Up ahead Braden turned into a private driveway. Sharon drove straight on past the drive, catching sight of a name on an RFD mailbox. CARTER CLEAVES.
Sharon left her car about a hundred yards past the driveway and made her way through a dense pine woods to where she could get a view of the Cleaves house. It was something more than a cottage. It had wide picture windows looking out over the lake that Liz Stanton had mistaken for the ocean.
She could see Braden. He was standing by the front door. He had rung a bell, and getting no answer he was pounding on the door with his fist. No one answered, and Braden began to circle the house, peering in at the windows. Presently he gave up, evidently finding no one inside the house.
He stood by the front door again, anxiously consulting his watch. Finally, after a short wait, he wrote something on a page in a small notebook, tore out the page, and slid it under the front door. Sharon guessed his problem was to get back to the Senator before his absence was noticed.
Sharon didn’t make any effort to follow Braden on the return trip. Her job was to find a telephone.
Dark answered her call almost instantly. He had been standing by the phone booth all the time.
“Jason? The child mistook a large lake for the ocean. The house belongs to someone named Carter Cleaves.”
She heard soft laughter from Dark. “You know who Carter Cleaves is?” he asked. “A duly and legally registered lobbyist for Quadrant International.”
“Jason!”
“Bingo,” he said.
“Braden’s on his way back in a big hurry,” Sharon said.
“Go to the hotel and wait for me,” Dark said. “Hope we have cause for a celebration.”
Braden, driving in the heavy stream of traffic now, chafed at the slowness of it. When he finally reached the Senator’s house he was wet with sweat. He put his car in the garage and hurried into the house. Mrs. Devens, the cook-housekeeper, was dusting the living room.
“Has the Senator been asking for me?” Braden asked.
“No, sir. He’s gone to his office, of course.”
“I have to pick up some things in the study,” Braden said.
“Mr. Dark is in there, sir,” Mrs. Devens said. “I thought it would be all right.”
Braden stood very still, looking toward the study door. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his face. Then, his legs moving stiffly, he walked into the study.
Dark was sitting at the Senator’s desk, the Quadrant file in front of him. He was smiling, a faintly mocking smile.
“Good morning, Braden,” he said. “It seems that part of the puzzle is explained.”
“Puzzle?” Braden moistened his lips.
“I’ve wondered how the kidnapers got Liz back home in less than an hour if she was, in fact, being held ‘by the ocean.’ The child, who must have been scared out of her wits, mistook the lake in front of the Cleaves house for the ocean.”
“The Cleaves house?” Braden asked, his voice husky.
“It will save us a good deal of time and fencing,” Dark said, “if I tell you that I sent you the note that took you out to the Cleaves house this morning. You see, I wanted to know whom you’d sold out to. I knew it was someone at Quadrant, but who in the chain of command?”
“I–I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Braden said.
“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Dark asked. “You sold out the Senator, friend. You kept Quadrant informed of his intentions about the speech. You gave them the information that assured them Liz would be at home at the critical time. I imagine you gave Mrs. Devens some little job to do that kept her occupied. When I have told the Senator, God help you.”
Frantic choices were mirrored in Braden’s eyes. Choices — and fear.
“Of course, when Carter Cleaves is confronted with the proof that his house was used to hold the Senator’s child he will deny all knowledge of it. He will say his unoccupied house was used by criminals. He will be told how we know — that you answered a fake note which led us to the house. He will, of course, deny that he has ever had any contact with you.
“But he will be sweating, just as you are, Braden. He will know that you may spill the whole story. He won’t be able to risk that, so I suspect he will take steps to silence you. Permanently. It won’t be just a warning, like this.” Dark held up his black plastic hand. “Whatever you decide to do, Braden, you are up the well-known creek.”
“This is all madness!” Braden said. It was nearly a whisper.
“I took the liberty of going through your room upstairs while I was waiting for you,” Dark said. “You are an amateur, Braden, and like most amateurs you don’t take the most obvious precautions. Only an amateur would keep his bankbooks where someone might find them. I’m afraid you’ll never get to spend the twenty-five thousand dollars you deposited in your savings accounts three days ago.” Dark stood up. “Bunglers always pay a heavy price for their bungling.”
He picked up the Quadrant file and started for the door.
“Wait!” Braden said. He had moved around the desk. “There must be some way to—”
“There’s no way,” Dark said. He stepped to the door.
“Wait!” Braden said. “Wait if you want to live, Mr. Dark.”
Dark turned. From a desk drawer Braden had produced a murderous-looking handgun. It was pointed straight at Dark’s heart.
“Obviously I can’t let you go through with this,” Braden said.
Dark’s smile was contemptuous. “You haven’t got the guts,” he said.
He turned his back on Braden and extended his left hand to the doorknob. Braden’s finger pulled the trigger. There was a dull click. Again and again he pulled it. Dark turned.
“Do you suppose for a minute that I would confront you, Braden, knowing that you would back-shoot me the minute you had the chance? I found the gun long before you got here and pulled its teeth.” He jiggled the cartridges in his left hand. “I also have an eye for shoulder holsters and pocket bulges. If you’d been carrying a gun I’d have shot you dead.” He patted the holster under his right arm pit. “I’m not very good with my left hand, even after some months of practise. But at a distance of five feet—”
“Oh, God!” Braden moaned. He sank down in the desk chair and covered his face with his hands.
“Now we will see how good Mr. Carter Cleaves is at this game,” Jason Dark said. “Too bad you won’t be around, Braden, to witness the outcome.”
He walked out into the warm summer sunshine. He hoped Sharon had decided on champagne. She got such a delight from popping the corks, something that was beyond him now that he was one-handed.
Crazy Old Lady
by Avram Davidson[3]
“The enemy had seemed a lot farther away in those days”...
Before she became the Crazy Old Lady she had been merely the Old Lady and before that Old Lady Nelson and before that (long long before that) she had been Mrs. Nelson. At one time there had also been a Mr. Nelson, but all that was left of him were the war souvenirs lined up on the cluttered mantelpiece which was never dusted now — the model battleship, the enemy helmet, the enemy grenade, the enemy knife, and some odd bits and pieces that had been enemy badges and buttons.
The enemy had seemed a lot farther away in those days.
But the shopping had been a lot closer.
Of course it was still the same in miles — well, blocks, really — it just seemed like miles now. It had been such a nice walk, such a few blocks’ walk, under the pleasant old trees, past the pleasant old family homes, and down to the pleasant old family stores. Now not much was left of the way it had been.