She was back, holding forth a small locket on a chain. “Mrs. Simpson overlooked this. I believe it has sentimental value. Would you give it to her when you see them?”
“Sure thing.” He slipped it in his pocket.
“I’m sorry — Doctor Creighton Is busy right now and can’t talk to you. He doesn’t know where Mr. Simpson was planning on taking his wife.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll probably catch them in town. You’ve helped a lot. Thanks very much.”
She smiled and one hand dove for her pocket, came out holding a gun!
He slapped her across the face with his hat. His upraised knee jolted her hand hard as he swung to one side. Miraculously the revolver didn’t go off. He tore it from her fingers, tossing it out the door onto the lawn. Once he got his arms around her, she quit squirming.
“Now,” he grated, “what’s the idea, sister?”
“I didn’t want to alarm Doctor Creighton,” she panted. “But you don’t know Mrs. Simpson! You didn’t even glance at the pictures in that locket. If you’d known them for years like you say, you’d at least have glanced inside.”
“You’re bluffing about the doctor. You run this place!”
She glared. “What if I do? It’s a respectable business. But our patients are strictly confidential. Mr. Simpson would certainly never have friends dropping in here. He visited her himself only once a year up until lately. I don’t know what you’re up to, but—”
He pushed her away from him and stepped back. “Don’t worry about me. Your dear Mr. Simpson already has a wife! Now do you know where he’s taken this one, or don’t you?”
She stared at him searchingly. “Mr. Simpson committed his wife to our care almost five years ago. Her mind was — well — we expected no hope of recovery. But she made amazing strides this last year, and we notified him to that effect.”
“When?”
“About three months ago. But who are you? What authority do you have making accusations?”
“Do you know where he took her?”
Her face darkened. “I don’t! You better get out of here!”
He slapped on his hat. “With pleasure. But if you try to bum any of Mrs. Simpson’s records, the police will make it tough on you. Understand?”
She remained rigid, stony-eyed.
He slammed the door, left the gun laying on the lawn, and jumped in the Buick.
The full implications of this business began to soak in as he headed for the main road. Where was Varden hiding wife number one? What did the black gloves mean? Afraid of fingerprints maybe?
He dug the locket out of his pocket, pried it open as he drove, and stared at miniature photographs of Varden and a woman. Varden looked seven or eight years younger and somehow different without the mustache. His cheeks were shadowed, not so plump. The girl was a pale blonde with wide-set eyes, a prim mouth. She appeared to be around Jeri’s age, twenty-five or six. Her face was soft and round, the little ringlets in her hair giving her an air of wide-eyed innocence.
He let the locket lie on the seat, glancing at it from time to time. Finally he put it away in his pocket.
Chapter Four
Hot Trail
Back at the Alcazar he discovered that Varden, alias Simpson, still hadn’t returned. No doubt of it now. In this section of the country — somewhere — was his hideout.
In the phone booth at the drug store, Lark put through another call, this time to Mac.
“Don’t ask questions,” he said crisply when he had him on the line. “Get over to Jeri’s. Tell her I’ll see her tonight—” he glanced at his watch — “around seven o’clock. I’m in Deerfield. Driving through as soon as I hang up.”
“Right,” Mac replied. “But listen: That gun of Jeri’s that you left in the truck — I slipped it in the glove compartment of her car. It’s gone. I missed it Thursday morning when I started working on the wheel.”
“Varden?”
“Who else? I just wanted you to know he’s armed. Take care of yourself, boy.”
“Yeah. Thanks...” He hung up, lips compressed.
Outside, he climbed into the Buick and headed for the Lincoln Highway. It was almost four-thirty. With luck, he’d make Elgin in two and a half hours...
It was growing dusk as he pulled in back of the three-car garage at Jeri’s, took a shortcut across the grass beneath imported firs. A few lights gleamed in the rear of the two-storied house. He followed the edge of the walk, moving soundlessly. A maid came out of the kitchen, beating a mop over the porch railing. He stood motionless, waiting. Without a sideward glance she went back inside and the screen door banged.
It had been four months or better since he had taken this path to the partially enclosed terrace at the far side of the house. He came to a low, ivy-covered wall overlooking the rock garden with its splashing fountain. Rustic tables and chairs were scattered about. A softly glowing lamp framed Jeri’s head, her slim weight stirring an old rocker, one leg tucked beneath her, a book cradled on her lap.
He whistled.
She jumped up nervously, tossing the book in the chair. “Lark?” The sleeveless, blue silk dress clung smoothly, revealing bare, white shoulders.
He vaulted over the wall, tossed his hat on a chair and strode toward her. “Thought I’d better sneak in.”
She laid her hand on his arm, barely conscious of the act. “What’s happened to you? Your face...”
He touched a strip of adhesive tape gingerly. “Never mind. Mac get in touch with you?”
“He phoned. Said you were in Deerfield. I’ve been waiting hours — all yesterday—”
“Take it easy, Red. I’ve had myself a time. Is it safe to talk?”
“Wait!” She slipped over to the side door, locked it, and came back. “Gabe has a way with servants. He must give them outrageous sums for their loyalty. Hungry, Lark?”
“Starved.”
She pulled him over to the table where a white cloth had been laid. “Just coffee and sandwiches. Sit down.”
He watched her tilt the percolator over his cup.
“Jeri — you’ve got to get out of this house.”
She looked up slowly, her eyes dark unfathomable shadows, regarding him steadily. “Is it — that bad?”
Lark dropped into the chair, dribbling lumps of sugar into his coffee. “Sit down.”
She sank into a chair. “Tell me, Lark! Is he in Deerfield?”
He jabbed his spoon at her. “Let me ask you something — has he got into you for much dough? I mean — he hasn’t broke you yet, or anything like that?”
She shook her head. “Dad left things tied up in investments. My income is large. Naturally Gabe spends money like water, but he stays within a limit. He’s a business man. He’s content to let things go along as they are. Why shouldn’t he?”
“But what if something happened to you?”
“Then I suppose—” She stopped.
“Uh huh.” Lark sat back, lighting his cigarette.
She leaned forward. “Will you stop being so secretive? Where is he? What’s he up to, Lark?”
“He’s got a wife. Married her before he met you.”
“A wife!”
He told her then, swiftly, all that had happened in the last two days.
She shook her head mutely. Finally she whispered. “It’s horrible. That woman — where do you suppose he’s taken her?”
“Tomorrow I’m going to find out. D’you want to help?”
She jumped up excitedly. “Of course! Let me see the locket.”
She took it from him, turning it toward the light. Varden’s picture fluttered onto the table. “Gabe,” she breathed. And then: “Look — she’s rather pretty.”
They both heard the car in the driveway at the same instant. She caught his hand tightly, her breath warm on his cheek. “It’s Gabe! There’s a cab just leaving. You’ll have to go.”