IT WAS EASY for him to say, he didn't have to go over the brick wall up the road and bumble through the woods to reach the house--not that that was too much trouble. Most of the time I was incorporeal, and passed over the terrain the way Escott's pipe smoke drifted out the car window.
In a bodiless state the wall was no problem, and my clothes were spared the rigors of a hike through the wilderness. I just didn't like my errand or anything to do with it; I was looking for things to complain about.
I had to pause and re-form often to get my bearings, but I made good speed, swiftly flowing between the solid bulk of the tree trunks until I was within spitting distance of the garage. After that I took my time.
Barrett's night vision was equal to my own, and unlike normal humans he could spot me in my invisible state.
Creeping into the garage, I checked each of the cars: an early Ford on blocks, a Rolls, a Caddy, and a brand-new white Studebaker. I dutifully wrote their plate numbers in my notebook and looked over their paperwork. All of them were owned by Emily Francher.
The floor above the garage was occupied by two women, both comfortably asleep. They had separate rooms, but shared a bath and had black uniforms hanging in the closets that identified them as regular staff. I picked gingerly through their purses to get their names, and ghosted outside again without disturbing them. As a vampire hell-bent on finding slumbering maidens to drain into terminal anemia, I was a total washout.
The stables were next, and were just as quiet. The horses may have been used to late-night visits. Two stood in stalls and six more wandered loose in the adjoining corral. None of them did more than cock an interested ear in my direction.
Upstairs, a section had been converted to living quarters, and I found a young man happily snoring away in his bed. His place was cluttered with horsey-smelling clothes, riding boots in both English and Western styles, and other related junk. He had a modest collection of Zane Grey novels on a shelf and below them was a pile of magazines whose pictured contents were anything but modest. Again, I quietly raided a wallet for identification.
The easy stuff out of the way, I oozed through the back door of the main house and solidified in the kitchen. A small light over one of the electric stoves kept it from being totally dark. Various doors opened to a hall, the dining room, pantry, and the basement. I picked the basement, changed to a semi-transparent state for silence and speed, and sailed down the stairs.
The walls were very solid concrete and the massive house above was well supported by a forest of thick pillars. I went solid for a moment and listened, but caught only the irregular drip of water from the laundry room. A slightly musty smell hung in the still air, coming from some odd pieces of old furniture stacked against a brick wall opposite the stairs. It was only a basement and a waste of my time.
I was halfway back to the kitchen when it hit me: the place was much too small. I went down again and checked the brickwork. Not being an expert, I couldn't tell if it was part of the original building or not, but my curiosity was up. I disappeared and pushed forward through the bricks.
It was slow work, like walking through sticky oatmeal. I didn't like the feeling at all and the wall was nearly a foot thick. It seemed like forever before I tumbled into free and open space again, to re-form for a look around.
On this side the bricks were hidden by fine oak paneling, and the utilitarian presence of the support pillars had been softened by similar decoration. Some of them had been converted into four-sided bookshelves, each loaded with hundreds of titles. A thick rug covered most of the parquet flooring and several lamps held back the darkness. The chairs and sofas looked comfortable and the air was fresh.
Barrett had done very well for himself.
He'd said his room was fireproof and secure, qualities which struck me as wise precautions. It was no wonder vampires had a reputation for hanging around graveyards; few things are more fireproof or private than a stone mausoleum. But this basement location was a real luxury and far better than anything I might have planned for myself. I was frankly envious.
The entrance to his sanctum was a heavy industrial-type metal door covered in more wood paneling. It led to a carpeted hall and a flight of steps going up to a door with access to the ground floor. Both were locked, which was sensible. I went back down again and got nosy.
His quarters consisted of a large living area, bedroom, bath, and a good-sized closet. The bed was unusually large, with a fancy embroidered canopy. It was for use, not for show, since the nightstand held some personal clutter. His carpet slippers lay jumbled on the floor next to it.
I cautiously looked under the brocaded blue bedspread and plain white sheets and found a doubled thickness of oilcloth stretched over the mattress. It was sewn shut at the edges, but I could tell by the weight and feel that it contained his home earth. It was a very neat arrangement, one that I intended to adapt for myself, now that I had the idea.
Beyond the bedroom was a spotless white-tiled bath, supplied with the usual appointments, except that the cabinet over the sink lacked a mirror. It was an easily understandable omission.
His closet was stocked with a number of suits. He favored dark blues and grays for his business wear, had two tuxedos, and some riding gear. One long rack contained a rainbow of shins, ties, and handkerchiefs. Almost everything was silk.
At the back of the closet was a big antique trunk. It was banged up, but in good, solid condition. It was also locked, but I could guess he had a spare supply of earth inside in case he felt a need to travel.
I heard a footfall just outside the room and damn near panicked.
Stupidly, I had an idea he'd use a key, but he no more needed a key than I did. He had slipped inside the same silent way. I froze absolutely still, afraid he'd hear my eyelids blinking. I could certainly hear his every movement. Two soft thumps indicated he'd removed his shoes and other, less distinct sounds I interpreted as him undressing. I had a wild hope he wouldn't bother with the closet and abruptly discarded it as he padded my way.
Abject fear can be inspiring; I made a fast and wild-eyed search for a hiding place and spotted a ventilation grate in the ceiling. In the time it took for him to grasp the knob of the closet door and swing it open, I'd vanished and swept up into the narrow shaft.
Even in a disembodied state it was uncomfortable, and I had some very unpleasant thoughts that it might lead to the furnace. I'm not usually claustrophobic, but a few minutes of such close confinement was more than enough for my rattled brain. I couldn't go back to the closet, but if I didn't get out soon, my attack of mental sweats would send me solid again. Since the shaft seemed to be only ten inches square, that was the last thing I wanted to happen.
I flowed along the metal tunnel, felt an upward turning, and took it, hoping for the best and trying not to think about furnaces. After that I got lost; in this non-physical state it's almost impossible to avoid.
It's like turning somersaults underwater with your eyes shut. Before too long you lose all sense of direction and can surface for air only to bump against the bottom of the pond.
I streamed along, just barely maintaining control, and suddenly sieved into open space again, which was a great improvement. By extended touch I made out the shapes of large unyielding surfaces and guessed them to be furnishings. I slowly re-formed and found my guess to be correct. The room was unoccupied; I sank into a chair and spent awhile pulling my nerves together. The next time Escott wanted information he could damn well get it himself. Playing the rabbit in a tunnel was not my idea of fun.
After a few minutes of quiet, I was settled down enough to move on and find out where I'd ended up. A look out a window confirmed that I was on the second floor overlooking the front lawn, though I wasn't close to any inhabited areas. The rooms I checked were dark and very much underfurnished. It didn't seem to be from any lack of money, simply lack of interest. The house had been built for socializing and entertaining lots of guests, something Emily Francher actively avoided. I wondered why her mother had turned down such a gift.
Down one long hall I discovered Emily's suite of rooms, and like Barrett, she'd indulged in every comfort and convenience. More French windows opened onto the back veranda and were so heavily curtained as to be lightproof. If she stayed up to keep Barrett company at night, she was likely to be a very late sleeper, but just to be sure I checked under the bedclothes. No oilcloth flats of earth lurked beneath the sheets. Emily was quite human and during the day she slept alone.
Her favorite colors were red, gold, and white; the decor was expensive, of course, but not overpowering. I poked through drawers and found clothes and vanity items, but nothing useful like a soul-revealing diary. The bedside table contained a Bible, several used-up crossword-puzzle books, pencils, a copy of Anthony Adverse, and a big, nearly full bottle of sleeping pills.
Her walk-in closet was larger than Barrett's, held enough clothes to open a store, but even my uneducated male eye could tell many of them were years out of style. Two heavy-looking cases in one corner caught my attention. One was open and contained those few pieces of jewelry she hadn't worn tonight: a couple of gold bracelets, some rings, and a pearl necklace. The other case was locked and wouldn't budge. On closer look both proved to be made of thick metal covered with wood veneer and welded to a huge metal plate bolted to the floor. Emily was careless, but not completely stupid.
Leaving her room, I moved down the hall and invaded Barrett's private office. The rolltop part of the desk was locked and I couldn't open it without making a lot of noise and leaving traces. The drawers were open, but only contained the usual supplies. If neatness counted for anything, Barrett earned his keep well enough.
I was starting down the central stairs to the front hall and nearly blundered into him again. A door below opened and shut, followed by swift, decisive footsteps. Backing up the stairs, I crouched behind the railings, keeping very still. He emerged into view, his bootheels making a clatter against the marble floor as he crossed the hall to the parlor.
As for the rest of his clothesI felt my jaw sag open.
The hall was too open and dangerous; I opted to slip outside again and moved around to the front to peer in through the parlor window. The curtains were thin enough; I very much wanted to get a second look at the man.
The lamp was off and the only light now came from the fireplace. Emily Francher had moved from her chair to a long settee, where she reclined, still clad in her diamonds and red velvet. For the first time I noticed the high waist on her garment, and it made me think of something from the Napoleonic era. The soft glow from the fire added to the illusion of the far past.
Barrett was leaning against the mantel. My initial glimpse hadn't been any hallucination; he'd changed his business suit for a costume from a long-lost century. He wore a flowing, open-necked white shirt with loose, full sleeves, some form-fitting riding pants, and a supple pair of boots. All he needed now was a fancy coat and sword, or maybe a brace of dueling pistols to complete the effect. With his thick hair now carelessly tumbling over his forehead, he looked like a friendlier version of Bronte's Heathcliff.
The intervening glass muffled things a little, but I had no trouble making out their voices.
"I don't think they'll be back," he was saying to her. "They just had a few questions about someone I once knew."
"What about her?" she asked. "That young man seemed very anxious to find her."
He shook his head. "I think they'll look elsewhere now."
"You're still troubled."
"Only because I don't want them to come back. I don't want them bothering you."
"My protector," she said, and broke into a sudden smile. It transformed her face and I could see strong evidence of the pretty young woman she had once been. He smiled as well and came to kneel on one knee next to her, taking one of her hands in both of his. Her eyes clouded with doubt. "Will it be different for us, do you think?"
He kissed her hand quickly, reassuringly. "I certainly hope so. dearest.
I will do everything possible to make it so for you." He caressed her face tenderly and kissed her forehead. "I promise."
"Really?" The playfulness was back in her expression.
"I'll show you."
He undid her choker necklace and kissed her forehead again, then her eyes, then her mouth. His arms half lifted her from the settee, pulling her body close to his own. Her head tilted back and he moved lower, his lips closing possessively over the two faint marks on her throat that the choker had concealed.
Her own arms were wrapped tightly around him, one hand pressing on the back of his neck to help guide him to that special spot. His jaw worked and a tremor ran through her whole body in response. He stayed there, drinking from her, for what seemed a very long time.
My conscience was working a blue streak. How do you know where to draw the line between curiosity and voyeurism? I went transparent, pushed away into the darkness beyond the window, and floated around the corner of the house.
That they were lovers was no stunning surprise. Their style of going about it was much more sedate than some of the wild tumbles that Bobbi and I had shared, but to each his own. Despite their quiet method, the passion was there, and I could sympathize with it enough to get stirred up myself, but Bobbi was nearly eight hundred miles away. As for the horses in the backyard--they were for food, not sex. There is a very decided difference between the two, at least for me. I'd just have to hike around in the woods until the pleasant frustration wore off, and try to make up for it when I got back to Chicago. Bobbi wouldn't mind.
The other thing bothering me was Barrett's wish for us to stay away.
Maybe he was afraid we'd be rocking the sweet little boat he'd gotten for himself as Emily Francher's secretary. On the other hand, he'd have to be a better actor than Escott if that love scene I'd just watched had been a fake. If he genuinely loved her, then he'd want to protect her from his past indiscretions and present troubles. Put in his place, I'd be doing the same.
Then there was Emily Francher wondering if things would be different for them. Was she talking about a better relationship than he'd had with Maureen or whether Barrett's attentions would bring her back when she died? I was inclined to think it was the latter, since she didn't seem to know all that much about Maureen.
Note that word--seem. Being lousy at lying myself often made me vulnerable to the lies of others. But right now I was too interested in finding Maureen to want to give anyone the benefit of a doubt.
The sound of radio music eventually tugged me out of my thoughts. It came from some open French windows on the second floor and reminded me that there was at least one other member of the household.
I drifted up and steadied myself with a ghostly hand on the veranda railing just outside the fan of light filtering through the lacy white curtains.
Laura Francher, the lithe blond I'd seen swimming in the pool below, was before a large mirror that nearly covered one wall of her bedroom. A balance bar ran in front of it at waist height, but she wasn't bothering with any ballet practice at the moment. Instead, she was swaying to the music of Rudy Vallee; her eyes shut as she danced with a pretend partner. Her feet were bare, but then so was the rest of her.
I hung back in the shadows and settled into solidity again. I only wanted to be able to hear the radio better. Honest.
I noted with quick interest that she was a natural blond. It was certainly fascinating, but I didn't think Escott would find that particular detail of much use in our investigation. My conscience was trying to kick up again, though at times I could be selectively deaf to it. What a pretty girl did to occupy herself alone in her room was her business--but the view was very absorbing. I reflected that this kind of detecting could easily become addictive. I'd give myself just one more minute and then move on.
When the minute ran out, Rudy was still singing and by then I was speculating what she'd look like performing a fast rumba when she abruptly stopped and scampered to a closet. She emerged a second later, hastily belting up a bright yellow bathrobe. Smoothing down her long hair, she opened the door.
It was Barrett and she let him in.
He was still in his poet's costume and looking less relaxed than he'd been with Emily. The whites of his eyes were solid red, still suffused with her blood. Their condition didn't seem to bother Laura, who shut the door behind him readily enough. The radio continued to blare, which was bad for me since I couldn't hear a word of their conversation. It was like watching a play through a telescope.
Barrett was obviously uncomfortable, but Laura appeared not to notice and settled in at her dressing table to brush out her thick, straight hair. Her loosely tied bathrobe was starting to come apart with the activity. She didn't bother to correct things. Barrett had called her a child, and so she must have been five years ago--not anymore. Her every movement indicated the confident maturity of a young woman who knows she is desirable.
He gently took the hairbrush from her hand, wanting her undivided attention. He'd finally worked himself up to say something, and it seemed pretty important. I ground my teeth, wishing I could read lips.
As he spoke, Laura's face grew cool and lost all expression. She studied her reflection in the mirror above the table. Barretts' own lack of reflection in it was nothing new to her, either. He ran out of words eventually and waited for some reaction. Rudy was replaced by Bing Crosby before the girl smiled and sighed out a reply.
Barretts' mouth opened; he was surprised and relieved at once. Their talk continued, apparently along the lines of questions and reassurances until both were smiling. He relaxed, lighter looking now that his errand was out of the way, and watched as she retrieved her brush and resumed work on her hair.
Her robe was still more than a little loose and her movements opened it wider. He spoke to her and she looked up and smiled at his concern. She had wonderfully large eyes, the kind that were made for men to get lost in. For all his age and experience, Barrett was no less vulnerable to them than anyone else, myself included. His hand went out and softly stroked the length of her shining hair.
She liked it but was content only to look at him and to wait for his next move. He obviously wanted her, his expression made that plain enough, but not just yet. He stood up, murmured something, and let himself out the door. She stared after him, then turned back to the mirror to smile patiently at herself. As far as she was concerned, his upcoming seduction was a foregone conclusion.
The car was at a slight tilt where it rested off the shoulder of the road. The night-shadowed landscape beyond the windshield looked askew from where I was sitting, which more or less suited my state of mind.
I talked and Escott smoked and listened, getting an earful. My description of the house and staff lacked for no detail, but when I got around to Barrett's relationship with Emily and Laura, I did some self-conscious editing. Escott noticed, but chose not to comment on what was left out, and kept puffing on his pipe. He continued to do so long after I'd wound down and stopped.
"Well?" I asked. The crickets out in the woods had held the floor long enough. "What do you think?"
His pipe had gone dead. Frowning absently, he tapped it empty and pocketed it for the time being. "I think this needs more study," he stated.
"More study?"
"But you've done some excellent groundwork." He paged through my scribbled notes, looking at each name. 'Til get busy with these tomorrow and try to follow up on the destination of Maureen's departing cab."
He saw my disappointment and added, "Our other alternative is to wait indefinitely on Barrett."
We'd given him the name of our Manhattan hotel and the mailing address in Chicago so he could send us word of Maureen. To me, it was nothing more than manners with no substance. We went through the motions, but I didn't believe anything would come of it.
"The hell with that," I growled.
Escott nodded agreement and started the car.
The next night I woke up in a strange room, which is very disorienting when you don't expect it, and I didn't.
My trunk was shoved against a wall too close for the lid to hinge back so I had to sieve my way out. I spent a few seconds gaping at the change of scene, then called to Escott to demand an explanation, except he wasn't there to provide one. He hadn't left a note, but since his suitcase was making creases in the homemade quilt on one of the tidy beds, it was reasonable to expect him back sometime soon. He knew my habits.
I was surrounded by dark, heavy furniture, old-fashioned wallpaper, framed scenes of us winning the American Revolution, and handmade rugs.
Outside and one story down were huge trees, a gravel drive, cut lawn, fresh air, and a picturesque white picket fence. We were probably not in Manhattan.
The stationery on a tall bureau introduced me to the Glenbriar Inn of Glenbriar, Long Island, and a thin brochure pointed out sites of historical interest. It was so absorbing I dropped it flat the second Escott keyed the door and walked in.
"I was a bit delayed," he apologized. "I'd hoped to be back earlier in order to soften the shock."
"Too bad, I've used up all my double takes for the night. You missed a beaut when I came out and found this. What's with the move?"
"I thought it necessary and more convenient to the investigation if we could be closer to the Francher estate. This village happens to be where they do most of their local business."
"It must have been a million laughs getting me and the trunk upstairs."
"I had help, but I'd rather not go into details at the present." Slowly and painfully, he stretched out on the other, uncluttered bed, and I noticed that he was looking very green at the edges.
"You all right?"
"As well as can be expected after imbibing large amounts of coffee, tea, and beer, mixed with sweetbreads, biscuits, pretzels, and salted nuts."
I looked down with sympathetic horror. He managed not to groan or clutch his aching stomach, though he had every right to do so.
"Any reason why you put away all that stuff, or do you just go into a fit now and then?"
The tearooms, inns, and pubs of this tour-minded place require plenty of custom if you expect to learn any of the local gossip. Did you know William Cullen Bryant used to live not far from here? They have a pair of his spectacles on display in a tearoom museum, which was urgently recommended to me as a pleasant diversion for the day."
"His spectacles?" I echoed, trying to sound impressed.
"Indeed."
"Well, well. Who'd have thought it?"
"Indeed." Charles"
He raised one hand so I could bear with him one more time. "Tell me, who was William Cullen Bryant?"
" Editor of the New York Evening Post back in the last century."
"No relation to the orator of the Scopes trial?"
"That was William Jennings Bryan, not Bryant." I wondered just how much he'd had to drink.
He shut his eyes and gave in to a shudder. "Have you ever tried to turn a conversation around from spectacles to house fires?"
I admitted that I'd never had the opportunity.
"It does require some skill in order not to get caught at it. If people sense you are eager to learn something specific, you end up with too much information or none at all. Let them talk on their own and you learn everything you need."
"How can you have too much information?"
"Many feel the plain truth is too plain and requires embroidery. "
"Does this mean you got more dope on the Franchers?"
"A good deal, mixed up with a half dozen other families, but the fire was an excellent point on which to focus their attention. It was quite the nine-day wonder, and once the subject had been introduced, one thing led to another."
"So tell me already."
Eyes shut and hands cradling his head, he began talking to the ceiling.
"Violet Francher, the mother who died in the fire, was quite the proper and respectable dowager, but of the sort best admired from a distance.
She had a sharp tongue, a temper bordering on the apoplectic, and I need hardly mention she had a difficult time keeping servants for very long.
"She was alone the night of the fire, as her housekeeper left her employ some three days earlier. Daughter Emily, ward Laura, and Mr. Barrett were all at their own house. Laura usually stayed with Violet during her spring holiday from school, but had moved in with Emily until a new housekeeper could be hired. The general consensus is the girl was very lucky, or she might have died along with her guardian."
"It took place at night?"
"I'm glad you noticed that. I found it of extreme interest in conjunction with some other facts."
"What are they?"
"I'm coming to them."
"Why wasn't the old lady at the daughter's house as well?"
"I'm coming to that, too. Sometime in January--this is in --Emily hired Mr. Jonathan Barrett as her secretary. They met at a party given by Violet, who still attempted to maintain some touch with society. Barrett came as a guest of a guest, had no real references, but was obviously educated and cultured. Not long after his hiring, the rumors started that something was 'going on' between him and Emily. They circulated the servants' hall and into the town and eventually made their way back to Violet, who was all moral outrage.
'She immediately made her views known in considerable detail to her daughter, and the upshot was that Barrett had to go. Much to her shock and surprise, Emily flatly refused. For the next few months, neither woman spoke to the other, and when they did, they were usually trading salvos over Barrett."
"How did he handle all this?"
"He kept in the neutral background as much as possible. He turned down the most outrageous bribes, though the question was raised as to whether Violet actually had the money. He survived the investigations of a private detective hired to find something, anything from his past that might be used to influence Emily against him--"
"What about his influence on Emily?"
He got my double meaning. "Hypnosis is a possibility, but I put much stock in the fact that Emily was genuinely in love with him. Your report of last night's rendezvous makes that a virtual certainty."
"Unless they were both faking it."
"Granted, but to return--"
"Yeah, go ahead."
"All her efforts having failed to budge him, Violet assembled a trio of psychiatrists in need of funds for the purpose of having Emily declared mentally incompetent--"
"What?"
"A tactic that had every chance of working. After all, Emily did suffer one nervous breakdown years ago, why should she not suffer another?"
"Suffer is right, her mother must have been" I was at a loss. Calling her crazy didn't seem strong enough.
"Right round the twist?" he queried. "Agreed. This was a woman who wanted and usually did exercise total control over those around her--particularly over her daughter."
"So what happened with the doctors?"
"It all fell through because of the fire and her death."
"Very convenient for Barrett."
"Yes, and something else struck me as convenient and suggestively odd: in the newspaper accounts of the fire not one of them mentions his name."
I chewed that one over. "He'd naturally want a low profile"
"Low to nonexistent. Also, there was no gossip connecting him to the tragedy. If anything, some people felt Violet had brought it upon herself--'God's judgment' for having such a foul temper and that sort of thing."
"But you think he did it?"
"I think," he said after a moment, "that if it was not an accident, then any of three people could have done it--or perhaps all three or any combination. Barrett is the most likely, more so than Emily or Laura."
"Laura was just a kid at the time."
"Remember that story I told you about the grandmother, her cat and the two homicidal grandchildren?"
I made an appropriate noise to indicate it was not something I was likely to forget. "What's her motive, though?"
"Violet Francher's overbearing personality? One cannot choose one's relative."
"You could add a fourth, the housekeeper who quit."
"Ah, but she was very much elsewhere learning the duties of her job some ten miles away. On the other hand, that frayed wire could just as easily have been tampered with days earlier and left as a sort of waiting bomb, or the whole thing could have been an accident, after all."
"Look, is this anything we can really use?"
"It is knowledge, usable or not. Only time will reveal its value to us."
"So now what?"
Most of the green in his gills had faded and his eyes were sparking with new energy when he opened them. "We take a ride in a cab."
"We--you found the cab?"
"More important, I found the driver. His name is John Henry Banks and he is president, owner, and sole employee of Banks Cab Company. And"--he glanced at his watch-- "he is due here in fifteen minutes."
"You talked with him?"
"I made an appointment by phone for him to pick us up."
"How in hell did you find him?"
"Sometimes in this type of work antic coincidence plays its part. One of the men I talked with today was part of the demolition and cleanup crew that worked on the burned Francher house. He mentioned that the day before they started the job, his cousin John Henry had been called out to the estate to pick up a fare. It should give you an idea of how exciting the pace of life is in Glenbriar that something so trivial is remembered."
"But it's a break for us."
"We shall see."
At seven-thirty a blue-and-yellow checkered cab pulled up outside the inn and a little brown man in gray work clothes and a peaked cap got out and stumped up to the front door.
"Call for Escott!" he bellowed, poking his head just inside.
I hoped Escott hadn't wanted a low profile for himself. If so, then John Henry Banks had just shot it all to hell. We'd already gotten a few curious looks from the desk clerk. Correction, I had gotten the looks.
Escott had both our names on the register, but he'd been the only one they'd seen up till now. The clerk was giving me a fishy eye, trying to figure out where I'd come from.
We followed Banks out and Escott told him to drive to the edge of town.
It took him all of one minute.
"Now where to?" he asked, looking at us from the rear-view mirror. I was squeezed flat against the door, but he got puzzled about the empty spot I should have been in and twisted around to make sure I was still aboard. Escott distracted him before things got out of hand. . "Mr.
Banks, I have a question for you"
"Eh?"
"I need to know if you can recall a fare you picked up five years ago."
He gawked at us. He had a square face with a sharp nose and chin, thin brown hair, and large, innocent brown eyes. "You serious? Five years? I don't keep those kind of records, mister."
"Have you ever picked up a fare from the Francher estate?"
He started to roll his eyes and shake his head but stopped midway. "Here now, the Franchers'? The place where the old lady was burned up?"
"The same."
"I maybe could remember," he hazarded, his eyes flicking meaningfully to the running meter.
Escott smiled. "I'm sure you will, Mr. Banks, given the time. It's a fine cool night out and this country air is quite refreshing." He sat back in the seat as if it were part of a drawing room and he had all night to listen.
Banks responded with a grin. "Okay, as a matter of fact, I do remember that one."
"Please tell us about it."
"Why do you want to know?"
Escott now looked at the meter. "Then again, this air can be too much of a good thing. I shouldn't like to catch a chill, so perhaps we should return immediately to the inn"
Banks caught on fast. "Well, I was in my office--which is my house--and got his call. It's just me and the one car, you know, and business is pretty thin, so I'm open all the time. Anyway, this call comes telling me to come up to the Francher place, which I never been to before on account of the old lady and her daughter being rich with their own cars don't need any cabs. Course by then the old lady got burned up in the fire, my cousin Willie was gonna help tear down the old house--"
"The phone call, Mr. Banks?" Escott gently urged.
"Oh, yeah. I got out there, had to argue my way past Mayfair's wife--she's the housekeeper there,, and what a temper she's got. You'd think she owned the place the way she throws her weight around. She went to call the house to see it anyone wanted a cab, and when she got back she looked like she'd just bit a bad lemon. Mayfair let me through and I drove up and saw the house--the burned one, and what a mess that was--"
Escott raised an eyebrow.
"Oh. Well. I got to the other house, the new place what the daughter had built, and there was this lady standing out front waiting--"
"What'd she look like?" I asked.
"I dunno. She was little, dark clothes, wore one of them hats so you couldn't see her face."
"With a veil?" Maureen often wore one to shade her eyes from the afterglow of sunset.
"Yeah. Looked like a widow at a funeral. She had a trunk, but I always keep some rope handy for stuff like that. It was some trouble I had trying to tie the thing in place--"
"Where did she want to go? What did she say to you?"
"She hardly said nothing, just told me to load the trunk on and to take her to Port Jefferson as quickly as I could."
"Where's that?"
"That's what threw me, too. I expected it to be at least to Queens, and this place is nearly sixty miles away in the opposite direction. It's along the north shore of the island. I asked if she was sure, and she nodded and got inside and told me to hurry it up."
"She was nervous?"
"I guess so. She seemed plenty interested in getting going."
"Was she afraid?"
"Dunno. Who could tell with that black stuff covering her face? All I can tell you for sure was that she was in a hurry."
"Did she say why she was going to Port Jefferson?"
"I asked--by way of conversation, just to be friendly--but she never answered, so I shut up. Some of these rich dames can be pretty snooty.
She was quiet for the whole trip, and sixty miles is a long way to be quiet."
"Why did you think she was rich?" asked Escott.
"You think the Franchers would know anyone poor?" he reasoned logically.
"Where in Port Jefferson did you take her?"
"Now that's the funny part. She wanted to be dropped at the ferry."
"Ferry?"
"Port Jefferson has a ferry running across the sound to Bridgeport. It was full night by then and the ferry was closed down and I told her so.
She just had me untie her trunk and leave it there with her on the side of the road. She paid the fare, gave me a five-dollar tip, and I drove off feeling pretty good."
"You seem to have a very clear memory of all this."
"I guess I do. I mean, besides this being the only person I ever picked up from the Francher place, she was the only person who ever gave me a tip that big. I ain't gonna forget something like that so soon."
Escott turned to me. "What would she want in Bridgeport?"
I shrugged. Why would she want to be crossing water by boat? It was difficult enough for me to bear going over on a bridge.
He went back to John Henry Banks. "You are absolutely certain of this sequence of events?"
"That's the truth, mister. Take it or leave it." He took it, but neither of us liked it.
Banks drove us back to the inn. It was my turn, so I paid off the meter and gave him a tip equal to Maureen's, which put him into an excellent mood. He grinned and thanked us along with instructions to call him anytime if we ever needed another drive.
Escott was striding purposefully up the stone-bordered walk. I caught up with him in the small lobby just as he was accepting a thin phone book from the desk clerk. I craned over his shoulder to see the pages.
He stopped at cab companies in the area--a very short listing--and Banks was at the top of the column, a fact Escott noted aloud to me.
"If she needed a taxi, she would consult a directory and the first listing might be her first choice, as it evidently turned out. How do you feel about a long drive tonight?"
"To Port Jefferson?"
"And possibly to Bridgeport."
On a boat. Across all that water. Damn.
"Or perhaps not," he added, noting my expression.
"I'm no Popeye the Sailor, but if Maureen could take it, so can I. I guess."
"Brave heart," he said, and signaled to the clerk to start checking us out.
While he was busy with that I went upstairs to bring down his bag and my trunk. I opened our door and stopped cold. Jonathan Barrett was standing by the window, hands clasped behind him and looking at me as though I, and not he, were the unwelcome intruder.