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shiver and stirred fallen branches. Not feeling it even in my thin
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shirt, I stood motionless under the shadow of a tree. I had nothing to
do but wait and hurt and think and grieve. Down the block the windows
were still lit at the funeral parlor where John Henry Banks waited to be
buried.
A slow hour passed before the chief's car chugged up to its slot in
front of the station. He was alone, which was exactly what I wanted. As
he got out, I put myself on the sidewalk and called to him.
"Chief Curtis?" I used a light, friendly voice. I was someone with no
real problems or gripes.
The car was between us. He shut the door and looked up. "Yes? Who's
there?"
That reminded me about my superior night vision. He was squinting to see
my face against the harsh, inadequate light of the street lamps.
"I need to talk with you, if you have a minute."
He didn't know my voice and was trying to place my body shape, comparing
it with others in his memory to identify me. I was familiar, but he
didn't know why.
"I got a minute, come into the station." He remained on his side of the
car, unconsciously on guard. Some deep instinct within had raised the
tiniest of alarms. I rounded the front of the car--a natural enough
move--but it put the light squarely behind me and kept my face in
shadow. His glasses picked up the brightness and threw it back.
"No need to go to any trouble, sir, I just had a question for you." I
was almost close enough to start, but had to move to one side so he
could see my face, half in light, half in shadow. He didn't know me, but
I was now very different from the rain-sodden corpse on the roadside
under the glare of his flashlight.
"What is it?" He was expectant. In another second he'd be impatient.
"I want you to listen to me," I said, focusing onto him.
Light flared over his glasses as I closed in.
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The stone bench was cold and unforgivingly hard, but Escott cheerfully
maintained its superiority over his padded bunk at the jail. His vest
and coat were tightly buttoned and he was pretending not to feel the
chill in the wind as we sat watching the Glenbriar Inn. The white
Studebaker was still where Barrett had left it hours earlier.
My head had started its dizzy thumping again, adding to my worries. I
hugged my precious packet of earth and longed for total rest deep in my
quiet trunk. Chief Curtis had been less trouble than I'd anticipated,
but it had been very draining.
A minute after I'd finished with him and faded into the night, he shook
himself and completed the journey from his car to the station, unaware
of its interruption. Escott was brought from the lockups and released,
much to the puzzled annoyance of the deputies. Sometime tomorrow Escott
would return to collect his car keys and my personal effects. I could
have managed it all tonight, but didn't want to push things too far or
too fast. There was always the chance that Curtis could be talked out of
my influence by some familiar, sensible voice.
"I'm going inside," said Escott. His tone was relaxed and
conversational, as though he'd only commented on the weather.
Prom this end of the place we could see the window of our room. If
Barrett was up there instead of in the lobby, he hadn't bothered with
the lights. I could easily imagine him sitting very quietly in the dark,
facing the door and waiting for it to open. Escott had made his mind up
and nothing short of my hypnosis could change it. I wasn't going to do
that, but I couldn't let him go up there alone, either.
"All right." I stood up. Slowly. The nagging dizziness made the ground
lurch. I'd used up a lot of precious energy dealing with Curtis.
"You don't have to, you know."
"I know. Let's get moving."
We left the park, going the long way around to avoid being in direct
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sight of our window. I kept my eyes wide open as we approached the back
door to the inn, scouting likely corners and shadows for his presence.
The memory of that amorphous gray blob so invisible to human eyes was
still with me.
He was in the room and heard us come up the stairs. He could distinguish
us from other guests by the sound of two pairs of feet, but only one
pair of working lungs. Our door opened suddenly and he stepped into the
hall to look us over with his candle-flame eyes. He nodded and stood to
one side, inviting us in.
Damn few things ever ruffled Escott; he murmured a polite good evening
and did so, turning on a light. It took me a little longer to follow.
Our room was undisturbed. If for any reason he'd bothered to search it,
he'd been careful. Without thinking, I went straight to my trunk and sat
on it; the soil within tugged at me like a rope. Escott sank onto one
corner of the bed nearest the door and Barrett took a hardwood chair
next to the window.
"I read the paper," he began. "I read ail about the double murder and
saw the name John R. Fleming, so I thought I should check it out and see
if it was you. I'm glad you're all right."
My face must have been stone. "Are you?"
His lips thinned and his own expression hardened. "Yes, I see that you
are. I'll go now."
"Wait." Escott arrested his move to leave. "Something else must have
brought you here as well."
"It was the story in the paper," he stated, his voice even.
"Indeed."
Barrett didn't like his look and started to rise again, and again Escott
stopped him.
"The other man who was killed, John Henry Banks--what do you know about
him?"
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"Only what they said in the paper. Why should I know anything about
him?"
"He was the man who chauffeured Maureen away from the Francher estate
five years ago."
The revelation did no more than raise one eyebrow. "He was?"
"We spoke to him at length. He remembered a small woman wearing a veiled
hat who hardly spoke to him."
"What a remarkable memory he must have had."
"Only because of the unusual nature of his fare."
"How so unusual?"
"Because it had been a very long drive for them and she bestowed a
rather large tip for his trouble."
Barrett shrugged. "It's a long road back to the city."
"But he did not take her to New York, he drove her to Port Jefferson."
"Port--"
"Why would anyone want to go to Port Jefferson?"
"To use the ferry to--" He broke off, his brows coming together.
"Would Maureen have had any reason to go to Bridgeport?" Escott asked,
putting a very slight emphasis on her name. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]