"Actually, of course, he comes here to meet Edgar." The old lady paused, looking at Joe as if defying him to prove himself after all incapable of understanding.
Joe only nodded. "Your nephew periodically meets your husband. Go on, please."
Sarah relaxed somewhat. "Generally, in the course of the meeting, Gerald receives from Edgar a new carving or two—you'll have to speak to Gerald if you want to know the details of their arrangement. He may, of course, try to deny the whole thing as preposterous, and insist that Edgar has been dead for fifty years."
"I'll have to talk to him. Gerald, I mean."
A log cracked in the fireplace; Joe tried to keep himself from starting at the noise. He knew too much about the nosferatu to stay calm when he dealt with them.
"A question on another subject, Mrs. Tyrrell."
"Yes?"
"What are the terms of your will?"
"There's no secret about that. The bulk of my wealth will go to Cathy when I die."
"Not to her father."
"No. Gerald is—not a responsible person when it comes to money. And I am fond of the girl."
"Of course. And if Cathy should die, or be declared dead, before you die?"
"At the moment, Gerald would inherit everything. Mr. Keogh, I am now seriously thinking of altering that provision of my will."
"Does Gerald know that?"
"He probably suspects it. Mr. Keogh, my nephew is not an evil man, and I cannot imagine that he would harm his own daughter—though she is, as I believe I have mentioned, adopted. But Gerald is under great pressure at the moment. Will it be possible for you to guard this house tonight?"
"Guard it? Mrs. Tyrrell, if your husband should decide to visit, there's nothing I can do to prevent him. Not tonight, anyway—you understand that?"
She shook her head impatiently. "I understand that. The people Gerald fears are much more common creatures than my Edgar. My nephew will feel better if the house is watched."
"Certainly, we can keep an eye on things, if that's what you want. Who is he afraid of?"
"He has not told me exactly. But I believe it is a matter of gambling debts."
"I see."
"Then I suggest you make your arrangements now, to have some people watch the house. First things first. Later you and I can talk about my husband. And about Cathy."
"All right." Joe got up from his chair and went back into the living room, where with a nod he indicated to Maria that she should now attach herself to the client.
Brainard was standing on the far side of the living room, chewing absently on an unlit cigar.
Joe asked him: "Want to give me a guided tour? Your aunt would like us to keep watch over the place tonight."
The stocky man relaxed a trifle. "Gladly."
The house was of a unique design, partially due to its situation on and beyond the very brink, and partially by what had evidently been the builder's whim. The design was part Western and part fantastic, three stories high. Two bedrooms occupied most of the middle level. The two upper stories were of log construction. Steep interior stairways connected all three floors. The lowest level, mainly of stone, was partially supported by a rocky ledge a few yards below the rim. Here Joe and his guide looked into a large room, lighted by large northern windows, which Brainard said had served as Tyrrell's studio.
Back in the main part of the house, Brainard kicked aside an Indian rug, revealing a trapdoor. Unlatching and raising this door exposed darkness underfoot, and timber piers on which the building was supported. Attached to one of these log columns, a wooden ladder went down twelve or fifteen feet to a worn spot on the rocky ground, from which a barely visible trail descended the steep slope.
"It'd be easy," Brainard muttered, "for someone to come up this way, and set fire to the place."
"I'll put at least one man down here," Joe assured him. "Don't worry."
In five minutes, Joe had some people posted. John Southerland was out on the paved and civilized walk along the rim. Expecting that diplomacy would be at least as important as athletic ability in dealing with anyone who approached the house openly, from this direction, Joe put his most experienced and trusted man here. John was standing in a strategically chosen place where he remained shadowed from the streetlights, and from which he could see anyone who approached the house from the front.
Joe himself went down with Bill to the slope just below the house. "Let's figure," said Joe in a low voice, "that the hour after sunset may be the most dangerous."
"Why?" asked Bill, with interest.
Joe ignored the question. "So we'll set a double guard for an hour or so. You on one side of the path, me on the other."
Bill quietly told Joe that he wished he had had a chance to scout the terrain out in daylight. But there just hadn't been time.
Joe, earlier in the day, had had the opportunity to look over the steep slope. Now he did what he could to describe the lay of the land to Bill.
"Main thing to remember is that it's a long way down, and that it's steep. The trails going down all switchback, and there are some really sheer dropoffs."
"I can believe all that," Bill responded. What little he could see now of the terrain strongly suggested that the spot of level ground where they were standing was only a small ledge.
Neither man had used his flashlight yet. With the lingering traces of daylight baffled by persistent clouds of mist, the awesome dimensions of the Canyon remained concealed—though the mist was now beginning to sink into the depths.
Joe pointed. "I'll be right over there, about thirty yards. The tree with a long branch that looks like an arm?"
"Right."
"Got your radio?"
"Check."
"Flashlight?"
"Check. Also camera, though I don't know what good that's going to do."
Hardly had Joe taken up his own position on the fast-darkening mountainside below the house, on the other side of the almost non-existent trail, when he gave a nervous start, and then relaxed. The man calling himself Strangeways had suddenly materialized, almost at Joe's side and seemingly out of nothing but the dusk itself.
By way of greeting, Joe said in a low voice: "I thought you'd want me to invite you into the Tyrrell House. Just in case you feel you have to get in there later."
The other shook his head. There was tension, and an uncharacteristic suggestion of unease in the way he stood, first with arms folded, then with hands clasped behind his back.
"My presence on the scene just now would be disruptive, Joseph. And once in the house, I would leave traces of my presence there, a spoor some unfriendly agent could detect… were you given a warm welcome by the family?"
"I'd say a mixed welcome. If you can call those two people a family." Tersely Joe recounted the main points of his conversation with Sarah Tyrrell and his impressions of her and her nephew.
Strangeways heard him out with interest. Then he said: "I am in general agreement with what the lady told you about her husband. And after a preliminary investigation I think it highly probable that the missing girl is still alive—somewhere. But where I do not know. Perhaps nearby, as the great-aunt says. I very much doubt whether the young lady is capable of returning to her relatives at will."
"I have grave doubts of that myself."
"Then can we agree on this as welclass="underline" that perhaps others besides the girl are in grave, though probably not immediate, danger?"
"You mean besides Brainard with his gambling debts?" Joe asked. "No, I don't have any reason to think so. But if you do…"
"I do. And I am beginning to think," Strangeways added after a pause, "that the search for a true solution must begin far away from the Grand Canyon—yes, far indeed."