key hooks but all
that hung was a calendar. She tried the drawers. There was silver, linen,
doilies, dishtowels, potholders, kitchenware, candle- holders and
candlesticks, all things to do with the preparing and serving and setting
out of food. Well, what did she expect?
She moved to the next door and found the lights to the kitchen. It was
a large room with stoves in the center, the dishwashers, sinks, tables, and
other equipment around the walls. There was a service door to the
outside on the left, a pantry by-pass to the right and, diagonally across the
way, an open passage into the servants’ quarters. Corrie, seeing the dark
passage, held her breath for a moment. Had the light disturbed anyone?
Were there open doors down that black hall? Would someone come
forth? Well, the giant refrigerator was close at hand. She could always say
she was hungry.
Again she looked at the bare spaces on the walls. Beside the servants’
hall was the house phone hanging from the black, glassfaced call box. A
copper stove occupied the center of the room, with a huge copper grease
and smoke catcher above it Copper pots and pans were hung in rows, all
of them glistening as if waiting for photographers from House Beautiful
or House and Garden to take their pictures.
There were more drawers—every which where—and vegetable bins
near the outside entrance. There was a heavy wood door with a tiny
window in it leading to the meat locker adjacent to the servants’ hall.
But nowhere—wait. There, on the wall behind her—there was a board
that was loaded with keys.
Corrie turned to it and started reading the tags that dangled from
each. There were so very many! Front door, back door, greenhouse, side
doors, wine cellar, attic, and then some with numbers on them, whatever
they stood for, little ones for the silver, chest, for suitcases—there were
keys for everything.
Then she found one labeled “Lodge—back,” and another,
“Lodge—front.” That was what she wanted. There were three keys on
each hook and she took one from each. There were other keys for the
lodge too, “Well-house” was one, and she shuddered. And “Lodge—attic.”
That was one she was after. Then “Lodge—garage,” “Lodge—storage.”
Well, why not?
She dropped them all into the pocket of her dressing gown and looked
for those to the cars. They were down at the bottom, again three or four
sets for each of the six vehicles the family owned. “Comet wagon,” was the
name on one and that seemed like a good choice. She dropped it into her
pocket too and looked at the clock between the windows. Half-past three.
There was a sound and she turned. The stove and its overhanging
copper funnel were between her and the servants’ hall but, visible in the
gap between the two, wearing pajamas, rumpled hair and a victorious
grin, stood Clyde Holworth.
“I thought I heard something,” he said. “And look what it was.”
How much had he seen, she wondered. Aloud she said, “I was hungry.”
The grin leered wider. “I got some food in my bedroom. C’mon in and
we’ll have a party.”
“No thanks.” She edged a step toward the pantry door.
“We can have a bite here. Let’s see what’s in the refrigerator.”
He was starting forward, around the stove, and she knew he wasn’t
after the refrigerator. But flight was not the answer. He’d run her down
before she got through the dining room. She could scream, but she
doubted it would bring much response. The situation was one she’d have
to handle. And what with?
Her nearest aid were the drawers in the pantry. She took a step
backward through the doorway and Clyde, who had been moving very
slowly, started to speed up. He could be molasseslike as long as she didn’t
move, but once that spell was broken, there was no further point in
pretending.
She jumped back and yanked at a drawer. Yes, it was the right one, the
one with the utensils.
Clyde sprang after her and stopped short, grabbing the doorframe to
stop his progress. Instead of a helpless, soft and alluring female, he was
looking at the point of a very sharp carving knife.
He looked at it, and then at her. Her eyes were grim. She’d use it if she
had to. He'd have to talk her out of it, get it away from her. “Hey, now,” he
said, changing his manner. “What’s that for?”
“Get away, get back,” she said, jabbing it closer to him to make him
give way.
He stood steadfast. She was only a girl—nothing to be scared of. If she
got too close, he could grab her wrist—block her thrust, and seize her
wrist—twist it till she dropped the knife—maybe break it. It’d serve her
right, and she couldn’t give him any trouble with only one arm. He shifted
his position, setting himself, getting on balance, still keeping his hands on
the doorframe, but no longer for support, only ready to grab. Let that
knife waver, let her relax just a trifle, and he’d lunge so fast she’d never
have a chance. He might get a cut on the hand if he were clumsy, but he’d
have the knife, and he’d have her.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m not trying nothing.” The point of that knife came
within three or four inches of his pajama front with the thrusts and he
had to steel himself not to flinch. Could he grab it?
She backed off a step, as if reading his mind. Well, that was the first
battle won. Just brave it out. The knife was still pointed, but a shade out
of reach.
He didn't advance a similar distance to press his advantage, but played
it from where he was. “Let's talk. I only want to be friends."
“Well I don't." She took a small step backward and felt behind her for
the swinging door.
Now he moved forward with her retreat. The swinging door was stiff,
and when she tried to push it open her attention would be ever so little
distracted and he wanted to be positioned.
“Get back," Corrie said, thrusting the knife forward a little.
But he didn't get back. He was still there, grinning, waiting. She didn't
dare back up more. The swinging door was the end of the line. She knew
she couldn't get through it safely. “I’m going to report this to Mr.
Wainwright," she said staunchly. As she feared, it had no effect.
“Go ahead," he said. “I report on you. You might as well report on me."
“You're . . . ?" She caught herself. She could think about that later.
Right now she was cornered and that grinning, evil, satanic creature
thought he was going to get what he wanted.
“All right," she said abruptly, “you asked for it." She didn't cringe or
hesitate. She drew the knife back two inches in warning, and then lunged.
She hoped he'd backtrack fast enough to avoid injury, but if she actually
stuck him, it would have to be. It was him or her, and they both knew it.
The knife sped fast—maybe not quite as fast as Corrie could have
made it go—but fast enough. Clyde Holworth let out a shriek and sprang
back in such haste and terror that he went through the door and landed
on his backside on the kitchen linoleum.
Even as he struck the floor he was readying himself to scramble for
safety. That goddam witch wasn't fooling. She really tried to stab him.
Even as he was flying back he saw that blade reach within a half inch of
his stomach. In fact, he wasn't even sure there might not be blood on his
pajamas. She might really have stuck him.
“I didn't mean nothing," he said frantically, as he tried to scramble for
some balance. He was ready to beg if she tried to finish the job.
 It wasn't necessary. The swinging door was swinging and the
girl was gone.
 CHAPTER 29

Corrie Haynes, tooling along in the Ford Comet, made a right turn at
the traffic light in Loftus and started the home stretch of her trip. It was
bitter cold in Loftus despite a blazing sun in a ten- thirty sky but the car
was snug and warm and Corrie was having trouble keeping awake. Not
only had she had a sleepless night but, despite the earliness of the hour,
she felt as if she had already been up all day.
She pretty well had for, after her confrontation with Clyde, she had
spent her time behind her locked door waiting out the night. Then, just
before dawn, taking the carving knife with her, she had slipped from the
house and found a battered Comet station wagon in the huge barn that
housed six cars and could have taken eight.
She had held her breath while the engine warmed up, wondering if
Clyde would hear the sound. He’d report it to Richard, if nothing else. He
was the spy in the greenhouse and she knew it.
He had not shown, however, and while the sun was starting the day
she had driven the twenty-mile stretch to New Hampton and spent an
hour with Mike McManus, sharing the breakfast his wife set before them
and briefing him on details.
Mike nodded affirmation of everything. Quite obviously Richard had a
sudden special reason for not showing her the lodge. Something about it
had to be fixed up first. Therefore, it was imperative that she make the
trip before Richard could get there himself. Yes, Corrie was showing
heads-up thinking on that one.
Nor did Mike worry about the incident of the open well. It only proved
that she was imagining things in believing Richard wished her ill.
Certainly, if he’d wanted to harm her, that would have been the time. But
he suspects nothing, so feel free, my girl. Go chase down any evidences
that might indicate wrong-doing on Richard’s part. Rummage through
the lodge, and find a way to get into the safe. She could do it. He knew
she could.
 Corrie had left him, not as cheered as she was supposed to be. Mike
hadn't stood at the edge of that well. Mike hadn’t felt the threat in the air.
He might think that Richard wished her well, but she didn't believe it.
So she had left him, promising to report on her return. And by
ten-thirty she was in Loftus and heading east, and by ten-fifty, turning off
the road onto the windy, climbing drive to the stout, weathered lodge.
She parked the station wagon beside the one-car garage, near a plank
walk to the steps to the porch and rear storm door. The door looked snug,
the windows on the ground floor were tightly shuttered and the only bare
ones were two small windows facing out back from the second-floor attic,
the attic with the lock on the door that no one but Jefferson used. There
was a key to it, though. Richard didn't know what was in it, but he could
have found out. Except that he never went there. Nobody went there but
Jeff. Nobody knew what he did there either.
Except Corrie was going to find out.
She lingered a minute longer in the warmth of the car, feeling less
sleepy now, feeling more and more on edge and alert. She looked around,
at the lodge, the two sheds along the west side, trying to sense what had
frightened Richard away. Was there something ominous about the old
place, sitting alone in the wilderness, miles from nowhere?
She took the keys from her purse, opened the door and slid out onto
the rock-hard ground and into a stiff lake breeze that her heavy clothing
could not screen. She clutched her collar tight around her throat and
looked again at the building in front of her, trying to absorb everything
about it. But nothing struck her as odd. She started along the plank walk
to the back steps, then stopped, chewed her lip, and backed off. What
about the outbuildings first? Not the well-house. She never wanted to see
that again. But she might as well explore the garage.
A rusty padlock held the hasp of the garage door in place, but it was
unfastened. She removed it and pulled the door ajar. There was a small
workbench at the rear adorned with a scattering of long-untouched tools
and, beside that, a connecting entrance into the building.
Corrie refastened the door. Should she stall some more and try the
toolshed? She looked again at the lodge. Why did approaching it make
her feel uneasy? What was it she expected to find?
She made herself move toward it again, walking the planks and slowly
mounting three steps to the weathered boards of the open porch. She
fumbled for her keys and fitted the one tagged “Lodge—back door” in the
snap lock of the storm door. It turned and the door opened, revealing a
green inside door with four glass panes that had no lock.
She opened that and stepped inside, into a cold hallway that ran from
the garage door past a rear bedroom, past other rooms and into the living
room at the front. There was daylight in the living room, but elsewhere
everything was dark. No shutters on the front windows? That was strange.
She flicked the light switch by habit and then she jumped—really
jumped. The light went on! She shrank back against the door as if it were
a monster. It was impossible. There was power! The lodge had been
abandoned for years, locked up tight and left empty. But the electricity
was on!
And then, from a forgotten part of her memory, came the first hints of
recollection. The day before—hadn't there been the sound of the pump
motor? She had been so terrified by the well incident that she was
insensitive to anything else, but wasn't the pump motor running? When
she was leaning against the house in shock and Richard couldn't find a
key, wasn't its humming in the background of her mind?
Corrie felt an eerie crawling inside. Were there ghosts in the lodge? It
was abandoned. The garage was empty, the lodge doors were locked, its
shutters in place—except that the front shutters were gone and the
electricity was on.
Corrie got hold of herself. She’d forgotten! Jefferson had come up here
that last night. He must have ordered the power turned on or broken the
seals himself. And it was he who had removed the shutters at the front.
He was on his way back from the lodge when he had the accident. He’d
already done what he wanted to do. Of course, how simple. Corrie
breathed again.
She turned right, to the back bedroom that looked out alongside the
garage—or would if the storm shutters weren’t in place. She turned on
the ceiling light and found a stripped-down bed and a couple of chairs
under dust covers. She tried a bureau drawer and knew before she opened
it that it was empty.
She returned to the hall and tried the adjacent bathroom. The pipes
had been drained and there was no water.
The next door was to the kitchen and a breath of warmish air greeted
her. The cause was apparent before she turned on lights; an electric
heater glowed orange from a spot under the sink. Corrie stopped and the
eerie feeling came over her again. Surely Jeff Wainwright didn’t run off
leaving an electric heater going!
 Someone was living here!
But there was no one anywhere. No car, no sign of life.
Corrie turned on lights and looked around. Water ran in the sink.
Then she had heard the pump the preceding afternoon. The refrigerator
was cold and contained food. A couple of dishes, a cup, and some eating
utensils lay on the drainboard. In the washing machine was half a load of
men’s clothes. Someone had been living here all right. Someone was still
living here. But who was it and where was he?
Corrie came out of the kitchen almost expecting to bump into the
occupant. And what would she say? Well, she could draw herself up tall
and say, “I’m Mrs. Jefferson Wainwright. What are you doing in my
lodge?” Even so, she wished she had brought in her purse and gun from
the car.
Beyond the kitchen, at the front of the house, was the living room. But
Corrie had another door to explore first. It was on the left, opposite the
kitchen, where the house spread out from the ell. The door led to a small
lavatory, which was reasonably warm for it contained another glowing
electric wall heater. There was water in those pipes as well as evidences of
use, including a dry towel and washcloth.
A door on the other side led to a small bedroom that was frigidly cold,
but which again showed signs of use. The small cotlike bed was made and
boasted a thick array of blankets, far too many for summer.
Corrie checked the drawers and found a scattering of men's clothes,
but no clue as to the owner. There was a comb and some scissors on the
bureau, but not a photograph, not a memento, not an identification.
She came out on the other side of the bedroom into a small study, also
with a heater in it, that had a lived-in look. There was a desk, a
comfortable chair, a few books.
Corrie turned away and found narrow, second-floor stairs in the wall
between the study and the living room. That was where the attic was and
she climbed them eagerly.
There were three low-ceilinged, unused bedrooms and a bath up there
with unshuttered windows looking out on the lake. Opposite them, facing
rear, its door by the head of the stairs, was the attic—Jefferson's secret
room!
The rest of the house had told her nothing except that someone was
living in it (was that what had frightened Richard?). But it had yielded no
clues about Jefferson—about anybody. It was the place Jeff kept coming
back to, the place where he had suffered his final accident, but nothing
about it, so far, gave Corrie a reason—not unless he knew the inhabitant.
And how could he know? No, she didn't think that was what had brought
him to the lodge.
The answer, then, must lie behind the attic door. It could only be
Jefferson's secret room that kept luring him back, that had brought him
on that fatal night. Her hands trembled as she fitted the key marked
“attic" into the lock.
The lock slipped back, she turned the knob, pushed the door open, and
looked inside. The room was shaped by low, sloping roof beams, light
coming in through two small, gabled windows at the back. And all around
was dust and bare boards, the rough brick of the chimney, and the
cobwebs of emptiness. The attic was totally barren, save for a stuffed
duffel bag in a corner.
Corrie stared, at first unbelieving, then crestfallen and bitter with
disappointment. All her effort for naught! There was no sign in Jeff’s
“secret room” that he had ever been in it. There was nothing about the
lodge that showed Jeff cared. Was it a game that Richard was playing?
Was this all a hoax? But no. Jefferson had certainly made that late-night
trip. Why?
She went on inside and did a careful search of the broad, sloping space.
Perhaps there were markings on the rafters, messages, symbols, paintings,
something on the sides that she couldn't see.
Corrie went around slowly, looking everywhere, but it was in vain. Her
first surmise was right. The attic had never been used for anything but
storing things—like the duffel bag in the comer. But the duffel bag, she
noticed when she went closer, wasn't covered with years and years of
dust. In fact, it wasn't dusty at all.
She pulled it open and something gleamed. She pulled it out. It was a
shining silver bowl of strange design. She’d never seen anything like it.
She reached in again and withdrew a silver goblet that was damaged on
one side, but which had bas-relief figures that looked Roman. She blinked
and lifted out a third object. It was a heavy silver figure of what appeared
to be an ancient goddess.
Corrie gasped and had to lean against the wall. There was no mistaking
the contents of the bag. It was Richard's stolen silver collection. But
how—when . . . ?
Corrie put the objects back carefully and arranged the duffel bag to
look untouched. She might not have found anything out about Jefferson,
but she had certainly found something. The trip was not in vain at all.
 She got out of there as quickly as she could, latching the door quietly,
and looking around and listening. The house was soothingly quiet. She
tiptoed down the stairs, her fears departing with each step she took away
from the fortune in stolen silver, and when she reached the bottom, she
sighed in relief. At first she had wanted to flee the lodge as fast as she
could, but now, since she was here, she might as well explore the living
room.
When she turned into it, she saw why daylight streamed in. The
shutters from the four front windows had been removed completely and
were stored in a comer of the room. Only the storm door remained on its
hinges. In the room itself a couple of lamp-laden tables stood by the front
door. There was a couch, table, easy chairs, the usual comfortable but
informal furnishings that went with lodges, even large and well-appointed
ones like this.
There was a great stone fireplace in the center of the rear wall, forcing
a turn in the stairs at the top, and there was a large cabinet television in
the comer.
The only out-of-the-way item in the whole room was a pair of crutches
leaning against the side wall near the study entrance. They caught
Corrie's eye and she examined them. Did they belong to the mysterious
thief who hid in the place? That didn't make sense, for if they did, how
could a cripple carry that heavy bag of silver, and why wasn't he presently
using them? But if they didn't belong to him, who were they for? Who in
the family was crippled?
Her musings were suddenly interrupted by a voice behind her
saying sarcastically, “May I help you, or do you just want to
browse?"
 CHAPTER 30

Corrie jumped a foot and wheeled. The speaker, just inside the hallway
entrance on the other side of the fireplace, was obviously the missing
inhabitant. He stood an inch over six feet, with shaggy, unkempt black
hair, but a well-trimmed mustache and beard. If his features were for the
most part hidden under hair, his eyes were young and handsome and,
despite the sarcasm in his voice, displayed more curiosity than anger. He
was heavily clad in a thick, wool-lined jacket, wool cap, and big gloves,
and a rubber- tipped cane was hooked over one arm. The crutches were
obviously his.
Corrie’s fright at being trapped was eased by his lack of rage. If he
knew she had found the stolen silver in the attic, his attitude might be
different, but he did not know. And he must not know. “I was just looking
around,” she said, struggling to regain her composure. Who was he, she
thought to herself, and what has he to do with that duffel bag in the attic?
“Yes," he said. “I noticed that.”
It was Corrie’s turn again. What was it she was supposed to do, draw
herself up, identify herself and question him commandingly? The closest
she could come was to say, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The curiosity wasn't in the man's eyes any more. He no longer seemed
amused by her intrusion. “Inasmuch as this is my home,” he said, “I think
the more proper question is, what are you doing here?” He took a step
forward, away from the wall, coming to his full height. “I have a few other
questions to follow that one,” he told her. “But that will do for a start.”
Corrie thought about the silver. It had been stolen. And what had
Clyde said? Handsome Kroll was the thief—Handsome Kroll, the armed
robber and murderer Richard had employed. Corrie had the sudden and
very uneasy feeling that she knew exactly who this man was and the
authority went out of her voice as quickly as it had come into his. She had
to bluff it through. “I have a right to be here,” she said and held her chin
high, though it trembled.
 “You have a key,” the man conceded. “I don't know where you got it,
but you obviously have a key. And since you're here, you obviously have a
purpose.” His tone grew sharper and suspicious. “What are you after?”
She mustn't let him suspect she had found the silver. “I guess I have a
right,” she said as boldly as she could, “to look at my family's summer
lodge if I feel like it, and without having to ask permission—”
He stopped her. “Your family? When the hell did your family, whoever
it is, think it took over this place?”
“I believe,” she said stiffly, “this place has long belonged to the
Wainwrights. Do you question—”
That set him back a little. He glowered at her. “Are you trying to tell
me you're one of the Wainwrights?”
“Mrs. Jefferson Kermit Wainwright if you really want to know.” That
shook him. That shook him to his toes. He stared at her for a long
moment. “You're kidding,” he finally said. “Jeff Wainwright wouldn't
marry Helen of Troy on a silver platter, with her weight in gold thrown
in.”
Corrie carried it off well. “Perhaps you didn't know him the way I did.”
“Not that way, I hope.” He was still glowering, but not quite so fiercely.
“So Jeff Wainwright's a benedict! Well, well, well.”
“Was a benedict. He’s dead.”
“So you know about that?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
He shook his head. “No, as a matter of fact, I would expect that you
would know.” He bowed mockingly. “My condolences on your loss. May I
concede that, for once in his unholy life, he showed good taste?”
This man had to be Handsome Kroll, but how could a parolee know so
much about Jefferson Wainwright? Corrie was bewildered, but she
brazened it through. ‘Til thank you not to speak ill of my husband!”
“Your late husband. I apologize. I did not expect such loyalty. And
what brings you here? Surely this is about as barren a hovel as the
Wainwrights own.”
“Richard said it was Jeff’s favorite spot. I came because Jeff loved it.”
The man looked as if he didn't believe her, but also didn’t think she
had found the stolen silver. “You know Richard then?”
“Of course I know Richard. I’m staying with the family.”
The man shook his head. “The world is full of surprises. Jeff’s widow in
the Wainwright den. Well, well, that must make for interesting
dinner-table conversation.”
 He was mocking again, but his mood could change in an instant, as
Corrie had found. She wanted to get away as expeditiously as possible, but
she didn’t know if he’d let her. How careful or suspicious was he? She
decided to take the initiative. “You certainly seem to know enough about
the family,” she said. “Even how to get into their lodge without their
knowledge.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think it’s without their
knowledge?”
She remained on the attack. “Because they told me the house was
empty. And they told me the power was cut off. Now I want to know what
you’re doing here.”
He had been standing, but now he removed the cane from his arm and
put his weight on it, giving his right leg a rest. “What am I doing here?”
He looked around the room as if sizing it up. “Why, I live here. Isn’t that
what you’ve been finding out?”
“I mean, who are you? What’s your name, and what do you mean
setting up housekeeping in the Wainwrights’ house?”
She stopped. Kroll was a robber who had murdered a man and he was
sitting on fifty thousand dollars' worth of stolen silver. She mustn't push
him. Get out of here as fast as you can, she told herself. Don't bait him.
He wasn't baited. He didn't react to her challenge. Instead, he said,
“My name?" and leaned heavily on the cane with both hands. “My name is
Creighton Kermit. Kermit the hermit." He cocked his head. “You don't
respond to that name? Didn't Jeff tell you about me?"
He's lying, Corrie thought. “No," she said, watching.
“Nor Richard?"
“No. Nobody has." He's stalling, she decided. He's trying to put a story
together. I must pretend to believe it.
“Not Richard?" the man said. “I would have thought, not Richard. Out
of sight, out of mind. That's Richard. But Jeff? However, he didn't like me
either." The man gave Corrie a grin. “I’m family too, you see, but the part
they don't talk about." He put the back of his hand to the side of his
mouth to whisper, “I'm the po’ folks. My side—the Kermits—we don't
count for much. Mostly the Richards and the Jeffersons, they pretend we
don't exist."
“That's terrible," she said, trying to sound sincere, and then, when that
didn’t advance her to the door, added, “But if that's—I mean, I don't
understand. What are you living here for?"
He shrugged sadly. “I’ve got nowhere else to go."
 “Do they know you’re here? I mean, does Richard know?"
“He doesn't, and won't—unless you tell him."
He was asking her not to. Did that mean he would actually let her walk
away?
She moved slowly toward him. “I won't tell him if you don't want," she
said. (She wouldn't have to. Richard already knew.) And, of course, she
wasn’t making any promises to hide what she knew about the bag of
silver.
“I'd appreciate that."
“Anything to help a relative." She could even be light-hearted about it,
for he was letting her go past him, to the hallway and the path to
freedom.
She said a last good-bye, was down the hall and out onto the porch.
His car was beside hers, a battered blue sedan with the license CL 1041.
She was not hemmed in and he did not come after her. Nothing was said
about silver and she was free.
Corrie drove down the hill in bafflement. He must be Handsome Kroll,
what with the silver and all, yet how would he know so much about the
family? But if he weren't Kroll (and she wasn't as dead certain about that
as she had been) how came he by the silver? And what should she,
herself, do about the stolen collection? What should she say to Richard?
Halfway back from Loftus the need for telling Richard anything
disappeared. The red sports car he liked so well approached and
flashed by her with a grim-looking Richard at the wheel. His
attention was on his goal and Corrie knew he recognized neither
her nor the car. He probably thought she was still asleep back at
the mansion.
 CHAPTER 31

Richard Wainwright turned off the highway and started the climb to
the lodge. Like yesterday, no one in Loftus had noticed him. No one knew
he was in town. Not that anyone would care. After all, why wouldn’t a
person give a final check to his lodge before winter closed in? And if the
lodge wasn’t empty, how was he to know that? Howie Pitkin didn’t know
it either, else he would have given Richard a call. So if the inhabitant of
the lodge should suddenly cease to be an inhabitant, nobody but Richard
would ever know that he had come and gone—unless Corrie wondered
about the pump motor.
Richard had a pretty good idea who the inhabitant was, which was why
he chose to investigate the matter himself. This was no common, ordinary
breaking and entering. This was anything but, and the less the police had
to do with it, the better all around.
He rounded the turn where two cars had crashed and made the final
climb to the top. With all facing windows shuttered except for the attic,
Richard felt reasonably safe from discovery. That was what he wanted.
He pulled into the yard of the desolate, forgotten-looking lodge and
got out. The inhabitant was clever, he thought. From the rear no one
would ever guess anyone was inside. If it hadn’t been for that pump
motor, Richard would never have suspected.
Even though he probably couldn't be seen from the house, Richard was
careful and he turned away when he patted his overcoat pocket with his
heavily gloved hand to feel the comfort of the revolver he carried there. It
was a gun that no one knew he had. It was a gun whose ballistics record
would show it had one time killed a gangster. It was the kind of gun you
had to know the right people to get hold of. That was one of the
advantages of being in Richard's position as chairman of the State
Prisoner Rehabilitation Council—at least when utilized as Richard chose
to utilize it. Parolees did not have to be helped solely from the standpoint
of rehabilitation prospects. There could be rewards in return if one knew
the proper way to acquire them. The gun was one of such. And the only
man who knew he had it was dead, which was a convenience of no small
moment.
He turned and approached the lodge, mounted the narrow porch and
unlocked the storm door. The inner door opened at his touch, but he
closed it again, rapped and waited.
After a few seconds, he knocked again, undisturbed by the empty
sound it made. Someone was in there and he knew it.
He tried a third time, pulling off his glove and knocking so loudly the
panes rattled. When that produced no result, he finally opened the door
himself. All right, the man was going to play coy, was he? He was going to
pretend he wasn't there? Let him have it his way.
The inside hall was cold and clammy and everything was dark. Richard
paused for a moment, tempted to call out, but thought better of it. He
tried the light switch beside the door instead. Turning on the lights would
show the hidden occupant that Richard wasn't going to go away.
The lights didn't light, and Richard stopped. The power had been on
yesterday.
Suddenly he had no relish to grope his way through darkness and he
returned to the car for a flashlight. When he went back into the lodge, he
was holding the flash in his left hand and a gloveless right hand was in his
overcoat pocket gripping the handle of his gun. He was less sure of
himself now, less sure that he knew the inhabitant of the lodge, less sure
of everything. Things were happening that weren't supposed to happen:
the pump working yesterday, the pump not working today. Was another
game being played beside his own?
He swung the beam of the flash around, saw and heard nothing, then
stepped into the hallway and closed the doors behind him. Nobody was
there. He was sure of it. Nevertheless, he slid along the wall to the back
bedroom so he could watch both ways. He looked inside and the beam of
the flash showed the same untouched room that Corrie had seen a scant
two hours before.
He looked into the bathroom and moved down the hall. The kitchen
was as black and cold as everything else and he frowned. He walked in,
pointing the light at the sink. He tried the faucets, left and right, but they
were dead. He tried those lights and they were dead. There was no power
at all. It was unnerving.
He crossed the hall to the tiny lavatory and sink off the inside
bedroom. A drop or two of water came out and that was all. He looked
into the bedroom. That gave him no more clues than it had given Corrie.
He couldn't tell from its condition when it had last been used.
The study and living room came next and there was no sign of life. But
it was not as it had been yesterday. The shutters over the living-room
windows were in place and he knew they'd been put back since the
preceding day.
He shone the light up the stairs but he knew nobody was there. He
knew there was nobody in the place at all. But there had been. Yesterday
there had been.
But who? If Richard could know for sure, it would answer a multitude
of questions. Had he left a clue behind?
Richard explored the kitchen again, and while the faucets didn't work,
there were droplets of water in the cold sink. He opened the refrigerator.
Food was there, some of it perishable, all of it fresh. What was more, the
refrigerator was still cold and the ice trays were still frozen. The house
had only just been shut down. The culprit hadn't fled yesterday, he'd
waited till today. Had someone tipped him off that Richard was coming?
But no one knew.
Richard was very disturbed. Things weren’t going right at all. He came
forth from the house, closing the back door and relocking the storm door.
The garage door had a padlock on it and he knew there was no car inside,
but he opened up and looked anyway. The garage was empty, as expected,
and though he walked in and looked around, he could find no clues that a
car had been there, let alone what kind.
He relocked the garage and, as his final step, went around the far side
where the well-house was. In the latticework that fitted between the base
of the lodge and the ground, a three-foot-high gate had been set in where
the gap was greatest to allow for storage of boats and supplies under the
lodge. Richard unlocked the padlock there, feeling just the slightest
trepidation. Surely nobody could have tampered in there. He pulled the
broad gate open and looked inside. He could see nothing. He started to
tremble. He pulled out his flashlight and shone it around. The duffel bag
was gone. Richard sagged. His world was collapsing. What was he going
to do?
He pulled himself together almost immediately. He was wasting
time. He had better get back. Otherwise he might miss something.
Maybe he already had.
 CHAPTER 32

Mike McManus lived in the outskirts of New Hampton in one of the

old homes that had a lot of history behind it, but which had crooked
floors, doors that didn't fit, and which let the cold come in in the winter
with the same ease it let the flies and ants come in in the summer.
Mike's wife, a sparrowlike woman, answered her ring and Corrie found
Mike in front of a roaring fire with a floor lamp aimed over the shoulder
of his easy chair while he pored over a stack of heavy tomes. The sparrow
went off to get tea, and Corrie, looking from one to the other, couldn’t
help but view the marriage as a parakeet living with a St. Bernard. Mike,
however, was more growlly than a St. Bernard. He did not look happy to
see her. Of course it was Saturday and this was the time he could research
the book he was doing on, believe it or not, medieval warships. It seemed
to Corrie, nevertheless, that he might express concern over her visit to the
lodge—except that he could read from her expression that it hadn't
produced the wherewithal to put Richard Wainwright behind bars, giving
the Chronicle a scoop in the process.
“So you saw the lodge,” he said, “and you didn't get anything. So think
of something else.”
“It wasn't quite like that,” Corrie told him and looked for a chair. '‘Take
Cissie’s,” Mike said, indicating a fragile one at a table by the window
which bore a half-crayoned lithograph stone on its top. Cissie, for all her
birdlike flutterings, was made of an iron that matched her hair and was a
dedicated and noted lithographer.
“She’ll need it,” Corrie said, and dragged over a heavier chair from the
corner. She sat down by the fire, feeling its warmth. It was a soothing
comfort and eased the cold of her body, but it couldn’t touch the cold
that gripped her heart. She turned to Mike and the words came tumbling
out, the whole story of her visit to the lodge, her discovery of the bag of
stolen silver, and the strange young man who caught her in the midst of
her prowling. Even as she told it, she shuddered at the thought of what
might have happened had the strange man known she had been to the
attic. She shuddered too at the grim-faced Richard she had passed.
Cissie brought in tea on a tray, with sugar, lemon and cookies, and
passed a cup to all, taking hers back to her lithograph stone with smiles
and gay remarks. Then she sat down at her table, frowned at her picture,
picked up the black, greasy pencil, and no longer heard, saw, knew, or
cared that two other people were in the room with her.
Mike stirred his tea and worked his lips while Corrie, frightened after
the fact, leaned forward, cup on lap, waiting for the words of wisdom.
“You’re afraid of this man,” Mike finally said.
She nodded. “I wasn’t at the time. But that’s because he didn’t know
what I knew.”
“What do you think he would have done to you if he had known?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have any idea. I’m only glad I didn’t have
to find out.”
“Why do you think he’d have done anything?”
“It’s obvious, Mike. Can’t you guess who he is—who he’s got to be?
He’s Handsome Kroll, the paroled murderer Richard had at the house. He
stole the silver and was hiding out.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, it seems pretty obvious.”
“But you’re scared of him, and now you’re scared of what’ll happen to
him when Uncle Richard arrives. You contradict yourself.”
“I can’t help it.”
“All right, you can give Richard a careful look when he comes back. See
if it tells you anything.”
That wasn’t what Corrie had in mind. She had found a missing fortune
in stolen silver and found either the man who had stolen it or the man
who had received it. What about that?
“What do you mean, what about it?” Mike answered impatiently.
“I think I ought to report it to the police.”
“What for?”
“Mike, for heaven’s sake. The silver’s been stolen. I found it. I may have
found the thief. I can’t just sit on that kind of information.”
“Of course you can.”
Corrie stared at him and something happened to her insides. A sense
of unease crept into her. What was he saying? She didn’t understand.
Mike explained it snappily. “What I’m saying is, that’s neither here nor
there.”
 She shook her head, bewildered. Was this the red-hot editor and
demon reporter who hid under beds and wore disguises in his quest for
stories? A bag of missing silver was cached in the lodge of the family who
reported it stolen. If this wasn’t the stuff of which newspaper stories were
made . . . “Mike,” she said, “you’re crazy. What do you mean it’s neither
here nor there?”
“You have to remember,” Mike said doggedly, “that you’re in the
Wainwright house for something more important than a bag of silver.
You’re trying to track down a murderer.”
He went on about that, how difficult it had been to get her
placed—the efforts the newspaper had had to go through, the expense,
the deals that had to be made. “You have to understand, Corrie,” he said.
“This is a large project the paper has undertaken. You’re in that house to
get into Richard’s safe, to hunt for evidence against him, to find anything
you can to show that he’s up to no good, anything, even, that will show
he’s less than the noble citizen he wants the world to believe he is.”
Corrie felt the flush come to her face. “I thought I was to find evidence
that he killed Jefferson.”
“That’s what you’re building for. That’s exactly what you’re trying to
find. Jefferson knew something about Richard that Richard didn’t want
revealed. That’s what you’re digging for. That’s why you can’t go off
half-cocked over finding some silver that someone else stole from him.
We can’t blow your cover for that.”
Corrie sipped tea unhappily. “But I don’t have to blow my cover,” she
said, putting down the cup. “What’s to stop me from phoning in an
anonymous report? Then the police can take it from there.”
“And do you want the police descending on the Wainwright mansion
while you’re there?”
Corrie had to concede she’d just as soon not.
“You see,” Mike said. “You’ve got to think about the whole ball of wax,
not just one little aspect.” He stressed again the fact that it was Richard
they were after, not the thief who stole the silver, and that if the police
were brought into things, Richard would have a lot of explaining to do.
They’d want to know what the silver was doing in his lodge.
“That would be up to the man who’s in the lodge to explain.” “Richard
would have some explaining to do in any case. Didn’t you say when you
passed him he was on his way to the lodge? He knows somebody’s there.
He may well be involved with the theft for that matter. It’s not unusual,
even for people with fortunes, to try to cheat insurance companies.”
 “Which is a black mark against him, which is what we’re after!” “That’s
right. What we’re after—what you’re after. That’s evidence for you to find,
not the police. Because you’re in the position to find it and they’re not.
Because if we called them in and they failed, we’re nowhere. You’d be
useless after that, because Richard would know where the anonymous tip
came from even if the police did not. I don’t want you to endanger
yourself, Corrie.”

Corrie had a couple of cups of tea and a couple of hours of talk and it
was after four when she finally left. Nor did the talk help her. Though she
had finally been persuaded to do it his way, she still felt uneasy. His
arguments were not completely convincing and his attitude was
unnatural. Mike had been the kind of reporter who'd love to stir things up
and see what happened. Now he was being ultraconservative, almost
afraid. He no longer seemed to be the tower of strength he'd been before.
For the first time Corrie wasn't comfortable following his advice, she
wasn't sure she was doing the right thing.
When she got into the car, she put her hand on her large
handbag and squeezed it to feel the hard outlines of the gun. At
least she could depend on that.
 CHAPTER 33

In the tomblike quiet of his museum, Richard Wainwright picked up

the statue of the fat African oracle god he had called Tzechlan and sat
down with it under the light. Ingenious device. It really was. Or, at least,
it used to be. You prayed to it and gave it your request and, at the
appointed time, you approached it, seized the door, and drew it open.
And there, inside, was supposed to lie the answer to your prayer. And
inside could be anything: grains of corn, a tiny bowl of pungent liquor,
powders, unguents, whatever it was that had meaning. Or it could be
loaded with a lethal dart so that when it was opened the hopeful
supplicant would be struck by a poisoned wooden shaft the size of a
pencil and die an almost instantaneous death.
Richard pulled the door wide. It swung easily, for the strings and cords
that fired the arrow had rotted away and there was no tension.
He let it go again and the door, by its weight and the angle at which it
was set, dropped closed again, erasing all sign that an opening was there,
leaving a quiet, fright-faced fat god.
Richard opened it again. "Die inner cavity was quite spacious. It looked
big enough not only to hold pencil-like poisoned darts, but something
more civilized—like a small pistol. And it so happened that he had one in
his collection. It had been used against a police officer and had caused
quite a celebrated manhunt.
He got the little .22 and tried it. It did fit. In fact, it fitted very well,
almost as if the idol had been made for it. And if it were inserted and held
in place, it could very readily be wired to fire a nice little .22 at anyone
who opened its door.
Bullets would work just as effectively as poisoned darts. And bullets he
had. He opened the drawer in his desk. Yes, a half box of .22’s as well as
partial boxes of other sized ammunition. He had made a point, upon
acquiring the various murder weapons in his collection, of firing them
himself. He liked the feeling of pulling the trigger of a gun that had killed
a man, of hearing the explosion and the thud of the bullet striking. He
didn’t fire the bullets at real people, of course, but he had a
realistic-looking target for a substitute. Yes, not all of the bullet holes in
“Mr. Gerald Fitzpatrick,” the dummy in the chest, had been made by Mr.
Fitzpatrick’s daughter and boyfriend. In fact, one of the most vicious of
the knife cuts in his stuffed figure had been made by Richard. He had
wanted to know what it felt like. The thrill, though, was not in the
shooting—or the stabbing; the thrill was in the fact that the guns he fired
and the knife he used were not innocent weapons. They had all drawn
fatal blood.
He took out a .22 bullet and stood it on his desk next to the gun. Now
all he needed to make the idol lethal would be some wire and some
pliers—like the picture wire and pliers he kept in the drawer in his
bedroom for use in the art gallery. It would be just the thing.
He locked the bullet and gun in the desk drawer and left the
dungeonlike museum, proceeding through the dimly lighted tunnel and
up the rear stairs two flights to the second floor.
Of course, while the gun could be rigged in the idol, it wouldn’t go off
unless there was a reason for someone to open its door. And he had an
idea about that. He stopped at Patricia’s room, rapped, listened, and
rapped again. Then he looked inside. The room was dark and its windows
looked out upon the equally dark second- floor wing opposite. Richard
frowned. It was almost five o’clock.
He strode down the hall to the front and was about to enter his own
room when, over the balcony rail, he saw Fancy opening the door. Was it
Patri— ? No, it was Corrie. He drew back into the shadows and his eyes
narrowed. Where had she been all day? Clyde didn’t even know she was
gone. Clyde was supposed to watch her and he had missed her departure
completely. Clyde wasn’t shaping up well at all.
While he watched her, the young girl paused at the foot of the stairs
and looked around uneasily, as if she felt strange eyes were upon her. But
she couldn’t see him in the depth of shadow and, as she slowly mounted
the stairs, he slid silently around the comer so that the front balcony
looked empty.
Richard waited until she had disappeared, then entered his own
bedroom, carefully drawing the curtains before turning on the light. He
opened the “tool” drawer in his bureau, pocketed wire and pliers, and
turned off the light. He drew back the curtains from his window again
and looked out. Yes, the glow of light shone through Corrie’s curtains. She
was in there getting ready for the cocktail hour. He would have to hurry.
It would take a while to get the idol properly fixed.
He left the room and retraced his steps. Patricia’s door was closed now,
though he had left it open. He knocked and called her name, got a sulky
answer, and walked in.
Patricia was in her slip, looking through her closet, and she glared at
him over her shoulder. “I didn’t invite you in.”
“So you didn’t.” Richard’s cheeriness wasn’t to be put off by her ill
humor. He fingered a ragged black costume that lay discarded on the bed.
“Well, well, the usual Saturday afternoon meeting, I suppose?”
“What of it?” She came over and snatched it up.
“And who did you get? Was it Benjamin Franklin or Harry Houdini?”
“Of course not.”
“The other witches then? They must have come up with somebody?”
“Oh, stop it,” she snapped, looking for a hanger. “We don’t pretend to
be witches.”
“Well, mediums then—occult beings.” He smiled. “You must have
raised somebody from the dead. Julius Caesar or Cleopatra or somebody?"
“Cut it out," she answered. “What are you prying for? You don't believe
in it anyway."
“You misjudge me, Patricia," he said, leaving the bed to look across the
court at the lighted window of Corrie's suite. “I think it's a most
interesting kind of experiment."
“You think we're in league with the devil," she said, finding a hanger.
“And we aren't."
Richard kept looking out the window. The curtains to Corrie's room
allowed not a slit of direct light. “That's not so, Patricia," he said, his face
somber now. “I let you attend your cult meetings, don't I? I even allow
you a room in the cellar for your rites. And I haven't questioned it when
you tell me you talked with—who was it, some beheaded pirate from
Captain Kidd's crew and a child murderer who went to the gallows in
1814?"
“You make fun of it."
Richard turned from the window and looked at the girl. She was pale
of coloring, almost ethereal in appearance. In that black witch's costume
she was putting away she could make a very believable evoker of ghosts.
He smiled at her again, but this time there was more meaning in it.
“Jefferson's wife is in her room."
 Patricia came out of the closet and leaned against the yellow dresser.
“Well?"
“She wasn't at breakfast and I understand she wasn't at lunch. I think
she's spent most of today in her room."
“She's upset."
Richard smiled. “To put it mildly, she’s upset."
“She didn't know Jefferson was dead."
“So true." Richard turned and looked across the courtyard soul- fully. “I
wonder what we can do for her."
“You don't wonder anything of the kind."
“The thought occurred to me," he said, smiling at Patricia again, “that
we might be able to help her. That you might."
“Me?" She looked at him. “How?"
“I thought we might hold one of your rituals this evening."
Patricia straightened. “What? For her?"
“I had that idea in mind. Yes.”
“It is not a game, Richard. We are serious. We do not do it for
entertainment.”
“I wasn’t thinking of it as entertainment. And I wasn’t thinking of
having your witch friends along. I thought of it as a family affair. Just the
five of us together. Down in the room you and your friends use for those
late-night sessions of yours.”
“You’d never get Elliot and Isolde at our rites. Be sensible.”
“I think they’d attend if I asked them to.”
“And then what?”
“Why, we sit around the table and you fondle cat entrails or whatever
it is you do to call forth the dead. And you ask to talk to Jefferson and we
get Jefferson to come and speak to us.”
“About what?”
“He might have a message for Corrie.”
“He what?”
“He might want to tell her something. In fact, he might want to tell her
private things, that he wouldn’t want the rest of us to hear.”
“Private things he wouldn’t want the rest of us to hear?”
“Things he might put in automatic writing or whatever it is and leave
in a special hiding place for her.”
She shook her head. “Who knows what he’d say?”
“We could guess—you and I.”
 She said petulantly, “That’s ridiculous. Besides, he wouldn’t come back.
They never come back.”
“Who never comes back?”
N

“My parents. I’ve tried to reach them many times but they never
respond.”
Richard was wearying of the argument. “I think we’ve wasted enough
time on this subject,” he said. “What Lucia and Garth do or don’t do isn’t
relevant. When I want a ritual, I expect you to perform one. And when
you want to talk to Jefferson, I expect you to find ways to produce him.
And if he wants to leave her a note, I expect you to relay that fact.”
“But he can’t write notes—you don’t know—”
Richard said coldly, “Don’t you worry about what Jefferson can do, you
think about what you can do.” He glanced irritably at his watch. “The
Tzechlan idol is where he's going to leave the note. Remember that. The
Tzechlan idol. I'll go into the rest of it with you later.'' He stalked out,
closed the door behind him, and retraced his steps to the museum with
his wire and pliers.
 CHAPTER 34

Corrie was first to arrive in the drawing room for the five-thirty
cocktail hour but she had barely time to look out the courtyard windows
before Patricia appeared. Patricia, silent and pale, like a wraith, was
wearing a long, filmy gown, something quite out of the ordinary, and she
was excited and nervous. “Am I late?” she said, looking around anxiously.
“Is Richard here yet?”
Corrie shook her head. “Not yet. But Pm sure it’ll be soon.” “He’s
always prompt,” Patricia said nervously. “He wants us to learn promptness
so he’s almost always first.”
“But not today,” Corrie said gently. The girl was in a most excitable
state. “By the way, what did he do today?” she asked, wondering if
someone like Patricia would know.
Patricia had no idea. “He doesn’t tell us what he does,” she said.
“Except in the evening, when we meet for dinner. Then everybody tells
everything. Except, with him, it might not be everything.”
“And what have you been doing?” Corrie asked her. Patricia was so
tense and nervous, something must have happened.
Patricia looked toward the door over Corrie’s shoulder, then back.
“You must leave,” she whispered. “You must leave as soon as you can. . . .
Tonight.”
Corrie turned to look at the doorway herself. There was nobody there.
She didn't know what to make of the girl. “What do you mean?"
“It's dangerous for you here." Patricia, slighter and shorter, was looking
into her eyes. “You might even be killed."
“Killed?" Corrie felt a tremor even though she smiled. “Who's going to
kill me?"
“I wasn't told, but I'm getting vibrations. It's getting very dangerous for
you."
“You weren't told by whom?"
Patricia gripped Corrie's arm with surprising strength. “I did a blood
rite last night, and I'm going to be made to do another. You should go
before I do another." She tried to get herself under control. Her eyes
became steadier. “I like you," she whispered. “I'm jealous and I'm afraid,
but I like you. That is why I want you to go. Before it's too late."
Corrie hadn't taken the girl seriously before, but now she did and
unease crept into her. “Why should I go?" she asked, trying to keep her
own manner calm, her face sober.
“It's—didn't Jefferson tell you?"
“Tell me? Tell me what?"
“About the illegitimacy? He must have known about it."
Corrie had to restrain herself to keep from seizing Patricia's arm.
“What are you talking about? Jefferson—did you say—"
“Yes, hasn't he told—" She caught a fleeting motion out of the corner
of her eye and stopped.
Corrie turned as Elliot Wainwright entered with Isolde on his arm.
Patricia stepped back with a guilty face and Elliot was instantly alert.
“Where’s Richard?" he said, his eyes darting. He looked at his watch. “It's
five-thirty. Where's Richard?"
Patricia said she didn't know and Corrie said they were waiting for
him.
‘And what are you two talking about? What are you two up to?"
Patricia didn't know what to say and Corrie spoke for them both. “We
were talking," she said softly, “about my late husband—your late brother."
That left Elliot at a loss and he went past the two women with his nose
up, leading Isolde to her chair. He seated her gently and
Isolde, as always, was silent and contemptuous, hardly deigning to
notice Corrie and Patricia. This had, in the past, made no small mark on
Corrie, this haughty, brassy beauty who acted above and beyond it all, but
something about the way she moved, something about the care with
which Elliot handled her gave Corrie a start. It made her turn and watch
the couple attentively. Corrie couldn’t be sure, but she had to wonder.
Was Isolde, in reality, dead drunk? Was that why she walked with that
careful balance, kept her face so aloof, appeared to listen and judge and
despise, yet never speak?
Elliot seemed aware that Corrie was giving them especial attention and
his irritation grew. ‘Tour late husband?” he scoffed when Isolde was
seated. “You haven’t produced any proof to me that you and Jefferson
were ever married!”
“Elliot!” That was Patricia, in shock.
 “Oh, stop acting so gullible, Patricia,” he said to her irritably. “You and
Richard will believe anything.”
“But you can tell!” Patricia said.
“How?” he snapped. “By the tears she sheds? I don’t see any tears.”
“You never shed any tears either,” Patricia answered. “Never. Any
time!”
“That’s right,” Elliot sneered. “I don’t have to show grief. I don’t have to
pretend anything.”
“What do you mean?”
He pointed at Corrie. “I mean she isn’t his wife. She might fool Richard
and she might fool you, but she doesn’t fool me.” He wheeled to Corrie.
“You’re not going to get any of the estate if that’s what you think.”
All eyes followed his and focused on Corrie. All waited for Corrie, at
last, to speak. “Is that all you can think about?” she said sharply, trying to
shift attention back to Elliot
He was not put off. “I know what you’re up to,” he said, coming closer
and wagging a finger. “You think you can get a cut of the estate by
pretending to be his wife. Only you made a big mistake. I don’t care what
you do. You aren’t going to get anything.”
Corrie thought about the illegitimacy angle. It was a new twist.
There were wheels within wheels and Corrie pressed forward, trying to
learn from Elliot what she hadn't learned from Patricia. '‘You're not very
fond of Jefferson, are you, even though he's dead. Is it because he wasn't
your true brother?"
“I didn't like him for better reasons than that."
“Such as?" Corrie had chalked up one point. Now she was after more.
Isolde turned sharply to Elliot and looked ready to speak, but she was
ignored. Elliot’s eyes were on Corrie. “I could tell you a lot about your
darling husband, if you want to know," he said, his voice rising in rage.
“You think he's such a saint, do you? You think we should all be crying
because he’s dead? Like hell. You want to know—"
“Elliot!" This time Isolde did speak. Her metal exterior had cracked and
her voice was a half shriek.
He turned to her as if struck. “What’s the matter?" he complained. “I’m
only telling the truth."
“She’s his wife. Leave her alone."
He pointed a finger at her. “And that’s where we differ. Because I don’t
happen to believe she's his wife. I don't believe she ever even knew him."
“I’ll tell Richard," she said in threatening tones.
 It had an effect. Elliot said, “Richard?" and then looked at his watch.
“The hell with him," he said. “I’m going to have a drink.” He went to the
bar, giving Corrie a wide berth, and poured himself a dose four times
what Richard served, then a small one for his wife. He ignored Corrie and
Patricia.
The doorbell rang. Corrie wondered if it were Richard, then realized
he'd have a key. The others paid no attention. They didn’t answer
doorbells and were immune to the sound. Elliot took a heavy swallow of
his drink and shut himself into a shell, turning to stare out the windows.
Corrie moved to the bar and prepared highballs for Patricia and herself.
Without Richard to shape and run it, a Wainwright family gathering was
a shambles.
There was a scream from the hall. It was Fancy at the front door, and
Corrie wheeled. From her position she couldn't see out there, but the
others were in direct line of vision.
Elliot, who had turned from the window, was standing, profile to
Corrie. His face was dead white, his mouth hung slack, and the highball
glass he had just filled slipped from his fingers and bounced on the rug.
“Jefferson!” he said.
 CHAPTER 35

Corrie froze against the bar. She couldn't breathe. Patricia and Isolde
had come to their own feet and were facing the doorway, even as Elliot.
All looked paralyzed, as if they wanted to flee in panic but their legs
wouldn't move. But no one wanted to flee more than Corrie, and no one
was less capable. She couldn't even hide.
There were sounds in the outer hall and then a man appeared in the
doorway, a tall, clean-shaven, rugged-looking man who walked with the
slightest of limps.
The injured right leg should have told her, and the eyes, but the
clean-shaven face was too unfamiliar and it wasn’t until he spoke that she
knew him. He had introduced himself as Creighton Kermit that morning
at the lodge—but only after she had introduced herself as his wife.
“Don’t get up, don't get up,” the man said breezily. “Just thought I'd
stop in and say hello.” He turned and looked back into the hall. “I daresay
I never thought I was handsome, but I never knew Fancy to get shook up
like that.”
Elliot said, “But you—you’re—”
The women in the room remained frozen and Jefferson grinned at the
group. “Elliot, you're looking white. You need more sun. Patricia—hello,
my dear. Isolde—” His eye fell at last on Corrie and he beamed. “And my
dear wife! How great to see you!” He held his arms wide. “Corrie and kiss
me!”
Corrie stepped forward like an automaton and all she could think was,
Mother of God, how am I going to get out of here?
Then Jefferson swept her into his arms like a true long-lost husband
and lifted her off her feet in his embrace. Never had she been squeezed so
hard, never had she felt so soft and pliant against such a strong, hard
body, and never had she been kissed before so as to make her senses reel.
Nor did he let her go. He was playing the “husband” bit, but he was
vastly overdoing it. It was as if he’d never kissed a girl before. It was
embarrassing and it was thrilling. She knew she should make him stop
but she didn’t have the strength and, after all, wasn’t it up to him? She
had to be an eager wife, didn’t she? Her dead husband had just been
restored to life. She had to play it his way. But he had hidden out in the
lodge with stolen silver. She should use these moments to think, to make
plans. But she was so giddy and half fainting.
When he finally let her go, he kept his arm firmly around her and
beamed on the others. “I hope you’ve been taking good care of my wife,”
he told them, and Corrie, clutched against his side, watched them nod
numbly. Well, none of them had any doubt about her status now.
She knew she ought to say something, but the others said it for her.
“But, how, why—we thought you were dead!”
“No, no,” Jefferson said, waving it off. “Just a little accident. Nothing
serious.”
“But we buried your body!” That was Elliot, and Corrie sensed dismay,
not joy, over his brother’s resurrection.
“Not my body!” Jefferson struck his chest with a fist. “This is my body;
a little crippled, perhaps, but capable.”
Elliot was becoming more forceful. “But you were identified. We
buried you. You were dead.”
“Nonsense. You wouldn’t have me make this little girl a widow, would
you?” He swept a startled Corrie into his arms again and gave her another
thorough kissing until she was quite weak and breathless.
He held her again when he let her go and she needed his support. She
was flushed and excited and wondered what the others must think, but
they only wore masks. She looked up at her “husband” and he was
enjoying the role. Whether it was for the purpose of kissing her, or
punishing her, or whether he had other motives, she did not know. She
would have to make sense out of things when her head stopped spinning.
“And where is Richard?” Jefferson demanded, looking from Patricia to
Elliot to Isolde. “Surely I merit the fatted calf.”
There was uncertainty. No one knew where Richard was.
“What a shame. That means I’ll have to sup only with my dear brother
and his equally dear wife and my sister and my own dear wife—” The
mention of Corrie spurred him to new action and he pulled her around
for a new round of searing kisses. Fortunately the interlude, this time, was
brief. “I didn't realize how much I missed you,” he said. “Where was I? Oh
yes, we’ll have to make do without dear Richard. I hope I can survive.”
Isolde finally spoke. “You seem to be surviving very well,” she said
sardonically. “Shall I have another place set for dinner?”
 “Why that’s most kind.”
Corrie said, woodenly, “Would you like a drink—dear?” and tried to
disengage herself. She didn’t think she could hold up under another
assault.
“A highball.” He let her go and realized his loss. “But I’ll go with you,”
he added and followed.
Elliot tried to involve himself. “I don’t understand this, Jefferson,” he
said, trying to be masterful. “We were told you were dead. Would you
explain?”
“Obviously there was a mistake.” Jefferson reached Corrie as she
poured his drink and nuzzled her and kissed her neck saying, “Oh, just
beautiful, just beautiful,” and, more pointedly, “Did you miss me?”
And she had to say, “You know I did,” enduring the nuzzling, all the
while that Elliot kept insisting that, of course, there was a mistake. That
was obvious. But what had happened?
“That’s just what I want to know, old man,” Jefferson said, turning with
his drink and leaning on the bar. “What happened?”
“Look,” Elliot said in quiet exasperation, “you went off somewhere in
that sports car of yours, you know the one?”
“Yes, I remember,” Jefferson said, finally giving him his attention. “A
little, bilious green two-seater. Some foundation gave it to me on the way
up from Miami.”
He kept Corrie near and she noted that the moment he looked ready
to talk, Patricia and Isolde began to move in like witches—or was it
vultures?
“Well,” Elliot complained, “the next we know, the car was wrecked on
the road to the lodge, you’ve been badly burned and injured and your life
was in jeopardy. You were removed to the hospital where Richard went to
see you—”
“Did he? That was thoughtful. Was he the only one?”
Elliot reddened. “Well, we—he went for all of us.”
“It was generous.”
“You don’t remember Richard going to the hospital?”
“No, I don’t, but you tell me about it.”
Elliot eyed his brother suspiciously. “Richard said you were not well,”
he said carefully.
“Yes, and then what?”
“Then the hospital called. You were in serious trouble. And before any
of us could do anything, you were dead.”
 “I see,” Jefferson said, nodding very soberly and sipping his drink. “It
must have been a shock.”
“Well, I must say it wasn’t unexpected. I mean, after what Richard
said.” He turned to Patricia and Isolde. “Isn’t that right?” They nodded
and he continued, “So we had a funeral and we buried you. Or we thought
it was you. And now you’re here! This is what we don’t understand.”
“That’s very interesting,” Jefferson answered and sipped his highball.
“You make very good drinks, dear.” He took the opportunity to give
Corrie a big kiss on the cheek, the only place he could reach.
“But what happened, Jefferson? That’s what we want to know.”
Jefferson nodded. “And so do I. I remember the car very well. It handled
beautifully. And it was wrecked, eh?”
“It was wrecked on the road to the lodge, damn it, don’t you know
that? You were in it! Or somebody was in it dressed like you and carrying
your wallet! Damn it, Jefferson, we want to know what happened.”
“Well, so would I.” He kissed Corrie on the cheek again and reiterated
what a good drink it was.
“Damn it, Jefferson, what did you go to the lodge for?”
Jefferson shook his head. “I don't have any idea. I thought it wasn't me
in the car.''
“It wasn't. That man was terribly burned. Richard said he was wrapped
all up in bandages. It couldn't have been you.”
“Then why are you asking what I was doing at the lodge when it was
someone else?”
“But what happened? That’s what we want to know. How did he get
your wallet? Why are you limping? Where have you been these past two
weeks?”
Jefferson shrugged. “That's what I was going to ask you. I don't
remember taking the car out, I don't remember being in a crash or going
to a hospital. I don't remember anything, in fact, until—now, this
afternoon.” His brow clouded as he tried to recollect. “I was down in the
center of Fairport, not two miles from here. I was driving along in a
strange car and all I could think of was, What am I doing here, why am I
like this, how did I get here? Things like that. So I decided to come here
and find out.”
Corrie, listening to his cock-and-bull tale, was of no mind to dispute it.
Jefferson was in charge and she preferred it that way. Moreover, she was
also aware that the arm around her waist had ways of tightening
uncomfortably at the slightest movement of indecision on her part; and
that his hand had her wrist in a painful grip.
Then she looked up and saw Richard standing in the doorway
regarding the group, his eyes zeroed in on Jefferson. And never before, on
a human face, had she seen such hate.
 CHAPTER 36

Even as Corrie stared, Jefferson turned and, like magic, the hate was
gone, to be replaced instead by brimming tears of joy and welcome.
“My boy, my boy.” Richard came forward with outstretched arms and
the two men embraced. “How wonderful,” Richard kept saying, gripping
the younger man’s arms with his own strong hands, looking him up and
down as if he couldn’t be real. “How unbelievably wonderful!” Richard
shook his head and unashamedly wiped away the tears that rolled down
his cheeks.
“We were just saying that,” Elliot told his uncle to assure him of his
own delight. Richard ignored him. He was too busy welcoming Jefferson
back among the living, asking him what had happened—no burns, no
scars—but that frightful accident. . . ?
There were drinks, a special round of drinks, with Richard pouring a
rare and precious brandy with lavish hand. He was still dazed and
emotional over the incredible return of Jefferson from the dead. How had
it happened? He raised his glass for a toast and pledged joy to them all,
but how could this have come about? Everyone thought he was dead. He
was supposed to have gone off in his sports car that fatal night and driven
over a cliff. A dying man had been found and he was misidentified as
Jefferson himself. Yet it wasn’t Jefferson. What could have happened?
Richard not only asked the questions, he pressed them as the family
sat in the warmth and coziness of the drawing room, grouped around the
coffee table with Jeff between Richard and Corrie on the couch. The
brandy was potent and warm and its fumes alone would make one reel
and relax and let tomorrow take care of itself. Richard was monitoring the
bottle, keeping it at the ready for Jefferson's glass, eager to probe Jeff with
his expensive truth serum.
But Jefferson was immune. He only shook his head and explained that
he didn't remember a thing about that night or anything
thereafter—-until two hours ago when he found himself driving a strange
wreck of a car in the middle of Fairport.
 It was a two-way conversation, Richard asking, Jefferson responding,
the others sitting, listening, hiding their interest with silence, but
revealing it in the way they sat forward, the way they leaned on their
knees, in the tension of their facial muscles.
And Corrie listened with equal alertness. But she was hearing and
reading more than the others. She was noticing that neither nephew nor
uncle wondered who the dead man was. No one else in the room seemed
aware that a misidentified corpse lay in Jefferson's coffin and that an
explanation was in order. Jefferson might play the amnesia game with his
uncle but he could not do it with the police. Richard didn't believe him,
but there was nothing he could do about it except ask more questions,
raise more angles, try to get a non-amnesiac answer. The police wouldn't
believe him either, but they had more strings to their bow. Yet no one
mentioned the police. No one mentioned the fact that a serious situation
existed which could not be hidden. Nobody seemed aware that there was
anything to be explained or that anyone would come around and ask for
explanations. Did they all live in such far-out worlds that they thought no
explanation would be needed? Or did they think that they could keep
Jefferson's return a secret?
It was a long and happy cocktail hour, followed by a long and special
meal, with a still-shaken Fancy Hedges pouring champagne. There was
much drinking and much talking, much levity, but it was all Richard. He
was the maestro who called the tune, directed it, drew forth all its
nuances and made of it what he would.
Nor did he allow Corrie to relax and watch. As soon as he found he was
not going to learn about the accident, he switched themes and explored
the subject of their marriage to see what goodies might surface in that
area. What a great joy it must be, he exclaimed to Corrie, to find she was
not a widow after all.
That hot potato was dropped in Corrie’s lap when they were together
on the couch and she was left with no recourse but to agree, pat Jeff’s
hand, and say that, deep down, she never really believed he could be
dead.
And Jeff, thank God, for whatever reason, didn’t reveal her as a fraud.
Instead, he disconcertingly beamed upon her just as seriously and
adoringly as if they really had been married. It was almost as if he really
had had amnesia, didn’t remember the marriage, but accepted it. Except
that he didn’t have amnesia at all and she knew it, whereas the others
only suspected it.
 What Jeff’s game was, she had no idea; what Richard was up to was
only a guess. All she was certain of was that Richard knew the patient in
the hospital to whom he fed the powder was not Jefferson. Corrie had
seen the man’s mouth and chin herself and no one could make that
mistake. Yet there was Richard, explaining to Elliot and the others that
the reason he didn’t know the dying patient wasn’t his nephew was
because the poor man had been totally swathed in bandages. There was
only the tiniest hole where his mouth was to permit a thermometer.
He was lying, of course, and Jeff was lying, and she was lying. All were
playing games in a shroud of mystery—except that Richard knew all along
that Jeff hadn’t been the victim of that auto accident—and he knew who
was. Corrie thought she knew too.
There was coffee and liqueur in the living room after dinner and more
probing from Richard. He was talking, talking, questioning, questioning,
and Corrie had to stay ever alert waiting for the shrewd eyes of the older
man to dart her way and a penetrating question follow. She had made
sure from the outset—from the moment Jeff backed up the marriage
story—to tell enough of the background so he could clue in and realize
she was supposed to be a daughter in the missionary family that had
restored him to health. The trouble was, he ran off with that one and
volunteered many a tale of how it was down there in that village with
those missionaries, and what a saving grace it was that they had a
beautiful daughter who was, he explained, wanted by the chief of the tribe
himself for his own harem. Jeff had come along in the nick of time.
Corrie was not amused and she didn’t know whether Jeff was hurting
or helping her. Nor, for that matter, could she imagine why he went along
with her story at all.

—up until the time finally came when, at long last, Richard rose in
signal, the “good nights” were said and Richard told Jefferson that Corrie
was in the left wing and she’d show him where. Then people were going
up the stairs, all the others were heading right, and Jefferson and Corrie
were turning left. That’s when Corrie suddenly thought, He can’t possibly
have come rushing in from the lodge, reappearing from the dead, and
carrying on the story that I’m his wife in the belief that he can take
advantage—that I’d let—that he can blackmail me into letting this
marriage business extend into my private life? Or was it that he thought
he would now twist her arm for an explanation? Either way she was on
her mettle.
 Jeff swung along beside her, his limp barely noticeable, content with
silence until she paused at the door to the middle suite and took out the
key from her pocket
Jeff broke stride and halted. “So Richard stuck you in here, did he? Did
he give you a reason to go with it?”
“He said it was your room.”
Jefferson laughed. “He would.” He indicated with his head. “Mine is the
next one.”
So Richard had lied about that, had he? Well, it had its compensations.
“That makes it easy, then. I’m not putting you out.” She turned the key,
opened the door and said sweetly, “Good night.”
“Tut, tut,” Jeff replied. “How are you going to persuade everybody we’re
married if we keep separate rooms?”
She leaned forward and whispered loudly, “If you don’t tell them, they
need never know.”
“The maids will know,” he whispered back. “I’m sure the bed isn't
made up next door. I don't have any clothes laid out. They’ll be checking
the rooms tomorrow and all that." He grinned at her. “It's easy to see you
don't come from a household with servants. There’s no such thing as
keeping secrets when servants are about. They know everything."
Corrie whispered, “We can tell them we had a lover’s quarrel."
“Beautiful wives like you don't quarrel with resurrected husbands—not
the first night anyway. I hate to insist, my dear. Which reminds me. What
is your name? It’s a little awkward calling you 'my dear' all the time."
“The name is Corrie."
“Corrie what?"
“Corrie Wainwright”
“Touché." He grinned at her. “Well, I must confess I do have taste.
Even with amnesia. Anyway, in view of my discovery that I'm a married
man, I feel the need of holding counsel with you and I can’t think of a
quieter place than our bedroom. That's the one place that's safe from
servants—if the door is locked, and if we keep our voices low. But it is
important that we talk. I'm sure you can understand that, wifey dear?"
“Yes," Corrie answered. “I think I do."
“Good. Then you pop into the room and I’ll go up ahead to my quarters
and see if they've left me some pajamas and a robe and some slippers and
all that, and we can get acquainted."
“All right, fine."
 He continued on up the hall and Corrie slipped into her bedroom and
locked the door. So he thought he was going to gain entrance by
threatening her about the wife business, did he?
She was half undressed when the doorknob turned and rattled. There
was an impatient rap. “Hey, it's all right. It's me."
She went close to the door. "Hey, and I'm sorry and all that, but I've
decided it’s not all right."
“We have things to talk about."
“Lots of things. I've decided we can take a long walk tomorrow
morning."
He said impatiently, “I'm talking about you being my wife, so- called,
and the importance of our sharing the same bedroom."
“And I'm talking about your amnesia, so-called, and the importance of
discussing all that in the morning."
“Corrie, it can't wait!"
“Of course it can. Besides, I'm so tired I wouldn't be able to
concentrate on what you're saying. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to
take a long hot bath and get into bed."
He rattled the knob and called her a couple of times but she ignored
him and went about her business. He was muttering to himself in
exasperation when she went into the bathroom and started her tub.
It was a languid and soothing bath, but it didn't quiet her mind. She
spent the whole of the time trying to analyze what was happening and to
prepare some kind of strategy. Should she break the news of Jeff's return
to Mike McManus? That would be almost worth an extra edition. Mike
just might go for that. But if he did, that would be the end. The body
would be exhumed for identification and buried elsewhere. Questions
would be asked about how the mistake was made, but not about how the
victim died. Corrie still could not hope for an autopsy. And without it,
there'd be no way of learning why the dead man was dead and who
arranged for it to happen. Would a scoop be worth that kind of sacrifice?
It would free her from the role she was playing, but that wasn't why she
took the role.
Then, of course, there was Jeff. He was going to want to know what she
was up to and he wouldn't be put off by easy answers. He might kiss her
lavishly and act as if she appealed to him, but he was only playing games.
The fact that he hadn't blown the whistle on her wasn't because he was
afraid, it was only because he wanted to know what she was up to before
the others did. He wanted control. She had stalled him for the time being,
but he was going to want the truth very soon and she had the suspicion
that he could make her hurt and make her hurt bad if that's what it took.
More than ever she needed to get away from the place. The role she
had devised for herself was getting too hot to handle. What was in
Richard's safe? That was the question. She had to gain entrée as soon as
possible. Maybe she could get into it tonight-late tonight.
And the other thing she had to do was devise a good explanation for
her role as Jeff's wife. He had enjoyed kissing her. There was no doubt
about that. She appealed to him strongly. Perhaps that was something she
could use to advantage. If her explanation of the wife business was good
enough, she might get him eating out of her hand. And if that happened,
there’d be nothing about the family she wouldn’t be able to find out!
She rose from the bath, dried herself thoroughly, slipped into a filmy
gown, brushed her hair in front of the mirror, and studied her face.
People said she was beautiful, but she didn’t know what the word meant.
All she saw was the same Corrie Haynes that had stared back at her from
mirrors for twenty-four years. If the hair was blonde, it was because it was
the way she was born. If her skin was clear and fresh, it was because she
was young. Twenty years from now it wouldn’t be young any more. But it
would still be the same face. Did Jefferson like the face? She had to hope
so.
She turned off the lights and went through the little hallway back to
the bedroom. Then she gasped. Standing at the window, in robe and
slippers, his back to her, holding the curtains open and looking out, was
Jefferson.
He turned, still holding the curtains, and smiled. “Well, you certainly
weren’t kidding. When you said ‘a long bath,’ you really meant it.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Interesting,” he said. “Lights are out in Richard’s room. I suspect he’s
at his window watching me at ours. You haven’t let him doubt our
marriage, have you?”
“Get out of here!” She went to the bedroom door and tried to pull it
open, but it was locked. So he had locked them both in, had he? She
turned the key and pulled the door wide. “Out,” she said, standing in the
doorway, gesturing imperiously.
“Shh,” he said, putting a finger to his lips. “Is that any way for a wife to
behave? You’ll make people suspicious.”
 “If you think you’re going to use t h a t . . . I don’t know where you got
a key, but if I have to buy a bolt for this door, I will. Now will you please
leave!”
He came over to her, still smiling, but looking at her more gravely. He
took her by the arms and gently removed her from the doorway. He
paused to glance once into the hall, then closed the door and turned the
key again. “My poor little Corrie,” he said. “You are so afraid of men in
your room. I assure you I have no intention of taking advantage of our
spurious marital status,” He gave her a quick glance from head to toe,
which made her realize how extremely provocative her nightgown was.
“Not because I don't find you desirable," he added tactfully, “but I do have
a remnant of training from my better days to the effect that a gentleman
doesn't take advantage of young ladies. So, while I feel obliged to invade
your boudoir for die night, I want to assure you you'll be perfectly safe."
“I—" Corrie was blushing and flustered. She knew she was safe. It was
as if a curtain had lifted and she saw him. He didn't have to tell her. It was
just there.
But if she were safe from that kind of assault, she wasn't safe
elsewhere. He would want her to tell him why she was posing as his wife
and a curtain had risen there as well. He would make her tell. She could
fight and struggle, delay, dissemble, but he would force her. She would
have to betray it all.
But not tonight. She didn't have the will and heart to struggle against
him tonight. “I don't want to discuss anything," she told him. “I'm tired.
I'm exhausted."
He didn't seem anxious for an unveiling that evening himself. Perhaps
he knew he would have to match her, confession for confession. She
wasn't the only one with things to hide. In fact, his secrets bore the
suspicion of probing greater depths and revealing greater horrors than
her own. He smiled at her. “Not tonight," he agreed. “We'll take that long
walk of yours tomorrow morning."
At least she had won that much. What she hadn't won was the
freedom to probe the ways to Richard's safe. That challenge would have to
wait for another time.
 CHAPTER 37

It was half-past seven when Corrie awoke, and there was light in the
room. It came through the curtain Jeff had drawn back the night before to
look out at Richard's window. The recollection of Jeff scattered the
vestiges of sleep from Corrie’s mind like pellets from a shotgun. She sat
up in bed abruptly, then remembered enough to snatch her robe and put
it around her. There was no sound in the room.
Cautiously she got out of bed. Was her strange companion breathing
silently on the couch by the fireplace? The couch was empty. Jeff had
gone as silently as he had come. When he had gone, she had no idea. He
might never have even slept on those uncomfortable cushions.
She turned then, to the open curtain and the question came to her
mind: Had he remained there in full view to establish for the family that
he was indeed the husband of this strange girl, and then, having
perpetrated the myth, gone his own way, back to his own room and his
own plans?
It was snowing. She looked out and a thin layer of hard, rimy granules
lay on the courtyard below, while zigzag flakes dropped steadily from a
leaden sky.
Corrie felt as gloomy as the day. The weather, like everything else,
boded ill. She dressed slowly and brooded. She lived in a house of hate, of
schemes, of torment and evil. Her day of reckoning with Jefferson was
coming, and she feared it. And she feared him. Not as she feared
Clyde—that he would attack her, but in other, more subtle ways. He had
lived too many lives not to be dangerous. It was Jefferson who had the
silver collection hidden in the lodge, not Kroll. It was Kroll, not Jefferson,
who lay in Jefferson's grave. She would bet her life it was Kroll. The
missing convict with the missing silver collection—except that the silver
wasn't missing after all. Only Kroll. And Jefferson. Except that Jefferson
wasn't missing either. The world thought he was. The world thought he
was dead. The world had watched him be buried. But Jefferson hadn't
been buried at all. Someone else had been buried and it had to be the
only person unaccounted for.
Burned and injured. A terrible accident. A man in Jefferson's car,
carrying Jefferson's identification; carrying a load of stolen silver in the
trunk as well. Except that nobody knew that. The silver had already been
dropped off at the lodge. The car was coming back, down the mountain
from the delivery. And who had arranged the accident to get rid of the
thief? Who, apparently, had had some trouble arranging the accident and
had himself been hurt? And who now owned the silver?
Then there was Patricia's hurried remark about illegitimacy. Surely
Corrie knew about it, Patricia had said. Surely Jeff had told her? Corrie
had been stunned, but then so much else had happened. Patricia hadn't
had time to elaborate and the word got lost. But why was Jeff dark and the
others light? Jeff was twenty- six and had passed the "witching hour," but
there was no talk of his receiving his inheritance. He returned from the
dead, but he had no home.
And there was the stolen silver. Why?
Corrie didn't know enough. That was the trouble. No matter how she
tied the strings together there were always loose ends. All she knew was
that she could trust no one and must betray herself to no one. She had no
friends in the huge mansion. They were all enemies.
Except, perhaps, for Patricia. If anyone in the house had concern for
Corrie, it was Elliot’s wan twin sister. If anyone in the house could give
her the information she was after, it was Patricia.
She was the one to get close to. But the approach would have to be
careful. The last thing Corrie could let the family suspect was that she was
there for information. And least of all could she let Jeff know. Not with
another man lying in his grave, and him the only one for sure who knew.
Better to have him think her a gold digger than a reporter.
Corrie fretted and pondered in her room until nine and then, still
uncertain and disturbed, went down to breakfast. The others, with the
exception of Jeff, were just sitting down and, at her appearance, looked at
her with knowing glances. “And how did you sleep, my dear?” or “Isn't
Jefferson coming down with you?” was the refrain, and there was the
amusement behind the eyes, the sly mocking look on Richard's face. That
meant Richard had seen Jeff standing in his robe at her window. Richard
doubtless thought they hadn’t been to sleep.
Where Jeff really was, Corrie had no idea. Perhaps he didn't relish
sharing the family repast. Doubtless he didn't care for Richard's dictates,
his military type of operation: breakfast promptly at eight on weekdays,
promptly at nine on weekends.
Church attendance was the custom, Corrie discovered during her meal
chosen from an array of kippered herrings, sausages, bacon and eggs and
french toast. However, Richard explained to them all, due to the snow
and the slippery conditions, the long trip to Fairport would be dispensed
with. That solved a lot of problems, not least of which would be an
explanation of Corrie's presence, to say nothing of Jeff's—that is, if Jeff
appeared for such events.
But Jeff was not around and Corrie was relieved. With him away, she
was left with the prospect of a vacant morning to fill and she had her eye
on Patricia. This might be the chance she needed to do some cementing
of ties and start the business of probing on its way.
They were on coffee and toast, with four different kinds of jam, and
Richard was placing his conversational cues and getting the programed
responses, when Jefferson stepped in, his face smoothly shaven, his eyes
bright, his manner brisk and energetic. “Well, well,” he said, “don't get up,
I’ll just help myself. Hello, dear wife.” He paused by Corrie’s chair and she
had to turn her mouth up and get a fresh, firm, toothpasty morning kiss.
At least he didn’t grab her out of the chair and give her one of his swoony
Rudolph Valentino ones. Maybe he was going to behave himself hereafter.
“Lovely weather,” he said, bringing back a plate of eggs and sausage
from the hot trays on the buffet. “A great day to get out.” “I’ve decided to
keep the cars in today,” Richard said. “The roads are slippery already and
they’re going to get worse.”
“That’s good thinking,” Jefferson said. “This would be a terrible day to
have to go anywhere in a car. We should stay around here instead and
have snowball fights.”
Richard gave him that wan smile which said he presumed Jefferson was
only being silly, but one never could be sure.
“It’s a great day to get out in the air,” Jefferson went on, and turned to
Corrie, whom he had sat down beside. “By the way, has Richard showed
you the estate, dear?”
Corrie looked at Richard and then at Jeff. “No.”
“Fine. As soon as breakfast is over, I’ll show you.”
Corrie’s heart sank. Here it comes, she thought to herself. The
inquisition. The thumb screws, the rack, everything. Her moment of
truth was at hand and she didn’t know if she could measure up. But
there was nothing else for her to do but announce for benefit
Jefferson and the company that that would be very nice.
 CHAPTER 38

The snow had stopped and the ground was a virgin white under a cold
steel sky when Corrie stepped out of the front door with Jeff. Clad in all
the warm things she had brought with her, she could almost forget her
predicament in the beauty of the great, still whiteness of the surrounding
landscape.
Jeff, blowing huge clouds of vapor, took her arm as they went down the
front steps and out the drive. “Well, do you suppose we’re being
watched?” he asked, glancing at Corrie, but not at the house.
Corrie, keeping her gaze groundward, said, “Probably.” It was what she
expected. She wondered that he thought in similar channels. They
proceeded in silence while she waited for the ax to fall. How will he come
to the subject, she wondered? Would it be the strong, forceful technique,
smashing everything in its path? Would it be subtle, sly, cute? Did he
want to get her alone so that he could inflict physical pain? She let her
gaze slide in his direction as they walked in steadfast silence. Where she
was dogged, he looked relaxed. His gaze was going here and there,
admiring the scenery. He was playing the role of a husband really taking
his wife for a winter wonderland stroll. She found herself relaxing despite
her concern. And she mustn’t relax. It might be part of his game, the
strategy of undermine and conquer. He looked so simple and
straightforward out away from people-very much as he had in the lodge
the preceding morning—before she told him she was Mrs. Jefferson
Wainwright. That had floored him all right. She had wondered at his
shock at the time. Now she was surprised that he hadn't fallen down in a
dead faint.
Jeff took her arm and led her from the drive onto a trail that he
somehow knew lay beneath the powdered inch of snow. She could sense
his strength through her layers of clothing. It was the way he handled her,
easily, gently, and yet with a comforting firmness. She could not slip with
such support. Then he let her go and forged ahead, pushing aside the
intruding branches, holding them for her. They were in dense woods but
he knew where he was going. It was familiar ground to him. She was
tempted to remark on the fact, but she was reluctant to break the
pleasant silence. When words began, so would trouble.
She followed, breathing her clouds of vapor, watching the figure of the
man ahead of her leading the way. She had wondered if he could walk
very far, but there was no sign of a limp this morning. There was no cane,
no nothing. Was he cured, or was he being Spartan?
They went on and on, side by side where the trail permitted, Indian
fashion where it didn't. He spoke at times, warnings about branches, a
remark about a bird, quiet indications of the things around them. They
had lost sight of the mansion long since, yet he still behaved as if there
was nothing of more serious concern than the kinds of flora and fauna of
the area. He even threw in a remark or two about Brazil, about the
difference in climate and natural surroundings. Corrie was encouraged to
venture a remark of her own. “I'm surprised you know trails through these
woods," she said. “Didn't your uncle buy Hampton House after your
parents died?"
He laughed. “Yes, this is Richard's idea of home. I daresay, though, he
would have preferred real gold fixtures."
She let that one pass. “And I daresay you know more about the woods
around the estate than he does."
“I'm an explorer. Richard's a collector. There's a difference."
“But he doesn't collect gold fixtures?"
“That's a little too rich, even for his income."
“How about silver?” She couldn't resist putting that in.
“Silver fixtures?”
“Silver anything.”
Jeff helped Corrie over a slippery rock outcropping. He didn’t look the
least upset. “He’s got a silver collection—I guess.”
“And what do you collect?”
Jeff shrugged and laughed. “I don’t know. Events, perhaps.
Experiences. I don’t like things. I like being.”
“I gather from what I’ve heard that you’ve also spent a lot of time
almost not ‘being.’ I mean where you’ve almost been killed.” “It’s better
than wrapping yourself in cotton and sitting under glass, don’t you
think?” He turned and gave her a knowing look. “In fact, I’m certain that’s
exactly what you do think.”
 Corrie decided the conversation was getting too personal. Better to
talk about the others in the family before Jeff focused completely on her.
“I gather Elliot and Patricia are more like your uncle.”
“As far as staying home is concerned. I don’t know that they collect
things. But I don’t know how they can stay home in that monstrous
museum—five or six cars, servants and all the rest! And the doom and
gloom of the place. All that dark paneling! The estate is lovely—like now,
out here where it’s peaceful and remote, where you aren’t stumbling over
people everywhere you turn, where wars and violence seem far away.” He
paused to look around at the trees. “Everybody thought I was dead down
in the Amazon for two years. I admit getting out of there wasn’t very easy,
but that’s not entirely why I waited so long. Actually the life there wasn’t
all that bad. It was bloodthirsty in ritualistic ways, but otherwise it was a
quiet kind of existence. There was no contact with the outside world.
Those natives didn’t know there was one. They thought our group came
down from the sky. So their concerns never reached beyond their own
village—and those other villages which competed with them for the
available food supply.” “You were their god, I understand?” She meant to
talk about the family, but she was forgetting herself. Whatever his
motives, he was a fascinating man. And that was what made him so
dangerous.
“God?” Jeff passed it off. “Actually, I was their prisoner. I was a prisoner
in that village the way Elliot and Patricia—and Richard too—are prisoners
in that mausoleum they hate.” He laughed then. "The only difference is
that they're willing. Or maybe they don't know that they are, or that they
don't have to be.” He lifted some branches into a clearing and said, "Here,
come through here.”
Corrie ducked under his arm and had a sudden, fleeting sensation of
being as much in his power as she was in Richard’s power when she
stepped into the well-house. How vulnerable she really was! She thought
herself so capable, so alert and at the ready, yet once again she had been
suckered into a helpless position. Had he wanted, Jefferson at that
moment could have broken her neck with a karate chop.
Then she was through and past him and safe, but her breathing was a
little quicker. If he were dangerous, he still didn't know that she was. He
still had no motive to strike. But would he be so motiveless if he knew
what she knew?
"There,” he said, following and gesturing. "My favorite spot on the
estate.”
 They were in a small hillside clearing, alone in the open, while
everywhere around them lay white hills and forests. The only habitations
visible at all were those of Fairport center nesting on the opposite hill,
pristine pure and white and clean, a tiny group of homes and shops
dominated by a lone church spire.
It was breath-takingly lovely and Corrie couldn't help exclaiming at its
beauty. "How long have you known of this place?” she asked, turning to
him in their little wonderland.
He passed it off. "Since we moved in. Even before we moved in. When
the agent was showing Richard all that paneling. I went wandering
through the woods. I didn't care about the house. I wanted to know what
else Richard was buying—what there was that I might find pleasing. Elliot
and Pat, of course, stayed with Richard, oohing and aahing over the
parquet floors and the greenhouse and all the rest. They like what Richard
likes—or at least Elliot does. I don't know what Pat likes. I don't think
anybody does. I don't even think she does.”
"Is she interested in the occult?”
"Now that you mention it, I believe so.” He was staring off at the village
thoughtfully as if waiting for something. Then he turned. ‘Tut enough
about us,” he said, grinning at her crookedly. “Tell me about you.”
Her heart skipped a beat. He was being jocular about it, like any young
man getting to know a young girl, except that he didn’t really care about
when she was born or where she went to school.
“Oh, there isn’t much to tell,” she said nervously, stalling for time.
“Oh, I think there is. For instance, does Richard really believe you’re
married to me? He’s not the gullible type, so if you’ve got him persuaded,
you must have done a bang-up job. You might tell me about that job.”
She flushed and nervous chills tingled her spine. “Oh, I don’t know
about Richard,” she said deprecatingly. “I think he’s a very skeptical
person.”
“But you are here. And I’m sure he didn’t hunt you up and issue an
invitation.”
“Really, you ought to ask him.”
He was close to her, one hand holding a branch, his manner all the
while casual, but she knew it could turn into something else at will. She
wasn’t sure how much she could stall, how much she could hold back.
“Really, I’d much rather ask you,” he said. “You’re so much pleasanter
to be with.” He laughed at her. “It was such a surprise to learn I had so
charming a wife—so beautiful—” he looked her over and nodded
approval of the beauty part “—and so, shall we say, ‘talented?’ I decided I
ought to come right home and enjoy the situation.” He turned sober and
looked into her eyes thoughtfully. “And I decided I really ought to find
out how I got so lucky. How did a beautiful girl like you pick li’l ole me for
a husband?”
Corrie bit her lip. He was boxing her in like crazy, all the while acting
as nonchalant as if it were a matter of little import. “I—” she stammered,
“I really don’t want very much to talk about it.”
He laughed. He threw back his head in genuine amusement and Corrie
flushed still redder. “I’m sure you don’t,” he said, chuckling. “I’m sure the
one thing you never thought would happen would be explaining yourself
to your dead husband. You looked stunned out of your wits when you
found out who I was last night. I thought for a moment you would fall
right down on the floor. But I should have known you were made of
sterner stuff. A girl who would faint wouldn't be doing what you're doing
in the first place. And exactly what is it, my pet, that you are doing?"
She was backed against the wall. Jeff Wainwright had her totally in his
power and, nice though he might seem to be, he did not take lightly the
idea of a girl posing as his wife, regardless of the reason. She could see
arrest in her immediate future—at any time Jeff chose to notify the
authorities. She must admit nothing, yet avoid antagonizing him. How
had she got into such a bad situation? She had thought in terms of taking
risks, of physical danger—like Mike McManus hiding under beds or
dressing as a hotel maid. If he got caught, he might have been beaten, or
even murdered. But he would not have been arrested. Now there would
be fingerprints and arrest records and lawyer's fees and the Chronicle
would not be happy about any of it.
She blanched suddenly, for in a quick flash there came the questions,
“What if the Chronicle denies its role in the affair? What if the Chronicle
says it never heard of Corrie Haynes?" But Mike wouldn't let her down.
Mike was her anchor in the storm, strong and dependable, a
father—except yesterday afternoon. He hadn't seemed so strong then. If it
came to the acid test, would he be in her comer or Mr. Soedlak's?
She could see that Jeff knew she was frightened. He had been easy with
her but that didn’t alter his intentions. He meant to find out what she was
doing there and what was she going to say?
“Look," she said, petrified by his closeness, by the intensity of his eyes,
“why don’t I just pack up my things and go? You can tell them I've got
sick parents or something—anything. I'll just go and never bother you
again."
He shook his head. “That won't do, I'm afraid."
What was going to happen? She knew even before she asked that he
wouldn't go along with anything like that. Could she cry? He didn’t look
like the type who would be moved by tears, especially phony tears. And
she couldn’t faint. He'd already said she wasn’t the type.
“Corrie come, Corrie," he said insistently. “Don't be tongue- tied. I
want to hear your story."
“Sup-suppose I won’t—won’t—don’t want to tell?”
He smiled faintly and shook his head. “It’s going to come out
sometime, my sweet little girl. I have spared you the embarrassment of
revealing it to the family, which I could perfectly well have done last
night, which means you’d be in jail right now. I thought it only
gentlemanly to hear your side of the story first. I have the feeling that I’d
be more lenient with you than Uncle Richard would. He does not take
kindly to people putting him on. I think you may have perceived that.
Now it would be a shame if, after I’ve tried to be all this generous to you,
you were to turn up your nose at my gesture and insist on my turning you
over to Richard and the police.”
She was fighting back the fear, trying to find a defense. “Except,” she
said, “maybe you don’t want the police to know.”
“Ho, ho. You’re going to get scrappy are you?”
She didn’t like the look in his eyes. She sensed he was suddenly very
dangerous. “I'm just—saying—maybe—”
“And why would I not want the police to know about you, pray tell?”
Corrie swallowed and blurted it out. “Because then they’d find out
you’re not dead. They’d find out somebody else is buried in your grave.”
She stopped then and wanted to bite off her tongue. Her purse was in her
room and she was unarmed. He could kill her and leave her there and
who would ever find her? Who beside Mike McManus would know she
was missing? And who, maybe not even Mike excepted, would ever look
for her?
“Yes,” Jeff said, musing. “There is that, isn’t there. And you think you
can buy time with it?”
“No, no, I’m not trying to buy anything. All I’m saying is, I’m willing to
forget the whole thing—forget that either one of us has ever been here.”
He smiled at her. “You would, eh? But you see, I don’t want to forget.
For one thing, there’s no particular advantage to my being listed as dead.
Just suppose I had enemies.” He smiled mockingly. “Not that I do, of
course. But just suppose. Why, think what would happen if an enemy did
away with me and hid my body somewhere. Nobody would ever know
he’d done it because everybody thinks I’m already dead. Can you imagine
what a temptation that might be to any enemies of mine that might be
lurking about?”
“But you—why haven’t you—”
“And I certainly wouldn’t want to forget that you’ve been here. You’ve
been the bright spot of my weekend. You have no idea how dull my life
has been over the past few weeks.”
“Oh—what have you been doing?”
He laughed with genuine amusement again. “Having amnesia, my
dear. You have a habit of forgetting that it’s what you’ve been doing that’s
the subject of this conversation.”
She stalled again, desperately. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Oh,” he said lightly. “Quite on the contrary, I think I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes, and it’s not the obvious conclusion that any outsider would
immediately leap at—that you’re in here posing as my widow in hopes of
collecting my share of the family fortune. You’re too smart and aware for
that, my pet. I’m certain that you’ve done more than enough research on
the family and its fortune to know that that kind of a game wouldn’t get
you one red cent.”
She blinked. “Why not?”
“Oh come, you do know something about the family, don’t you?” He
shook his head. “No, what I really think is that you are an investigator for
the New Hampton Chronicle trying to find out some dirt on Uncle
Richard.”
If she had blinked before, she almost dropped in shock now. “What?”
she gasped in total astonishment “What are you saying?”
“How well you do that,” he said, watching her actions carefully. “Are
you pretending you don’t know about the libel suit?”
“Libel suit?”
“The five million dollar libel suit Richard brought against the paper
two and a half years ago and which, when it comes to trial, promises to
give old Uncle Richard enough money to buy those solid gold fixtures I
was talking about? The moment I learned of your interesting relationship
to me yesterday, I thought to myself, This girl isn’t making trips to an
unused old family lodge in early
 November because she likes unused old family lodges. She’s prowling
around for something. And what else could it be—especially with that
'Mrs. Wainwright’ approach—but to counter the lawsuit? If a newspaper
gets sued for casting doubts on Richard’s reputation as a rehabilitator of
criminals and implies that he uses them for slave labor, plus a few other
things, then that paper, if it doesn’t want to pay through the nose, is
going to have to get some evidence that Richard does exactly that, or does
certain other things sufficiently malodorous to persuade him to drop the
suit.” Jeff stopped. Corrie wasn’t the fainting type, but she looked
genuinely ill. "Corrie, are you all right?”
Corrie shook her head.
"Look, maybe I’m talking through my hat. Maybe it’s something else.
Would you rather talk about it later?”
"Please, could we?”
"Yes. It’s starting to snow again anyway. We’ll go back.”
 CHAPTER 39

Corrie ate lunch with the family in silence and agony. It took all her
strength to come to the table. Corrie Haynes, girl reporter! She was so
smart, so ingenious, so inventive, so daring, so aggressive, so morally
righteous, so—everything! She was the girl genius who would shine as a
bright new star in the newspaper firmament. That's what she thought.
And all the while, in reality, she was nothing but an utter fool, a dummy,
an innocent little ninny too taken with her own self-importance to see
herself in true relationship to anything.
She could see it all now though—plain as day—plainer, in fact. Mike
was laughing at her. All along he was laughing. Corrie and her insistence
that she was just as good a reporter as any of the men, Corrie insisting on
being given more responsibility. Corrie wanting to get out of reporting
the parties, the club meetings, the school plays and get into the gravy end,
the political and police reporting. Pester, pester.
And then she sees a hospital visitor put something in a dying patient's
drink and when the patient proceeds to die as expected, she thinks she's
witness to a murder. She belabors Mike with it and she won't listen to his
calm appraisal of the situation—that she hasn't seen anything worth
mentioning. Instead, Corrie has to get all charged up about it and Mike,
unable to quiet her down, gives her her head. Mike is smart enough to
know nothing could be done about it even if it were murder, but not
Corrie. She goes off on a crusade and, lacking any reasonable way of
investigating her so-called murder, comes up with the outrageous
suggestion that she pose as the dead man’s widow! No one but a nut like
Corrie could ever dream up such a cockeyed plan. Mike tells her to forget
it and she’s outraged. She sulks. And that’s where it should have ended,
right there.
But the paper had been sued by Richard Wainwright for libel and he
was asking five million dollars in damages. Five million dollars! Of course
he wouldn’t get anything like that kind of money, but he was an
important man in the state and damage to his reputation would cost the
paper a big bundle even so. And when Mike happened to mention
Corrie’s crack-brained scheme to the paper’s owner at lunch—Corrie
could just see them rocking with laughter over their cocktails—Mr.
Soedlak got a sudden idea. If the paper backed Corrie’s little scheme, who
knew? She wouldn’t find out anything about a murder, of course, but she
might turn up some dirt on Richard that would help them in the suit. If it
were something really hot, they might even compel him to drop the suit.
At least it was worth a try, and since they had a gullible volunteer on
hand, why not use her? What did they have to lose?
So they called her in and bolstered her up against her own second
thoughts with a lot of talk about morality and justice-will- triumph and
her duty to society, and sold her a bill of goods, backed her up, and
shipped her in. And she knew now what the answer would be if she got in
any trouble. The paper never heard of her. She was certain that her name
had been removed from their list of employees and the word was out that
if the question came up, she had never worked there.
And the files! No wonder she couldn’t find a folder on Richard
Wainwright. The Chronicle’s legal staff undoubtedly had it.
Stupid, stupid Corrie. Stupid, stupid girl.
And what was she going to do about it? She knew what she wanted to
do: drop down a deep hole and come out somewhere else—in another
city, another state, another job.
Meanwhile, however, she was having lunch with a family of strangers.
They were the enemy, or so she had thought. But it was the newspaper
that was the enemy. It was the paper that had betrayed her. Mike had sold
her out on Soedlak's orders. She had nowhere to turn. She looked, around
her, at the family. They had accepted her, but she didn't belong. It was
something only Jeff knew, and he would be probing her soon. She would
not be able to stay, yet avoid the probe.
The temptation was to run. More than once since Jeff had broken the
news about the libel suit, the thought had come to her mind, Go. Go to
the front door, open it, and get out. Run, don't walk, to the nearest house.
Phone for a cab to the center of Fair- port. Get the first transportation
back to New Hampton. Her mind didn't contemplate the following step.
All she cared about was flight. Run and hide. Run and run and hide. Hide
and hide. Don't ever let Jeff Wainwright see you again. Don't let any of
them see you again. It's too unbearable.
But there was a stubborn streak in her too, which called running the
coward's way. She was supposed to get into Richard's safe. Wasn't that
what she'd agreed with Soedlak that she'd do? What if he did break his
word to her, did that excuse her breaking her word to him? And what
about the dying man in the hospital? He had wanted her to go to the safe
too. Did she owe him nothing? Did not her wild scheme of posing as Jeff's
widow stem from her desire to carry out his dying wishes?
She had gone the route to carry out that command. She had taken all
her risks, suffered and agonized, all in an attempt to carry out that task.
And now, just because Soedlak turned out to be worthless, and Mike
showed his clay feet, was she to throw the whole thing over? Was she to
come this far and then call it off?—before she even had a try at the safe?
Corrie ate her lunch in confused silence and fled back to the safety of
her locked room as soon as she could. Fortunately nobody stopped her.
Jeff seemed to gaze upon her with a certain sympathy. He thought she
was upset because he had divined her purposes. He was going to give her
a chance to compose herself and then confess.
And after she had confessed, then what? Would Jeff and the family let
her go? Or would they fear she knew too much? Could she persuade them
she didn’t? But the trouble was, she did. There was Jeff’s return, there was
the body in the coffin, there was fifty thousand dollars in stolen silver. All
these had to be answered for. Corrie would be lucky if Richard only threw
her in jail. She thought of the well and shivered. He had really meant to
kill her that day. If Richard knew what she was there for, she wouldn’t go
to jail, she would disappear.
Corrie moved restlessly around the bedroom—her self-elected jail cell.
What to do? It was all well and good to kick herself for being a fool, but
what was she going to do about things? Pacing wouldn’t iron out her
difficulties, only action would. She thought she was such a genius, did
she? She thought she was so clever and inventive? Well, prove it, then.
You were dumb enough to get into the spot, let’s see you be smart enough
to get out.
She wouldn’t run. She absolutely would not run. She was going to dig
in her heels and see it through, no matter what.
But that meant only one thing. Despite the distaste she felt for Mike
McManus, he was still the only one she could turn to. He was the only
one she could report to. She had to reach him. That was the first and most
important thing. She would stay and do her duty, but she had to clue him
in. She had to acquaint him with the new wrinkle—the fact that Jeff was
alive—so that if anything should happen to her, the police would at least
have that vital bit of information to work with.
 But she couldn’t phone from the house. She was sure a watch was on
her, that she was a suspected spy. No, she would have to take a car and go
out in the snowstorm, and never mind if the tires did leave tracks.
Car keys! She couldn’t risk another venture to the key board. But wait.
Her coat in the closet. Yes, in the right-hand pocket were the keys to the
station wagon she had used the day before. Good. It was midaftemoon
and quiet Now was the time.
She slipped into her coat, picked up her purse, and unlocked the door.
The outside hall was dim and quiet and Corrie went quickly to the stairs
at the back. The door to Jefferson’s bed- and workroom was ajar and she
could hear his typewriter starting and stopping.
She stumbled on the stairs and almost went headlong to the bottom,
except that she was able to catch onto the railing in time. She was so
nervous about running into Clyde that she was awkward about things and
it would not do. She got hold of herself and stilled her thumping heart,
then proceeded slowly and majestically the rest of the way. Stop going
around in panic, she told herself. A fine spy you are.
She paused at the outside door at the bottom. From somewhere—the
kitchen most likely—she heard sudden laughter. It sounded like Fancy.
Corrie opened the rear door but it wasn’t as quietly as she’d have liked. It
stuck and she had to hit it with her shoulder.
The snow was falling hard now, the small, frozen, sleety kind of flakes,
dry and unpackable, the kind that went with particularly cold days—and
this had become one such. Unlike the morning’s weather, which , had
been invigoratingly cold, this was frigid and unpleasant and the snow was
stinging and slippery.
She hurried through it to the great doors of the huge bam, large doors
on wheeled tracks above so that, despite their size, they slid easily. She
pushed the first one open, exposing the station wagon in the slot she had
left it, and hurried around to the driver’s side. The only light in the bam
came from the few small windows opposite and from the open door
behind. It was quiet and forbiddingly frigid, a dead, icebox of a place.
The starter had trouble turning over the motor. The cold was intense
and the battery was old. It churned again and died, and then again. Corrie
pumped the pedal and hoped she hadn’t overprimed it. The engine
almost caught and was spinning faster. Then it started and choked and
came back and began to race. Corrie eased up on the pedal. She didn’t
want to make more noise than she could help.
 She gave it a minute to get the engine warm, keeping her head turned,
looking out the door behind her lest someone come. No one did and she
eased the car slowly backward out through the door, down the slight
grade into the narrow turning area behind.
The car stalled and she tried to start it again as it coasted, but it didn’t
take. Then she jammed on the brake, for it was rolling down the slight
incline at increasing speed. The car slewed and skidded and didn’t stop
until it thunked against the ridge of grassy overhang that curbed the area.
Corrie started the cold engine again, raced it once, and started forward.
Except that the rear wheel spun and the car stayed still. She gave it more
gas, but the wheel only spun faster. She muttered to herself and tried
reverse. But she had done it now for good and the wheel only spun
fruitlessly in the opposite direction. Damn, damn, damn. She had to get
word to Mike. Something told her it was the most important thing in the
world. And this snow! She couldn’t let the snow stop her.
She looked around in frustration and saw that someone was coming. It
was a heavily jacketed figure thrusting through the snow from the house.
Help was on its way, she thought, and then her heart stopped.
It was Clyde.
 CHAPTER 40

Instinctively, Corrie depressed the lock button on her door and looked
quickly at the others. The back door ones were down on both sides, but
not the front passenger door. Nor did she dare move across the seat to
reach it. She needed Clyde's help and she didn't want to antagonize him.
He was coming to her side anyway, grinning at her, aware of who she was
and that she was alone.
She ran down her window an inch and put what she hoped was a warm
smile on her face. All she needed was a little push, if he would be so kind.
She didn't get a chance to ask him. He seized the handle, his leering
smile approaching a drool. “Look who's here," he said. “Got your knife
with you today?" He knew she didn't, and he wrenched suddenly at the
door. It didn't give. He tried the handle of the one behind it, but it, too,
was locked. He glanced at the other doors and spotted the one with the
catch up. The look on his face was nasty now. He went for it, sliding and
slithering around the front of the car, and Corrie, her heart pounding,
scrambled across the seat and got the catch down in time.
He wrenched and struggled with that handle and the one next to it,
cursing her, his eyes aflame, and though he couldn't reach her, she was
terrified.
He went around to the back, to the tailgate section. And it wasn't
locked. The ugly grin reappeared and he rapidly unwound the window,
then unlatched the gate.
Corrie had no choice. She pulled open her bag and thrust her hand in.
Reluctant as she was to let anyone know she had a gun, she knew she had
to show it now. She knew, in the back of her mind, that she might even
have to use it
She groped in the bag for the hard, metallic feel of the weapon, to get
its handle in her palm.
She couldn't find it.
Clyde banged down the gate and bent to come through the rear of the
wagon.
 She felt frantically through the large bag. The gun was gone. One part
of her mind said it had to be there, that she never let the bag out of her
sight, except when it was locked in her room. The other part said the gun
was gone and Clyde was inside the car and he wanted vengeance.
She unlocked her door and yanked on the handle. Clyde saw her and
half dove over the back-seat partition. His hand caught, but couldn't quite
hold her coat. The door opened. He had fallen into the back seat and was
struggling to right himself. Corrie ducked low and pushed herself
headfirst out of the car.
He caught one snow boot and stopped her, but she pulled her foot out
of it before he could get her with his other hand, and now she was flat on
her face, but free of the car.
She scrambled to her feet, slipping and sliding in the snow, and made a
run for the door of the house. It was a mile away and he was out of the car
himself and on her heels. She could never make it.
She tried. She got halfway there, and then she slipped and fell and she
could feel the weight of his body on her before she even hit the ground.
The force of the shock, of his added weight walloping her with
crushing force, left her stunned and dazed and half conscious. Then he
was off of her. He was pulling her up. She was almost to a sitting position.
Then she was struck a staggering blow to the side of her head. She saw a
shower of stars and almost lost consciousness. She felt herself slipping,
but she was hauled upright again and another terrible blow exploded
against the side of her head. She was numbed and blinded, and tasted the
salty flavor of blood.
She was yanked up again and hung there waiting for still another blow.
She felt herself slipping a little. She heard the sound of the blow, but she
didn't feel it She didn't feel a thing except that she was sliding free, back
to the snow-covered ground. Steel fingers were no longer controlling her.
She shook her head and opened her eyes dazedly. Clyde Holworth was
down in the snow ten feet away, struggling to prop himself up and she
blinked at the sight of him. His face was a bloody mask.
Then another figure intervened, seized him by the lapels, dragged him
half upright, hauled off and hit him. Oh, God, did he hit him! Clyde
Holworth fell and slid another ten feet and his bloody face got bloodier.
The figure went after him again, pouncing like a cat, and Corrie stared. It
was Jeff and he was a raging tiger. He leaped upon the pathetic remnant
of Clyde Holworth, a giant who had been threatening, bold, and
dangerous only moments before. Now he was as helpless as a child, lying
on his back, struggling to lift his head to see what was going to happen to
him next.
What happened wasn't pretty, but it was swift. Jeff grabbed him by the
shirt collar and rapped his head against the hard ground three quick
times and the parolee lay senseless, blood running down both sides of his
face into the snow around him.
Then Jeff was beside her, down on his knees. "You poor kid," he
whispered, and Corrie felt herself pulled gently against his chest and
cradled. She could feel the pounding of his angry heart and the panting of
his exertions, his strong arms holding her close and protected, his cheek
and his lips caressing her hair.
She stayed there, content against him, enjoying the comfort of his grip,
the strength of his arms, the odors of maleness that he, his clothes, and
his possessions gave off and it all seemed worth the pain. For just a
moment it was so nice to let go, to let someone else take care of things.
Had he asked her then, she undoubtedly would have told him all. In that
particular moment of weakness, she would have bared herself completely.
He did not ask. He only held her tight and murmured comforting
sounds in her ear while she relived the preceding moments in her mind
and wondered at the awesome power of this man whose world had been a
life of physical stress, and that he could, at the same time, be so soft and
so gentle.
She stirred and he whispered, “Are you all right? Would you like a
doctor?”
She shook her head. Doctors would be awkward. Outsiders would be
awkward, everything would be awkward until she could wind up her role
and get back to reality. “I'm all right,” she whispered. “What happened?”
“I came by when that sadist was beating you. And a good thing.”
It was a good thing. Corrie was content with that. It didn't occur to her
to ask why Jeff came by at just that moment, and he didn't volunteer the
information.
Corrie sat up slowly and felt her face and head. There was a swelling on
the left side, and her cheek and temple felt tender. The blood in her
mouth was going away, however, and she could see and didn't feel dizzy,
though her head was starting to ache. She didn’t seem to be cut, but she
was sure she looked a mess. She stared past Jeff at the unconscious man in
the snow. There were wisps of vapor from his breathing, but otherwise he
could have been dead. “He tried—to—attack me,” she said.
“I know,” he said softly. “I saw.”
 “It wasn’t the first time.”
“But it's the last.”
He helped her to her feet, watching her carefully for signs of
unsteadiness, making sure she didn't fall. But she was young and strong
and her recuperative powers were at their peak. Except for the ache in her
head and the soreness of her face, she felt almost perfectly all right.
Jeff held her, though, and turned her toward the house. He paused for
one last look at his fallen adversary and an expression crossed his face
that made Corrie tremble. “I should have killed him,” he said. “Something
told me to, but I held back. Now it’s too late.”
He took her inside and up the stairs to her bedroom. He helped her off
with her coat and ministered to her wounds with cold compresses. She
tried to tell him that, really, she wasn’t that badly hurt and that a couple
of aspirin ... He hurried for the aspirin and then had her hold the
compress against the swelling again.
She smiled. “What are you, some kind of doctor?”
“Yes, I’m the A.C. kind—aspirin and compresses.”

He left her resting comfortably, closed the door quietly and,

interestingly enough, heard the key turn immediately thereafter.
Whatever she was, she was not a trusting soul. Jeff smiled dryly. Her fears
were not without reason.
He started down the hall and now his face took on a cast-iron look. He
stalked around the U to the descending stairs of the other wing and
followed them down to the grotto of Richard’s whimsey. At the end of the
rock-walled passage was the heavy prison door. Jeff rapped on it and
pushed it open.
At the desk inside, Richard sat surrounded by papers, pamphlets and
books, researching by the glare of the only bright light in the large room,
the heavy, goosenecked lamp on his desk. He looked up, the bright
whiteness of light giving his skin a plucked- chicken appearance that
contrasted sharply with the blue-black gray of his hair and beard. “Well,
Jefferson,” he said without a great deal of relish, “you want to see me, I
presume?”
Jeff leaned on the desk, bending over the smaller man. “That parolee of
yours has just beaten and battered Corrie. He would have killed her if I
hadn’t stopped him.”
 Richard managed a chiding smile. “Oh, I’m sure you exaggerate. Clyde
may have felt the need to express himself, but certainly he would never go
so far as to—”
“Skip the analysis. I didn’t come for that. I came to tell you he is to be
gone from here by tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, now—” Richard expostulated. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.
He should be given a chance—”
“Tomorrow morning, I said. And the only reason I’m giving you that
long is because of the weather.”
“But tomorrow morning? Just like that? Jefferson, you can't do things
that way. You have to understand—”
“I don't have to understand. You have to understand. If he is not out of
here by then, you're out. And I think you know me well enough to know I
mean it''
Jeff turned and was gone, the door closing smartly behind him.
 CHAPTER 41

Richard looked bleakly at the dark dungeon door Jefferson had closed
in parting. He swallowed unhappily and his stomach moved queasily. Yes,
he well knew that Jefferson meant what he said, and he knew there would
be no truce where Clyde was concerned. What had got into the man?
That was the trouble with some of those parolees, the ones that were
most useful to him, the ones who were not bothered by conscience or
morality or guilt. They were unstable. They were good in certain ways, but
so unreliable in others. Now this one had really messed up Richard’s
world. Everything was messing up his world these days. And all he wanted
was to be left in peace. His needs weren’t great—the money to indulge his
fancies and the freedom to enjoy them. It wasn’t much to ask for. Grant
him that and he would be the kindest, gentlest man alive. But to threaten
him like that, to take away those two things he wanted, why it was like
depriving a man of food and drink, of setting him out to starve to death.
And that was what Jefferson would do to him unless he disposed of Clyde.
Well, quite obviously, if Clyde had to go, Clyde would have to go. At least
Jefferson hadn’t said, "This minute!” Thanks to the weather a few hours
were available. Perhaps something could be worked out.
Richard got up slowly, taking out a handkerchief to pat his pale,
perspiring face. He gathered his papers and piled them neatly. He went to
the safe and pulled open the heavy doors. There was a folder on Clyde
Holworth in his file on the State Prisoner Rehabilitation Council.
He brought it to his desk and went through the background history on
the man, his life and crimes, his convictions, the reports on his mentality,
quirks, tendencies, idiosyncrasies, and danger areas. He pretty much had
it all down in his mind already but he wanted to make sure he had
forgotten nothing.
He replaced the file and closed the doors to the safe. He did not lock it
for the locks no longer worked. It was the storehouse of his papers, not
the repository of his valuables.
 He went out and closed the dungeon door; nor was there a lock for
that either. But nobody else in the household had any interest in a
museum of instruments of crime. They did not have that sensitivity to the
narrowness of the line between life and death, of the almost
indistinguishable difference between love and hate, between thought and
deed. They did not appreciate the deviousness of the human mind, the
lengths it could go to to plot the end of another life, the delight of the
mind in sheer intricacy. Why, some of the murders he had studied were
so complex in their plotting that it was like inventing the clock. Some
were even overelaborate. How often a simple killing would have been
more difficult to solve than the complex web turned out to be. How often
the spiders spun their own traps.
Richard mounted the stairs to the first floor and proceeded through
the art gallery to the foyer, then around to the other wing and the
servants' quarters. He went directly to Clyde's room, found the door ajar
and the room unlighted. He rapped, pushed the door wider, and saw that
it was unoccupied. Where was the man?
There was a sound in the hall and Richard turned. Around the comer,
staggering like a drunk, Clyde Holworth came, bloodied, unhinged, rocky,
hideous, as feeble and unsteady as an old man. He saw Richard and
slumped against the wall, his mouth hanging open, his breath heavy.
“What happened to you?" Richard said irritably. “Corrie inside." He
seized the big man's arms and unceremoniously pulled him into the room
and shoved him so that he fell heavily onto the bed. Richard darted a
glance back down the hall, glad that no one had seen, then shut the door
and turned around. “You're a mess," he said in disgust. “Here, get those
things off." He undid Clyde's jacket and worked him out of it. “What got
into you anyway?"
“It was the other one—Jefferson-—" Clyde muttered thickly. “Hit me
from behind. No reason."
“No reason? That's not the way I heard it. What were you doing to the
girl?"
“You wanted me to watch her."
“I didn't want you to molest her. What's the matter with you?"
“She wuz asking for it. Then I try to give it to her and she balks. . . .
One of those sneaky ones, egg you on and then act shocked."
“What did you go near her for? I told you what to do!"
“She was inviting me."
 “You should know better," Richard said, but knew Clyde wouldn't
know better. Clyde wasn't a thinking man. All he did was rationalize
afterward. “You know what you've done, Clyde? You've put me in a
terrible spot."
“Thass all right," Clyde said thickly. “I'll make it up to you."
Sitting on the bed was too much effort and, with his jacket off, he
turned and lay back. His nose was crusted with blood and might be badly
broken. In any case, he could only breathe through his mouth. He did so,
heaving his chest heavily. He still was groggy and there was no telling
how long he had been lying unconscious in the snow.
“You’re going to have a good deal of trouble making anything up to
anybody now," Richard said. “You've gone and done it, Clyde. I want you
to listen to me and understand that. Do you understand?"
Clyde didn't, really. “He hit me when I wasn’t looking," he said again.
“Otherwise, I wouldda clobbered him. I wouldda killed him."
“You aren't listening, Clyde. I want you to listen and I want you to
listen carefully. I cannot protect you in this matter, Clyde. Do you
understand that? I cannot protect you."
That was a concept slow to jell. Clyde had come to the house to do
Richard's bidding and he had done so faithfully. Maybe he shouldn’t have
been so rough with the girl, but Richard had made it clear that her
presence wasn’t desired, that any misfortune that befell her would be to
the good. So what had he done that was so wrong? He asked that.
“I’m not talking about what’s right or wrong about what you did,”
Richard explained carefully. “It’s not my opinion that counts. It’s Mr.
Jefferson’s. And he doesn’t like what you’ve done. And he has ordered me
to send you back.”
Clyde came awake a little more. He rose on one elbow. “He ordered?
He can’t order you I”
“I’m afraid he can.”
“But you’re the boss here.”
“No, I am not the boss here, Clyde. Not when Mr. Jefferson is around.
If he is not around—if he should disappear somewhere, then I would be
the boss. And if I was the boss, everything would be fine.”
Clyde frowned and shook his head and started to rub his face but it
hurt too much. He sat up slowly and put his feet flat on the floor. “You
mean he can tell you what to do?”
 “I’m afraid so. He owns everything except some interest money his
brother and sister get until they’re twenty-five. He could throw me out on
the street tonight and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Clyde frowned at the new thought. “He wouldn’t do that”
“No, but he’s throwing you out on the street tomorrow morning.”
Clyde was still too numb to do more than say, “Well, you gotta talk
him outta it.”
“Why don’t you talk him out of it?”
“Huh?”
“I said, why don’t you talk him out of it? Tell him you’re sorry, or
something.”
“Tell him I’m sorry?” Clyde had enough strength now to utter the
proper four-letter words such a thought merited. “He tried to kill me. I
wouldn’t apologize to that—” And he ran himself out of breath on more
four-letter words. “I’ll kill him. That’s what I’ll do.”
“Well, that would be one way of getting him out of the way, I suppose,”
Richard said. “But, of course, if you go around killing people, I'm not
going to be able to protect you. At least, not if their bodies are found.”
“You're telling me to leave him alone, huh? You just want me to get out
of here and go back to jail? That's what you want, huh?”
Richard shook his head gently. “I didn't say that, Clyde. You aren't
listening to me and that's what I told you to do—listen. Are you going to
listen?”
Clyde, head bowed, nodded. “I'm hearing you.”
“All right, then, I'll explain it to you very carefully. Jefferson outranks
me. He controls everything. You understand that? He's the big boss. Most
of the time, though, he isn't here. And when he isn’t here, I run
everything. And if he should go away forever, then I'd run things forever.
Do you follow me?”
Clyde nodded and was going to speak, but saw Richard wasn't through.
“Now, you apparently struck Mrs. Wainwright, which was a very
serious mistake. It might not upset me very much, but it has upset
Jefferson—extremely. And as a result, Jefferson has ordered me to get rid
of you by tomorrow morning. If Jefferson wasn’t here, you wouldn't have
to go. But since he is here, you will have to go.”
“What if Jefferson gets a tire wrench put through his skull?”
“Then I would be in charge, and you wouldn't have to go. Unless you
were the one who hit him with the tire wrench. Because, as I say, if you
kill somebody, I can't give you any help.”
 “What if he just plain disappears?”
“Well, as I've said, if he isn't here, I give the orders. So, if he should go,
you could stay. But if he stays, Clyde, I'm afraid you're going to have to
go.”
Clyde had the drift by now. He leaned forward. “Look, what say you
and me get together. You don't want him here either, right?”
Richard held up a hand. “I'm sorry, Clyde, but I'm not going to get
involved in any criminal schemes you may have in mind. In fact, I don't
even want to hear about them. Because if I knew you were scheming evil
things, it would be my duty to report you to the parole board.”
“Yeah? Well just suppose Mr. Jefferson here just happened to have an
accident?"
“Well," Richard said, looking knowingly at Clyde, “accidents do
happen."
“That's what I was thinking."
“Of course, if it's a fatal accident, I would have to report it."
“But maybe not for a while?"
“It couldn't be very long—not if he’s dead."
“Long enough for me to have a head start?"
“Oh?" said Richard. “You thinking of going someplace?"
“I was just thinking," Clyde said, a sly light in his eye. “He come in here
with a beat-up blue wagon yesterday. If that thing was to disappear, you
wouldn't even have a stolen car to report."
“No," Richard said thoughtfully, “I wouldn't, would I?" He glanced
up, a sly look in his own eyes. “And if Jefferson was in the car with
you, the car wouldn't even be stolen, would it?"
 CHAPTER 42

Corrie, with the lights out in her room, peeked through the curtains
again. It was nearly midnight and, at last, a light was on in Richard's
bedroom. She had been long at her vigil, watching the rooms in the other
wing go black as the family bedded down. Now it was Richard's turn.
Finally he had left his museum and Corrie could pay her visit there in
safety. It was the sole thing that bound her to the horrible, frightening old
mansion.
Only her obligation to get to the safe had made her endure the rest of
that afternoon and evening. Jeff had returned to her room to reassure her
that she never need fear Clyde again. Having seen what had happened out
in the snow, she had no doubt of it, but it did not ease her mind. Her fear
of Clyde was being replaced by an increasing fear of Jeff himself.
He was the one who had stolen her gun and she knew it. And she knew
when. It was the night he got into her room while she was in the bath. It
was the only moment her purse wasn't either in her possession or
protected by a locked door. Jeff, in robe and slippers, had watched
Richard's window and posed as her husband, but there was more to his
purposes than it appeared. There was more to him than it appeared.
There was more to what he was up to than it appeared.
Corrie had endured the cocktail ritual and the Sunday supper routine.
She had suffered through the togetherness-evening as well, going through
the motions as best she could, watching the games that were played,
vowing that she would never undergo another of those family gatherings.
Her bags were packed and all she had to do was wait for the house to
quiet down and go to sleep. She had to dare one try at the safe and then
she'd be off. She’d take those bags down the back stairs to one of the cars,
get some keys from the kitchen and take herself away. It was snowing
again, but she wouldn’t get stuck this time. Not for the world would she
get stuck. And there would be nothing like the sigh of relief she’d breathe
once she was out of the drive and on her way home.
 Now, with Richard’s bedroom light on, the way to the safe was clear.
She could tackle the lone obstacle in her path to freedom. Corrie dropped
her curtains into place and felt her way through darkness to the door. She
unlocked it quietly, pulled it open, and looked out into the hall. It was
empty.
She slipped out and locked the door behind her and, since she had no
pockets in that dress, dropped the key into the gap of her bra. Though the
dress was the one she had worn to Sunday night supper, she had bedroom
slippers on her feet. They would be quiet, comfortable, and easy for
walking—or running, as the case might be.
She went to the front stairs and down into the dimly lighted front hall.
Her shadow loomed large, flitting across walls, and, outside of herself,
was the only thing that moved. She paused down in the large hallway and
listened for long seconds but the house was dark, dim, dead, and silent.
She crossed to the corridor past the drawing room and followed it into
the art gallery at its end. It was black in there for, though the curtains
were open, the sky was leaded with heavy snow clouds and the whirling
snowflakes were as dark and invisible out there as the clouds that
dropped them. There was no light from the windows at all. In fact, as
Corrie’s eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, she realized that the
faint glow from the night light in the hallway behind her was the sole
source of illumination. It was little, but it was enough so that Corrie could
grope her way through without bumping into everything in her path.
She paused at the doorway opposite and noticed that her breath was
coming in quick gasps and her heart was pounding. What was there to be
afraid of, she thought, chastening herself. Everyone has retired and, even
if they hadn't, she could throw a chair through a window down in the
gallery without disturbing the people upstairs. But talking didn't convince
her. When she opened the door into the dim hall beyond, her heart was
in her mouth all the same.
There was another night light there, showing the stairwells and the
outside doors and the door to the greenhouse. It was warm and
hospitable after the cold and forbidding dimness of the art gallery.
She went around to the stairs that led to Richard's grotto, and when
she opened the door there, no night light greeted her. It was nothing but
a black hole.
Her hand found the switch and lights came on, a bright one to help her
down the stairs, dim flickery ones to guide her through the tunnel. Once
she entered the tunnel she found the wavering bulbs gave the passageway
the same eerie atmosphere she had sensed before and she found herself
hurrying toward the prison door at the end, both to escape the clammy
feel of claustrophobia that assailed her and to get the lights off quickly
lest someone discover her mission.
She quickly unlatched the great prison door and it swung open easily.
Inside, the museum was Stygian, and the switch beside the door threw
little light on the matter. Only those dim illumination lights came on,
focusing pale beams on special weapons of murder, or the lights which
illuminated glass-shelved display cases loaded with macabre goodies. The
rest of the room remained shrouded in darkness.
Corrie switched off the tunnel lights, latched the door and looked
around. The great safe was against the wall in the corner, away from the
glow of the feeble lights. Close at hand, sitting on Richard's desk, was the
Tzechlan statue Richard claimed was a gift from Jefferson. It acted as if it
were waiting for her. She frowned. What was it doing there? Was there
anything inside of it?
She didn't know why such a thought should enter her mind.
What could be inside of it? Certainly nothing that would mean
anything. Was there anything about it that would reveal the evil of
Richard Wainwright? She didn't know why she had such a strong feeling
that there was.
But first things first. She mustn't tarry. The important thing was to try
the safe. Later, if the safe revealed nothing, she could indulge her
curiosity as to why the statue was there and what, if anything, it
contained.
She turned to the safe and its dark comer, switching on the gooseneck
desk lamp to produce some light. The corner brightened and her goal was
achieved. She had reached the safe. Now all she had to do was find out
how to get into it.
She paused at the desk, beside the chair that fitted into the kneehole,
and looked around. The desk top was bare of all but the statue and a few
crumbs of wire.
Would the drawers contain a combination for that big, nearby safe?
She pulled on them and all opened easily. That was bad news. It meant
that nothing of value was hidden there. Now she didn't know where the
combination might be. It could be in his bedroom. It could be in his
wallet. It could be anywhere.
 She made a face of frustration and stood for a moment smelling the
heavy fetidness of the air. She thought she heard a sound but she wasn't
sure. Was it a rat? Could it have come from outside?
It didn't recur and she concentrated on the task at hand. Where would
the combination be? Would he put it on top of the safe, or paste it to the
side, or tuck it around behind? Try those spots first before hunting
through every paper in every drawer of the desk.
She reached up and felt along the top edge of the safe. It was as far as
she could stretch. She noticed as she did that the handles of the safe
weren't quite aligned. One door was tightly latched, the other not. She
seized the not-quite handle and raised it easily, unlatching the door.
Good heavens, Richard not only didn't lock his desk, he didn't even lock
his safe. That made it a break for her, but it didn't give her great hope that
it contained anything that would cause Richard harm. Maybe the dying
man was wrong about it all. Or maybe he was saying something else.
She pulled the heavy door open and looked. It was a large safe, but
Richard was using only a small part of it. There were files, some loose
folders, neatly piled, and some manuscript pages. It looked as if he
wanted the safe for shelf space rather than valuables. Well, if the hospital
patient had anything to his story, it would be in the three file boxes on
the uppermost shelf.
She pulled them down, one by one, and set them side by side on the
desk, moving the statue to one side. One contained records of his
collections: the insurance papers, the sales receipts, the legal reports, the
tax benefits, the detailed description and listed worth of every item.
She flipped through the papers and took out the section labeled
“Silver” for a more careful perusal. It didn’t take long for her to be
convinced that the items listed undoubtedly coincided with what he had
reported as stolen. What she did learn was that the collection was more
extensive than she had thought and more silver, including the most
valuable pieces, remained than had been taken. If she were working on a
robbery story, those pages could be valuable. But she was looking for
murder and murder didn’t seem to be in those cards.
Another file box contained reviews of his articles and papers, as well as
publicity about him, his lectures, his accomplishments, his successes. Yes,
and his suit against the Chronicle. That, she thought to herself, would
make fascinating reading and she wished she had the time. But it was
quarter of one now and she didn’t want to be all night in the Wainwright
Crime Museum.
 The last file box contained his records of the State Prisoner
Rehabilitation Commission and that, Corrie was convinced, was where, if
anywhere, she would find the information the hospital patient had hinted
at. If anything were wrong, this was where it would be.
She returned the other two boxes to the safe and sat down at the desk
with the third. There was correspondence in the box, a lot of it, between
Richard and the chairman of the commission, between Richard and the
warden of the state penitentiary, between Richard and other members of
the commission, the governor, the state parole board, the attorney
general.
She skimmed a couple of the letters and they were harmless and
meaningless. Richard was recommending this, suggesting that, offering
something else, reporting on another thing. Richard was quite deeply
involved—and it seemed he was seriously involved—in the whole subject
of penology, including punishment, living conditions, parole
requirements, criminal rehabilitation. No wonder he had sued the
Chronicle for reporting that he was using parolees as coolie laborers. He
had earned himself a reputation and the Chronicle had painted it black.
The rest of the papers included files on the various parolees whom he
had taken under his wing. Fancy Hedge's file was there and Clara's and
Nora's, plus several others who were no longer around. There was a file on
Clyde Holworth and there was a file on the missing George Kroll.
That was the one she wanted and she opened it under the lamp.
There was a photograph of the man called “Handsome George Kroll" or
“Handsome George" or just “Handsome Kroll." He was handsome at that,
Corrie thought, in a brutish, callous way. There was a look to his face that
would lure girls to him like moths to a flame. He would abuse them, he
would demean them, but they would come to him all the same. That
much, Corrie could read in a glance. What was more important was that
she recognized him. It was only his mouth that she had seen that
afternoon in the hospital, but it was the mouth of George Kroll and no
mistake about it. That meant one thing: Richard knew exactly who it was
he was poisoning.
There was other data: background reports, prison record, a letter of
release sending him to Richard on certain parole obligations, giving
Richard certain responsibilities for and authority over young George
Kroll. What was interesting to Corrie was the fact that something had
been stapled to that sheet and had been tom off. The tears marking the
position of the staple were unmistakable. And whatever the stapled
material had been, there was no way of knowing, for it was no longer in
the file.
Corrie sorted quickly through the rest of the papers, but with a sense
of defeat. It was as clear to her as if it had been written in letters of fire.
Whatever it was that George Kroll had wanted her to get had been
removed and destroyed. Nothing else in the file would be of any use.
She sat, staring at the sheet of paper with the staple tear in it, reading
it as if it could tell her what was on the missing page or pages. But there
was nothing to read. Richard was no fool. Kroll had been right. There was
something in that safe that could gain him vengeance. But Richard had
put it there and Richard had removed it—as soon as he had removed
Kroll himself. The secret had been buried with Kroll’s body in Jefferson’s
grave.
Was there anything she could do about it? She chewed her lip fretfully,
trying to think. Murderers should not get away with their murders. They
should be made to pay the price. And there she was, the only one who
really knew that Richard was guilty of murder, the only one who believed
that he could commit such a crime, and there was no evidence.
She shook her head in discouragement and started half-heartedly
straightening up the file. There was a sound. She stopped. Was it her
imagination again? She tried to quiet her racing heart. She looked around.
Surely no one could be in the room with her.
It came again. Not in the room—outside, in the tunnel. She
froze. Someone was coming. She couldn’t move. She was stricken
with panic. There was another sound, a bump against the door
itself. Next the door would open!
 CHAPTER 43

Corrie reacted at last. Instinctively she thrust everything into the file
box, clutched it to her, snapped off the desk lamp, and dove behind the
side of the desk, kicking to shut the safe door as she did. Then she
gathered herself into as small and insignificant a ball of trembling
humanity as she could.
The latch of the dungeon door lifted and she could hear the creak as
the door itself swung inward. From her huddled position, Corrie looked
around, trying to assess her chances. She had removed the file box from
the desk, but the fat idol had been shifted. She had not been able to turn
off the illumination lights and she had not been able to relatch the safe.
She turned to check and it was worse than that. The safe door was gaping
open a full two inches. Corrie trembled and tried to make herself still
smaller.
The dungeon door was wide open now. She could feel cold tunnel air
around her feet. But no one had entered. The door had opened and it was
as if a ghost had done it—an evil ghost. She could feel evil all around her.
Still nothing happened and she thought she would die. Then, from
somewhere in the tunnel, a guttural voice muttered unrecognizably,
“Whatsa matter?”
The next voice was so close it made Corrie jump. It was Richard’s, right
in the doorway, cold with suspicion. “The lights are on.”
There was a long moment of following silence. Then the farther voice
said, “So?”
“I didn’t leave them on.”
The other voice came closer and Corrie knew it now. It was Clyde.
“Anybody been in there?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Then forget it.”
“But I didn’t leave the lights on.”
“You probably forgot.”
 Richard’s voice took on an imperious quality. “I told you I don’t leave
these lights on.”
There was a challenge in the tone and Corrie trembled in her huddled
position beside the desk. If he decided to search, he’d find her before he
even started.
Clyde was impatient. He said, “You never leave them on except this
time. Let’s go.”
Richard was reluctantly persuaded and they entered the room
together: Richard, who exuded the aura of evil, and Clyde, who exuded an
aura of death.
Richard paused for another moment and Corrie could feel him looking
around. Then, persuaded that nothing serious was amiss, he moved to the
desk. Corrie heard the approaching scrape of his shoes on the dirt floor
and the bump as he came against the chair she had left. That was another
thing she had not set to rights. It was no longer in the kneehole.
If Richard noticed, he said nothing. The gooseneck desk lamp went on
almost over her head and she, looking upward, could see his hand move
away. If he had leaned a little closer and had looked down, she would
have seen his face. And he would have seen hers. And if his hand had
touched any part of the lamp except the stand and the switch, he would
have burned himself and known that someone was hiding in the room.
He moved away and she had not yet been discovered. Richard and
Clyde muttered together and there were sounds of movement, sounds of
scraping. She didn’t know what they were doing, but she lived in dread
that whatever it was would lead them to pass the end of the desk and
discover her crouching, terrified figure.
They stayed, however, on the other side and made quiet noise,
engaged in some kind of endeavor. They worked awkwardly and spoke
little and Corrie, her first terror waning, began to wonder what they were
doing. She heard more scrapes, thuds and creaks but all were totally
unidentifiable. Her curiosity grew but it would remain unslaked. Not for
the whole Wainwright fortune would she have raised her head to peek.
The sense of evil that emanated from that pair raised gooseflesh on her
arms and neck. Evil was at work with them and she knew it as certainly as
if she were watching a murder take place.
“You got the car keys?” Richard said at one point “Yeah.”
“You can get out, in this storm?”
“It ain’t that bad yet.”
“I still think, if you took him with you—”
 Clyde interrupted fast. “Uh, uh. I’m going alone.”
Richard was silent after that, a strange thing for him. Corrie thought
he was the boss, the one who had his way. It was not working with Clyde.
There were more strange noises, then a quiet, crunching sound and a
moment of silence. Then Clyde’s impatient voice broke in again. “What’re
you standing there for? I wanna go.”
“Don’t be such a nervous old woman, Clyde. There’s no hurry.” “Like
hell. The snow’s getting worse. I’m gonna go.”
“All right, all right,” Richard said, yielding.
Corrie heard his step approach the desk again. The chair was moved
into the kneehole, and Corrie lifted her eyes without raising her head.
Richard’s hand came into view, then part of his arm, as he fumbled for the
switch that lay just out of her vision. Then part of his head appeared—the
curling, graying hair. The light went out. He was turned the other way
and he missed her.
There was the sound of footsteps through to the outside tunnel, the
dim illumination lights went off, the door latched, there was a faint,
trailing sound of a voice, and then nothing but silence and total
blackness.
Corrie waited where she was, clutching the file box and shaking
violently with the release of tension. She leaned back against the wall and
tried to relax, but her breath came in gasps and perspiration was running
down her face. They had come and gone and they hadn’t found her.
As soon as she got her breath back, and her heart began to slow, and
she found that she could move her limbs, Corrie was filled with an
overpowering urge to flee. Never had she wanted to get away from
anyplace so much in her life. Still feeling too weak to stand, she turned
and groped on hands and knees for the door to the safe. She pulled it
wide, dragged herself to her feet and fumbled to put the file box back in
place. Carefully she closed the door firmly, then drew the handle down
and enjoyed the alive, real sound of the click. It was the only sound
around her.
She turned and felt for the desk and its chair, felt her way around
them, reached out and touched the dungeon door. She put her ear to it
but there was no sound from the tunnel outside. Quietly she lifted the
latch and opened the door a crack. The tunnel was as black as the room.
Good. The way was clear and she was safe.
She sighed with enormous relief. She had weighed a hundred tons.
Now she felt as light as air.
 She groped for the tunnel switch but the one she hit put on the dim
illuminating lights of the room instead. She turned to look, and stopped.
A man was standing beside her.
 CHAPTER 44

Corrie screamed and jumped back, striking the worktable behind her.
The man was tall, in a black suit, with a white face, painted mustache and
very large eyes; and he was there beside the light switches just inside the
door. Nor did he move or in any way respond to Corrie’s shock and
outcry. He stood as still as he had in the darkness.
And then Corrie, holding onto the table, realized that he would never
move, that not only was his mustache painted, but so were his eyes and
his smiling mouth and his curly black hair. And, in fact, she could now
see the bullet holes in his suit, the frayed material around the ice-pick
wounds. It wasn’t a man at all. It was the dummy that Richard had
showed her, the dummy of Gerald Fitzpatrick that Richard kept in the
airtight linen chest wherein Roger Dumaine had suffocated his mother a
century ago. Now Richard and Clyde had resurrected him and stood him
by the door. That ought to give trespassers a heart attack, opening the
door and switching on the light and confronting him.
But Richard and Clyde were not, of course, standing Mr. Fitzpatrick
beside the door to frighten trespassers. Corrie closed the dungeon door
again and began to tremble. She could feel the perspiration ooze through
her pores and she held onto the door for support while her eyes were
drawn to the linen chest Mrs. Dumaine had moldered and mummified in
for twenty years with nobody being the wiser. On its top, the brass
candlesticks and their half-burned candles stood on the embroidered
altar cloth with Mrs. Dumaine’s jewel box, just as Roger and, later, in his
museum, Richard had kept them. Except that Richard's dummy was no
longer inside.
Corrie went around the desk and switched on the gooseneck light
again. She choked back the heart that was in her throat, stepped over to
the chest and removed the decorations, placing them carefully on the
floor beside her. She put her fingers under the edges and tried to lift the
lid.
It didn't move. The lid was held fast, and the chest was held fast too. It
weighed too much to budge. Corrie tugged again.
 She knelt and ran her fingers along the edges. There were catches.
Richard hadn't fastened them before but they were fastened now.
She undid them, working hurriedly and a little frantically. Then she
felt the lid come free. She held her breath and raised it slowly.
Jefferson Wainwright lay inside, his face and head bloody, his
eyes closed, his mouth slack.
 CHAPTER 45

A sob escaped Corrie at the sight. He was so still, so pale, so horribly

beaten. She tilted back the lid and leaned over him, afraid he was dead,
and her tears fell upon his bloody shirt. She slid her hand between the
buttons onto his bare chest and her own heart beat faster when she
detected an answering beat of his own. He was not dead, but he would
have been if she had not found him. He could have mummified for twenty
years in Richard’s chest just as Roger’s mother had done in the same small
confines and nobody in the family would have suspected a thing. It would
have been another of Jefferson’s disappearances. One never knew where
he went or when he would be back—except that this time Richard would
know. And this time Jefferson would not come back.
She stroked his face and whispered his name but he did not respond.
She had to minister to him, but not in the coffinlike chest. Anywhere but
there. She seized him under the armpits almost by reflex and dragged him
to a sitting position. She got behind him then and pulled him free.
Normally she couldn’t have raised him, let alone get him out, but with the
strength of desperation she had him clear and on the ground before she
even thought about it.
Then she was beside him, kneeling close, opening his bloodstained
shirt, looking for signs of breathing. She put her ear to his chest and the
beat of his heart sounded firm. She felt a little less panicky.
She looked around. There was a small lavatory off the museum and she
needed something to bathe him with. His shirt was the best answer and
she tore a section off of it with the same unnoticed strength she had
produced to get him out of the chest. She ran toward the washroom, her
great shadow leaping and growing on the wall ahead of her.
Back she came running, dripping water from the rag, and then she was
on her knees beside him again, bathing his senseless face. She repeated
the performance and gently stroked away the blood. But he never knew.
His heartbeat remained strong, but his breathing was shallow and he was
as pale as death.
 '"Please, Jeff, please,” she begged him desperately, weeping as she did.
She bathed his damp face once more and cradled his head on her lap. It
was such a damaged head, the hair in the back so thickly matted with
blood. "They hit you from behind,” she whispered, weeping. "It’s the only
way they could get you, my darling.”
She caught herself. What was she saying? She didn’t know who he was.
She didn’t know what he’d done. Yet somehow she didn’t care. She held
him against her, stroked his moist face, the wet, matted hair, and kissed
his brow. "Please wake up,” she whispered. "Please.”
How badly was he hurt? She didn’t know, but she had to get help.
Never mind who heard her, she was going to call for an ambulance. She
folded the embroidered cloth under his head for a pillow, got to her feet
and picked up the phone from the desk. She listened but there was no
dial tone. There wasn’t even a hum. There was nothing. She rattled the
connection bar but it was as if they had forgotten to hook the phone up.
The line was completely dead. She pulled at the wires, half expecting
them to come free, but no, they were securely attached to the phone box.
She couldn’t believe it. Even when the power went out there was always
phone service.
There was no point in cursing and tearing her hair. Frantic as she
might feel, she had to be constructive. How could she get him help?
Could she get a car started and make it to the highway without skidding
into a snowbank? Clyde thought he could. Maybe she could too.
Otherwise, what else was there? She could walk it.
But she couldn't leave Jeff where he was. What if Richard should come
back? Somebody had to stay and protect him. Somebody had to get him
out of there. Except she couldn't manage it Up the stairs and all? She was
sure she couldn't
She pulled him to a sitting position and his head fell against her. She
braced him with her leg and tried to work with him, to get some leverage,
to pull him higher, to find some way of getting him onto her shoulders.
He was only a little over six feet, lean and muscled, not a huge man really,
but so heavy as a dead weight! She couldn't get her arms around him, she
couldn't hold him tight enough. He was so slippery.
Sobbing with frustration, she laid him down carefully, smoothed his
face and hair, and checked his heart and breathing again. She rewet the
piece of shirt and bathed his face and chest He moaned once and his face
contorted like a child having a very bad dream, then he passed out again.
 Corrie was encouraged and she worked on him some more, bathing
him, stroking and slapping his hands, holding the folded wet cloth to his
forehead like a compress.
He moaned again, a low moan, like someone being made to leave a
beautiful place and return to an ugly, cold, bitter, painful world that he
wasn’t equipped to handle.
"Yes, yes," she whispered to him. "Jeff, can you hear me?"
He moaned again, louder, his eyes opened and stared at her wildly and
without recognition, then they closed and his head fell to the side. His
breathing was agitated now. He wasn't conscious, but he was coming
closer. He was coming back and he was frightened.
She held him close, soothing him, rocking him, stroking him, kissing
his forehead. She crooned his name, trying to make him less afraid,
treating him as she would a baby, trying to make him believe that all
would be well, trying to make herself believe it.
He opened his eyes again, staring at his surroundings with more
awareness, trying to understand where he was and what had happened.
He looked up at her without knowing who she was, looking at her,
watching her.
“Jeff,” she whispered to him and smiled.
He continued to watch her, then his eyes wandered to his
surroundings. It was beginning to come back and she could feel tension
rising in his body. He started to twist a little, to strain against her.
“Just relax, Jeff,” she said, trying to hold him. “It's all right. You're all
right.”
He looked back at her and this time seemed to know her. She felt some
of his tension ebb. He looked around again, a little wildly, then gasped
and squeezed his eyes shut in pain. He opened them, still gasping, and
looked up at her. His voice was a half groan. “What. . . ?”
“It's all right, Jeff,” she repeated. “You're going to be all right.”
He stiffened again with the pain, then relaxed and panted from the
exertion. “Who ... are ... ? What. . . ?”
“I'm Corrie. You remember.”
“Corrie?” He closed his eyes and relaxed a little. He trusted her. He
opened them again and alertness was coming back. “Where are we?”
“Richard’s museum.”
He digested that, then his face contorted in pain. “My head,” he
groaned.
“They hit you. They tried to kill you.”
 The pain left his face. “Who?”
“Your Uncle Richard. And Clyde.”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then nodded. He looked
around again. “Why are we here?”
“Later.” She gave him a squeeze of encouragement. “Jeff, do you think
you can walk?”
He moaned again. “My head.” He lifted an arm to feel it and winced at
the touch.
“Jeff, can you walk? If I help you?”
He looked up at her. “Walk?”
“We can't stay here. They may come back. Do you understand me?
We've got to get out of here.”
He understood. “I know,” he mumbled and nodded. He tried to free
himself, to sit up on his own, but he would have fallen over if she hadn’t
grabbed him.
“Easy, easy,” she said.
“We mus— go.” He struggled and established himself, lying prone but
on one elbow. He turned to her. “Where?”
“My room.”
“Dangerous.”
“Not like here. Can you make it if I help you?”
He nodded and even smiled in his pain. “For you, anything.”
She rose, closed the coffinlike chest, and smiled secretly to herself. No
matter how desperate the strait, he really could carry it off. He gave her a
lift even as she gave him one.
She replaced the embroidered cloth as before and reset the other items
in their original places. When she had done with the finishing touches,
Richard would never know his nephew wasn’t still inside.
She backed off and turned. The pain and ache and agony was in Jeff’s
eyes, but his lips still forced a smile. “Was that where I was?”
She nodded. “One of the places. The last place.”
“Except for you.”
She smiled at him but her heart ached. “We have to go. Can you get
up?”
He nodded, and he made the effort as though he knew he could. But
he couldn’t and she knew he couldn’t and she knew he knew it too. He
was trying so hard not to lean on anyone. He’d never done it before, and
he didn’t know how.
 She helped him, bracing herself so that her lifting power could be
added to his, and together they got him onto his feet. He swayed, but as
long as they held onto each other he didn’t fall. She hid her face against
his chest for a moment. He wanted so much to help her and he needed
her help so badly.
She got him to the door and his weight upon her almost made her legs
buckle. She propped him against the bulwark of the door, ducked quickly
to turn off the desk lamp, and caught him before he could fall. His head
was lolling again. He was losing consciousness and he fell against her
shoulders so heavily she could hardly support him. “God give me
strength,” she whispered. She leaned against him, pinning him to the
door while she took a final, thorough look around. As far as she could tell,
everything was exactly as Richard had left it. Just so long as he didn't
know she'd been there. Just so long as he didn't know his dead duck had
flown the coop.
She turned on the flickery tunnel lights, got Jeff's arm around her
shoulders, opened the dungeon door into the ghostly flickers of the
tunnel, turned off the dim lights behind her, and left the museum with
Jeff’s sagging weight against her. He was moaning now, only partly
conscious, hurting from what she made him do, unable to keep his cries
of pain to himself.
Corrie latched the door and started forward, half carrying, half
dragging the faltering man. “Shhh,” she whispered, her terror giving
urgency to her sounds. She didn’t want anyone to hear them and Jeff was
too dazed and hurt to control his moans. She didn’t know what might be
wrong with him—a fractured skull, concussion? Damage to the head
could be serious.
The stairs at the end of the tunnel were the hard part. They were
narrow and there was only one railing. She clung to it with one hand and
hoisted Jeff as best she could with the other. Sometimes he was lucid and
tried to help. Other times he was only semiconscious and would sink to
his knees. Then she would have to wait until he recovered. And through it
all she lived in the dread that she would hear footsteps and would find
herself face to face with Richard. It was a fear that lent desperation to her
movements and she was panting with exhaustion when she finally had
them both clear of the staircase and had turned out the tunnel lights.
“Not much farther,” she whispered to Jeff as he sagged against the wall,
held by his own weak legs and her strong arms. The door to the
greenhouse beckoned and she thought of putting him in there, but then
what would she do? She had to get him to a spot where she could watch
over him, where she could lock a door and keep him protected.
She put his arm around her shoulder and hers around his waist and
steadied him around the corner and through the door to the art gallery.
The night lights in the hall beyond were so faint she couldn't see her way,
but she remembered where the clearances were, what furniture was
where, and she stumbled along with Jeff, step by step, without doing more
than bump a couch and a couple of chairs.
Then they were going through the hallway to the foyer and the large
front staircase. That was their next obstacle.
They were almost there when Jeff, who was shuffling along more
consciously now, trying to lean on Corrie as little as possible, trying to
move as quietly as possible, stopped and said, “Shhh.”
Corrie stopped and listened. They waited in the near darkness and
there was nothing. She turned and Jeff was listening intently. He put a
finger to his lips wamingly. She listened again, and then she did hear the
faintest of sounds—a creak of floorboards somewhere. Her eyes darted to
Jeff's and he nodded. His jungle ears had heard even more.
She drew deeper into the shadows with him and looked around. The
broad foyer ahead, with its front door and large staircase, was silent and
dim in the pale glow of the night lights. Nothing was moving. But she had
heard that sound. She watched Jeff, who stared fixedly ahead of him at the
emptiness of the foyer as if he could see as well as hear things that were
denied to her.
She looked behind her, down the hall from the gallery along which
they had just come. No, there was nothing there. Then she felt Jeff's hand
close on her arm warningly and she jumped around again. Richard was
coming down the stairs.
He was in a dressing gown, looking neither right nor left, as silent as a
ghost. His eyes were fixed on the front door and it was to the front door
that he went.
Corrie inched forward for a better view as Richard unfastened the
door, pulled it wide and opened the glass storm door beyond. A gust of
wind swept through the area, chilling Corrie’s ankles, while a burst of
snowflakes whirled around the door itself.
Then Richard was outside and the door was closed behind him. Corrie
looked up at Jeff but his hawklike eyes were trained on the foyer.
It was a couple of minutes before Richard returned. Already the heavy
snow was in his hair and on his robe. He brushed it away and looked
around, but couldn't see Jeff and Corrie peeking from behind the corner.
He went back up the stairs and Jeff cocked his ear at the corridor above,
listening for his passing.
At long last he indicated that the way was clear and Corrie struggled
with him across the foyer and to the foot of the stairs themselves. The
staircase was broad and the steps were low, but Jeff was weakening. He
clung to the wide railing and to Corrie as they went around the bend at
the bottom, but it was harder and harder. A quarter of the way up, he
braced himself and struggled. He tried the next step and fell, pulling
Corrie down with him. He lay on his side on the steps, his chest heaving.
He had spent himself.
“It's all right," she whispered, kneeling at his back and leaning over his
ear. From there she could look, with him, through the large, carved
spokes of the banister at the foyer below and the landing above. As she
did, her breath caught. Richard was there again. He had heard them and
he was investigating. He came to the railing soundlessly, stealthily, and
looked down upon the foyer below. He leaned forward to increase his
range of view. If he decided to come down the stairs to explore, it would
be all over.
He did not. He made his appraisal uneasily from the upper railing,
almost as if he didn't want to find anything untoward. Then he
disappeared again.
It was a long time before Corrie dared to breathe. She stayed in a fixed
position, her face above Jeff's face, both of them staring through the
banister.
“That was a close one," Corrie finally whispered.
“Too close." Jeff turned his head and even that was an effort. “You go
on ahead," he murmured softly. “I can make it on my own."
“You're out of your mind."
“I mean it. I'll be all right."
She laughed at him. “You're a crazy goon. You can't even get up."
“I'll crawl." He tried to show her, but he couldn't drag himself up one
step.
“Corrie on," she whispered. “Hold onto me. We've got to keep going."
He couldn't fight her. He held and struggled and used the railing and
she got him up. The respite had helped and he appeared a little stronger.
They made more steps, being as silent as they could, making sure they
had a grip on the new spot before they let go of the last. They couldn't
stand another visit from Richard.
 At the top he let go of the supporting railing and she almost lost him,
but they both clutched each other and stayed upright. Then it was easier.
They rounded the corner and made it down the hall to Corrie's room
without interruption and without noise. She produced her door key, got
Jeff inside and onto the bed, then relocked the door. She turned, heaving
a giant sigh of relief. “We made it,” she said triumphantly, but he didn't
answer.
He had passed out.
Corrie didn’t dare light up the bedroom and used the bathroom light
instead. Jeff was on his back, bone-weary and unconscious, and the
bedroom phone, Corrie found, was as dead as the one in the museum. But
Jeff’s heartbeat continued strong and he didn't have a fever. Maybe he
wouldn't need a doctor after all. Maybe she could care for him herself.
She stripped off the rest of his tom shirt, his shoes and socks. He
moaned slightly and tossed in pain, but he stayed unconscious. It was as if
he knew he were safe, that he didn't have to wake up.
She bathed him again, using warm water, and removed the last traces
of blood, soothing the pale, careworn skin. He looked human again, but it
gave her heart, a tug. There was such strength in his features, such
potential, such command, yet he was as helpless as a toddling child. The
vulnerability, the little boy quality that needed protection made her want
to weep, want to hug him to her and shelter him against the world. It was
the way with men. They toasted their prowess, they boasted of their
invincibility, but when all was said and done, they were still such fragile
beings. They aimed so high and they could be brought so low.
She put away the washrag, undid his trousers and pulled them off,
then tucked his long, lanky legs under the covers to keep him warm. If he
could sleep the night away, he’d be that much better for it in the morning.
And where would she sleep? Why, on the other side of the bed, of
course, under the same covers. It might not be quite according to Hoyle,
but it was certainly safe.
She undressed in the bathroom and slipped into her nightgown,
leaving the light on. She went back and made a last check. Jeff’s pulse was
normal, he had no fever, and he seemed to be resting peacefully. What
more could she ask?
She knew she should not go to sleep. There were plans to be made and
much to do. She should be thinking of tomorrow.
But she had no strength left. In fact, she didn't know where she
had acquired the strength that had accomplished what she had
already done. She climbed beneath the covers on the other side of
the bed but, before she lay back to let the waves of sleep wash
over her, she moved close to Jeff and kissed him tenderly. She
wanted to, and he would never know.
 CHAPTER 46

Corrie woke at half-past six when Jeff stirred restlessly and moaned. It
was but the slightest of sounds, but she responded as instantly as a
mother with a sick child. She was at his side before she knew she was out
of bed and her response surprised her even as she felt for his pulse and
brow. She wasn’t the Corrie she knew.
“What’s the matter?” his low voice said, and she started. She didn’t
know he was conscious.
“Nothing,” she whispered back. “You’re fine.”
“What’s been going on? Where am I?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not very well. Not yet, anyway.”
He looked in remarkably good shape. In fact, she removed her hand
from his brow and straightened up, deciding that she really shouldn’t
bend over him like that any more, not wearing such a low-cut nightgown.
He was recovered enough to notice things like that. She sat down on the
bed a discreet distance away. “How do you feel?”
“I don’t know. I just woke up.”
“Headache?”
“Maybe a little.”
“I’ll get you some aspirin.”
She got him two and helped him to swallow accompanying gulps of
water, putting an arm around his shoulders to raise his head, aware that
she ought to put on a robe, but first things first “That'll make you feel
better.” She returned the glass to the bathroom and got into a robe, tying
the sash as she came back to resume her seat. He looked disappointed
and she smiled to herself. He wouldn't need any doctor.
He let his eyes range around the room. “Where are we?”
“My bedroom.”
He tensed a little. “The middle room?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It's dangerous here.”
 “No, no, dear, it's perfectly all right. The door is locked. Nobody can
get in.”
“Yes they can.”
The thought of someone getting in made her shiver and she was
reminded of her gun. “Jeff, what did you do with my gun?”
“Your gun?”
“The one in my bag.”
He said with difficulty, “I should have known. Of course you'd have a
gun.”
“I did have. I had it in my bag. You took it out. Remember?”
He shook his head. “I never touched your bag.”
“Saturday night, when you stayed here. Sometime while I was asleep.”
“Don't be silly. What would I do that for?”
“To find out who I was. You went through my bag and you found the
gun.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t go through your bag unless it was in
front of you.”
“But nobody else could have done it. I had the door locked.” “That
doesn’t matter.” He raised a weak arm and pointed to the wall on the
other side of the bed. “There,” he said. “Go there.”
She went around to her bedside table.
“The wall,” he said. “Press that panel. No, the one above. There.”
She did and a section of the wall swung out six inches, released by a
catch. It was a secret door and the gap revealed a steep, dark, narrow
staircase. Corrie pulled the door wider, stepped inside, and threw a switch
which turned on a light over the first-floor landing.
For a long moment she stared down into the depths, then shut off the
light and came out again, feeling wonder and unease. She closed the door
and it was part of the wall again. She couldn’t see its outlines even
knowing it was there. She turned to Jeff. “Where does it go?”
“Under the courtyard and up to the suite across the way. It was
primarily used by those in the know to enable young ladies and
gentlemen to get together while their parents thought they were being
well separated.”
Now she knew how the bloodstained wallet had appeared on her
bedside table. And that was how it had disappeared again as well. She
said, “Then someone came in here and took my gun?”
He nodded. “Grand Central Station. That’s why they put you here.”
 “They told me it was your room.” She came around to the foot of the
bed. “Then the other night, when I locked the door on you . . . ?”
He nodded. “That’s how I got in.”
Corrie stood in thought. Who had brought her the wallet? Elliot most
likely. He had wanted to force a confrontation. And who had stolen her
gun? It must have been Richard—why he was late for cocktails, perhaps?
But that meant more danger, for Richard would wonder at Jeff’s wife
needing a gun. And if Richard should decide to pay a nocturnal visit to
her room? But she wouldn’t sleep here again. Never.
Jeff was watching her in the dim light, smiling weakly. “Why don’t you
get out while you can?”
“I’m not going to leave you.”
“You don’t owe me anything. I belong to his family, you don’t. If you’re
smart, you’ll get out”
She went around and sat by him again. “Jeff, listen to me. They tried to
kill you last night. Richard and that man Clyde. They hid you in that chest
in Richard’s museum so you’d suffocate. Richard thinks you’re still there.
He thinks you’re dead. If he finds out you aren’t—”
Jeff rubbed his brow. “You were there,” he said slowly. “I’m starting to
remember. You brought me here.” He looked at her. “You got me out of
there?”
“Jeff, you're not listening. If Richard takes a look in that chest—”
“You got me out. Didn't you?”
“Yes, I got you out. Now pay attention.”
“I was working in my room and someone knocked. I opened the door
and that's the last I remember—until—you were with me—in the
museum.”
“That was Clyde. Because of what you did to him yesterday afternoon.”
Jeff's face became grim. “Where is he now?”
“Forget him. He's gone. In your car. That’s so Richard can make people
think you went away. Richard wanted him to take you too, but he
wouldn’t. That's why they put you in the chest.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I happened to overhear them.”
Jeff looked at her quizzically. “You happened to overhear them? You
just happened to overhear them?” He smiled. “You're really something,
you know that?”
“Never mind what l am. You're not safe. That's what's important. If
Richard opens that chest—”
 “If he finds out you saved me,” Jeff interrupted, “you won’t be very safe
either.”
“I don't care. He’s not going to—”
“But I do care.” He reached out and touched her face gently. “You're
such a sweet, crazy kid. I don’t know where you've been all my life, but
now that you're in it, I don’t want you to leave it.” He sighed. “And
Richard is capable of violent behavior if he’s threatened.” He moved his
fingers to the slightly swollen, discolored area along her left temple.
“You've already found out how rough some people can be. I don't want
anything worse to happen to you. And if he thinks you're investigating
him, he's going to make things really bad.” He frowned at her. “That is
what you're doing, isn't it?”
Jeff hadn't taken her gun. He was the victim, not the victimizer. She
knew it now. Of whatever evil had been done, he was innocent. Her mind
told her and her heart told her. She nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “I came to investigate him, but not for what you think.
Not libel. I came to investigate him for murder.”
“Murder?”
She told him, then, about her job at the Chronicle, about the
assignment to interview Jeff Wainwright, her witnessing the white-
powder incident, the death of “Jeff Wainwright,” and her subsequent role
as his “widow.” She said, “When you told me about the libel suit, I
realized the paper was using me and I thought there probably hadn’t been
any murder at all. But after last night, I know—I’m absolutely
certain—that he fed that man poison.”
Jeff said, “So that’s how Kroll died. You’re right, of course. It was to
keep him from talking.”
“So you know it was Kroll too?”
Jeff nodded. “He tried to kill me.”
Corrie’s eyes widened. “He did what?”
“Tried to kill me.” Jeff shrugged. “I couldn’t imagine why. That’s
because I couldn’t believe Richard would go that far.” He struggled to sit
up, but failed. “And Richard’s got your gun. And gun and girl and phony
marriage spells 'investigator.’ If he thinks I’m dead, he’s going to make
sure you are too.”
“I know and I’ll be careful. But tell me about Kroll trying to kill you.
What happened?”
 Jeff shook his head. “You’re a newspaperwoman after a story and I
don’t want to be interviewed for it, especially when I can’t verify a word of
it.”
“You’re being silly. I’m not a newspaperwoman—not with the
Chronicle—not after what they did.” She edged closer. “Besides, you don’t
think I’d betray a confidence, do you?”
“I suppose I don’t, really.”
“You’d better not or there’ll be another libel suit around here,” she
said. “Tell me about Kroll.”
Jeff smiled at her, still weakly, and started softly, husbanding his
strength, his expression wry. He’d come north from Miami after his
Amazon experience where, for her information, the missionary family had
no marriageable daughter. En route, he met with various exploration and
sociological societies and organizations on the subject of his experiences
with this little-known tribe. All were eager for a detailed report as fast as
possible.
Ultimately, he had come to New Hampton to meet with Barnaby Sills,
the family lawyer and executor for, since he had passed his twenty-fifth
birthday, he was due for his share of the family fortune. Meanwhile, he
needed a place to settle in and write up his report as quickly as possible. It
could have been anywhere, but he favored the family lodge. It would offer
the quiet and seclusion he needed to get the job done. And it would take
him away from all the fanfare attendant upon his return from the dead.
He arranged for the power to be turned on and then proceeded to Fair-
port to spend a few days with his family.
“It wasn't going to be for long,” he told Corrie. “We have nothing in
common. I don't understand their life and they don't understand mine.
But it's proper to greet one's brother and sister, even if they’re only half
brother and sister.” He paused and rubbed his temples. “That's
confidential,” he said. “You aren't to tell that to anyone.”
Corrie smiled. “It's not as confidential as you think. I've already heard.
You're illegitimate or a foundling or something.”
“You've heard it all wrong then, whatever your source.”
“That’s all wrong?”
“That’s all wrong, but don't blame yourself. I didn't have any idea what
it was all about either until I had that meeting with Barnaby.” He smiled
wryly. “That was a shocker, let me tell you. But it did alert me to a few
things, even if it was only luck, not brains, that I didn't get killed.”
“Does it explain what’s going on?”
 “It explains some of it and I’d better tell you so you can be alerted too.”
He stared at her soberly and touched the bruises on her face again. “And I
want you to be very alert. And I want you to be very afraid, so you’ll run
away from here as fast as you can.” He told it to her then, in dry, flat
tones. “To make it short and sour, in the beginning my father and mother
were married and pretty soon I happened along. Then mother, I’m sorry
to relate, for reasons I know nothing of, started playing around. Who with
or how many is not known, but the result of those activities was a set of
twins named Elliot and Patricia. Father thought they were his, of course.
So did everybody—except mamma and whoever the father was. And
perhaps not even the father. And so things went along for nearly ten years
until, one day, dad learned that the twins were blood type A. Now it so
happens that he’s blood type O and mamma was blood type B. Which
meant that the father of the twins had to be blood type A or AB. And
that’s the kind of blood father didn’t have.
“As a result, father changed his will so that, while the twins would still
be given the use of the interest on their trust funds till age twenty-five,
they wouldn’t get the funds at that age. They get nothing. The interest is
cut off, the funds are cut off, and the poor kids are left out in the cold. My
father wasn’t thinking very rationally, otherwise he would have realized it
wasn’t their fault. But they aren’t of his blood and he’s fixed it so they
can’t touch his money. And I mean he’s really fixed it. It all comes to me
and I’m prohibited from giving them even a penny of it.”
Jeff shook his head. “As for Richard, he’s in the same boat as the twins.
When they reach twenty-five, he’s no longer their guardian and he can no
longer use the interest to support them. And that’s what he’s been relying
on all these years for his house and his collections—ever since he finished
going through what my father left him.
“That’s the main reason I came to visit. I wanted to tell Richard that if I
couldn’t give up the principal, I could continue to give them the interest. I
wanted him to know I wouldn’t make any changes.”
“But he tried to kill you anyway?”
Jeff smiled. “He’s greedier than I thought, I guess. If anything happens
to me, he’s the next and only heir.”
“Does he know all this?”
“He does. I don’t know if the twins do or not. I didn’t myself until I saw
Barnaby last month. I thought I got a third. I wish that’s the way it was.”
 As for the attempt on his life, Jeff reported that briefly. Kroll had come
to him that Friday night with a tale of motor trouble with Jeff’s little green
sports car and could Jeff give him a hand? Jeff went out and leaned over
the motor and that was the last he knew until he found himself in the
passenger seat of the little car riding over a bumpy road. He played
possum and when the car turned around in a clearing, he sensed by
sounds, smell and feel that he was at the lodge.
The car started down the roadway again and stopped at the dangerous
bend. The driver got out, and Jeff was able to turn and see that he was
readying the car to go over the embankment. He sprinkled gasoline in the
back, tossed in a match, then bent in to put her in gear and release the
brake. When he did, Jeff grabbed him and pulled him into the car.
Unfortunately, Kroll either hit the brake or had already released it and the
car rolled over the embankment, bounced down the hill, burst into
flames, and ended half in the river, throwing Kroll and Jeff out and into
the water. Jeff, cushioned and protected by Kroll's body, was only singed
and not so badly injured that he couldn't struggle back to shore.
As for what had happened to Kroll, he had no idea. Once on land, he
raised himself on an elbow to locate his adversary, but all to be seen was
the inferno of a sports car, half in and half out of the water. Jeff could only
believe Kroll was dead.
Jeff found himself alone, miles from nowhere, sopping wet, hardly able
to move, and the temperature was down in the twenties. The nearest
salvation was the lodge itself, so he dragged himself up the steep hill, and
then up the road, back to the lodge. He found his wallet and everything
else had been taken, but there was a spare key under the eaves of the
well-house and he used that to open the door.
Fortunately, the power was on so there was heat, light, water (after
some priming) plus a few abandoned staples. Mostly, there was a cot and
Jeff hardly moved from it for three days.
Jeff said, “By the time you came up to see me, I had pretty well
recovered, but I sure wasn't worth much over that weekend. I think
crawling up to the lodge took more out of me than the accident."
Corrie said nothing for a bit, picturing a crippled Jeff working his way
up that hill and along that road. “The fire was seen," she said. “If you'd
waited, you would have been found."
“I heard them come," he said, “but by then I was almost at the lodge. I
thought I might miss them if I tried to go back, so I took the sure thing.
Besides, I was sure Richard was behind it—how else would Kroll know
about that particular spot for a crash? And I decided I'd just as soon not
have Richard know what happened to me—not while I was so helpless. I
hoped he might think I’d drowned and been washed downstream.”
"Maybe he did. He was pretty excited about your scarf being caught on
a branch out in the middle of the river.”
"Must have made him feel pretty good,” Jeff said. "Burying Kroll and
me together, as it were."
"Except for the safe. Kroll thought there was something in the safe that
would help him. And something was missing."
"Probably a paper Richard made Kroll sign—in return for a cash
payoff—some blackmail item to make sure Kroll went through with
killing me. Richard would get rid of that as fast as he got rid of Kroll." Jeff
looked at Corrie. "You're still frowning. Now what about?"
She was hesitant. "One thing bothers me. When I was in the lodge, I
found a bag of stolen silver in the attic."
"It had been stolen?"
"Richard reported that Kroll had stolen it that night and disappeared."
Jeff smiled wryly. "No wonder he poisoned Kroll's drink." He lay back.
"What day was it? Monday? Monday noon. I heard someone outside,
around the storage section under the lodge. I thought it was Richard
looking for me and, I must admit, I had a few bad moments. I still
couldn't use my right leg. But he went away, so I thought it was an animal
or something. Then, Tuesday, I was able to hop around better, and I went
out to see who or what had been around the storage area, and I found the
silver there. So I dragged it inside and later got it up to the attic."
Corrie said, "Meaning Richard hid it there after meeting with the chief
of police, then went back to poison Kroll, identify him as you, and report
Kroll as having stolen the silver on Friday? Then he really did think you
were dead—or was pretty certain."
"And if I showed up again, he could always say, 'But Kroll had
Jefferson's wallet and wristwatch and he was covered with bandages. How
was I to know?'"
"It's a pretty expensive alibi," Corrie said. "He lists the silver as worth
almost fifty thousand dollars."
“I've no doubt it's fully insured.”
“They aren't his best pieces, I happen to know. So maybe he doesn't
want the things back.''
Jeff managed a smile. “Too bad, because I brought them back. They’re
in the trunk of my car.”
 “That's the car Clyde took. And there's no telling where he is by now.”
“How's the snow? Has it stopped?”
Corrie went to the window and parted the curtain. “Yes, but it's two
feet deep. We'll never get out of here, and we can't call for help. The
phone's dead. The lines must be down.”
Jeff said, “Unless our friend Clyde cut them. He might have wanted to
make sure dear Richard didn't notify the police.”
“Good old Clyde,” Corrie said dourly. “That leaves us stuck with
Richard.”
“And,” Jeff reminded her, “it leaves him stuck with us.”
 CHAPTER 47

Jeff didn’t want Corrie to go down to breakfast with the family. With
him supposedly out of the way, he was sure Richard would move against
her next. “If he can do it before the roads are cleared, nobody outside of
this house will be able to say you or I have ever been here at all. Even
Barnaby won’t be able to say anything.”
“Does Bamaby know about you—that you aren’t dead?”
Jeff nodded. “He knows about both of us.”
“How?”
“I called him as soon as the phone service started at the lodge. That
was a week after the accident. I told him what had happened, and he told
me what had happened—about my funeral the day before. He wanted to
make the whole thing public, but I knew we’d never touch Richard if we
did. I wanted Richard to stay lulled and start pushing for the estate.
Meanwhile, Bamaby could investigate him quietly at his end and I could
investigate him at mine.
“Bamaby didn’t want that. He’s supercautious about everything. But I
twisted his arm. And I made him buy me a secondhand car and bring it
up that afternoon. I put Bamaby on a train then, laid in some supplies,
and was able to get around for a change.”
“You were investigating Richard?”
“Yes.”
“For sending Kroll after you?”
“My first aim, if you really want to know, was to find out his blood
type.”
“Richard's? Why?”
“He attempted to do away with me at the very spot where my parents
died—while he was visiting us. It made me begin to wonder for the first
time if their death was the accident everybody said it was. Could Richard
have tampered with the brakes? It's possible, of course, but if so, why?
What would he gain by my parents' death? All their money was in trust
for us children. Richard would become our guardian and have the use of
the interest for our support, that's true. It would be a lot and he could
manipulate it to his own ends to a large degree, but only up to a point.
Old Barnaby is the ultimate authority.
“Let's also grant that Richard would inherit a substantial amount
himself if my father died. But it wasn’t all that much—not enough to
commit murder for. At least the authorities investigating the crash never
suspected murder and if Richard profited too highly they would certainly
have considered the possibility.
“But it turns out that my father cut Elliot and Patricia out of his will
and, if he had lived longer, would have divorced my mother. He confided
all this to Barnaby. And who else would he tell? Richard, of course—his
own brother and the one to whom he would entrust his children. And
what would his brother do? Nothing, under normal circumstances. He
would accept the information and keep it secret.
“But suppose his brother, on the other hand, was the seducer, and the
father of the twins? What would that brother think now when told my
father was changing his will and divorcing his wife? He would fear being
discovered and cut off as well.”
Corrie stared at him. “My God, you could be right.” Then she hesitated.
“Except—”
“Except what?”
“If he'd killed them, he'd be afraid of what you saw.”
“Me? How could I see anything?”
“He said you were missing that night and when you reappeared you
said you were rowing a boat on the lake. But he didn't believe that. I could
tell. He thought you knew something."
Jeff made a face. “Why that so-and-so—trying to poison your mind
against me. Howie Pitkin will tell you—I was asleep until I heard the
police talking to Richard and I came down the stairs."
Corrie said, “Oh," and felt embarrassed. She’d been duped again.
“No," Jeff said. “I didn’t see anything. Nobody did. There’s no proof he
killed them, anywhere." He raised himself to an elbow. “But I’ll tell you
one thing. If Richard had the same blood type as the twins, it’d be pretty
damned strong circumstantial evidence."
She darted a look at him. “Have you been able to find out?"
He nodded. “Yes, and it’s A. The finger points." He lay back again. “But
that’s as far as I’d gotten when you appeared with the news that you were
my wife. When I heard that, I decided I’d better come down here and see
what was going on." He shook his head. “Barnaby was opposed. First he
didn’t want me to hide, then he didn’t want me to come out of hiding.
He’s a worrier. Barnaby’s always afraid something’s going to go wrong."
Which, of course, was Jeff’s position about breakfast. Corrie shouldn’t
go. She should switch to a safer bedroom and stay behind locked doors.
Corrie, however, would not hear of it. “Jeff, you know I can’t do that.
They’ll come and fetch me."
“You say you’re sick."
“I’ve got to go down to keep them from wondering. I’ve got to pretend
I’m worried about where you’ve gone. I’ve got to make Richard do
something or say something. We must make him commit himself. And
we’ve got to get ready to get out of here as soon as the weather clears and
the roads get plowed. We can’t just sit and wait for him to make all the
moves."
Jeff knew she was right, though he didn’t like it, and he couldn’t have
stopped her in any event. Corrie was determined. But she wanted his
blessing, not his ill will. He gave it to her, but he was pale and anxious
when she slipped out and locked the door behind.
Richard and Patricia were already in the dining room, standing by the
windows, when Corrie entered. The sun was bright and the sky was clear,
but the snow was deep on the ground outside. “I was just saying, what a
beautiful snowfall,” Richard announced, turning at Corrie’s entrance. He
was suave, debonaire, the master of all. It was as if nothing had happened.
Corrie was not going to leave things at that, however. The evidence
was only circumstantial, but Corrie knew he was the father of the girl
beside him and that he had killed Jeff's parents. No wonder he was an
aficionado of murder and its methods, of criminals and crime. He was a
member of the club. “Where’s Jeff?” she asked. “Have you seen him?”
Patricia looked a little surprised and eyed Richard. Was there a wary
look in those soft, vague eyes? “Why no,” Richard answered, the proper
kind of frown crossing his features. “Isn’t he with you?”
“He was working late on those articles he's got to write. He was in the
next bedroom when I went to sleep last night. He didn’t come to bed and
he isn’t there now.”
“Well that’s strange,” Richard admitted. “Have you seen Jefferson,
Patricia?”
She said she hadn’t and just then Elliot and Isolde stalked into the
room. Richard put the same question to them before he even said good
morning, explaining that Corrie was curious about it.
 Isolde shook her head, and Elliot, who had other things on his mind,
said an abrupt “Of course not” and went to the windows for a hard look
outside.
“That’s strange,” Richard repeated. “You don’t suppose he’s driven off
somewhere?”
He’s laying the groundwork, Corrie thought. Very smooth. . . . And
when we find the car is missing—
Elliot turned wrathfully from the window. “Where is that stupid idiot
of yours, that Clyde person?” he demanded of Richard. “Why isn’t he out
plowing the drive? How’m I supposed to run your errands today if he
doesn’t plow out the damned driveway?”
“I’m sure it’s an oversight,” Richard said. “But you are interrupting. We
were talking about where Jefferson has gone.”
“Who knows and who cares? Every time you turn around Jefferson’s
gone.”
Fancy came in then to serve the breakfast and Elliot wheeled on her.
“Where the hell is that new man, Clyde? Why isn’t he out in the jeep
plowing the driveway?”
Fancy said she hadn’t seen him.
“Well go see him. Do you think I can spend all day here? It’s Monday
morning. It’s a working day. Just because I’m the only one who has to be
someplace—”
Fancy fled in haste and Elliot called after her, “You tell him I want him
out there in five minutes. You hear me? Five minutes!” He stalked around
muttering his anger.
Richard indicated that they should be seated and spread his napkin in
his lap before picking up his orange juice. “As I was saying,” he continued,
“we’re wondering about Jefferson. He seems to have left us for some
reason. I was wondering if he might have taken the car somewhere.”
“He wouldn’t have gone without telling me,” Corrie said bluntly. She
wasn’t going to play out his charade for him and she noted that he darted
an unpleasant look in her direction.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Elliot said, forgetting, in his anger, just whom he
was addressing. “Nobody can get a car out of that driveway until Clyde
plows it!”
“The snow wasn’t as deep last night,” Richard said with controlled
mildness. “He might have gone last night.”
Fancy came back a little tentatively. She couldn't find Clyde.
Not in his room? No, she looked. Well, that’s strange.
 “You know something, Mr. Richard, his bed’s made. It don’t look like
it’s been slept in.”
Elliot said sarcastically to Richard, “Maybe he went off last night too.
Maybe he and Jefferson went off together.”
“Elliot, I think-”
“They’re probably on an expedition to the North Pole.”
Richard’s voice grew firmer. “Elliot, I think you would do well to
control yourself. Corrie’s worried about Jefferson. He seems to have gone
away.”
“And I’m worried about Clyde’s going away someplace and how the
hell am I going to make my work quota if he doesn’t plow the drive.”
Richard said, “Perhaps you could do it.”
Elliot turned and stared as if Richard were crazy. He rose and advanced
upon the maid. "Fancy, tell Clara to drop what she's doing and get in that
jeep out in the barn and plow out the driveway. Do you hear? Right this
minute!,,
Fancy, backing off before the big man's anger, looked to Richard. But
Richard wasn't fighting the younger man this morning. “That's a good
idea, Fancy," he joined in. “Tell Clara that Mr. Elliot has to get to town."
Fancy nodded and withdrew and Richard said to Corrie, “Besides her
other talents, Clara's great with cars. She used to drive a getaway car for
her brother."
Elliot, still on his feet, snapped, “Yeah, slow enough to get caught. God
knows when I'll get out of here." He threw his napkin on the table and
went to the phone. “How can it snow like this in November?" he snarled.
“Doesn't God know what month it is?" He listened for the dial tone,
jabbed the cradle and said, “What's the matter with the phone service in
this town? The damned thing's dead."
“Corrie and eat breakfast," Richard said, his patience at an end.
“One would think you were worth the money I pay you."
 CHAPTER 48

The grinding and scraping of the plow got under way before breakfast
was half through and by the time the group was pushing back chairs at its
conclusion the jeep was gone from sight down the long, winding, narrow
driveway. Clara could really handle the jeep.
The jeep came driving back with its horn blowing just as the family
was leaving the dining room, and Richard, instantly alert, started for the
door. Clara burst through as he pulled it open. “Accident,” she cried.
“Clyde! He’s turned over in the drivel”
“Good heavens!” Richard said. “Is he dead?”
“I don’t know. He’s in there but he don’t move.”
Richard didn’t wait to put on a coat, but ran out into the bitter cold
and jumped into the waiting jeep.
Elliot, for once, seemed the calmer one. He sneered with contempt
watching Richard leave, then moved to the coat closet under the stairs,
querying Clara all the while. The car had gone off the narrow drive into a
gully, hitting a tree and turning over. It was lying a hundred yards down
the drive. Clyde was inside. He might be pinned. Elliot, handing warm
clothing to Isolde, donned his own coat and, cursing Richard for taking
the jeep, led Isolde and Clara outside.
Corrie stayed behind. It was obvious there was no way she could help
and she didn't want to go and ghoulishly ogle a tragedy. Besides, Jeff was
the one who needed her attention. She turned as Fancy and Nora came
hurrying by, with their coats on, to go see. There was relish in their run.
Corrie turned away. She had no use for Clyde, but she could not gloat.
She wished him no harm, but if he were dead she could not weep.
Meanwhile, now that she was alone, she could pick up some breakfast
snacks for Jeff. She returned to the dining room and discovered she was
not alone. Patricia was standing by the windows.
“You aren't going?" Corrie asked.
 Patricia, like Corrie, didn't have that kind of curiosity. “They don't
need me."
Corrie poured herself an unwanted cup of coffee and prepared to
outwait the other girl. “Nor me," she said, creaming the coffee. She joined
Patricia at the window. The view was of the front drive, the broad area in
front of the steps that had been only scantily plowed, and the drive itself
as far as the first curve. Fancy and Nora were the only ones in sight as
they tried to negotiate the route without falling.
Patricia turned from the window and Corrie could feel the intensity of
her gaze. The young girl's eyes were studious, analyzing, trying to figure
something out. She spoke then, using Corrie's name for the first time.
“Corrie, what's the Tzechlan idol?"
“Tzechlan idol?"
“Richard has one. It holds messages."
Corrie nodded. “I know. It's a gold-painted statue of a fat god he's got
in his museum. He says Jeff gave it to him." She sipped her coffee and
looked quizzically at Patricia. “Why?"
“Richard wanted me to pretend something."
“I don't understand."
Patricia looked around as if Richard might be listening. “Richard
wanted me to hold a witch's rite." She put a hand on Corrie's arm and
looked at her soberly. “Richard doesn’t believe in our rites. Richard
doesn’t believe we make the dead come back.”
Corrie didn't know what to say so she nodded.
“But he wanted me to have a rite and cheat."
“He wanted you to say something from the dead? To me?"
“He wanted me to get a message from Jefferson. I told him I never got
messages from Jefferson. I told him I never raised anybody in the family
from the dead. He said it didn't matter. He said I was to hold a rite that
night—it was Saturday—and I was to raise Jefferson and have him tell you
there was a message for you in the Tzechlan idol. I didn't know what he
was talking about and he wouldn't tell me. He only said I'd have to do it."
She put her hand on Corrie’s arm. “Then Jefferson came back so we didn’t
have the rite. But Richard may want it again and I will have to do as he
says." She looked around furtively. “But if I tell you I have a message for
you from the ghosts of hell, it won’t be true. It will be a message that
Richard made me give to you. Do you understand?"
Corrie nodded solemnly.
 “Unless I signal you. Unless I say your name and the name of the shade
three times. If I do that, then the shade is really and truly speaking to you
from hell." She looked closely into Corrie’s eyes. “You do understand?"
“Yes."
“You won't forget?"
“No."
“Please, whatever you do, don't tell Richard. He would be furious."
“I'd never tell Richard."
“I would not have betrayed him, except I must not let people play false
with our rites. There must be no fakery. You understand why I had to tell
you?"
Corrie nodded. “I understand."
Patricia let her go, turned and went rapidly from the room.

Jeff was up and half dressed when Corrie returned to the room bearing
three slices of toast. “What are you doing?" she asked, putting down the
food. “Get back into bed."
He grinned and sat down on the wrinkled covers, holding onto one of
the bedposts. “I really am a little wobbly."
“What are you up for?"
“You were gone so long I was starting to worry."
She told him the reason—that Clyde had gone off the driveway trying
to leave the night before and he might be dead.
Jeff said, "Richard was the first one on the scene?”
"After Clara came back.”
"Then ten to one he’s dead.”
"You mean, to keep him quiet?”
"It’s more convenient that way. Of course, it now leaves Richard with
no way for me to have disappeared. There’s no missing car any more.”
Corrie gave him the pieces of toast. He thanked her, bit into the first
and decided he must be getting better. He was hungry.
"What do you think Richard will do—about having no way for you to
disappear?”
"Why would he do anything? What happens to me is your
problem—or my problem.”
"Then we don’t have to worry. But you’ve got to get back into bed.”
"I’m better. I’m not much on standing, but I’m pretty good at sitting.”
Corrie insisted, however, and persuaded him to put his legs under the
covers and prop pillows behind his head. Partly it was her concern for his
well-being, but partly it was her curiosity about the Tzechlan idol. What
was Richard up to? Patricia was to be made to hold some kind of rite
down in that cellar room where, obviously, those ghostly whispers came
from at night, and she was to tell Corrie about a message for her in the
Tzechlan idol. Then what? Corrie, presumably, would hurry to the idol in
the company of the others and find out the message. And what would the
message be? Would it be proof Richard had gathered that she was a
fraud?
Of course the idol had originally been designed to fire pointed darts,
but Richard would not have that aim in mind. In the first place, the
mechanism no longer worked; in the second, he wouldn’t use Patricia to
lure her into such a trap because then she’d know of his guilty act.
Whatever hands Richard played, he always played alone.
So what was his game? Corrie fussed over Jeff, getting him settled,
assuring him he was too weak to do more than rest—he was still
recovering from the accident at the lodge, remember? All this while she
was mulling the matter of the idol over in her mind. Whatever his
purpose, Richard wouldn't be inducing Corrie to open the idol with her
own welfare at heart. Something very unpleasant was to have happened
on Saturday night when she, in the company of the others, went to the
Tzechlan god to find out the message. It was to be something, she
decided, that would shame and ridicule and expose her to the family. It
might even put her in jail.
And this could still happen. In a day or two, with Jeff still missing,
Richard might order the rite to see if he were alive or dead.
Well, she knew what to do about that—steal the evidence out of the
idol. Then, when Richard pulled his phony rites and Corrie was told about
Jeff's message from the beyond, they’d all parade to the museum to see
what it said. And she would open the idol and there would be nothing
inside it at all.
She smiled, thinking of the look on Richard’s face. And another
thought occurred. Suppose she made up a substitute message? Suppose
there was a paper in that idol that suggested Jeff’s parents did not die by
accident! Then, when she read that off in front of everybody . . . ! It might
be the breakthrough she was after.
Corrie made sure Jeff was comfortable, then picked up her purse and
ducked into the privacy of the bathroom, quivering with excitement. A
switch of messages would do it! Richard would be shattered! She could
almost see his face—the dismay, the chagrin, and—yes—the fear!
 Quickly she composed a four-line poem that should fit the mood of
death and witches and Patricia's “shades.” She wrote:

Who are the twins of Hampton House

Whose mother went to hell;
Murdered by their father dear
Who’s rich, alive and well?

She recopied it in awkward, printed letters on a fresh sheet from her

notebook, read it with glee, and tucked it into her pocket. “Now we’ll see
what we’ll see,” she said to herself, and returned to the bedroom again.
She set her purse on the bureau and hurried to the door. She did want to
get down to the museum and the idol before everybody came back from
Clyde’s car wreck.
Jeff said, “Where are you going?”
“Oh, I want to go out and see what’s happening.” She went rapidly to
the bed and put a hand on Jeff’s forehead. “You don’t have any fever at all.
Will you be all right if I go and check on things?”
He could say nothing but “Of course,” and she opened the bedroom
door and went swiftly down the hall.
The house had an empty sound, and when she got down into the foyer
and looked out the windows, she saw that the driveway was empty too.
The jeep wasn’t back and there were no signs of people anywhere. They
were still clustered around the wreck, probably trying to get Clyde free or
waiting for an ambulance. Maybe Clara had taken the jeep for help.
She ran quickly through the art gallery and down the cellar stairs
beyond, switching on the lights as she went. It was drafty and clammy in
the tunnel and the dim flickering bulbs always had a greater effect on
Corrie than she liked to admit. She listened at the door for a moment,
then carefully lifted the latch and pushed it inward. The lights were on
inside and she froze. Was Richard there? She held still waiting for a voice
or a challenge but the silence persisted.
She pushed the door wider. The museum seemed to be empty. She
looked around and the airtight chest caught her eye. It was exactly as she
had left it, even to the slightly misplaced candle- holder. She looked
further. The dummy still stood guard at the door and behind it, on
Richard’s desk, sat the squat, gold-painted idol. It was as she had last seen
it too. Everything was as it had been.
 Someone had left the lights on, she decided, and wondered, fearfully, if
it had been she. Had she forgotten when she had dragged Jeff away? She
could not remember. Well, she wouldn’t forget to turn them off this time.
She looked behind her, making sure the tunnel was empty', then
slipped inside and latched the door behind her. All was as silent as the
tomb it was. She could be a million miles from humanity.
She went swiftly to the idol, clamped it firmly in place with a hand on
its head, and pulled on the door. It stuck for a moment, then came free. It
was harder to move than before, she thought to herself, and it made a
rasping sound as she pulled it wide.
 CHAPTER 49

There was a strange smell in the cavity of the idol, an acrid, unpleasant
odor. It was dark inside too, for the interior was almost a foot deep and
painted black. She looked but she couldn’t see the outline of any
documents. She groped inside and felt something strange bolted to the
back. It felt like—a gun. Corrie let go and jumped away. It had been
pointed right at her. She stared in horror and the freed door of the idol
snapped shut like sharks’ jaws. That gun hadn’t been in there when
Richard had showed it to her. And if it had gone off—
And then it dawned on her what Richard’s message really was. She was
to be killed. He had told her the dart mechanism was broken, but he
hadn’t told her he could fix it. She was to come to the idol and open it for
Jeff’s message. But she wouldn’t be coming with a cortege of family
members. Richard hadn’t told the others about the idol—or, if he had,
they knew it under another name. To her he gave it a special name, one
only she would know. And he told her it was a gift from Jeff. That would
be another lie. She would go to the witch-cult rites with the others. They
would all get messages, the rites would end, and each would go his
separate way. That’s how Richard would have made it happen. And later,
Corrie would betake herself to the museum, quietly and alone, to see
what secret Jeff had wanted to share with her, and with her only. The gun
would go off, and later, Richard would come and find her. And Richard
would remove the evidence and he would remove her. If Jeff hadn’t come
home Saturday night, she might, even now, be lying in the airtight chest.
And Richard would have his secret glee as he showed visiting policemen
and crime aficionados through his museum, knowing all the while that a
real murder victim was mummifying in their midst.
But the gun had not gone off.
Or had it? There was the acrid smell of a fired weapon. She didn’t
understand. Had somebody discharged the gun before she got to it? She
tucked her message back in her jacket pocket. That was child’s play
compared to Richard’s game. All Corrie wanted to do was get out of there.
She readjusted the idol exactly as she had found it and grasped the
latch to open the door. She took her hand away. The latch was wet and
sticky and when she looked at her palm in the faint light her heart
stopped. It was covered with blood.
Someone had opened the idol’s door before her. And she knew who.
She pulled the prison door open and raced back through the tunnel,
forgetting the lights. She flew up the stairs, swung around the corners and
dashed up the next flight to the second floor. There were droplets of
blood all the way, growing in size and number.
At the top, Corrie rounded the comer and burst into Patricia’s room.
The knob on that door was wet with blood too, as she knew it would be.
Corrie knew it all.
Patricia lay on her bed, breathing shallowly. The upper half of her
dress was darkly stained and her hands, clutched against her chest, were
red with gore.
“Pat!” Corrie cried and ran to her. The wan, blonde girl moved her gaze
from the ceiling to Corrie’s face. She tried to smile, but she was too weak.
“The—Tzec—Tze—idol.” She moved her head a little. “Don’t.”
“I know, I know,” Corrie cried, bending over her. “Are you badly hurt?
Let me see.” She gently lifted Patricia’s hands from the wound and ripped
open the dress to lay bare the spot. The bullet hole was a small one but it
was in a very bad place. It was almost exactly where her heart should be
and the blood wouldn’t stop coming through. Corrie, frantically, tore off
more of the young girl's dress and tried to staunch the flow. It was useless
and she knew it. Pat Wainwright was mortally wounded.
“I’ll get help,” Corrie told her, not knowing what else to say. “Let me
get you a pillow. Let me make you comfortable.”
Pat tried a last smile. “I’m all right,” she gasped. “I—feel- fine—” And
as she spoke, her eyes closed and the life went out of her.
Corrie wept, putting her own bloody hands to her face. But it was only
for a moment. A shriek sounded behind her and she wheeled to see a
towering Richard in the doorway. “What have you done to her?” he
screamed and bounded to the bedside so fast that Corrie could scarcely
jump aside.
“Patricia, Patricia,” he shouted at the dead girl as if the sound could
bring her back. He grasped one of her hands and sank to his knees, calling
her name again as if he could not believe she was gone. He turned to look
up at Corrie. “You’ve killed her. You’ve killed her!” he shrieked, beside
himself with grief and hatred.
But Corrie was equally enraged. “It was you,” she shouted back,
pointing an accusing finger. “You did it! You and your crazy idol. You
tried to kill me and you killed your own daughter!” She used the actual
word and she saw him flinch. He was the father! Just as Jeff had said! And
he had killed Jeff’s parents. He had killed them all! “You, you killed your
own daughter,” she shouted at him again. “And you’re going to pay!”
Richard lunged at her, but Corrie jumped back. She scrambled around
him before he could get to his feet and ran out into the hall.
“Corrie!” His voice was well behind her as she ran down the corridor
and it was no longer frothing in its sound. Now it was peremptory. She
turned to look back. He was standing outside the door, holding his bloody
hands toward her. “Help me. We mustn’t fight. Please, Corrie. We can’t
leave her like this. Corrie and help me with her.”
He was pleading broken-heartedly, asking for succor. But Corrie knew
him too well. If he could get his hands on her, he would kill her on the
spot. She had frustrated his plans and she knew too much.
She shook her head and kept going, and when she turned the comer he
was following after, calling, “Corrie, Corrie, help me!”
 CHAPTER 50

Corrie hastened to her own room, frightened and sick at heart. What
would she tell Jeff? What could she tell him? She knocked on the door
and called him softly and at the same time tried the knob. The door
opened. Jeff hadn't locked the door behind her, and he should have. She
slipped inside and locked the door herself. She put her head against the
panels for one brief moment to brace herself. The tears started to come.
“Jeff," she said, turning, “something terrible—"
She stopped. The bed was unmade but there was no Jefferson
Wainwright in it. “Jeff?" She hurried to the bathroom but the door was
open and he was nowhere around. A quick look revealed that his clothes
were gone as well. He had dressed and disappeared.
Corrie ran to the panel that opened the secret door. The silent,
well-oiled section of wall swung out, but there was nothing but darkness
within. She threw on the light but the stairs were empty. “Jeff!" Her cry
was getting just a little panicky and down the steep staircase the tone
echoed and re-echoed mockingly.
She switched off the light and pushed the door shut. Even as it latched,
she shivered. She could almost see Richard creeping along that secret
passage, coming for her.
Corrie was beginning to get unnerved. Now she ran to the large divan
in front of the fireplace. If she could block the secret door with that, she'd
be safe. She heaved against it and it budged. She heaved again and it
budged a little more. She threw herself against it and it moved two more
inches. It wasn't enough. It needed Jeff’s strong arms. It needed even a
weak Jeff. It needed somebody more than herself.
“Jeff!"
She had really shrieked his name that time! She was losing control.
Keep calm, she told herself. She tried once more to throw her weight
against the big couch but this time it didn't move at all. The task was
hopeless. But she couldn’t just stand there and wait for Richard to come.
She had locked herself in and once he entered the room with her she’d
never be able to get the door open in time.
Where could Jeff be? Maybe he'd gone to his own bedroom, the one
that didn’t have a secret entrance. He knew how dangerous this room
was, he must have decided to put himself in a safer lair.
She must get to him, then. She felt in her pockets for the door key. It
wasn’t there. She felt her bra. What had she done with it? She couldn’t get
out of the bedroom without the key. She was half-crying now, in
desperation. “Jeff!” she sobbed and turned to the door. And there was the
key-right where she’d left it, in the keyhole.
She grabbed it and as she turned it, she looked back at the secret door.
She could feel Richard on the other side on the verge of releasing the
catch.
Corrie tore open the bedroom door, lurched forward, looked up, and
screamed the scream of her life.
Richard was standing in front of her in the empty hall, waiting for her
to let him in.

Richard said nothing. He advanced, pushing her back into the

bedroom, entering himself and kicking the door shut behind him. He
turned the key and threw it on the bureau, then pulled from his pocket
her own gun, the one he had stolen from her purse.
Corrie drew back against the closet and bedside table, too stricken to
move. She wet her lips. “Look, Richard—” She didn’t know what to say,
but she had to talk. It was the only out she had. Someway, somehow, she
would have to persuade him to spare her.
He moved in, the gun steady in his hand. “Richard,” Corrie said again,
“I didn't shoot Patricia. It was the gun in the idol. She opened the idol. Do
you understand? She opened—”
He grasped her shoulder roughly and jerked her toward the bed. He
was so much stronger than he looked. He was unbelievably strong.
“Richard, please.”
He forced her onto the mattress, leaning his weight on her to keep her
down. He tried to push her frantic arms aside with his left hand so he
could bring the gun to her head, and it came to Corrie in a flash. He
hadn't gone completely berserk. He was still thinking and planning. He
had other guns but he wanted to use hers. And he wasn't just going to
shoot her. He was going to shoot her close up. He wanted to press the
muzzle against her temple and then pull the trigger. Right now he was
struggling to get it to her right temple. Because she was right-handed.
Because, when he had killed her, he'd leave her on the bed with her own
gun in her hand. Suicide. Jeff had ditched her and disappeared. Not the
best of motives, but who can quarrel with the results?
The realization evoked a new spurt of energy and she fought him like a
wild woman. He had to use both hands to parry her flailing arms and hold
her down. It gave her the chance to grapple with him for the gun, to get
his gun hand in both of hers. She had the gun muzzle and his wrist now
and she would not let go. She tried to get her mouth to his hand. If she
could bite him—
He drove his left fist into her rib cage. It was like being hit with a rock.
A wave of pain and weakness swept over her. It was only for a moment,
only the response to the smashing impact, but he had freed his gun hand
now and he had her upper arm in the iron grip of his left hand, holding it
helpless, forcing her body down on the other arm, reducing its range to
almost nothing.
He brought the gun around again, and Corrie twisted her head. He
shifted the gun, and she kept twisting. She raised her head. She tried to
hit the gun and his hand with her head, and she kicked with her legs,
though she had no leverage and no way to reach him.
“No, no,” she grunted through clenched teeth. She would not let him
get the shot he wanted. She would fight him all the way. She would win
because she must not lose.
Slowly, with his great strength, he started to twist her arm around. He
was forcing her more and more onto her stomach, giving her less and less
range of motion. Her face was left side down on the bedclothes and she
could hardly move it at all. He was bringing the gun over to her temple
again, deliberately and inexorably.
“No, no!” she said bitterly and frantically, but her words were muffled
by the sheets and mattress. She could hardly breathe now. If he didn't
shoot her, she would suffocate.
She paused to suck as much air into her lungs as she could, to gather
all her remaining strength into one final burst of energy to break free.
He leaned more heavily still. All his weight was holding her pinned.
Her great explosion was against his increasing pressure and it was muted
and quelled. She couldn't even stop the pressure, let alone throw him off.
She felt the muzzle of the gun touch the skin of her temple. It felt cool,
but hard and dangerous. It brushed her first, then flattened firmly and she
could feel the imprint of its circular rim against her skin. It was pressing
into her temple hard now, severely hard.
“No,” she sobbed, as he pulled the trigger.
 CHAPTER 51

The explosion that was to be the last sound Corrie would ever hear was
replaced, instead, by a dull click. Still, it was so loud to her seared nerves
that she thought it was an explosion. Except that she didn't die with the
sound still ringing. It stopped and she was still alive. The man above her,
crushing her painfully with his weight, swore and fired again. There was
another loud click. There were two more in rapid succession. The gun
wasn't firing!
Richard leaped from her, stared at the weapon as if it were a mortal
enemy, and slammed it against the wall. He had been foiled once again
and his face was purple.
Corrie, gasping for breath, didn't wait for him to recover. Already she
was scrambling across the bed. If she could only get to the secret door!
Richard, his eyes wild, wheeled and pounced before she was halfway
across the bed. He caught her and dragged her back, twisting her around,
gripping her, his fingers inching and clawing for her throat. Again he was
astride her body so that her legs could do no more than kick against the
air. Again his weight was so great upon her that she knew there was
nothing she could do against him. He pinioned her arms as easily as a
babe's, and when he slid his large hands to her throat it took him only a
moment to force them under her chin and close off her windpipe.
It was so easy and so hopeless. Corrie couldn't even struggle any
longer. He was shutting off the blood supply to her brain. She wouldn't
have to know the agony of bursting lungs. She would be losing
consciousness in a moment.
Her head was back, her vision blurring. All she could make out was the
hazy outline of light through the window and the shadow of something
moving.
A voice thundered, “Richard!"
The pressure on her throat relaxed reflexively. There was a scream. It
was an eerie sound, almost like a woman: “JEFFERSON!"
 The hands disappeared from her throat and she stared dazedly.
Richard had come to his feet and was gaping, ashen-faced, at the man on
the other side of the bed. “No," he said, his hands hanging limply in
midair. “No." He grunted the sound and took a staggering step backward.
“No," he said again as his ghosts rose up and his castles crashed. He went
back another step. “No." His plots fell apart, the pieces became untucked.
What was done had not been done. What was gone had never left. What
was buried was not buried—was only something else. What was hidden,
was lying out exposed. “No." Richard backed another step. His eyes rolled
suddenly up into his head, his body stiffened, and he fell backward like a
toppling crowbar and the thud of his skull on the floor made a sickening
sound.
Then Jeff had her in his arms, holding her, stroking her face and hair,
such wonderful concern in him. “Darling, are you all right?"
“Almost." It was the best she could do. She sighed and relaxed against
him. They should do something about Richard, but maybe to wait just a
minute . . . “Where—how. . . ?"
“I had to take a detour. Richard had locked the door."
“You knew he was—here?"
“I saw him leave his room with the gun. I tagged along behind, waiting
to get close."
Corrie thought of the gun. Soedlak had double-crossed her even there.
Give her a gun, make her believe you take her seriously. Give her bullets.
Make her feel secure. But don't give her a gun that will shoot those bullets
lest it go off and get the paper in trouble. Well, she'd forgive Mr. Soedlak
for that one.
But there was a gun that had gone off. “Jeff.” Corrie said, and tears
started. “Patricia—Patricia—she's in her room—"
“I know," Jeff said soothingly. “I was over there. I picked up Richard
and his gun when I left her room."
“Why did you go out of here?"
“I didn't like the way you left. You were loaded for bear. I was afraid
you’d get in trouble."
“Patricia ... It was—Richard."
“Who else would it be?" He held her tighter and let his gaze go
to the man on the floor.
 CHAPTER 52

The doctor came down the hospital corridor to the main counter
where Jeff and Corrie, Elliot and Isolde were waiting. “He’s resting
comfortably,” he told them. “At least, he’s resting as comfortably as we
can make him.”
Jeff wasn’t interested in his comfort, he wanted to know his condition.
“Ahem,” the doctor said, “we haven’t really had a chance to completely
evaluate Richard Wainwright’s condition. It’s a very serious and complex
situation. I think you can understand that.”
“What’s the present estimate?”
“He seems to have suffered a stroke. The left side of his face—ahem,
his whole left side—seems to be paralyzed. What the chances are for
recovery—ahem, I don’t like to be pessimistic, and we can’t really say
anything until we have had the chance to conduct exhaustive tests—”
“What about the babbling?”
The doctor compressed his lips. “Ahem, his mind does seem to be
affected. Something seems to have snapped. To be perfectly frank, he has
the mind of an idiot at the moment. As to whether he’ll come out of it or
not, ahem, again I don’t want to be pessimistic. We may find it’s not as
bad as it looks, once we conduct thorough tests. Meanwhile, we’ll do what
we can for him.”
The foursome returned to the house a little before lunch, down the
drive and past the spot where Clyde had died. When they reached the
house they found a police cruiser by the front entrance and Lester Foley,
the Fairport police chief, in the drawing room waiting.
"Sorry to bother you folks,” he said, rising quickly when they entered,
addressing them all, but looking at Elliot. “I couldn't reach you any other
way. Do you know your phone wires have been cut?”
Jeff said, "We rather suspected that.”
The chief turned. "Oh? Well, you guessed right.” He eyed Jefferson a
moment, then looked at Elliot again. "Anyway, I want to report that, with
respect to that accident in your driveway, we in the police department
believe that this man, Clyde Holworth, was making a getaway in one of
your cars here and tipped over in the drive and got himself pinned so he
couldn’t get out. And what killed him was he froze to death. Of course I’m
told there’ll be an autopsy and all that, but you don’t have to worry none.
It’s obviously natural causes.”
He pursed his lips. "But there is one thing that might cause you a little
inconvenience.” He seemed to be apologizing to Elliot. "I don’t like to put
you through it, but I don’t know how we can get around it. You see, what
happened was, we opened the trunk of the car and in it we found a duffel
bag and you’ll never guess what was in it.”
Elliot said he had no idea and the chief looked around for someone
else to guess. "Well,” he chuckled, turning back, "believe it or not, Mr.
Wainwright, inside the bag was all the silver things that your uncle said
was missing. We got that bag down at headquarters right now and we
checked out everything in it and every single item is present and
accounted for.” He smiled. "I guess you’re pretty glad of that. I guess Mr.
Richard Wainwright’ll be especially glad. Of course it’ll require a little
inconvenience for you folks—I mean there’ll be papers to sign and things,
but we won’t make it any more complicated than we have to.”
The chief made as if to go, but turned back to Elliot, rubbing his chin
thoughtfully. "There’s just one tiling that we’re having a little problem
with downtown at headquarters though. It seems that when Mr.
Wainwright—your uncle, that is—reported the silver as missing, he said it
was stolen by a paroled convict named George Kroll. Now we find it in the
back of a car being driven by a paroled convict named Clyde Holworth.
What's more, it was reported stolen two weeks ago and it hasn’t even
made it out of the driveway yet. Since it was your uncle who made the
report, maybe he’s the one I should see about that. Except I understand
from the maid here that he’s in the hospital.”
“We’ve just come from there,” Elliot said.
“So I understand. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“I can tell you it’s very serious,” Elliot answered.
“Oh, I am sorry. Well, maybe we can get the questions taken care of
when the time comes to give you the silver back. No real hurry.” He
started to leave once more but paused again, this time stroking his chin
and looking at Jeff and the girl. “You know, sir, you have a very familiar
face. I’d swear I’d seen it before. And this young lady here? I don’t think
we’ve been introduced.”
 Jeff said, “I’m not here much, but I’m a member of the clan.” He held
out his hand. “My name is Jefferson Wainwright.” “Jefferson Wainwright,”
the chief said as he shook the hand. “Well, now, it’s a pleasure to meet
you. In fact, it’s an unexpected pleasure. Somehow I had the notion you
were dead.”
“There was a mistake.”
“Yes, I can see that. Yes, I can see there’s been quite a mistake. Quite a
big mistake. Lucky for you, though, eh?” He chuckled. “But kind of
unlucky for somebody else. I mean, I thought you were supposed to have
got buried.”
“Yes, they buried the wrong man.”
“I see. Well, that’s going to complicate things a little too, I guess.” He
turned to Corrie. “And you are?”
Corrie swallowed and said, “Corrie.” She hoped she could get by with
it, but didn’t think she could.
“Corrie?” the chief said, and waited.
“Wainwright,” Jeff filled in for her. “She’s a—distant—relative.” “How
do you do,” the chief said to Corrie and turned back to Jeff. “I don’t like to
bother you, Mr. Wainwright, but your reappearance, glorious as it is, does
introduce certain complications. Certain questions need to be answered,
if you understand what I mean. If we could get together at the earliest
possible moment, it would simplify matters.”
Jeff said, "I couldn’t agree more. Right now, my uncle’s
condition—there are matters that have to be taken care of. Could I meet
with you later on today, like three o’clock this afternoon?”
Chief Foley thought that would be more than satisfactory and departed
with the promise that he would return at three.
“With a couple of detectives and a stenographer as well,” Jeff muttered
as they closed the door on Chief Foley and watched through the window
as he returned to his car.
Elliot said, “What are we going to do about Patricia? God, I’m going
out of my mind. You two come into this house and everything happens.
Patricia’s dead—and I haven’t even seen her. And Richard might as well
be dead. What am I going to do? What are Isolde and I to do? What are
the police going to do when they find out Patricia’s dead? How can we
keep them from knowing? I get so confused. Things are getting too
much.”
 “We’re not going to keep them from knowing,” Jeff said abruptly.
“We’re going to tell them the whole story. Why should we try to hide
things?”
“Because that’s the way it’s done, Jefferson. Don’t you know how things
are done in this world? But of course you don’t. You’re never in it. You’re
always off somewhere and you always come back naïve. You want to tell
everybody the truth. What on earth good do you think that’s going to do?
Honestly, Jefferson, I don’t understand you at all.”
He started to stalk off with Isolde, but Fancy, just then, announced
lunch and Elliot reversed his path. “Well, we do have to eat something. I
suppose it might as well be now!”

It was half-past one and Corrie was nearly finished packing when there
was a knock on her bedroom door. “Corrie in, it’s open,” she said.
She turned as Jeff entered. “Hello.” She knew it would be he, but all the
same, her heart quickened.
Jeff latched the door behind him and leaned against it. “Packing?”
“I thought it would be a good idea.”
“Planning to leave?”
“I don't see any point in staying on now,” she said, not meeting his eye.
“There's nothing further for me here.”
“And you'd like to get out before Chief Foley comes back?”
She nodded.
“Before he decides to ask you some questions?”
“That's right. He didn't believe that ‘distant relative' bit any more than
he didn't know who you were the moment you walked in the room.
Thanks all the same.”
“And where will you go? Back to that newspaper?”
She shook her head. “Never.”
“Where then?”
“I haven't got that far yet. Just away.”
“Like a fugitive, as it were?”
She winced. “Maybe Foley won't try too hard to find me.”
There was silence for a moment and she looked away. Jeff shifted and
leaned against the door jamb. He said, “I'm not going to let you leave, you
know.”
She looked up quickly and tried a persuasive smile. “Pretty please?”
He shook his head solemnly.
 She sat down on the bed beside her bag, deflated and out of steam. “I
was afraid you'd say that,” she said, staring at nothing. “I hoped maybe
you'd forget to, but that was probably wrong. I deserve it.”
“Deserve what?”
“Jail—whatever.” She spread her hands. “I'm a fraud. I'm a cheat. I've
broken every law in the books.” She started to cry. “What's even worse,
I'm a damned fool. I think I could stand all the rest if I hadn't been such a
damned fool!”
“Damned fool?” He was quizzical. “How?”
“To be taken in by that—Soedlak. To dance like a puppet—on his
strings! I think I could stand all the rest.”
Jeff came away from the door. He laughed and sat down beside her.
“Oh, come now. It's not that bad.” He gave her a handkerchief. “Think of
the stories you’ll have to tell our grandchildren.” “Our grandchildren?”
She sniffed into the handkerchief. “We don’t even have any children yet.”
“I was coming to that.”
She lowered the handkerchief so she could turn and stare at him.
“Wait a minute. What?”
“I want you to marry me.”
Her mouth came wide open, then closed abruptly. “Jefferson
Wainwright, you are absolutely out of your mind. You don't have any idea
what you’re saying.”
He took her hand. “I certainly do know what I’m saying. You’ve been
using my name and calling yourself my wife all over the place. How else
can I make an honest woman out of you?” Her eyes were very wide. “But,
but—-it’s crazy. We don’t even know each other. We only just met.”
“But we do know each other. We’re both adventurers. I thought I was
the only wild-eyed nut in the whole world, but you’re another. You might
even be wilder than I am.”
“But we don’t know anything about each other. How do you know I
don’t have a husband and five children in an igloo?” “Because you’ve been
waiting all your life for me.”
“How can you know that when I only just found it out?”
Jeff didn’t answer. He took her in his arms and proceeded to kiss her in
the same, thorough, heart-pounding way that had made Corrie go weak
the first time they met.
Except that this time Corrie retained enough strength to wrap her
arms around his neck and kiss him back as good as she got.