Pursley laughed out loud. “But, sir, it was great, I couldn’t believe it when you—”
He broke off as they simultaneously stopped dead at the curb. In front of them, across the street at the Stanley residence, a light had come on in one of the downstairs rooms.
CHAPTER 7
Bill Stanley had needed thirty seconds’ worth of light to locate a bottle of gin, and then he had switched the light off again. Originally, he had let the house grow dark because there had been no particular reason to turn on any lights; all he was doing was sitting on the stairs. But after a while the dark had seemed natural to him. Not comfortable; nothing would ever be comfortable again. But it seemed somehow fitting to be in the dark.
Finally, however, cold and inactivity combined to bring his bodily discomfort to a level where he noticed it. Painfully he unfolded himself and stood. He tried to stretch, and found his limbs were full of cramps. Also he was cold. A blanket, maybe? No. Something to drink.
He moved stiffly down the stairs, still in the dark, and made his awkward way first into the dining room and then to the sideboard, which was used as a liquor cabinet. Here he had discovered he needed the light, but it hurt his eyes, and he turned it off again as soon as he had what he was looking for. Now he needed a glass, but the glasses were in the kitchen.
He didn’t want to go into the kitchen. It was clean now; the blood was all gone, but still, as he approached the open doorway his steps slowed, then stopped. He stood for a moment and considered the problem.
Why didn’t he just drink out of the bottle? He could do that. Yes, there wasn’t any reason why he shouldn’t drink straight out of the bottle. After all, it was a bit late for being civilized, wasn’t it?
The doorbell might have been a bomb, the way he jumped. In the wake of the sound, he hunched against the nearest wall, his arms crossed over his chest in a vain attempt to subdue the pounding of his heart. The gin bottle, which he still gripped in his right hand, was pressed by his left arm so hard against his ribs that it would have been painful if his mind had not been too occupied to notice. He braced himself for the second ring, so there was no reason it should have made his heart contract again, but it did. But now all he had to do was wait. Whoever it was would go away, thinking there was nobody home. He forgot that he had just turned a light on and off again.
Out on the front porch Tom Holder was losing patience. “What do you think, Pursley? Is there somebody home here or not?”
Pursley said dubiously, “Maybe it was one of those timer things people get to turn their lights on when they’re gone.”
“So why did the light go out again?”
“Lightbulb burned out?”
“Could be, but I’m not convinced.” Holder pounded on the door with his fist. “Come on, man, open up!”
From the house there was nothing but dark and silence.
Tom thought for a minute. “I have an idea. Come on.” With Pursley behind him, he descended the steps and set off across the wet grass and through a break in the hedge, back to the Kimbrough house. There the door was opened by George Kimbrough, who looked every bit as irritated as he had been when Holder had seen him an hour earlier.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, Mr. Kimbrough, but do you have a key to that house over there?”
“Yes, but why do you want it?”
“We’re getting worried about your neighbor not coming home,” Holder lied. “We’d like to take a look around.”
“I thought you were supposed to be looking for my wife.”
“Yes, sir, we are. We were thinking, what if Mrs. Kimbrough went over there this afternoon and fell or something and hit her head? She could be lying in there unconscious, and if we wait for Mr. Stanley to get home, well, who knows when that’ll be?”
From Kimbrough’s face it would have been obvious to an idiot what he thought of this idea, but he did not immediately refuse Holder’s request. He considered it, then, as if humoring a four-year-old, dug into his pocket and produced a ring of keys. “This is the one you want. No, on second thought, I’d better go with you. I wouldn’t want them to think I was letting a bunch of strangers loose in their house.” He stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him. “Your man’s in my kitchen, monopolizing my phone,” he announced as if he were scoring a point against Holder.
Sergeant Rossi was probably talking to the station, getting an update on the results of the phone calls to friends and taxi companies. “You have call-waiting, I assume?” Tom inquired mildly.
“Of course,” Kimbrough snapped. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Well then, at least we know that if your wife calls, she’ll be able to get through.”
“Not if there’s already somebody on the call-waiting. She’ll get a busy signal.” Again, as if scoring a point.
Holder had an equable answer for this, but didn’t need it because they had arrived at the Stanleys’ front door.
Bill Stanley, meanwhile, had gotten as far as the foot of the stairs on his way back to his perch, and consequently was only a few feet away from the front door when George Kimbrough put his key in the lock. The doorbell had been a threat, and Bill had been terrified by it. But this—someone actually coming into the house—was a disaster of such magnitude that he wasn’t even frightened. He was simply paralyzed.
George opened the door, saying, as he switched on the hall light, “I don’t mind you looking around, but please don’t touch—aah!” This last was a cry of alarm as he literally walked right into Bill, who stood, swaying slightly, in the middle of the hall, squinting in the sudden brightness and looking exceedingly blank.
“Jesus Christ, Bill!” Kimbrough exploded. “What are you doing in here in the dark? Scared me to death!”
Bill made no reply, but looked past George to the unknown man behind him. Then he saw the uniformed policeman.
Tom Holder cast a swift glance at Stanley, stepped around Kimbrough to get to him, and took his elbow in a sustaining grasp. “Mr. Stanley? Sorry to bother you, but Mr. Kimbrough here has a bit of a problem, and we hope you can help us with it. I’m the Chief of Police.”
Holder’s grip on his arm was not enough. Stanley instantly turned the color of putty and the gin bottle slid from his slack grasp. He fell heavily against George, who caught him with an ill grace and angry exclamations.
“Ease him down to the floor,” commanded Holder. They did so, Holder nearly losing his balance by stepping on the bottle Stanley had dropped onto the carpet. When they had laid him on his back, Holder told Pursley to elevate his feet; Pursley, finding no convenient object of the right size, squatted on the floor, thrust his hands under Stanley’s ankles, and lifted them to a height of about eighteen inches.
“Water,” Holder said succinctly to Kimbrough. George stared at him stupidly. “Water,” Tom repeated. “You know: kitchen, glass, water. For your friend here.”
George turned on his heel and stalked down the hall toward the back of the house.
Holder leaned over to get a whiff of Bill Stanley’s breath, then began softly slapping his face and saying meaningless encouragements to him: “There you go, come on now, wake up, you’re O.K.”
When George got back with the glass of water, Stanley was just sitting up; Holder took the water and held the glass to the man’s blue lips. “Here, have a sip. Make you feel better.”
Stanley obediently sipped. His gaze was confused, but he seemed to recognize Kimbrough. “George,” he said.
George responded, “Uh, yes. You all right, Billy? Have you got the flu or something?”
Stanley slowly gathered his wits. “That’s right,” he said finally. “Got the flu. Sorry about all this. Very embarrassing. Here, let me get up.”
He insisted on staggering to his feet, but permitted the two policemen to take his elbows and walk him into the living room. Tom was intensely interested in Bill Stanley, and took time for only a fleeting glance around the room. That was enough to tell him that he liked Caroly
n Stanley’s taste better than George Kimbrough’s; the room was a beautiful blend of soft colors. It wasn’t until he looked around for a place to sit that he discovered it was all rather gently intimidating, its pastel perfection so clearly unsuited to harsh feet and heavy hands that he was afraid to touch anything.
They had deposited Bill in an armchair, and George had turned on a couple of lamps. “Billy,” George complained, sinking gracefully onto the sofa, “what the hell were you doing here all by yourself in the dark?”
Bill Stanley was discovering that it was indeed true what the old proverb said about necessity and invention. “Came home from work,” he said, “not feeling well. Must have fallen asleep on the couch.”
If it weren’t for the gin bottle, Holder would have believed him. The guy looked genuinely sick. “Listen, Mr. Stanley,” he said, gingerly seating himself on a delicate straight-backed chair, “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, but we have a problem on our hands that won’t wait. Have you seen Mrs. Kimbrough today?”
Had he seen Mrs. Kimbrough today. That was rich. “No,” Bill said.
“We think she may have come into this house in the early afternoon.” Stanley said nothing. Holder tried again: “She didn’t meet you here?”
“No.”
“What time did you come home from work?”
Stanley rubbed his eyes and thought for a minute. He shook his head. “Early. Can’t remember what time.”
“Mr. Stanley, I know you’re not well, and I really hate to bother you, but this is very important. Mrs. Kimbrough appears to be missing.”
“Grace? Missing?”
“Yes, Grace!” exclaimed George indignantly. “Blast her, anyway. I’ve tried everywhere; nobody knows where she is. I was hoping you’d know.”
Bill shook his head again. “I’m sorry. I have no idea where Grace is.”
It was well done, Holder thought. It was almost convincing. “I understand from Mr. Kimbrough here that your wife left this afternoon to go to California.”
There was a pause, then Stanley nodded.
“Did you drive her to the airport?”
“No, she always dr—she always drives herse—” The final syllable was virtually inaudible; Stanley seemed to freeze for a moment, and his face, already pale, went positively white.
“She always drives herself?” Holder asked, wondering what on earth had triggered that reaction.
“Yes,” Stanley answered weakly, then more firmly: “Yes.”
“Something upset you, Mr. Stanley?”
“No, uh, no, I’m just, uh, not feeling well.”
Holder chewed his lip, trying to think of a way to break through Stanley’s really very effective defenses, but failed to come up with anything he could do without breaking the law. He shrugged mentally and went on. “What time did your wife leave for the airport, Mr. Stanley?”
“Uh, let me think. George? You’d know that better than I would.”
“The last time I saw Carolyn,” George said promptly, “was at lunch. Then she left for the airport, and I left for New York to meet with some of our importers.”
Holder asked, “Was she going to drive straight to the airport?”
George shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“She had her luggage with her already? I mean, in her car, so she wouldn’t have to come home to get it?”
“I didn’t think of that,” George admitted. “I don’t know.”
“Mr. Stanley?” Holder asked. “Do you think she took her bags with her to lunch? Or came back here?”
“I really have no idea. And I can’t understand,” he groused, “what difference it makes. To where Grace is, I mean.”
“Mr. Stanley, sir, I’m just trying to figure out if maybe your wife came back here before she drove to the airport, because if she did, she might have seen Mrs. Kimbrough when she was here, and Mrs. Kimbrough might have told Mrs. Stanley something about where she was going or what she was doing today.”
“Oh. I see. Well, I’m sorry, I still can’t help you.”
“Might I suggest,” George said cuttingly, “that if you want to find out if Carolyn saw Grace today, the simplest thing to do would be to ask her? She’s probably there by now; why don’t we just get on the telephone and call her?”
Holder looked at Stanley. “O.K. by me. Mr. Stanley?”
“Uh, sure. I’ve got the number somewhere.”
“Don’t bother, Billy, I’ve got it.” George pulled a tiny leather book out of his breast pocket and leafed through it. “You there,” he said to Pursley, who had been standing inconspicuously off to one side. “Bring me that phone.”
Pursley was agreeable to a fault, but his eyes narrowed for a second. Then he fetched the phone from its table and walked it over, trailing the cord carefully behind him, to the table at Kimbrough’s elbow. There he deposited it without ceremony or comment and returned to his prior place.
George gave Pursley a scarcely audible “Thanks” without looking at him, and punched eleven digits on the phone. “She always stays at the Mark Hopkins,” he said complacently to no one in particular as he waited for the hotel to answer.
“Hello? Could I please speak to Mrs. William Stanley, I’m afraid I don’t know her room number.” There was a short silence. “Really?” said George, his eyebrows rising. He looked at his watch. “I’m calling from New Jersey. What time is it there? That’s what I thought. Well, she ought to be checking in any minute now, and could you please leave a message, it’s very important. Tell her to call—one moment, please—shall I have her call here, Billy?” Stanley sketched a gesture of indifference. “Have her call home, please. Right away. Yes. Thank you very—”
Tom Holder was standing in front of him with a hand extended. “May I?” he said with a courtesy ever so slightly exaggerated.
Kimbrough said into the phone, “Please forgive me, I’ve been interrupted,” and handed the receiver to Holder.
Holder identified himself, said it was an emergency, asked for the manager, and agreed to settle for the night manager.
“Good evening,” said an efficient voice in Holder’s ear. “This is Stephanie Wilkoff. May I help you?”
Holder identified himself again, and Ms. Wilkoff—rather apprehensively, Holder thought—expressed the hope that there was no trouble having to do with the hotel.
Holder set her mind at rest by describing the situation briefly, and asked if there was a way to guarantee absolutely that Carolyn Stanley would get a message to call home the instant she arrived at the hotel.
“Certainly,” replied Ms. Wilkoff, whose relief was audible. “I will tell the reception clerk to keep an eye out for her, and I’ll do that immediately. She’ll get that message as soon as she checks in. And to make absolutely sure, I can put a note on her entry in the computer, that’s if she made a reservation.”
Holder said, “Mr. Stanley, did your wife make a reservation?”
Stanley started to reply, but Kimbrough interrupted with “Weeks in advance.”
Holder relayed this information, and Ms. Wilkoff asked him to wait just a moment. After very much more than a moment, she came back on the line.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long,” she said, “but she wasn’t in Reservations, so we looked in a few other places. Are we talking about a Mrs. William Stanley, with an address on Austen Road, Harton?”
“That’s her.”
“Well, I’m really sorry to tell you this, but I don’t think we’re going to be able to help you. I believe Mrs. Stanley must have changed her plans; the reservation was made in October, but it was canceled this morning.”
“Canceled?”
“Yes, we got a phone call this morning.” There followed a silence so long that Ms. Wilkoff said, “Hello? Are you still there?”
Holder shook himself, apologized, said all the polite things, hung up, and returned to his chair.
“Do you mean to tell me,” said George, “that Carolyn canceled her reservation at the Mark
Hopkins?” He made it sound as though it were Holder’s fault.
“Looks that way to me. Mr. Stanley, did your wife say anything to you about where she was staying?”
“Uh, no. As George says, she always stays at the Mark—”
“She should have told me if she was going to stay somewhere else,” sputtered George, outraged. “How in the hell am I supposed to be able to find her if I don’t know where she’s staying?”
“Good question,” Holder replied unexpectedly. “You don’t know where she’s staying, Mr. Stanley here doesn’t know, either. Is there anybody who does?”
Thus challenged, Kimbrough produced: “Patricia Clyde. My secretary.” He pulled the little address book out of his pocket again, consulted it, picked up the phone, and tapped out the number.
“Patricia, my dear—” But once again Holder was standing over him with hand stretched out. “There’s a gentleman here,” said George with the faintest trace of emphasis on the word gentleman, “who would like to talk to you. Please be as helpful as you can.” He handed the phone to Holder.
“Ms. Clyde, my name is Holder, I’m the Chief of Police. I’m here with Mr. Kimbrough because his wife appears to be missing. We’re at—”
“Missing? Grace Kimbrough?” It was evident from the voice that Patricia Clyde had been asleep and was striving to wake up.
“That’s right. We’re at Mrs. Stanley’s house, Mr. Stanley’s here, too, and we’re trying to find out where Mrs. Stanley is staying in San Francisco. We need to ask her if she’s seen Mrs. Kimbrough today.”
There was a three-second pause before Ms. Clyde said, “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
It was not merely curt, it was guarded. Holder asked carefully, “What do you mean by that, ma’am, you can’t help us?”
“I mean exactly what I said. I don’t know where Mrs. Stanley is staying.”
“You’re aware that she canceled her reservation at the Mark Hopkins?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm. That’s interesting; you know, Mr. Stanley and Mr. Kimbrough both, they didn’t know anything about it.”
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