"Is there anything I can do?" Phyllis asked.
"I don't understand it," Mrs Carpenter said. "George — my husband — had breakfast with me this morning. Then he went upstairs for his jacket. That was the last I saw of him."
"Oh—"
"I'm sure he didn't come back downstairs. I went up to see what was holding him — we were going for a drive — and he wasn't there. I searched the whole house. I thought he might be playing a practical joke, although George never joked in his life — so I looked under beds and in the closets. Then I looked in the cellar, and I asked next door, but no one's seen him. I thought he might have visited you — he was speaking about it—"
Phyllis explained to her about the Carmichael's disappearance. They talked for a few seconds longer, then hung up.
"Jim," Phyllis said, "I don't like it. You'd better tell the police about the Carmichaels."
"We'll look pretty foolish when they turn up visiting friends in Albany."
"We'll have to chance it."
Jim found the number and dialled, but the line was busy.
"I'll go down."
"And take this stuff with you." She handed him the paper
bag.
Police Captain Lesner was a patient, ruddy-faced man who had been listening to an unending stream of complaints all night and most of the morning. His patrolmen were tired, his sergeants were tired, and he was the tiredest of all. Nevertheless, he ushered Mr Mallen into his office and listened to his story.
"I want you to write down everything you've told me," Lesner said when he was through. "We got a call on the Carmichaels from a neighbour late last night. Been trying to locate them. Counting Mrs Carpenter's husband, that makes ten in two days."
"Ten what?"
"Disappearances."
"My Lord," Mallen breathed softly. He shifted the paper bag. "All from this town?"
"Every one," Captain Lesner said harshly, "from the Vainsville housing project in this town. As a matter of fact, from four square blocks in that project." He named the streets.
"I live there," Mallen said.
"So do I."
"Have you any idea who the — the kidnapper could be?" Mallen asked.
"We don't think it's a kidnapper," Lesner said, lighting his twentieth cigarette for the day. "No ransom notes. No selection. A good many of the missing persons wouldn't be worth a nickel to a kidnapper. And wholesale like that — not a chance!"
"A maniac then?"
"Sure. But how has he grabbed whole families? Or grown men, big as you? And where has he hidden them, or their bodies?" Lesner ground out the cigarette viciously. "I've got men searching every inch of this town. Every cop within twenty miles of here is looking. The State police are stopping cars. And we haven't found a thing."
"Oh, and here's something else." Mallen showed him the counterfeited items.
"Again, I don't know," Captain Lesner confessed sourly. "I haven't had much time for this stuff. We've had other complaints—" The telephone rang, but Lesner ignored it.
"It looks like a black-market scheme. I've sent some stuff like it to Albany for analysis. I'm trying to trace outlets. Might be foreign. As a matter of fact, the FBI might — damn that phone!"
He yanked it out of its cradle.
"Lesner speaking. Yes ... yes. You're sure? Of course, Mary. I'll be right over." He hung up. His red face was suddenly drained of colour.
"That was my wife's sister," he announced. "My wife's missing!"
Mallen drove home at breakneck speed. He slammed on the brakes, almost cracking his head against the windshield, and ran into the house.
"Phyllis!" he shouted. Where was she? Oh, God, he thought. If she's gone—
"Anything wrong?" Phyllis asked, coming out of the kitchen.
"I thought—" He grabbed her and hugged until she squealed.
"Really," she said, smiling. "We're not newlyweds. Why, we've been married a whole year and a half—"
He told her what he'd found out in the police station.
Phyllis looked around the living-room. It had seemed so warm and cheerful a week ago. Now, a shadow under the couch frightened her; an open closet door was something to shudder at. She knew it would never be the same.
There was a knock at the door.
"Don't go," Phyllis said.
"Who's there?" Mallen asked.
"Joe Dutton, from down the block. I suppose you've heard the news?"
"Yes," Mallen said, standing beside the closed door.
"We're barricading the streets," Dutton said. "Going to look over anyone going in or out. We're going to put a stop to this, even if the police can't. Want to join us?"
"You bet," Mallen said, and opened the door. The short, swarthy man on the other side was wearing an old Army jacket. He was gripping a two-foot chunk of wood.
"We're going to cover these blocks like a blanket." Dutton said. "If anyone else is grabbed, it'll have to be underground." Mallen kissed his wife and joined him.
That afternoon there was a mass meeting in the school auditorium. Everyone from the affected blocks was there, and as many of the townspeople as could crowded in. The first thing they found out was that, in spite of the blockades, three more people were missing from the Vainsville project.
Captain Lesner spoke and told them that he had called Albany for help. Special officers were on their way down, and the FBI was coming in on it, too. He stated frankly that he didn't know what or who was doing it, or why. He couldn't even figure out why all the missing were from one part of the Vainsville project.
He had got word from Albany about the counterfeited food that seemed to be scattered all over the project. The examining chemists could detect no trace of any toxic agent. That seemed to explode a recent theory that the food had been used to drug people, making them walk out of their homes to whatever was taking them. However, he cautioned everyone not to eat it. You could never tell.
The companies whose labels had been impersonated had disclaimed any knowledge. They were prepared to bring suit against anyone infringing on their copyrights.
The mayor spoke, in a series of well-intentioned platitudes, counselling them to be of good heart; the civic authorities were taking the whole situation in hand.
Of course, the mayor didn't live in the Vainsville project.
The meeting broke up, and the men returned to the barricades. They started looking for firewood for the evening, but it was unnecessary. Help arrived from Albany, a cavalcade of men and equipment. The four blocks were surrounded by armed guards. Portable searchlights were set up and the area declared under an eight o'clock curfew.
Mr Carter missed all the excitement. He had been fishing all day. At sunset he returned, empty-handed but happy. The guards let him through, and he walked into the house.
"A beautiful fishing day," he declared.
The Mallens spent a terrible night, fully clothed, dozing in snatches, looking at the searchlights playing against their windows and hearing the tramp of armed guards.
Eight o'clock Sunday morning — two more people missing. Gone from four blocks more closely guarded than a concentration camp.
At ten o'clock Mr Carter, brushing aside the objections of the Mallens, shouldered his fishing kit and left. He hadn't missed a day since April thirtieth and wasn't planning on missing one all season.
Sunday noon — another person gone, bringing the total up to sixteen.
Sunday, one o'clock — all the missing children were found!
A police car found them on a road near the outskirts of town, eight of them, including the Carmichael boy, walking dazedly towards their homes. They were rushed to a hospital.
There was no trace of the missing adults, though.
Word of mouth spread the news faster than the newspapers or radio could. The children were completely unharmed. Under examination by psychiatrists it was found that they didn't remember where they had been or how they had been taken there. All the psychiatrists could piece together was a sensation of flying, accompanied by a sickness in the stomach. The children were kept in the hospital for safety, under guard.