a catch in her breath. “What a terrible mess—simply terrible. I would have been so happy to see her. I haven’t seen her for nearly a year.”
“No?”
“No. She married George and went to France with him. He was the Paris correspondent for the
Dispatch.
When the Nazis came they had to leave, and finally they got to Lisbon and got on a ship. They came back just a few days ago. I didn’t even know they were back until Monday evening, when he—” She stopped. In a moment she went on, “She didn’t even telephone me. I would have been happy to see her, and so would she, I’m sure she would, because we loved each other more than most sisters do. And now she’s there waiting for me, and I sit here dreading to see her because I don’t know how to act, I don’t know what to say to her—it doesn’t seem possible that I could be dreading to see Martha—but it’s going to be awful—”
She jerked up straight, stiff and alert.
The voice, the cry in a man’s voice, repeated, though muffled by the woods, yet had reached their ears.…
“It sounded like a man calling Martha,” Hicks said.
She scrambled to her feet. “But it couldn’t—it was George!”
She stepped around Hicks and off the bridge, and swung into the path. Hicks got up and followed her, and found that he hadto step lively to keep up. When he emerged from the woods she was already a third of the way across the lawn, streaking for the house. From there a voice came, agonized and importunate:
“A doctor! Call a doctor!…”
Hicks supposed it came from open windows of the house, but it didn’t. On account of shrubbery screening the side terrace, he didn’t know the terrace was there, but Heather led him to it. She was running now, and so was he, at her heels as she bounded through a gap in the shrubbery onto the flagstones.
A man was kneeling there, with a face like a gargoyle. He saw them and seemed to think the noises he was making were words. Heather ran to him, or rather to the figure prostrate before him, and went down to it—
“Sis!” she cried from her heart. “Sis dearest—”
“Don’t!” the man blubbered. “Don’t pull at her! She’s dead.”
Five
At the office at the laboratory building the late afternoon sun flooded in through the windows, and the colored plastics fought back and made a hubbub of it.
Herman Brager sat in a chair frowning at R. I. Dundee. The fact that he was popeyed gave his frown an air of ferocity which was probably misleading. Dundee, paying no attention to him, was absorbed in an activity which, if not mysterious, seemed at least pointless. He was seated at the purple desk, with the contraption like a portable phonograph in front of him, and beside it was a carrying case, made of the ubiquitous plastic, with the lid open, containing dozens of the disks resembling phonograph records. A stack of the disks was there on the desk, and Dundee was taking them one at a time, playing the first few words of each, and returning them to the case.
“Resume on number four—”
“Vat two is now—”
“Viscosity disap—”
“Coefficient of all—”
The voice coming from the disks on the machine was Brager’s. As the stack was nearly exhausted, Brager started from his chair, offering:
“I’ll bring another case.”
“I’ll get it myself,” said Dundee shortly. “You understand, Herman, I’m going to make sure—well, damn your nerve!”
The door had opened and Hicks was there.
Brager shifted his frown to the intruder. Dundee switched off the machine, shoved back his chair, nearly toppling it over, and came around the desk.
His voice trembled with fury. “Look here, I told you to get—”
“Can it!” Hicks said peremptorily. “No time for comedy. The cops are coming. Police. Gendarmes.”
Dundee stared. “What kind of—”
“Crime.” Hicks’s eyes, their glint more insolent than ever but the laziness gone, went from Dundee to Brager and darted back again. “Assault and
“No?”
“No. She married George and went to France with him. He was the Paris correspondent for the
Dispatch.
When the Nazis came they had to leave, and finally they got to Lisbon and got on a ship. They came back just a few days ago. I didn’t even know they were back until Monday evening, when he—” She stopped. In a moment she went on, “She didn’t even telephone me. I would have been happy to see her, and so would she, I’m sure she would, because we loved each other more than most sisters do. And now she’s there waiting for me, and I sit here dreading to see her because I don’t know how to act, I don’t know what to say to her—it doesn’t seem possible that I could be dreading to see Martha—but it’s going to be awful—”
She jerked up straight, stiff and alert.
The voice, the cry in a man’s voice, repeated, though muffled by the woods, yet had reached their ears.…
“It sounded like a man calling Martha,” Hicks said.
She scrambled to her feet. “But it couldn’t—it was George!”
She stepped around Hicks and off the bridge, and swung into the path. Hicks got up and followed her, and found that he hadto step lively to keep up. When he emerged from the woods she was already a third of the way across the lawn, streaking for the house. From there a voice came, agonized and importunate:
“A doctor! Call a doctor!…”
Hicks supposed it came from open windows of the house, but it didn’t. On account of shrubbery screening the side terrace, he didn’t know the terrace was there, but Heather led him to it. She was running now, and so was he, at her heels as she bounded through a gap in the shrubbery onto the flagstones.
A man was kneeling there, with a face like a gargoyle. He saw them and seemed to think the noises he was making were words. Heather ran to him, or rather to the figure prostrate before him, and went down to it—
“Sis!” she cried from her heart. “Sis dearest—”
“Don’t!” the man blubbered. “Don’t pull at her! She’s dead.”
Five
At the office at the laboratory building the late afternoon sun flooded in through the windows, and the colored plastics fought back and made a hubbub of it.
Herman Brager sat in a chair frowning at R. I. Dundee. The fact that he was popeyed gave his frown an air of ferocity which was probably misleading. Dundee, paying no attention to him, was absorbed in an activity which, if not mysterious, seemed at least pointless. He was seated at the purple desk, with the contraption like a portable phonograph in front of him, and beside it was a carrying case, made of the ubiquitous plastic, with the lid open, containing dozens of the disks resembling phonograph records. A stack of the disks was there on the desk, and Dundee was taking them one at a time, playing the first few words of each, and returning them to the case.
“Resume on number four—”
“Vat two is now—”
“Viscosity disap—”
“Coefficient of all—”
The voice coming from the disks on the machine was Brager’s. As the stack was nearly exhausted, Brager started from his chair, offering:
“I’ll bring another case.”
“I’ll get it myself,” said Dundee shortly. “You understand, Herman, I’m going to make sure—well, damn your nerve!”
The door had opened and Hicks was there.
Brager shifted his frown to the intruder. Dundee switched off the machine, shoved back his chair, nearly toppling it over, and came around the desk.
His voice trembled with fury. “Look here, I told you to get—”
“Can it!” Hicks said peremptorily. “No time for comedy. The cops are coming. Police. Gendarmes.”
Dundee stared. “What kind of—”
“Crime.” Hicks’s eyes, their glint more insolent than ever but the laziness gone, went from Dundee to Brager and darted back again. “Assault and
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