Arthur Hailey - Overload

Cagily, she had parked her Mercedes a block and a half away, where she had a clear view of the house but believed she would not be observed herself. The presence of several other parked cars helped. She had brought binoculars but had not used them for fear of arousing the curiosity of some passer-by.

So far there had been little activity on the street, none whatever at number 3. Nancy had no idea what to expect, if anything, nor had she any plan. As the morning passed she wished she might see something of the occupants of the house, but the wish went unfulfilled. She wondered if she had stayed long enough. Perhaps she should leave now and return another day.

A vehicle passed her parked car, as had several others during the preceding two hours. She noticed casually that it was a beat-up Volkswagen van, painted brown and with a broken side window. The window was roughly patched with cardboard and masking tape.

Abruptly Nancy became alert. The VW had swung across the street and was stopping in front of 117-A man got out. Nancy risked using her binoculars. She saw that he was lean, with close-cropped hair and a bushy moustache: she judged him to be in his late twenties. In contrast to the van, be was neatly dressed in a dark blue suit and wore a tie. He went to the rear of the vehicle and opened its door. The binoculars were powerful-she used them in her apartment to watch shipping in the harbor-and she caught a glimpse of the man's hands. They appeared to be badly stained in some way.

Now he was reaching inside the van and he lifted out a substantial red-colored cylinder. It seemed to be heavy. Setting the object down on the sidewalk, he reached inside again and produced another, then carried the two toward the house. As he did, Nancy realized they were fire extinguishers.

The man made two more journeys between the VW and the house, each time carrying in two more red fire extinguishers. Six altogether. After the final pair he stayed in the house for about five minutes, then re-emerged and drove away.

Nancy wavered about following, then decided not to. Afterward she sat wondering: Why would so small a house need so much fire protec-2tion? Suddenly she exclaimed, "Shiti" She had not thought to note the VW's license number, which she could have done easily. Now it was too late. She chided herself for being a lousy detective and thought maybe she should have followed the van after all.

Time to go, anyway? She supposed so. Her hand went to the ignition switch, then stopped. Something else was happening at 117- Once more she reached for the binoculars.

A woman had come out of the house; she was young, slight in build, and carelessly dressed in faded jeans and a pea coat. She glanced around her momentarily, then began walking briskly-in the opposite direction from the parked Mercedes.

This time Nancy did not hesitate. She started the car and eased out from her parking space. Keeping the woman in sight, she followed slowly, warily, pulling into the curb occasionally so as not to overtake her quarry.

The woman did not look back. When she turned a comer, Nancy waited as long as she dared before doing the same. She was in time to see the woman enter a small supermarket. It had a parking lot and Nancy drove onto it. She locked the car and followed inside.

The supermarket was averagely busy, with perhaps twenty people shopping.

Nancy caught sight of the woman she had followed-at the far end of an aisle, putting cans into a shopping cart. Nancy got a cart herself, dropped in a few items at random from nearby shelves, then moved casually toward the other woman.

She appeared even younger now than she had at a distance-little more than a girl. She was pale, her fair hair untidy, and she wore no makeup. On her right hand she had what looked like an improvised glove. Clearly it covered some kind of deformity or injury for she was using only her left hand.

Reaching out, she selected a jar of Mazola Oil and read the label.

Nancy Molineaux maneuvered her cart past, then abruptly turned, as if she had forgotten something. Her eyes met the other woman's. Nancy smiled and said brightly, "Hi! Don't we know each other?" She added, "I think we have a mutual acquaintance, Davey Birdsong."

The response was immediate and startling. The young woman's face went ashen white, she visibly trembled, and the Mazola Oil fell from her hand, shattering on the floor.

There was a silence lasting several seconds in which nothing happened except that a pool of oil spread rapidly across the shopping aisle. Then the store manager hurried forward, clucking like a worried hen. "My goodness! What a mess! Whatever happened here?"

"It was my fault," Nancy said quickly. "I'm sorry and I'll pay for what was broken."

The manager objected, "It won't pay for the cleaning up, will it?"

"No," Nancy told him, "but think of the exercise you'll get." She took the arm of the other woman, who was still standing transfixed, as if in shock.

"Let's get out of here," Nancy said. Unresisting, abandoning her shopping cart, the girl in the pea coat and jeans went with her.

On the parking lot, Nancy steered the girl toward the Mercedes. But as the passenger door was unlocked and opened she seemed to come alert.

"I can’t Oh, I can't! I have to get back to the house." Her voice was nervously high-pitched, the trembling, which had stopped as they emerged from the supermarket, began again. She looked at Nancy wildly. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend. Look, there's a bar around the block; I saw it on the way.

Why don't we go there, have a drink? You look as if you need one."I tell you I can't!"

"Yes you can, and you will," Nancy said. "Because if you don't, I'm going to phone your friend Davey Birdsong this afternoon and tell him . . ."

She had no idea how she would have finished the sentence but its effect was electric. The girl got into the car without further protest. Nancy shut the door alongside her, then went around to the driver's side.

It took only a few minutes to drive to the bar and there was parking space outside. They left the car and went in. The interior was dark and smelled of mildew.

"Christ!" Nancy said. "We need a seeing-eye dog." She groped her way to a corner table, away from the few other people already drinking. Ile girl followed.

As they sat down, Nancy said, "I have to call you something. What?"

"Yvette."

A waiter appeared and Yvette ordered a beer, Nancy a daiquiri. They were silent until the drinks came.

This time the girl spoke first. "You still haven't told me who you are.,, there seemed no reason to conceal the truth. "My name is Nancy Molineaux. I'm a newspaper reporter."

Twice before, Yvette had exhibited shock, but this time the effect was even greater. Her mouth fell open, the drink slipped in her hand and, if Nancy had not grabbed it, would have gone the way of the Mazola.

"Take it easy," Nancy urged. "Reporters only eat people when they're hungry. I'm not."

The girl whispered, having trouble with the words, "What do you want from me?"

"Some information."

Yvette moistened her lips. "Like what?"

"Like, who else lives in that house you came out of? What goes on there? Why does Davey Birdsong visit? That's for starters."

"It's none of your business."

Nancy's eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom and she could see, despite the flash of spirit, that the other woman was still frightened.

She tried a random shot. "Okay, I guess I should have gone to the police in the first place and . . ."

"No!" Yvette half rose, then fell back. Suddenly she put her face in her hands and began to sob.

Nancy reached across the table. "I know you're in some kind of trouble. If you'll let me, I'll help."

Through the sobbing: "Nobody can help." A moment later, with an obvious effort of will, Yvette stood up. "I'm going now." Even in her acute distress, she possessed a certain dignity.