Danielle Steel - Vanished

“I'm afraid I have to ask you a few more questions.”

“Certainly.” Malcolm sat down again, looking cooperative and official. He wanted to do everything he could to get his son back.

“Is there anyone who could be out to get you? Anyone who's made threats against you, say in the past year, even foolish ones, things that may not have seemed important at the time, but in light of what happened last night jump to mind now?”

“I can't think of anything. I thought about it all night as I drove from Washington, but I can think of no one who would want to harm me.'

“Any sensitive political associations? Any dissatisfied ex-employees?” Malcolm shook his head again. “Any women you may have been involved with? What you tell me will be kept confidential, to the best of my ability.” It was what he had promised Marielle. “But it may be important.”

“I appreciate that,” he said coolly, “but that won't be necessary. I have not been involved with any women.” He looked outraged that it would even be mentioned.

“Ex-wives who may be resentful that you've had a child with someone else after all these years?”

“Hardly, my first wife is married to one of the world's leading concert pianists and fives in Palm Beach, and the other is married to the president of a bank and lives in Chicago.” And then he threw in a blow that John thought was a cheap shot but he showed no reaction. “Unlike my wife apparently, my previous spouses are not dangerous people.”

“Maybe Charles Delauney isn't either.” He felt he had to say something to defend her.

“I don't care who it is, Inspector. I just want my child back.” It was eleven days before Christmas.

“I understand, Mr. Patterson. We all do. And we're going to do everything we can to make that happen.”

“Go back and talk to Delauney.” Taylor did not like taking orders from civilians, but he nodded as he stood up and thanked Malcolm for his patience. Taylor noticed that he looked tired and worn, but for a man his age, he looked fairly healthy and composed, considering what had happened. And inquiries about Marielle before he left told him she had been felled by a migraine.

From her room, just above it, she heard the front door close as he left, and the shouts of the press as he made his way through them. And a little while later, the police cordoned off the front of the house to keep them at a distance. But to Marielle, it was just noise, as she lay in the dark in blinding pain, silently praying for Teddy.

The next day Taylor returned, and there was still no news of Teddy. The kidnappers had said not a word, made no calls, sent no letters, and there was still no request for a ransom. And the press was haying a field day. Old photographs of Malcolm and Marielle were splashed all over the papers. Patrick, the driver, had given an interview, and intimated that there was a man involved with Marielle, and there was a photograph of him with Edith, wearing Marielle's white Madame Grès dress from Paris. It had been taken the night of the kidnapping when they were at the Irish Christmas dance in the Bronx, and they looked very grand as they posed for it. And in the afternoon paper the day before, there was a photograph of Marielle looking frightened and disoriented when the press had forced their way into the house, and another of her in her nightgown, which they'd taken through the library windows. But although Patrick had hinted there might be a man in her life, there was no actual mention of Charles Delauney.

“It's a pleasant piece to read,” Malcolm said acidly over breakfast the day after his return. “I don't enjoy reading about my wife consorting with other men.” He hadn't seen her since he had left her with her headache the day before, and she still looked wan, but she said she was better.

“I told you what happened.” She looked crushed by what he was saying.

“Maybe you should have explained it to Patrick.”

She looked up at him with a snap then, and for a moment she almost lost control of herself. But even that effort almost resparked her headache. “Maybe you should have your spies report a little more accurately to you, Malcolm.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” He looked at her coolly.

“Exactly what it sounds like. None of your servants have been civil to me since the day I arrived in this house, and you know it.”

“Perhaps you don't know how to take command, Marielle. Or perhaps they know something I don't.”

“How dare you!” She had been so faithful to him, so loyal, so decent. And now, because of Charles, he blamed her for everything. He had changed overnight. It was so unfair, she left the dining room with tears in her eyes, and collided with John Taylor.

“Good morning, Mrs. Patterson.” He looked at her face and knew that the strain was taking a toll on her. He had been to see Delauney again, and warned him not to leave town, but they still had no evidence, and his alibi was solid. So far there were no leads to people he may have employed to kidnap Teddy. But the FBI was frantically trying to build a case, assuming too that Teddy might well have been taken out of state to New Jersey. And so far, Charles Delauney was their best suspect. The people who had paid Patrick a hundred dollars to spend the night out had vanished without a trace, and so far that was all they had. And Betty and Miss Griffin had seen and heard nothing and couldn't help them. “Feeling better today?” Taylor asked calmly.

She nodded. How much better could she feel with Teddy still gone? “Is there any news at all?”

“Not yet. But we're working on it, and we're waiting. Sooner or later, we're going to get a call for ransom, and then we can move ahead. I want to speak to some of your staff members again today to see if anyone remembers anything they might have forgotten initially in the excitement.” She nodded, it sounded sensible. And he also wanted to speak to Malcolm.

She went back up to the nursery then, and she was surprised when she ran into her husband. He was standing in Teddy's room, looking stricken as he touched the child's toys, and let a hand drift across his pillow. It brought tears to Marielle's eyes again when she saw him. She felt guilty for their sharp exchange downstairs. They were both under a terrible strain. As she looked around the room, it tore at her heart again. She remembered stroking his little cheek as he lay there in the red pajamas Miss Griffin had made, with the embroidery on the collar. There were tiny little trains sewn all around in Miss Griffin's careful blue stitching.

“It's impossible to believe that a child can just vanish into thin air, isn't it?” Malcolm said mournfully, and she nodded. He looked at her so sorrowfully, and he sounded gentler than he had an hour before. Here, in this room, you could be sad, but not angry. He sank slowly into the rocking chair near the bed, and stared at where his son had lain for the last time before they took him. “I keep thinking of the train downstairs, waiting for him.” There were tears in his eyes when he spoke, and Marielle turned away so he wouldn't see her own, and then he reached out and touched her hand. “I'm sorry about this morning. I'm afraid I was overwrought. And yesterday too …it's just such a nightmare all this, Marielle. What are we going to do?” It was the first time she had ever seen him at a loss, and suddenly she felt sorry for him. He seemed suddenly so broken.

We're going to pray that he comes home soon.” She tried to say it calmly as she squeezed his hand. And a few minutes later, Haverford came to find him to tell him that Brigitte was waiting for him in his office at the house. He was still struggling to maintain his work load, and Brigitte had been enormously helpful and deeply sympathetic. She had cried for hours when she heard the news, and she still couldn't believe it.