“Then you know about my husband?”
“I know about all the people who stay with me. How else could I serve them?”
“He’s... he’s gone away and I’m very frightened.”
“He has been away over an hour.” Dulac shook his head. “That is too long. We must consult the police.”
Val flinched, but Dulac lifted his hand.
“I assure you don’t have to worry about unwanted publicity. If you will allow me, I will arrange everything. Captain Terrell, the Chief of Police, is a good friend of mine. He is understanding and will take immediate action in the most tactful way possible. You can be quite sure he will not only find Mr. Burnett quickly, but no one besides ourselves will be any the wiser. I can promise you that.”
Val drew in a long, deep breath.
“Thank you. Yes, of course... I’ll leave it to you. I’m very, very grateful.”
“Everything that can be done will be done,” Dulac said, getting to his feet. “Now may I suggest you go to your suite? I’ll have a tray sent up to you.” He smiled as Val began to protest. “Something very light, but you must eat, you know.” He led her to the door. “In half-an-hour, Captain Terrell will be with you.”
Captain Frank Terrell was a large man with sandy hair flecked with white. His heavy featured face ended in a jutting, square jaw and his eyes were steel grey. He was well liked by the men who served under him and feared by the criminals who infested the rich stamping ground of Greater Miami.
He sat in an armchair that was dwarfed by his bulk and looked thoughtfully at Val as she sat opposite him, her hands gripped tightly between her knees.
“Dulac has told me something about this problem, Mrs. Burnett,” he said. There was a gentle note in his usually stern voice. “I have already sent out a description of your husband and his car. I have no doubt that within an hour or so one of my men will find him. I want to assure you that you have nothing to worry about.”
Val said, “Thank you... the newspapers...”
“You don’t have to worry about them. I know how to deal with reporters,” Terrell said.
“Dulac tells me your husband isn’t very well. He didn’t go into details. Would you care to tell me a little more about him?”
“Why, yes... if... if you think it is necessary,” Val said.
“What exactly is the matter with him?”
“Two years ago he had a motor accident. He suffered severe head injuries. He was unconscious for over five months. Before the accident he was a brilliant man and worked with my father. When he came out of the coma, he... he... well, to use my father’s words, he acted like a Zombie.” Val paused and looked out of the window, struggling to control her tears. “He spent months in a sanatorium. Nothing anyone did seemed to help him. There was nothing physically wrong with him, but he just lost interest in everything... including me. He remained in the sanatorium for about eighteen months. He neither got better nor worse. I decided I couldn’t leave him there, and against my father’s wishes, I insisted that we should try to give him a more normal life in the hope, away from the sanatorium, he would make a recovery. The doctors agreed. So I brought him here. We have been here a week, and he did begin to show a little improvement.”
“In what way?” Terrell asked.
“He began to take an interest in certain limited things. Before he came here, he would just sit and stare into space for hours. Here, he found a copy of Oliver Twist and he began to read it. He asked me to get him the complete works of Dickens which I did. He planned to read right through Dickens. He also began to show interest in the people here: discussing them with me.”
“Did he show any awakening interest in you?”
Val lifted her hands helplessly.
“No.”
“I understand he has consulted Dr. Gustave,” Terrell went on after a pause. “Why did he do that?”
“He has been in the hands of doctors for two years. He hasn’t any confidence in himself. He seems to feel lost without a doctor close at hand.”
“I know Dr. Gustave well,” Terrell said. “He is a good man. What did he think of your husband?”
“Oh, he said he showed signs of improvement, but it would take a long time.”
“He didn’t warn you that your husband could suddenly run off like this?”
“No.”
“Wasn’t your husband nervous about driving a car when he came out of the sanatorium?”
“That is one of the things that is worrying me. He hasn’t touched a car since the accident... until this morning. I have always done the driving.”
Terrell thought for a moment, then got to his feet.
“As soon as we have found him. I’ll let you know. Perhaps it would be better for you to come to headquarters and bring him back here yourself. I guess Dr. Gustave should be alerted. I’ll handle that. You must try to relax. It won’t take long to find him. I have men patrolling all the main highways leading out to Miami.”
When he had gone, Val sat down near the window where she could watch the drive below, and began her long wait.
Chapter Two
Sergeant Joe Beigler ran stubby fingers through his close cut hair, a frown of concentration on his freckled face. He sat at a battered desk in a large room that contained other desks at which uniformed policemen worked, talked into telephones or scribbled in notebooks.
Beigler was reading through a report to do with a minor jewel robbery. He was the senior Sergeant and Terrell’s right hand man. Unmarried, aged thirty-eight, an addict to coffee drinking and cigarette smoking, he was regarded by his Chief as the best Sergeant he had had in years.
The telephone bell tinkled and he dropped a large, hairy hand on the receiver, picked it up and growled, “Yeah?... Beigler,”
“The Chief’s just come in,” the Desk Sergeant said. “In his office now.”
Beigler grunted, tossed the file he had been studying into — his Pending tray and walking with heavy strides, he made his way to Terrell’s office.
He found Terrell about to pour coffee from a can one of his men had just brought to him. Seeing Beigler in the doorway, Terrell took another cup from his desk drawer and filled that too.
“Come on in, Joe. Anything on the Burnett business?”
Beigler came in, closed the door and sat on the straight back chair before Terrell’s desk. As he reached for the cup of coffee, he said, “Nothing yet. Every patrol has been alerted. What’s the excitement about?”
Terrell began to fill a blackened and well-used pipe.
“Important people. The guy’s the son-in-law of Charles Travers, and in case you don’t know who he is, he’s the one who built the New York Palace hotel, a Ferry bridge, a dam in Havana and a number of little items of the same weight and standing.”
Beigler drank some of the coffee, then lit a cigarette.
“So?”
“So we have to find the guy. There’s a complication.” Terrell paused while he puffed at his pipe. “He’s a mental case. On my way back from talking to his wife, I dropped in on Dr. Gustave who knows about the case. This guy sustained bad injuries to his head in a car smash. Dr. Gustave says there are brain adhesions. They could clear up, given time, but in the meantime, he’s not responsible for his actions. He hasn’t driven a car for two years, and now he’s in a Mercedes somewhere on his own. He could cause a lot of damage to himself and to others in a car as fast as a Mercedes.”
“What do you want me to do?” Beigler asked, finishing his coffee. “Put another call out to the boys?”