She knew Grandy was nodding. She knew glances flew, now, above her head.
"She's been under a strain," Grandy said in his soothing way. His voice stroked and patted at the situation, stretching it here, pushing at lumps. He was going to cover over this indecency of the impossible. Everything would seem reasonable and able to be believed, after he had stroked the facts with his voice a while. "Dreadful strain," he was murmuring. "First that, and then Althea's death. Her own sister couldn't have been closer. And now, you see, her husband has gone off without leaving any word. It's no wonder. Poor child."
They were murmuring too. She could hear the hum of their consent and understanding.
"Its all been terribly confusing," Grandy said. "I can't even tell you all of it. But she really— It's no wonder if her senses begin to play her tricks. I think if you'd been through . . . stresses and the bewildering circumstances—" His voice murmured off, died in word-
less sympathy.
Tyl felt frozen and trapped.
Her senses. Here it was again. She did not know what she knew she knew. Here was Grandy saying so! What Francis had said! She did not know what had happened. What she thought she saw, couldn't be trusted. What she thought she remembered, no one else
remembered, and even inanimate things shifted and changed behind her back. Because her senses played her tricks? Did they, in fact? She didn't know, herself, at the moment. She wasn't sure any more.
Gahagen said cheerfully, "No harm done."
Blake said kindly, "Just as well to make sure. Say, that's all right."
"Never mind, little girl. We understand," their voices said.
She stood still in utter terror. What it meant, her mind didn't know. But her body was sick with fear.
A taxicab pulled up abruptly. A girl got out. The girl was Jane. She came to them quickly. She was decisive and demanding.
"What is it?" said Jane. "What are all of you doing here?"
Chapter Thirty-one
The group shifted to let Jane in. There was a reluctance to say what they were doing here. No one volunteered.
"Ah, Jane, dear child," said Grandy. . . . "Gentlemen, this is my little secretary, from the house. . . . Look, dear, let us take Mathilda home in your cab."
"But wait a minute—"
"I thought Francis was in there," Mathilda said wearily. "I thought I'd found him."
The blond girl's eyes didn't flinch from hers. "That's strange," she said. "Because this is where Press lives."
"Press?" Grandy said it
"Yeah, the name here is Press, all right," said Chief Blake.
"You mean Ernie Press?"
"Yeah."
"Why, I am acquainted with him," said Grandy. "Of course. Do you mean to tell me—"
Jane said crisply, "I'd like to know what this is about, please."
There was a shocked little silence, the result of her rudeness. Then Gahagen began to tell her.
Mathilda felt strength seeping back into her spine. Jane was no baby doll or child, either. Jane had force. Jane made sense. She listened eagerly. It was a different kind of sense from Grandy's, but sense. Something clear.
Tyl said, "Yes, and I did communicate, Jane. He did answer me."
"Let me tell you something," said Jane in her clear and surprisingly bold voice. "Francis warned me that if anything ever happened to him, I should look up this man named Press."
This was odd. Tyl felt the balance shift. She could tell that they were checked, turned back, made to think again.
"He works for the city," went on Jane. "The D.P.W."
"D.P.W.!" cried Mathilda. "Of course! Yes, yes! Francis got into his car. His car, Jane! It had D.P.W. on it. Ask the gardener."
Grandy bent forward, as if he drew a line across Tyl's eagerness to cancel it. "But of course Press works for the city," he purred. "Of course he does, child."
Jane paid him no heed. She went on, "I've been watching Mr. Press. He's been at his office down in the city yard. A little while ago he left suddenly. And very fast. He drove to the corner of Mercer Lane. That's about four blocks up and over." Jane pointed. "I
followed him there."
"My dear Jane!" murmured Grandy with astonishment, and still she paid him no heed. Jane was a doll without any strings. Mathilda stood straighten
"He spoke to the driver of a garbage truck," said Jane.
They all looked blank.
"The truck started up right away. It turned off. I followed Press again, until I found out he was only going back to his office. Then I thought I'd see what that truck did. Did it come here?"
"Eh?" said Grandy. He looked thunderstruck.
"Did it?" said Jane. "Because it turned this way." Her blue eyes were stern and clear. One would have to answer.
"Oh, me!" said Grandy. "I didn't see any garbage truck."
"Mr. Grandison was watching the house," Blake explained with his monumental patience, "the entire time, or practically so, between when Miss—er—the young lady says she saw—"
"Oh, he was!" said Jane with peculiar emphasis.
Tyl's pulse was racing. She thought she saw how everything could be reconciled. "No, no. Maybe he didn't see it!" she cried. "But it could have come along just the same. He might not have seen it. People don't. It's like a waiter. You don't see his face."
"Like the postman!" said Grandy quickly, almost as if he clutched at a straw. "Oh, my dear, can I be guilty of that stupidity? Chesterton's Invisible Man! You remember, Tom. You've read those things. The invisible people who come and go in the street and are not seen because you are so used to them. Now, I couldn't say —I really couldn't say whether I saw a garbage truck—"
"Suppose the dame in the house saw you, Luther," Gahagen offered. "She tips off her husband."
"Yes," said Grandy. He drawled out some doubt. "Ye-es."
"He sends a truck around."
"But, Tom—"
"Listen. He's the guy who knows exactly where those trucks are. all day, every day. They got a map and schedules. You'd be surprised. Say a lady loses her ring or a piece of good silver in the trash. Happens often. Why, he can stop the truck before they dump."
"Dump?" said Jane, her hand on her throat. "Dump?"
"Yeah, they dump down at the incinerator."
"Is that a fact?" said Grandy. "They do know, then, exactly where each truck—"
"Sure, it's a fact."
"Yeah, but what's the idea here?" said Blake. He slowed them down. He fixed on Jane. "You're saying, miss, that this man Press sends around a garbage truck to pick up a man?"
Jane swayed on her feet. "He sent a truck somewhere."
"And the man's gone," said Mathilda in a clear, bold voice. She stood by Jane. "He was helpless. He couldn't speak. He couldn't yell. He could have been carted away." Jane's shoulder leaned on hers. The girls were side by side. It was a lining up of forces.
"Now look here," said Grandy reasonably. Everyone turned to him. "I do understand that Press is in a position to—let us say—summon a garbage truck. I know that. I concede as much. In fact, I remember now that he had spoken of the system with which they run their noisome affairs. It's truly remarkable—truly—the things that go on in the background of our lives and we reck not of; we are unaware—"
Jane said, "What are you going to do?"
She said it to the others. Grandy went on smoothly, as if she had not done the unforgivable again and interrupted him, "I do not understand what it is you—er—imagine, Jane, my dear. How can a man's body be taken away on a garbage truck? You aren't saying that the men on the truck are all in cahoots? Now come. What had Francis done, ever, to the Department of Public Works?"