But what object could he have had?
By now it was almost inevitable. On December 20, when I grabbed the paper off the breakfast trolley in my hotel room and spread it open, the bottom began falling out of everything.—FLAMINGO CASE—WAS CHAPMANREALLY CHAPMAN?
The story didn’t mean anything itself; it was merely a rehash of all the old evidence with the addition of a lot of conjecture. But now that the question had finally been asked, they’d check those signatures, start pinpointing descriptions— But I had to be sure before I ran, so I could warn her. I waited. It was like walking on eggs. Two hours later the afternoon papers were out.RIDICULOUS, SAYSCHAPMAN FIANCEE
The police had already questioned her about that, she explained to the reporter in a long-distance interview. Of course she’d talked to Mr. Chapman. He’d called her every day. She would never understand what hold that woman—Mrs. Forsyth—had over him, or what she had said or done that goaded him beyond endurance—
Stripped of the vituperation, it said simply: The man she’d talked to was Chapman.
I grabbed the phone and called the travel desk. “Get me a reservation to Houston on the first flight you can.”
The girl called back five minutes later and said there’d been a cancellation and I could get out at eleven-thirty. It was ten now. I started throwing things in bags. I’d already bought an attache case with a good lock; calling the desk to get my bill ready and send a boy for the bags, I ducked out to a cab, and went to the bank. In a cubicle in the safe-deposit vault, I emptied the bundles of currency into the case, took the same cab back, and told the driver to wait while I checked out. We made it to the airport with five minutes to spare. I was over the weight allowance, and had to pay excess baggage. They were just starting to pull away the loading ramp when I sprinted out the gate with the attache case under my arm.
I had to change planes in New Orleans. It was seven-thirty p.m. when we came in at Houston International. I hurried to the first booth and called the Rice Hotel.
“Mrs. Forsyth,” I said.
“Just a moment. I’m sorry, sir. She isn’t registered.”
I fought down an impulse to yell at her. “But she was there—”
“I’ll connect you with the desk, sir.”
“Never mind,” I said. I collected my luggage and caught a cab into town, and went to the Rice.
The clerk consulted his records. “Yes, sir. She checked out two days ago. No forwarding address.”
“All right, give me a room,” I said.
I tipped the boy and as soon as he left I flipped through the phone book to detective agencies. Several had night numbers listed. I called one.
He arrived in about thirty minutes, an untidy and owlish-looking man named Krafft. I told him what I wanted.
“She was here at the hotel until two days ago,” I said. “Just find out where she went, as fast as you can. I don’t even know whether she had a car. If she left town, the chances are it would be by air, so try the airlines first.”
He called back in less than an hour. “Mrs. Forsyth left here the afternoon of the eighteenth on an American Airlines flight to San Francisco.”
”Good,” I said. “Does your agency have an office there?” “Yes, sir. All major cities.”
“Okay, look— Wire or teletype right now and tell them to start on it. If they find her, keep track of her. I don’t care what it costs. I’ll be at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, just as soon as I can get there.”
I couldn’t get out until the next day. It was ten-thirty p.m. when I checked in at the Mark Hopkins. I’d wired for a reservation. There was a note waiting for me to call a Mr. Ryan, at a Garfield number. As soon as I was up in the room I called him.
“Mr. Ryan? This is Forbes, at the Mark Hopkins.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Forbes. About Mrs. Forsyth—”
“Have you found her?” I broke in.
“Not yet. She arrived here the night of the eighteenth and registered at the Palace. Checked out at two-thirty p.m., eighteenth, no forwarding address. We’ve covered all the airlines and railroads, so apparently if she’s left town it was by bus or private car. But she left the hotel by cab. We haven’t been able to find the driver yet. She might have taken an apartment, or be visiting a friend. Can you give us any hints? I mean, apart from the description?”
“Yes,” I said. “She went to Stanford, so you might try around Palo Alto; she could be looking up somebody down there. I doubt she’s looking for a job, but if she does, it’ll probably be in a brokerage house. She has a beautiful flair for clothes. Keep an eye on the City of Paris and I. Magnin’s, and so on. If she’s taken an apartment it will probably be in a good neighborhood.”
“We’re checking the apartment angle now. Utilities, and so on.”
“All right,” I said. “Just find her. Use as many men as you can put on it.”
They found her the next afternoon. Ryan called a little after five. “You were right about the Palo Alto thing. She’s been down there. She came back today, and registered at the Fairlane Hotel. It’s a fairly small place, on Stockton. Room six hundred and eight.”
“Thanks a million,” I said. “Just send me your bill.”
I depressed the switch, looked up the number, and gave it to the operator.
“Mrs. Forsyth, please,” I said, when the Fairlane answered.
“One moment, sir.”
The phone buzzed twice. “Hello.” It was her voice. I could almost see her.
“Marian!” I said. “Marian—”
She screamed.
Fourteen
It was five o’clock and traffic was snarled. When we were within a block of it I tossed the driver a dollar and ran. I didn’t even pause at the desk. When I got out of the elevator, I asked the operator, ”Six hundred and eight?” He pointed to the right.
It was the third door. I rapped. She opened it almost at once. She was a little thinner, and very pale, but as smooth and striking as ever. She was wearing a dark tailored suit. I pushed the door shut. There was the same wonderful, slender feel of her in my arms. I kissed her. She tried. I could feel her trying, but she couldn’t quite do anything with it. It was no wonder, I thought, with what had just happened. But it was impossible to let her go. I kissed her eyelids and her throat, and the smooth dark hair.
Finally she whispered. “You did have one very small piece of luck, Jerry; I’m not much given to crying. Otherwise you’d need a shower curtain.”
“Why?”
“Your kissing me this way after what I did to you.”
“What did you do?”
“I sold you out, I suppose you’d call it, in about the most cynical way it would be possible to do it.”
“You’re not making any sense,” I said.
“I think we’d better sit down,” she suggested. “Take the armchair.” She sat on the side of the bed. I looked around. It was any small hotel bedroom anywhere—Venetian blinds, glass-topped desk, telephone, grayish carpet, and twin beds with dark green spreads and metal headboards finished to resemble limed oak. She crossed her knees and pulled down her skirt. I looked at the slender, tapering fingers.
“Why did you run away from Houston?” I asked. “I was going to warn you if it became serious.”
“I wasn’t running from the police,” she said. “From you. I lost my nerve again.”