They looked at him in surprise.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Page said.
“Millgate.” Denning stared at Pittman. “You mentioned Jonathan Millgate.”
“Bradford, have you lost your senses?” Mrs. Page asked.
Denning suddenly pointed at Pittman. “Now I remember where I’ve seen you before.”
Pittman felt a chill.
“Your name isn’t Lester King or whatever you said it was! It’s Matthew Pittman! I met you several years ago! I’ve seen your photograph a dozen times in the newspaper! But you had a mustache and-You’re the man the police want for killing Jonathan Millgate!”
“Bradford, this is outrageous. Do you realize what you’re saying?” Mrs. Page demanded.
“I’m telling you this is the man!” Denning said. “Do you have a newspaper? I’ll prove it to you! I’ll show you the photographs! This man killed Jonathan Millgate!”
“Don’t be absurd,” Pittman said. “If I killed him, what would I be doing here?”
The door opened. The uniformed servant appeared, his brow deeply furrowed. “Mrs. Page, I heard loud voices. Is anything wrong?”
“George, phone the police!” Denning said.
“The police, sir?” George looked puzzled, glancing toward Mrs. Page for an explanation.
“Bradford, what do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. Page demanded.
“Hurry! Before he kills all of us!”
Pittman stood, making Denning cower. “Bradford, I’d stop drinking if I were you. It affects your behavior and your judgment.” He turned to Mrs. Page. “I regret that this happened. We’re sorry for the inconvenience. Thanks for agreeing to talk with us.”
Jill stood as well. “We appreciate your time.”
Pittman shifted toward the doorway. “With Bradford in this condition, obviously it’s pointless for us to continue this conversation.”
Mrs. Page looked bewildered.
“Good evening,” Pittman said. “And thanks again.”
“Call the police, George!” Denning insisted. “Before they get away!”
“No,” Mrs. Page said. “I don’t understand this at all. Bradford, what on earth has gotten into you?”
Pittman and Jill passed the servant, left the room, crossed the shiny hardwood floor of the vestibule, and opened the door to the porch, its pillars casting shadows from lights among shrubs.
3
“We’d better hurry,” Jill said.
In the cool night air, she and Pittman started down the brick steps from the porch, about to reach the murky area beyond the lights on the lawn, when Pittman faltered, touching Jill’s arm. “More trouble.”
Jill tensed, seeing what he meant. “Our car.”
It was parked in front of the mansion. Revealed by streetlights, two rugged-looking men in windbreakers were staring at the front license plate on the Duster.
Pittman backed up. “They must have been watching the house.”
“Why would they…?” Jill retreated quickly up the steps toward the porch. At once she realized. “Eustace Gable knows his daughter is a threat. He must have arranged for the house to be watched in case we came here.”
“And the Vermont license plates on our car,” Pittman said. “They’re probably the only ones on the street. They connect us with our visit to Grollier Academy.”
As Pittman and Jill hurried toward the mansion’s front door, one of the men shouted, “Hey!” Pittman turned, seeing the man point at him. Simultaneously Pittman saw a dark Oldsmobile appear beyond the cars parked in front of the house. It skidded to a stop. Men scrambled out.
Pittman gripped the doorknob, praying that the servant hadn’t locked the door after they’d left. Exhaling with relief when he made the knob turn, he shoved the door open, lunged inside behind Jill, slammed the door, and locked it.
The noise caused startled voices in the room to the left. As Pittman swung toward that doorway, the servant loomed into view, Mrs. Page and Denning behind him.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Page asked. “Why did you come back?”
“I’m afraid we brought you trouble,” Pittman said. “There isn’t time to explain. We have to figure out how to-”
“Six of them.” Jill stared past the lace curtain of a high, narrow window next to the front door.
“Six?” Mrs. Page veered past Denning and the servant. “I don’t know what you’re-”
“They’re coming up the sidewalk,” Jill said.
Pittman stepped closer to Mrs. Page. “You’re in danger. What’s in back? How do we get out of here?”
“Danger?” Denning’s voice shook.
“They’re separating.” Jill strained to look out the window. “Two in front, two going along each side of the house.”
“Mrs. Page, those men are from your father,” Pittman said.
“My…?”
“The two in front just pulled out handguns,” Jill said.
“Mrs. Page, I think they intend to kill all of us,” Pittman said. “They’ll make it look as if I did it.”
“Kill us?” Mrs. Page looked horror-stricken. “Why?”
“Because your father’s afraid of what you might have told me. We have to get out of here.”
“Some of them will go to the back,” Jill said. “They’ve got the house sealed off.”
“My father would never try to kill me.”
“He killed your mother, didn’t he? Why wouldn’t he kill you?”
Mrs. Page’s eyes widened with shocked understanding.
“The two in front are coming toward the porch,” Jill said.
Pittman turned to the servant. “Did you do what Denning wanted and call the police?”
“No. Mrs. Page told me not to.”
“Then you’d better call them now.”
“There isn’t time!” Denning whined. “The police won’t get here before-”
Glass shattered at the back of the house. Denning whirled toward the sound.
Pittman reached beneath his sport coat and pulled out the.45, the sight of which made Denning’s face become the color of cement.
From the porch, someone tried to turn the doorknob.
“Jill,” Pittman warned, “get back.”
She hurried toward Pittman as he told the servant, “Switch off the lights in the hallway.”
The vestibule became dim, illuminated only by lamps in the room that they had left.
More glass shattered at the back of the house.
“Jill, if anybody tries to come through that door, do you think you can use the gun in your purse?”
“I’m so scared.”
“But can you?”
“Yes, if I have to.”
“Good.” Pittman rushed from the vestibule toward the rear of the house. “Find a place to hide,” he heard Jill saying.
“The car,” Mrs. Page said.
At the rear of the house, Pittman crouched in shadows, clutching his.45, concentrating to hear the sounds of someone climbing through a window.
“Yes, the car,” Denning said.
From the porch, shoulders slammed against the front door.
“The car? Forget it,” Jill said. “Some of those men are outside in the back. They’ll shoot us if we try to get to the garage.”
“You don’t understand,” Mrs. Page said. “It’s in the basement.”
Shoulders kept slamming against the front door.
“What are you talking about? The basement?” Jill sounded hoarse, her throat dry from fear. “What’s a car doing in the basement? What good would-?”
From a room at the back of the house, Pittman heard footsteps scraping on broken glass. He clutched his pistol tighter, aiming.
“The garage is down there,” Mrs. Page said. “The garage is under the house. If we get to the car, we’ll be safe.”
“No!” Jill said. “We’ll be trapped. If we try to drive away, they’ll shoot through the windows and doors and-”
“Why must you be so stupid? Listen to me. Listen to what I’m telling you.”
Pittman heard Mrs. Page’s high-heeled shoes on the vestibule’s hardwood floor. A door opened, echoing.
“Stop,” Jill said.
“Down here,” Mrs. Page insisted.
“I’m going with you,” Denning said.