Black-Eyed Stranger (12 page)

Somewhere a shadow shifted. Something loomed. The right door handle turned. The door opened. A huge shoulder, a head bent so that what lay black over the face might have been a shadow …

A voice said, in a startling falsetto, “You Salisbury?”

He could not nod. His neck was too stiff. But he said, “Yes,” and he thought, Alan's man, oh no, no. He said, sharply, “Don't keep me, please.”

“This the money?” the voice chirped. A hand in a brown glove picked up the money.

“Don't!”

The face had no features. There was cloth tied tightly over it, and the profile was all a black curve, hideously without the jut of a nose. The hand, the money, the head, the shoulder withdrew, dodging lightly away, and the door clicked.

Utterly shocked, Salisbury found himself squirming across the front seat and half falling out the door. A car at the extreme right of the avenue took a skittering start and turned right. Its taillight bounded merrily away.

A woman leaned out of a car behind his, that had only just, he realized, rolled slowly up. “Anything the matter?” She called boldly. The driver beside her was a man.

Salisbury said, piteously, “I don't know. I don't know.”

She turned her head. Then, like a go-between, she called, “Need a push?”

“No. Thank you. No.”

The car went into reverse and backed with an air of impatient disgust. It roared in a sharp twist around to the left of his car and its taillight went bounding away.

He got back behind the wheel. He had to wait, having missed all the green. Then he drove slowly on.

He did not know what to believe. It was out of order. Little use following all the instructions now. Nevertheless, he made the proper turn. He found the designated iron fence. He walked along the concrete base in which it was embedded to the tenth tall spike from the gate. There was no message in that designated spot. He hunted for a long time.

He did not know whether this was good or bad. He did not, he realized in anguish, know whether or not he had accomplished his mission. He thought, if he had, if
this
had all along been their plan, then not to drop the one more word it would have taken to tell him so was as brutal, as cruel a thing, as he could conceive.

He would tell Martha that he was hopeful. But he was terribly afraid. He was afraid he had made the wrong decision, from the beginning. With what, he wondered, had he been so meticulously keeping good faith?

It said, in that square penciled printing, eighteen hours. As the night wore through, the Salisburys were hopeful. They asked each other, who could have known the money was there except he who had sent the instruction? And they said hopefully to each other, “Of course. It must be so.” As it grew light, their spirits lifted and when ten o'clock came, Saturday morning, they even toasted the passing of half a day, the dark half, in a little wine. She would come. She would call.

When they began to brake time, to will it not to go so fast, neither knew. Or when each realized noon was too near. Saturday was racing across the calendar. Salisbury thought bitterly, he had kept faith, but with what? He didn't say it aloud. The flying clock raced round.

Chapter 12

SATURDAY noon. Baby Hohenbaum was eating green grapes. He ate them steadily, one at a time, in rhythm. The boss sat, knees together, hands in his pockets, in a fat blue chair. His chin touched his collarbone. He was coiled there, wickedly, Baby knew, and from time to time, Baby rolled his eyes to look at him.

Baby said, between grapes, “Nothing to worry about.”

Ambielli, with his neck still twisted, turned his eyes balefully. “If somebody talked I'll take his tongue out.”

“Aw, boss,” Baby looked at the bunch of grapes lovingly as if it were money. “Why do you want to worry?”

“I never worry. I never fail.” The head raised on the neck. “Look down, see if he's there.”

Saturday afternoon. They were in the big living room, and Salisbury, who had not been able to touch his lunch, was trying to eat a sandwich. Martha said he must.

She was knitting. But something horrible was happening to the thing that came slipping from the needles. It was changing shape. The neat tight rows had loosened, each more than the last, and the garment that ought to have grown according to count, evenly, was spreading, and it was becoming crooked, too, sagging, and hanging off the coral needles lopsided and a little mad. As her hands worked, it kept mushrooming and distorting, silent and hideous; it was the outward and visible diagram-in-wool of panic.

When she said, “More coffee, Charles?” her voice was all right.

“No. No. This sandwich is very good. What's in it?”

“We must ask Phinney,” she said brightly. “I'm glad you like it, dear.” Neither of them would ever know what was in the sandwich.

“Yes,” he said, choking, “it's very good. Won't you try a part of one?”

“No, dear. I had lunch, really. I'm not hungry at all. Not yet.”

“It's early for tea,” he said.

“Of course it is.” It was not.

The room was very quiet when they were not speaking. “Isn't it a little cool in here?”

“Would you like a fire, Martha?”

“Oh, no. No, thanks, dear.”

“Going to be a late spring.”

“It does seem so.”

Their eyes met, and he thought, oh God, the bravest heart can break! He went and sat beside her and leaned close. “Show me how you do that, darling.”

Her hands steadied. “Simple. You put the needle in, so.”

“Yes.”

“And loop the yarn, so.”

“I see.”

“And pull it through.”

“Is that all?”

“Not quite,” she said. “Sometimes, you see, there are variations.”

The doorbell rang, and the same thrilled shock ran through their bodies as they leaned together and breath pulled into them both, in the same gasp. Before they could move, Phinney's feet had hurried. Alan Dulain burst in.

He seemed to run full tilt into their expectancy and, as if it were a barrier, he stopped and looked. It was as if all three of them cried out, What? What?

Then Alan said, “Anything?”

“Nothing.” Martha echoed, “Nothing,” and Salisbury saw the yarn slide off the needles, as it should not do, and the coral point dipped ahead, just the same, and he knew enough to understand there would be a great hole in the emerging fabric. And he thought, we are going to fall apart pretty soon. Just like that.

“How are you, Mrs. Salisbury?” Alan pitied her.

She said, “Alan, have you heard anything?” and her voice was all right.

Alan was being cautious. He must be able to see, thought Salisbury, that we are falling to pieces. “Well, we've checked all hospitals again with no result. There is no chance it's an accident or anything of the sort. I hoped you had heard something. By now.” His air accused them.

“We hoped,” she said wanly.

“Darling, won't you lie down? Take something?”

Salisbury thought, if she goes to pieces, so will I. Right here. I'll fall on the carpet.

But she said, letting her knitting fall at last, “It's four o'clock, Charles. I think we must tell Alan.”

“Yes,” he said.

“All day. Too long. Something is wrong.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Tell me what?” said Alan a little coldly.

“There was a demand for ransom, Alan.”

“When?”

“Thursday.”

“
Thursday!
And you didn't tell.” The boy's face was hurt and angry, and at the same time it hinted, I thought as much. “Where is it?”

“Here.”

Alan snatched the brown paper. “What was the thing with it?”

“Her scarf,” Martha took it out of the knitting bag. “This.”

Suddenly Salisbury was glad they were telling. It felt like action. It felt like movement.

“It's her scarf,” Alan frowned.

“Of course it is.”

“None of her handwriting?”

“No.” (Salisbury cried out; inside, don't point that up!)

“Do you think,” Martha sat straighter and her voice was clear. “Is that a stain on the scarf?”

Salisbury felt his skin crawl. All this time. And she had not once said this to him, and he felt shaken. He had not thought he was being spared.

Alan took the pretty thing in his hands and crushed it, not looking down. “For God's sake, tell me what you did, sir.”

“I did as it says.”

“You went out … last night?” (You fool! You old fool! No one said it. Salisbury heard it.) “You found this place? You delivered the money?”

“I didn't get far with the money. A masked man took it off the seat.”

“What!”

“We think it was planned. I did drive on. I found the place. But there was nothing there.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing there.”

“Do you mean you were stopped? Robbed of it?”

“At a red light, Alan. He took it easily. He knew what it was. He even called my name.”

(Ah, you foolish old man! Salisbury heard it.) “What did he look like?”

“Seemed a big fellow. I was startled. I couldn't see. He was masked. No face.”

“Where did he go?”

“Car. Turned the corner.”

“You didn't follow!”

“I reacted too late. Then I went on ahead. You see, I wasn't sure. I couldn't think straight.”

“If there only had been a trained observer hidden in your car. Or someone behind. Anything. If you'd only told me.”

“I hoped …”

Martha, looking at her work, said, “I dropped some stitches. Look, I dropped …” Salisbury held her closely in his arms.

Alan snapped, “What time was this? Has it been the eighteen hours?”

“It's that, Alan.”

“She's not here.”

“Not here.”

“No call.”

“No. Nothing.”

The father watched the other's eyes, and he thought, oh, God, what statistic is he remembering? What is the rule in these cases?

“You marked the money,” Alan said, and his tone added, of course.

“No, I … did as it says.”

Martha said, sharply, “Charles!”

And he answered, quietly, “All right. All right.”

Alan walked up and down, very much upset. But he controlled himself to speak moderately, even gently. “I'm sorry you didn't let me in on it. I wish you'd seen fit to tell me. There might have been a chance. Professional people would have known what to do.”

“Done now,” said Salisbury, bitterly.

“Even this printing might tell an expert …” Alan stopped walking. “And fingerprints. Frankly, sir, I believe we must turn to the police. I can't see there's anything else to do. She isn't here. It's late. All this time lost. My men found Ambielli but—”

“Your men found!” As it penetrated, Salisbury was lifted to his feet. “But I begged of you.”

“It was obvious to me that you were both nearly out of your minds, not, as you say, thinking straight.”

“You had no business …” Salisbury cried. “Didn't you hear me beg of you?”

“I ought to have been told about this note, sir.”

“I told you that
if
they communicated …”

“You didn't tell me anything.”

“You didn't listen,” Salisbury cried.

Alan looked hurt. “There is nothing to be so upset about,” he soothed. “My people simply located the man. No harm. They found the room where he stays. They're quietly checking.”

“No harm!” cried Salisbury. “
I
kept faith. But
you,
in my name, did not. It may be … It may be …”

“Not at all. Ambielli doesn't know he is being watched.”

“How can you be so sure? What if he does? What if he thinks I was not alone last night. Somebody followed me. What if he thinks I did
not
obey?” Salisbury heard himself bellow. “Don't you understand?
She isn't here.
”

Alan said, scornfully, “I can't believe—”

“Call your people off!”

“If you insist, sir.” Alan was stiff. “But I think it's unnecessary … as a precaution. And I think we need to know more about Ambielli. Especially now. As you say, she isn't here.”

Chapter 13

SALISBURY dug his knuckles into the bones above his eyes. He looked at his wife's white head, which showed a faint shimmer of motion, a continuing tremor. He thought, she can't bear much more.

“This hint about Ambielli,” said Alan, “is a fairly promising clue. The best we have until we find Lynch himself. I was bound to do what I thought was wise. For Katherine's sake. Yesterday you seemed completely paralyzed and helpless. If you had trusted me.”

“I had,” Salisbury mumbled. “Don't you see that I had?”

“These men are discreet. They've done this sort of thing. You just don't know, sir. I'll take the responsibility.”

Salisbury said, sharply, “You can't ‘take the responsibility.' That's meaningless. That's a word. Done, now,” he snapped. “Let's hope they are as discreet as you think. Can you reach them?”

“I can, shortly. That is, they know where I am.” One of them will call. But I don't agree. We must go to the police, sir, and I think you must admit it. It's beyond you, sir. I'm sorry. That's the truth.”

Salisbury thought with swift sick self-doubt, the boy is right. I suppose he is right.

“Not yet,” Martha said softly. “It's barely time. It may be we aren't counting from the same beginning. Not yet. You see, if they—”

“Don't, Martha.”

“It doesn't make much difference,” she murmured. “So just wait a little bit, a little longer.” Martha got to her feet. She said in breaking tones, “Don't give up hoping. But I think I must go upstairs.”

“Of course, darling,” Salisbury felt relief. “Yes, do. It's best. Let me call Helen to be with you.”