Ричард Деминг - Hit and Run

“Yes, ma’am,” Alice said.

Before the afternoon was over, Helena began to wish she hadn’t called Alice back to work. The girl was in such an emotional state over the disappearance of the master of the house that she was incapable of doing any work. She seemed to feel responsible for solacing her mistress, and went about it by following Helena everywhere she went, staring at her with large, mistily sympathetic eyes.

Shortly after dinner that evening the doorbell rang. Alice went to answer it and returned to the front room followed by a stocky, middle-aged man dressed in a neat blue business suit.

“Sergeant Hanover of the police, ma’am,” Alice announced in a tremulous voice.

“Good evening, Sergeant,” Helena said graciously. “Will you have a seat?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” the sergeant said, gingerly seating himself on the edge of a chair. “I guess you know I’m here about your husband.”

“You have news of him?” Helena asked.

“No, ma’am. At least not about where he is. We’ve got some sort of negative information.”

“Oh? What?”

“He caught the plane to New York you said you put him on, all right. Flight Four Thirty-two American. He was on the passenger list, and one of the stewardesses remembered him well enough to describe him. That flight lands at Newark Airport, you know. It came in right on time at five forty-five P.M.”

When he paused, Helena said, “Yes? Go on.”

“We got in touch with the Newark police by phone,” Sergeant Hanover said reluctantly. “Had them check the airport. You know those dime and quarter lockers they have at airports?”

Helena nodded.

“Well, if stuff isn’t taken out in twenty-four hours or another coin isn’t put in, they remove the stuff and put it in storage. Your husband’s bag was in storage.”

Helena widened her eyes. “What could that possibly mean?”

“Looks like he meant to go somewhere in Newark before grabbing a subway or taxi over to Manhattan,” the sergeant said uncomfortably. “He wouldn’t have checked his bag unless he expected to come back. He disappeared in Newark. Never checked into the hotel room he’d reserved in Manhattan, never showed at the convention.”

Helena made her voice faint. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Not necessarily,” Sergeant Hanover said quickly. “It could be amnesia or something. We’re having the morgues in the area checked as a matter of routine, of course, but we’re also checking hospitals. No use giving up hope until we know more. A picture of your husband would help in the search.”

“Of course,” Helena said. She crossed to a bookcase and returned with an eight-by-ten portrait mounted on a cardboard frame. “Will this do? It’s five years old, but he hasn’t changed a great deal except he’s a little grayer.”

“It’s fine,” the sergeant said, examining it. “Ah — there’s one more thing, Mrs. Powers. Has your husband been depressed, or been acting strange in any way lately?”

Helena resumed her seat. “How do you mean, Sergeant?”

“Well, has he mentioned any worries?” After a pause he said hesitantly, “Financial worries, for instance?”

Helena frowned. Glancing at Alice, who had been standing near the door taking all this in, she said, “Isn’t it past your time to go home, Alice?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said. “I thought tonight I’d stay around in case you need me. I can stay all night if you like.”

“I’ll be all right,” Helena said. “You run along and come back in the morning.”

“All right, ma’am,” Alice said in a reluctant tone. “Will you call me at home if you hear anything, though?”

“Of course. Run along now, and stop worrying about me. I’ll manage fine.”

Helena waited until the maid had got her purse from the kitchen, passed through the front room again, and closed the front door behind her. Then she said coolly, “Are you asking about his finances because he’s a banker, Sergeant?”

“Of course not,” Hanover protested. “It’s a routine question in all missing-persons cases.”

“He hasn’t been embezzling from the bank,” Helena said quietly. “My husband is a completely honest man.”

“I didn’t mean that, ma’am,” the sergeant said, flushing. “I meant any kind of worries.”

Helena looked thoughtful.

“His health all right?” the sergeant prompted.

“Oh, yes. His physical health.”

Sergeant Hanover raised his eyebrows. “How about his mental health?”

Helena considered the question before saying with an air of frankness, “There’s nothing wrong with Lawrence’s mind. At least not the sort of thing that requires psychiatric treatment. But my husband is fifty years old. He’s reached that age some psychologists refer to as male change of life. Do you know what I mean?”

Sergeant Hanover nodded understandingly. “Been a lot of magazine articles on the subject. When a guy wants a last fling at romance, just to prove he’s not getting old.”

“You express it better than I did,” Helena said. “For some time I’ve suspected Lawrence of having a mistress in Washington, D.C.”

“Washington?” Hanover said with surprise.

Helena smiled. “You expected me to say New York? Sorry to complicate things for you, but Lawrence rarely visits New York. He flies to Washington several times a year.”

“He could have had her meet him,” the sergeant mused. “Or better yet, caught a plane out of Newark Airport for Washington five minutes after he landed, just to throw us off the trail. You know this woman’s name?”

Helena shook her head. “It’s only a suspicion, Sergeant. Lipstick on his pocket handkerchiefs when he returns from Washington. A bill in the mail once for a jeweled bracelet I never saw. Things like that. I never discussed it with him.”

“Why not?” Hanover asked with raised brows. “My wife would clobber me if she suspected another woman.”

“I followed the standard advice of the lovelorn columns,” Helena said with a gentle smile. “I tried to make myself more attractive and more of a companion. I wanted to win him back, not force him back to me.”

The sergeant looked impressed. “Can’t understand a man straying from you in the first place, ma’am,” he said gallantly.

“Thank you,” Helena said in a gracious voice.

Sergeant Hanover rose. “Well, I guess that’s all for now, Mrs. Powers. We’ll let you know the minute we hear anything.”

As Helena let him out, she felt complete satisfaction with her performance. Planting the idea that Lawrence might have run off with another woman had been a brilliant stroke, she thought. Checking her husband’s contacts in Washington should occupy the police for some time. And sidetrack them from Newark Airport, where there was always the danger that it might occur to some officer to recheck with the stewardess and show her a picture of Lawrence.

As soon as Sergeant Hanover left, Helena phoned Barney Calhoun’s flat.

“Everything went smoothly, Barney,” she announced the moment he answered the phone. “It worked out just as you said. The police were just here for a picture of Lawrence to send to New York. The sergeant who talked to me wasn’t in the least auspicious. About all he asked me was if Lawrence had said anything about financial troubles recently. I told him—”

“Listen,” Calhoun interrupted in a cold voice. “Did it occur to you your phone “might be tapped?”

She was silent. Then she asked, “Could it be?”

“No,” he snapped. “They wouldn’t tap a phone on a routine missing-person case. They couldn’t have got a court order to. tap it in this short time, anyway. But don’t call me again . It’s an unnecessary risk.”