Melody grinned. “I’m not so dumb as that. It was my job to fix the travel arrangements. You don’t think I’d walk out and leave my ticket behind?”
“He won’t like that.”
“He’s in no position to argue,” said Melody. “I know enough to blow the project sky-high. The price of an airline ticket and a Russian hotel bill is peanuts to what I could collect in overtime pay. I’m thinking about that. No use trying to negotiate anything yet.”
“You mean he’s too distracted over Goldine’s disappearance?”
She studied him amusedly with her green eyes and said nothing. “You, er, mentioned on the phone that you had news of Goldine,” he prompted her.
“That’s right, lover boy. I can tell you where she is right now.”
“You know that?”
She was savoring this, pouting with her lower lip and fingering her hair as Dryden assimilated what she was saying. Two statements of fact had emerged: she had walked out on Serafin, and she knew where Goldine was. The facts didn’t trouble him so much as the implications.
“Sure I know,” she said.
“Did you ask me here to let me into the secret?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“What I get in return,” said Melody.
“Like Campari, for instance?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Fancy your chances, lover boy? Later, maybe, but I was thinking of a different kind of arrangement, as a matter of fact. Something less romantic, more …” She held up her right hand, passing the thumb lightly across the fingertips.
“Let’s have it straight,” said Dryden. “Who do you represent?”
She frowned. “I miss your drift, sweetheart.”
He didn’t disguise his irritation. “Less than two hours ago I got off a plane and bought a paper. It carried the news that Goldine has disappeared and is probably kidnaped. I get to my hotel and there’s a message from you. Urgent. So I meet you, and what do you tell me? You walked out on Serafin, and you know where Goldine is. Am I supposed to believe you have no part in her disappearance, you have nothing to do with the people who abducted her? You’re in this up to here, Melody.”
She clasped her hands over her knee and rocked back on the stool laughing. “Jack Dryden, you fracture me! You really believe I arranged for some hoods to kidnap Goldengirl and I’m here to fix the ransom? Melody ripping off the consortium, huh? Oh boy, that’s really wild! I just wish I had the nerve to do it.” Her face became more serious. “Listen, I’m here strictly on my own account. I’m out of a job, as I told you. I figured you might use some extra help in the agency after Moscow, someone with experience as a confidential secretary and inside knowledge of the Goldengirl project. I’d like to stay with the assignment, if you think I could be useful. Jesus, I’m no kidnaper! Just one of America’s unemployed angling for a job.”
“But do you know what’s happened to Goldine?” Dryden said, without indicating whether he believed her.
She nodded, studying his reaction. “You can’t blame a girl who has information for wanting a return on it.”
“I suppose not.” The prospect of Melody on the agency staff didn’t enrapture him, but it might be tolerated. There could even be an advantage in having someone in the New York office with knowledge of the project. She wasn’t the type to stay long. It was a small price for the information she had. “How’s your typing?”
She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I shall adore working for you.”
“So what happened to Goldine?” he asked.
“She never left Cleveland. You’ll find her in Caradock Lodge. That’s a private sanitarium on Euclid Avenue, the road out to Cleveland Heights, east of the city center.”
“Someone has locked her up in a sanitarium?”
“That’s putting it a little strongly,” said Melody. “I’d say she was under observation.”
“Say what you like, we must get her out of there,” said Dryden. “Do you know who is responsible for this?”
“Sure I do.” She took a sip at her drink. “Not the Mob, honey. Bill Serafin arranged it himself. Okay, you don’t believe that, because you read in the papers he informed the police she was missing, right? But listen to this. You remember how she complained she didn’t feel so good at the Trials — her legs were going heavy on her, or something?”
“It was a virus infection,1” said Dryden. “She had a dry throat as well. You mean it didn’t clear up?”
“You’re getting there,” said Melody. “On the flight from Eugene, she was all the time asking for water. If I’d been the stewardess, I’d have chucked the jugful over her. By the time we landed, it was obvious Goldengirl was pretty unwell. She was sweating plenty, and said she felt real weak. Soon as we got to Jefferson College, we put her to bed. Next morning, Bill Serafin checked her, and then told Pete Klugman there could be no training for at least a week. You can imagine Pete’s response. I’ve never seen him so mad. He was laying into Serafin like it was his fault Goldengirl was sick. He said he had three weeks to get her in shape for the Olympics and now it was cut to two, just like that. Serafin had an answer. He said he had ten days to get her ready for the U.S. team medical. If she didn’t pass that, the whole project was ditched.”
“I don’t see why,” said Dryden. “If she was sick, there would still be time to get over it. It’s not as if she has the plague.”
“Nobody knows what she has,” said Melody. “Except possibly Bill Serafin. One thing he was adamant about: she wasn’t going to that medical before she was fit again. You know what I think? He’s afraid she strained her heart. They pushed her too hard in the training sessions. He’s terrified it will show on one of those cardiograms.”
“I am still trying to get the picture of what happened,” said Dryden. “He arranged for her to move into the sanitarium. Was that because her condition deteriorated?”
Melody shook her head. “The break in training definitely helped her. After a week at Jefferson College, she was feeling stronger. She’d lost a little weight, but otherwise she was eating well and getting back to normal. Last Monday he gave her another physical and we all thought she would resume training and go to New York Wednesday for the team medical. Instead, he said she needed further tests, and he was moving her into Caradock Lodge. There was a meeting with Sammy Lee and Pete Klugman. I don’t know what was said, but afterward Doc Serafin called me in and told me he was putting out this story that Goldengirl had disappeared. He said it was a way of buying time. When her health was restored, she would reappear and report for a special check by the team doctors.”
“Crazy,” said Dryden, shaking his head.
“You think so? Actually, it’s smart. It gets Goldengirl’s name in the news, and that can’t be bad.”
“Telling the cops isn’t smart. What happens if they find her? What sort of publicity is that, playing the cops for suckers?”
“Aw, come on,” said Melody. “Think about it. She’s just one missing nineteen-year-old. She’s been in the news, so they give out press releases, but what can they do in a case like this? They have to take Doc Serafin’s statement on trust, or why would he report her missing? They file her as a missing person and wait to hear something. If it’s a kidnaping, they can expect a ransom note to arrive. It won’t, of course.”
“They must be making some kind of inquiry.”
“Naturally, but that’s routine. When they’ve finished checking the leads Doc Serafin gave them, all they can do is sit and wait. One missing girl — even an Olympic hope — isn’t a case for the FBI.”
“All right,” said Dryden. “It buys a little time. Now tell me how Serafin proposes to explain her reappearance.”
“He’s got it all worked out, lover boy. He’ll put it out that she was kidnaped and the ransom has been paid by a group of his business friends, who remain anonymous. The kidnapers contacted him direct and threatened to kill Goldengirl if the police got to hear about the
deal before it was finalized. It’s neat, because this way she has a good reason for signing commercial contracts after the Games: she wants to repay the people who put up the ransom. Then, if anything should ever break about the consortium, there’s a heartwarming cover story. Like it?”
“I think I need to get a few things straight with Serafin,” said Dryden, unimpressed. “I’ve teed up two million dollars’ worth of endorsement contracts already. If Goldine isn’t training at all, I’m in deep trouble, whatever stories he cooks up. I need to know just what is going on in Cleveland.” He upended his glass. “Right, Miss Fryer. You’ve joined the agency staff. Here’s your first assignment. Make two flight reservations for Cleveland, for tomorrow afternoon.”
“Two?” said Melody. “You want me to come?”
“I want to look inside this sanitarium before I tackle Serafin. It could be helpful to have you with me.”
“Okay, boss,” said Melody. “But count me out of the face-to-face. I’ve made my exit once. That’s enough. You did say tomorrow afternoon?”
Dryden nodded. “I have a busy morning coming up, which is why I’m going back to my hotel now to get some rest.” He noticed Melody’s eyebrows tilt in surprise. “You can leave a message with the desk clerk. Oh, and have a taxi pick us up from our hotels in good time, would you?”
Melody snapped her features into an intelligent response. “Certainly, Mr. Dryden.” When he had said goodnight and turned away, she added wryly to herself, “That will definitely be all, Miss Fryer.”
*
In the New York Institute of Sports Medicine next morning, Dryden put this question to the Director, Dr. Fassendean: “What are the symptoms of overstrain in an athlete?”
Dr. Fassendean, a small man in his thirties with a startling crop of red hair, smiled indulgently. “You might as well ask me how you cook eggs. You’ll have to be more specific than that, my friend.”
“I’m thinking of an athlete who might have trained too hard. A runner.”
“Long distance?”
“Sprints, actually.”
“Not common at all,” said Dr. Fassendean. “You don’t mean muscular injuries? The hamstring is the classic sprinting injury.”
“This isn’t a muscular thing,” said Dryden. “I’m wondering if it has to do with the cardiovascular system.”
“Athlete’s heart?” Dr. Fassendean chuckled. “Good old athlete’s heart. That’s been running longer than any athlete I know. It’s a rare condition, actually. I’ve seen electrocardiograms showing overstrain of the heart’s left ventricle, which I guess is what is generally known as athlete’s heart, but modern knowledge of training methods is rapidly eliminating the syndrome among serious athletes. The dabbler in track is more at risk.”
“But what are the symptoms?”
“Acute overstrain manifests itself quite dramatically,” said Dr. Fassendean. “Asthenia develops rapidly, as well as a syncope at times, vertigo, vomiting, lowering of the arterial blood pressure, dilatation of the heart. Look, maybe it would save us both some time if you described the symptoms your athlete has. I guess they’re a little different, huh?”
Dryden nodded. “Well, it started with a sensation of heaviness in the limbs after a fairly intensive series of competitions.”
“Nothing too alarming in that.”
“Dry throat,” Dryden went on. “Tiredness, excessive thirst, some loss of weight.”
“This athlete eating normally?”
“I understand so.”
“But drinking plenty?”
“Yes.”
“Urinating frequently?”
“Now you mention it, yes.”
“That’s no heart condition. Get a physician to run a blood-sugar test. Sounds like diabetes to me.”
“Diabetes?” Dryden mouthed the word without giving it credence. “Could that be caused by overtraining?”
Dr. Fassendean shook his head. “Caused, no. Not directly. If an athlete has the disease, it’s more likely to reveal itself under stress conditions, like training. Physical malfunctions of any kind tend to become more readily detectable in the trained athlete. That doesn’t mean athletics causes them. Plenty of people have mild forms of diabetes without realizing it. Around two-and-a-half-million Americans are registered diabetics, and surveys suggest almost as many again are undiagnosed. If those people took part in sports, there’s a good chance their condition would be detected.”
Figures were spinning in Dryden’s brain. Two-and-a-half-million diabetics. Twenty million dollars. “Diabetes,” he repeated mechanically. “That’s when the body can’t absorb sugar, isn’t it?”
“Starches, sugar, yes,” Dr. Fassendean confirmed. “The pancreas — the gland at the back of the abdomen below the lower part of the stomach — fails to produce enough of the hormone insulin, and as a consequence excessive amounts of sugar accumulate in the blood and urine. Left untreated, the poisons in the blood attack the brain, inducing a state of coma and ultimately death. With the help of diet and drugs, insulin especially, it can be effectively controlled.”
“There’s no cure?”
“None,” said Dr. Fassendean. “Before insulin treatment was discovered in the twenties, it was a death sentence.”
“Do we know what causes the pancreas to stop functioning?”
“Not really. Just that certain stress conditions seem to make it more likely. If there’s a potential weakness there, obesity appears to aggravate it. Pregnancy is another stress factor, and so is growth.”
“Growth?” Dryden seized on the word.
“Sure. Diabetes is often diagnosed during the adolescent growth spurt. There’s research evidence showing that young people who develop the disease are characteristically at least twelve months ahead of the average in the onset of growth. But look, it wouldn’t be wise to make presumptions in advance of a proper diagnosis. My interpretation of the symptoms you describe may be wrong. A blood-sugar test would settle the matter.”
“Thanks, Doctor. I’ll see that one is carried out. I’m grateful for your advice.”
In the entrance hall of the Institute, he looked at his watch: 12:15 P.M. In the Pacific Time Zone, it would be 9:15 A.M. He went to a phone booth and called a Bakersfield number.
“The California Institute? I’d like to speak to Professor Walsh, please. Yes, it’s very important.”
Her voice came over crisp and efficient. “Stephanie Walsh. Who is this?”
He pictured the half-smile under the fringe. “Dryden. Jack Dryden. I called at the College — sorry, Institute — a few weeks back. There was some, er, confusion over my identity.”
“I remember — my dead publisher. So they have phones up there, do they?”
Of course she couldn’t know he was in no mood to trade humor. “Actually, I’m in New York. Something has come up —”
“New York? Isn’t that where the Serafin girl is thought to be? I saw the item on NBC News last evening. Bill must be out of his mind with worry. Is there any development yet?”
“Nothing,” said Dryden. “Everyone’s waiting for a ransom demand. Professor, when we talked, you were good enough to tell me a little about the growth hormone, HGH, and the work that’s being done in your Institute with children suffering from arrested growth. If you recollect, I put a question to you about the possible effect of HGH on normal children, and you were pretty short with me — warned me I was on very doubtful ground.”
“I remember saying that, yes.” The note of coolness carried over on her voice.
“I’m back on the same ground,” he admitted. “Believe me, I wouldn’t trouble you if it wasn’t important. I have just one question pertaining to what you said before. The answer could profoundly influence things here.”
“Go ahead,” said Professor Walsh. “I’m listening.”
“Would the reason for your reservation about the use of HGH be that it has a connection with diabetes?”
“You’ve got it in one,” said Professor Walsh. �
�If you administer HGH in large amounts over a considerable period of time, you produce a condition of hyperglycemia that stimulates the beta cells of the pancreatic islands. It causes them to hypertrophy and degenerate, resulting ultimately in chronic diabetes. HGH is diabetogenic, Mr. Dryden. Anyone who uses it knows that.”
*
Melody had arranged a 1350 flight from Kennedy Airport. They landed in Cleveland in a little over an hour and a half. The conversation between them was minimal. From Cleveland Hopkins Airport they took a taxi into the center and east along Euclid Avenue.
Caradock Lodge was not visible from the road. Dryden asked the driver to let them out a hundred yards past the gate. They settled the fare and walked back. There was a drive lined with tall, green-barked trees. A short way around the curve was the Lodge, mock-gothic to the pointed roofs of its ivy-covered towers. Inside, a dog barked. Melody slipped her hand inside Dryden’s arm.
The bell, at least, was modern. It was answered by a uniformed nurse, sallow-skinned and tight-lipped.
“Yes?”
“Visitors,” Dryden announced, “for Miss Goldine Serafin.”
“There must be a mistake,” she said without blinking. “There is nobody of that name here.”
“Definitely no mistake,” said Dryden. “This is Miss Fryer, Dr. Serafin’s secretary. My name is Dryden, and I look after Miss Serafin’s business interests. You probably have orders to admit nobody. We understand your difficulty, but” — he took a step forward — “this is an emergency. It is necessary for us to see the young lady, whatever name she is using here. Would you kindly take us to her? We flew in from New York specially.”
The door slammed in their faces.
“I guess the answer is no,” said Melody.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned New York,” said Dryden. “Serafin will have warned her about newsmen.”
“So what do we do now?”
“You keep ringing the bell at regular intervals while I scout around the outside, hoping that dog is tied up. Give me three minutes, and then walk back up the drive and wait at the gate.”
He stepped over an ornamental chain and started across a lawn, taking stock of the leaded windows on ground level. Every one was fastened. The interior was too much in shadow for anyone to be visible from where he was. He heard Melody ring the bell.
Goldengirl Page 30