Two days dragged by — days in which she heard nothing. There was no rain, but the skies were a flat gray, a water-color wash. Each day she could walk with more strength.
Yet even the return of health was a trap. It merely brought closer the day when she would have to face a court.
On the third evening Marian and Harry went out right after dinner, saying they would probably be very late and not to wait up. Beth did the dinner dishes, read for a time, and then went to bed, falling asleep almost at once.
Nightmare came to her. A sick, sweetish nightmare, full of slow, heavy things, full of a dank shifting. She tried to fight her way up out of it, telling herself she was asleep, she was dreaming. But each time she felt she was about to emerge into reality, she fell back into the sweet sickliness where nausea and nightmare were strangely mixed.
Then something out of the nightmare grabbed her and started shaking her. Her head bobbed weakly, and she was aware of being supported, of being walked endlessly. Coffee scalded her mouth, and again she was walked. Whenever she forced heavy eyes open, she caught glimpses of uniformed figures, of a woman in white, and as she walked she could hear strange voices.
At last they let her go to sleep again.
In the morning, had she not found a nurse sitting beside her bed she would have believed it had been a nightmare.
“What happened?” she asked weakly.
“I’m afraid you had visitors last night.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s a Mr. Ellison waiting to see you. I promised him I’d let him tell you. Shall I tell him to come up before you have your breakfast?”
“Please. Could I have that scarf on the bureau, though? And the lipstick?”
Brock came in just after she hastily set the mirror aside. He pulled a chair over beside the bed. His mouth had a different set to it this time.
“The nurse said you’d tell me, Mr. Ellison.”
“It’s a dandy little story. Very pretty. Evidently the house was being watched. They came in when they were certain you’d be alone. They came in quietly, knocked you out with chloroform, then a morphine injection. Then they took the house apart. When your sister and her husband got in and saw the shambles, they came to your room at once. You were asleep on the floor, and the mattress was pretty well shredded. Insurance will cover about half the damage. Can’t you remember anything about it?”
“A nightmare, sort of. As if I were smothering.”
“Do you know why they came here?”
“No. I—”
“Crees thinks your husband had a pretty chunk of cash. Now he thinks you have it. Evidently so does somebody else. Maybe some associate of your husband’s. Hijacking for stakes like that is popular sport. I’m sore at myself.”
“Why should you be?”
“I should have anticipated it. Could have, if I’d used my head. I’ve been digging around. Your sister packed up your things and moved them out of that apartment. Not long afterward the apartment was torn up. Vandalism, the police called it. Somebody was looking for something. The storage people will be getting in touch with you soon. Somebody messed up your furniture. Even the car — and it was a total wreck — was gone over pretty carefully in the junk lot one night not long ago. Slashed what upholstery was left. Pried off door panels. So they could have been expected to come here. This, as far as we know, was the last place to look. And the riskiest.”
“But there couldn’t be anything here.”
“I know that. And I don’t think they found anything.”
“How is Marian taking it?”
“She’s a little sick at heart. That’s understandable.” Brock stood up. “You take it easy, Mrs. Talbott. I’ll have more news for you when you feel a little better. I’m going to Boston. I’m looking for a man who called himself Horace Taylor.”
Ellison went downstairs and looked once again at the smashed and shattered living room. It looked as though twenty husky chimpanzees had been left alone in there with sledge hammers and saws and knives. He clucked and shook his head. It was taking entirely too long to get a decent line on Roger Talbott.
Getting the line on Talbott’s Army career had been a help. The trouble was it didn’t lead anywhere. And Beth Talbott wasn’t in shape to listen to it yet. Fear was working on her. He could see that. She could still smile, but there were ghosts in her eyes. Damn Crees, anyway. Wouldn’t pay any attention to an appeal to hold off for a while — a personal appeal. Maybe Boston would have some answers.
May had awakened Boston. The lunch hour brought thousands of stenographers and clerks out onto the curving walks of the Common. Pigeons strutted, and the grass was the pale, clear green of spring. Brock took Roger Talbott’s picture out of his pocket. He sat on a bench and studied the blunt, laughing face.
The two hours spent bribing a lethargic clerk at the motor-vehicle bureau had been disappointing. Ellison had matched the plates and the make of car to the right Horace Taylor, had got a look at both applications for plates. A different address was given on each. Both hotels. And both with a record of Horace Taylor’s having been registered there at the right times.
He had checked with the phone company, with the retail-credit bureau. This was the sort of work he liked least, and yet it had a certain fascination. The odds were so grievously against you.
He sighed and stood up, pocketing the picture. After a quick lunch he tried the power company. The girl who helped him was brisk and efficient. She disappeared into the files and came back in five minutes with a card.
“We had a service request from a Mr. Horace Taylor almost a year ago, sir. He paid a deposit. Our records show he moved out owing us for one month’s service. We applied a portion of his deposit against the bill, and he still has a credit balance with us.”
“Can you give me the address of the place he moved out of?”
She smiled prettily. “I guess that isn’t against the rules. Twenty-fourteen Memorial Drive, Cambridge.”
On the way to Cambridge Brock stilled his flutter of excitement by telling himself that it would turn out to be the wrong Horace Taylor.
Twenty-fourteen was a large brick apartment building facing the river. It had a look of sober respectability. Brock went into the shallow foyer, pressed the mailbox button labeled ‘Superintendent.’ Through the glass of the locked door he saw a smallish man come out of an apartment, stare down toward the door, then walk toward him with a quick, mincing stride.
He pushed the door open and said, with a cool smile, “If you are inquiring about vacancies, I’m afraid—”
“This is something else. I’d like to talk to you. I won’t take much of your time.”
“All our buying is done through a central office.”
“Do you recognize this man?” Brock asked, holding out the picture.
The superintendent glanced at the picture, then gave Brock an interested look. His eyes were unexpectedly shrewd.
“That’s Mr. Taylor. Do you know where he can be contacted?”
Brock smiled. “I might.”
“Come in, please.”
Brock followed him down the carpeted hallway into a small, cluttered apartment. The man sat behind a desk and waved toward a chair. Brock sat down.
“Where can I find Mr. Taylor?” the man asked sharply.
“I think we’d better trade information, Mr.—”