Ellen Under The Stairs (7 page)

"It's a problem."

"I just found out. So I haven't done
anything. Except to call you."

"I've got to go to this meeting. But
it won't last long. Or if it does, I can duck out early. I'll use
the slumber time to think of something, don't worry. Meanwhile, my
advice is to do nothing. Because there's nothing you can
do."

"I ... guess."

"You're emotionally involved in this,
John. Trust your old chairman on this one."

"I ... OK."

"I've got your word?"

"Yeah."

"All right. I'll go to the meeting.
But I'll be thinking about what to do, so sit tight. I'll call you
back in half an hour."

"Thanks Paul."

"It'll be all right. Don't
worry."

* * * * *

After the longest half-hour John could
remember, all of it spent combing the house in hopes of picking up
a clue about what happened to Platinia, John's pick up of the
receiver cut the first ring short. "Yes?"

"Paul, here." John had never been
happier to hear Paul's growl.

"So -- what do I do?"

"Here's my suggestion. First, you can
get it out of your head that you can do something yourself. I know
you've been sitting there thinking about driving around. Hoping to
spot her on the street. That kind of thing."

"I've thought about it."

"Right. But that's what I mean about
being emotionally involved. You don't think straight. Kansas City
has over a million people if you count the burbs. And she could be
anywhere by this time."

"The only new thing I've discovered is
that she seems to have taken some money I kept for
emergencies."

"How much?"

"A couple hundred. I had it in the top
dresser of my bureau in case I needed to buy groceries in the dead
of night."

"As I said, she could be anywhere.
With a couple of c-notes, farther than anywhere."

"I suppose."

"This is a job for a
professional."

"Call the police?"

"No. That little problem about the
girl not "existing" in this world makes that a last resort. No.
What I'd do is call a private detective."

"Sounds ... good."

"I don't know who's a good P.I. and
who isn't. The best you can do is to get the Yellow Pages and look
up private detective. If you can, check out the phone numbers and
get one located north of the river. A local would have a better
chance of knowing where someone might go."

"Good advice."

"I'll get off the line then, and let
you do that."

"Thanks Paul. You don't know how much
this has helped."

"You'd do the same for me."

"Right."

They hung up.

Digging the Yellow Pages from its
hiding place under the phone table, John looked up detectives. A
lot of them. After running his finger down the phone numbers, found
only one located north of the river, his advertisement saying:
"Inexpensive. Results guaranteed."

John dialed.

A click.

"This is the Robert Zapolska Detective
agency." An answering machine. In a woman's voice that practically
purred. "Mr. Zapolska is on a case at the moment. Please leave your
name and number at the sound of the tone and Mr. Zapolska will
return your call. .... Beep ...."

"This is John Lyon. I think I need a
detective. I'd appreciate a call."

John's mind raced. Should he say
something about the nature of the problem? Maybe ... but
what?

Still with nothing to add after giving
his home and office phone numbers, John could only finished with a
whiny plea to call as soon as possible!

* * * * *

"John Lyon, speaking." John had just
returned to his office after somehow finishing his nine-o'clock
Western Civ. class. With Platinia missing for two days, it had been
difficult to concentrate on the topic of the day: Mercantilist
Economic Theory. Like any distraction, guilt made you forgetful.
Guilt, because, other than leaving a message on the detective's
answering machine, he'd done nothing to locate Platinia, the phone
interrupting that disparaging line of thought

"Bob Zapolska." Said with a soft hiss,
John unsure of the name.

"Who?" As worried about the missing
girl as he was, John tried to concentrate on the caller as John
moved the phone to his own desk and sat down in his chair. Though
John attempted to learn his student's names, he was never able to
remember them all.

"Bob Zapolska. Detective."

Of course! Not a student with a feeble
excuse for missing an exam, but the very person John had been
hoping would call.

"Right," John said dryly, glad for the
call but remembering that a day and a half had gone by without a
word from the P.I. "I expected to hear from you
yesterday."

"Case."

Why was the man whispering? Could he
be phoning from a stakeout?

"I see." There was a long pause, John
expecting to be asked what he wanted. On the other hand, the
detective knew John had called for some reason or John wouldn't
have left a message on the man's machine. Worried, tired,
discouraged, John was now arguing with himself. "What I phoned
about is a missing person." Silence on the line. "A girl is
missing."

"Daughter?"

"Not my daughter." Silence again, the
P.I. not making this any easier. "A ... friend."

"Call the police?"

"Ah ... no." What did John say next?
Not the truth, certainly. "She's just a friend. Staying with me.
She may not even be missing. That's why I haven't notified the
police." Another profound silence. "She's been staying with me to
escape ... an abusive husband." Pretty lame. "I'm a college
instructor at Hill Top College." Maybe that would make it sound
like John wasn't hunting down his own girl friend.

"How young?"

An interesting question. John had
never decided. While Platinia had the physical look of a child, she
had ... experienced eyes. "Early twenties. But she looks younger.
Is small."

"Two-hundred a day." That was a lot of
money for John.

"That's really more than I can
...."

"Includes expenses." The detective was
still using that whisper of a voice -- perhaps the man's normal
sound.

"Still ...."

"Results Guaranteed."

John thought of his abused bank
account. He could hardly afford one day at those prices. Still,
John had to try something. He guessed he could get a
loan.

"I can only buy a couple of days of
your time. Three, at the outside."

"I don't find her, you don't
pay."

"Sounds fair." More than fair,
actually.

"1836 Chouteau."

"What?"

"Office. In the Ludlow Building. Need
some facts. The number is 16. At 2:00."

"I'll be there."

* * * * *

The phone conversation -- if that's
what you could call it -- followed by the interview, had taken
place four days ago.

Four days!

Call him Z, the man had said as he
began to take John's description of Platinia.

A big man with a limp, was John's
first impression when the P.I. answered his office door. Short gray
hair. Lined face. A taciturn man with a voice as strangled as his
eyes were pale.

Entering, John had found the two room
office to be as ratty as the man. But what did P.I.s -- to say
nothing of their offices -- look like, anyway?

The phone rang, returning John to his
own office.

Paul picked up.

"Hi, hon."

Had to be Ellen.

Another moment of listening before the
big man scraped back his chair.

"I'm on my way!"

With that, Paul slammed down the
receiver, was up and reaching for his coat on the hook behind the
door.

"What?" John asked, alarmed. Paul
never moved that fast.

"The baby's coming," Paul barked, his
forehead a scowl of wrinkles. "She's taking the other car to the
hospital. No danger of it coming yet. Said not to
worry."

"You don't look worried." By this
time, Paul had his hat on -- backward. Was scrambling into his
overcoat."

"What?"

"Never mind. Can I do
something?"

"Get my classes posted for tomorrow --
just in case. Call the secretary. Tell her I'm off campus for as
long as it takes."

"Right. And listen, Paul. Good
luck!"

Paul tried to grin. "Thanks, John.
We're due for some with this one."

"I know."

Beautiful Ellen had a difficult
pregnancy.

"Everything's going to be all right,"
John said, Paul already rolling like a bowling ball angry at the
pins.

* * * * *

A baby girl. Though, like the
pregnancy, the birth hadn't gone well, Ellen with bleeding
problems.

John had seen a haggard Paul briefly
on Friday when Papa Bear had come to school, cheap cigars in hand,
Ellen off the critical list by then.

With permission, John had gone to see
Ellen on Saturday, finding her weak, but obviously on the
mend.

After a deliberately short visit, Paul
took John down the hall to the nursery to see the new baby. Like
all new babies, looking like ... bait.

* * * * *

Nothing on Platinia's whereabouts by
that Saturday afternoon.

To keep his mind off both Platinia and
Ellen, John decided to carry the under-the-stairs storage boxes out
of the hall and up to second, John clearing the passage as a way of
demonstrating to himself his faith in Platinia's return, both to
John's house and to Stil-de-grain.

* * * * *

Another week. No Platinia. No
detective. A slower than expected recovery for Ellen, Paul looking
increasingly fatigued.

"She's got a fever, " Paul muttered,
propping his elbows on his desk, covering his sallow face with both
hands. "Low grade. But they don't know what's causing
it."

John aware of the dejection in Paul's
voice, the ceiling to floor book shelves at the ends of the small
office closed in.

John glanced at the department head,
now slumped in his chair. "Should she go back to the hospital?"
Surely, Paul had thought of ...

"I've had her to St. Lukes," the big
man mumbled. "Also K.U. Med. All the specialists say
hospitalization wouldn't help. They think she'll wear the fever
out, eventually. Even though they don't know what's causing
it."

"Is she taking something?"

"A wide spectrum anti-biotic. But it
doesn't seem to help."

John had an idea like a light bulb
going off! "Listen Paul, in the other world, there's no disease.
It's the magic in the light. If I could take Ellen ...."

"No!"

"But."

"Too dangerous."

"But if our drugs ..."

"End of discussion."

And that was the conversation for that
day.

* * * * *

Finally, progress! Returning home on a
cloudy Friday, John was surprised to find a light blue, "vintage"
Cavalier parked in front of his isolated house, no one either in
the car or near it.

Unlocking his house door, going
inside, still trying to puzzle out the meaning of the abandoned car
out front, John went into the living room to find the detective
sitting in one of the large oak chairs, little Platinia huddled on
the end of the divan, the girl looking lost in some kind of leather
getup. A ... cowgirl outfit, complete with boots. Platinia was also
wearing something he'd never seen on her before ... make up. Lots
of makeup.

John was so relieved to see her after
all this time he didn't even ask the detective how he'd managed to
find her, to say nothing of the man getting Platinia out of the
cold and inside John's locked house. Detectives had their ways,
John supposed.

Seeing John, the investigator rose to
his six feet plus of bulky weight and pointed at Platinia. A man of
few words, this Bob Zapolska.

Where had Platinia been? How had she
been supporting herself after the "borrowed" two hundred had run
out? Those and other questions tumbled though John's
brain.

But first things first. Nodding to the
P.I., John said, "I thought you'd given up."

"No.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Two hundred."

"But its been weeks."