Spellbinder (27 page)

“But first, before we talk to Mr. Holloway, and learn about the truly revolutionary project that he’s working on—the crusade that, in the last week or so, has created interest throughout the entire world—let me show you a couple of film clips.”

Exactly on cue, Griffin’s face dissolved, replaced by an animated shot of the Temple. It was a night shot, with a perfect camera angle. In the foreground, magnified by the perspective, the Eternal Fountain was a graceful, frothing plume of multicolored iridescence, lit by floodlights from below. In the background, the broad steps and soaring columns of the Temple had never looked more dramatic. To himself, Holloway nodded. Cowperthwaite, he knew, had worked closely with the NBC camera crew. So, as soon as the segment was finished, he would call Cowperthwaite and—

Beside him, on the end table, his telephone buzzed. Annoyed, he glanced down at the row of buttons. Surprisingly, the button for his private line was glowing. Or, as Flournoy had once said, his “private, private” line. His hot line.

Flournoy had seen it too. He was gesturing toward the phone, offering to take the call. But, on the screen, the picture of the Temple of Today was fading away, replaced by a hair-spray commercial. Holloway lifted the phone.

“It’s Mitchell.” His voice conveyed a sense of urgency—of trouble.

James Carson had called. The other shoe had dropped. Hard. Glancing at Flournoy, he saw his own misgivings instantly reflected in his manager’s eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, speaking softly into the phone.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you. But I thought I should. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

Still with his eyes on Flournoy, he repeated: “Bad news?”

“He’s got Denise. I’m sorry.”

“
He’s what?
”

As he said it, he felt his stomach heave. And—yes—a sudden pain shot through his chest. Alarmed, Flournoy was on his feet, standing over him. Protectively. Possessively.

“He’s got Denise. Up in San Francisco, I think. He just called.”

It was Katherine’s fault, then. Like so many others, this problem had started with Katherine. His nemesis. His ancient, eternal cross. How could he have done it? How could he have married her, so many years ago?

And now, the final straw, she’d jeopardized them all: Denise, the new crusade. Everything. It could all come tumbling down. Police—publicity—pictures in the papers, on TV. It was all there, implicit in the tone of Mitchell’s voice—in the stark words the headlines would shriek:
HOLLOWAY DAUGHTER KIDNAPPED
.

On the TV screen, the commercial was fading. Merv Griffin was on his feet, smiling, turning toward the wings turning toward the wings—

—as he materialized, advancing across the stage, hand outstretched. Smiling. Nodding. Walking with a firm, sure stride.

“Shall I come in?” Mitchell was asking.

“In ten minutes,” he answered. “Wait ten minutes, then come in.”

“So that’s all I know,” Mitchell said, spreading his big hands and shaking his head. “That’s everything.”

Flournoy was on his feet, pacing the small sitting room that opened off Holloway’s office. “Are you positive—absolutely positive—that the driver’s license and the social security numbers were hers?”

Plainly contemptuous of the question, Mitchell simply shrugged. “The numbers checked. Or, at least, the driver’s license checked. I won’t know about the social security number until tomorrow.”

“But—” Flournoy gestured angrily. “He could’ve broken in. He could’ve stolen her purse. Did you ever think of that?”

“I did,” Mitchell answered. “And it’s possible, I suppose. Anything’s possible. Still, two things are for sure. He’s got her wallet, and he’s called long distance. So he’s probably in San Francisco. He couldn’t be anywhere else.”

“A million dollars,” Flournoy fumed. “It’s crazy. Insane.”

Aware that his arms and legs felt heavy and useless, Holloway pushed himself to a more erect posture in the leather armchair. The heaviness, he knew, was a delayed reaction. It was shock. And fear. And infirmity, too—a faltering of the heart, depriving his limbs of their essential flow of blood. Resulting, therefore, in this heaviness—this strange, improbable lassitude in the face of crisis. Yet, somehow, he must take charge—take command.

“How long ago did he call?”

It was, he knew, an ineffectual beginning. He could hear uncertainty in the question. Uncertainty, and fear.

Mitchell glanced at his watch. “About forty-five minutes ago. I called Denise, of course. When I didn’t get an answer, I called the DMV—called a friend, there. Then I called you.”

“When is Carson going to phone again?”

“He didn’t say. But I’d guess tomorrow.”

“Did you tape the conversation?” Asking the question, Flournoy’s voice was sharp. His eyes were hard, coldly calculating the odds. As always.

Mitchell nodded. “Naturally.”

“And you’re sure it was him. You recognized the voice.”

Once more, Mitchell nodded. “I’m sure.”

“If he’s got Denise,” Holloway said slowly, “then we’ve got to call the police.”

“
If
he’s got Denise,” Flournoy snapped, adding angrily: “That’s still not for certain.”

“But Mitchell tried to call her,” Holloway said. It was, he knew, another ineffectual-sounding comment—a mild-mannered protest, nothing more. Somehow it was all he could manage—all his body would allow. But he must say something more. Anything: “She wasn’t home,” he said finally.

“That doesn’t mean she’s kidnapped, though,” Flournoy said shortly. Peremptorily, he turned to Mitchell. “Do you know people in San Francisco? People we can trust?” Rapping out the questions, pacing the sitting room as if it were a quarterdeck, Flournoy was taking command—an irresistible force in a pinstriped suit.

“I know a couple of people,” Mitchell answered thoughtfully. “I can trust them to keep quiet. But I don’t know how good they are. In an emergency, I mean.”

“Do they have organizations?”

“Yes. Both of them do. They each have three or four employees.”

“Is there anyone in the police department? Anyone who won’t talk?”

Regretfully, Mitchell shook his head. “There’re people here. Several people. But no one in San Francisco.”

Still pacing, Flournoy stopped at the far end of the room. Standing with his back to a bank of bookcases, the manager stared at both of them in turn. “The first thing we’ve got to do is get up to San Francisco.” Then, speaking directly to Holloway: “I think Mitchell and I should go. Immediately. We’ll take one of his men. We’ll get help, up there, if we need it—private help. The first thing we’ll do is verify that she’s really been kidnapped. For that, we don’t need the police. Meanwhile—” He frowned, considering. Once more, he began pacing, talking as he walked—gesticulating as he talked. “Meanwhile, Austin, I think you should put Elton in the picture. Tell him what’s happened—and what
might
happen. Or, if you like—” Flournoy hesitated again, plainly to emphasize what he intended to say next: “Or, if you like, I can talk to him. That might be better. I’ll tell him to stick with you—stay at home with you, tonight, and stay with you, tomorrow, to intercept another call. And, of course, I’ll be in touch with him, when I find out anything. And, of course—” Another pause, this time fatuous. “Of course, I’ll be in touch with you, too.”

With an effort, Holloway nodded. “Of course,” he repeated.

H
E SHIFTED THE PICKUP
into reverse, glanced back at the traffic, then leaned across the big poodle sitting on the seat beside him to look up at their front window. The window was only dimly lit, with faint light coming from the hallway.

She was out, then. Still out.

With her mother?

Not with her mother?

He waited for one car to pass, then another. Beside him, Pepper was whining anxiously, pawing at the door. Across the street, Harry Byrnes was closing his store, switching off the lights. Meaning that the time was eight o’clock. Rolling down the window, he called, “Hi, Harry. How’s it going?”

“Fine.” Harry Byrnes rattled the door of his store, then raised a hand, indicating that he wanted to talk. Watching the other man come across the street, dressed in his blue pea coat and walking like a squat, bandy-legged sailor just coming off ship, Peter smiled. Harry Byrnes was an original: rough-cut and honest. He stepped from the street to the sidewalk, waiting for the other man beside the pickup.

“How’ve you been, Harry? Seems like it’s been a year since I’ve seen you.”

“Yeah, me too,” Byrnes admitted, offering a stubby, callused hand. His grip, as always, was hard and contentious. Harry was a competitive man.

Byrnes looked inside the truck. “Where’s Denise?”

“I don’t know.” He looked at the other man more closely. “Why?”

“Well, she left for Mendocino—your cabin. Isn’t that where you were?”

“Oh—Christ.” Exasperated, he shook his head.

“Why Christ? What’s wrong?”

“I spent yesterday evening and most of today with friends, They live about twenty miles from the cabin. Then, this evening, I came down here. I missed her, then.”

“Yeah, I see—” Reflectively, Byrnes looked up at their living room window. Something, plainly, was bothering him. Some puzzle. Some problem.

“What is it, Harry? What’s up?”

“Well—” Byrnes frowned, passing a reflective hand over his bald head. “Well, I got to tell you, there’s been a lot happening around here the past couple of days.”

Aware that his viscera had suddenly tightened, he said, “How do you mean?”

“Well, first, Denise’s mother left. That was yesterday, just before noon. Her father and her brother came in a big black limousine, with a chauffeur and everything. So then, while all that was going on, there was another guy showed up—a young fella, maybe twenty-five or so, who said he was related to Denise.”

“Related to her?”

“Yeah.”

“A cousin, probably. Something like that.”

Harry Byrnes shrugged. “Who knows? All I know, he seemed a little peculiar to me. I mean, I got the feeling he was conning me. You know—like he wasn’t stating his real business.”

“What’d he want?”

Byrnes shrugged again. “I guess he just wanted to find out about her—where she lived, I guess. Because, when Denise came over before she left for Mendocino, to ask me if I’d look after your papers, and everything—which I did—it turned out this guy hadn’t even rung her bell.”

“What time did Denise leave?”

“About four o’clock yesterday afternoon.”

“Christ. I probably just missed her.”

“You want to hear the rest?” Byrnes asked truculently.

“There’s more?”

Byrnes nodded. “There’s more. That’s what I been
telling
you.”

“Well—tell me.” To himself, Peter smiled. Harry Byrnes hadn’t mellowed during the past two weeks.

“Well,” Byrnes said, “about an hour ago, some other guys showed up, for God’s sake, asking about Denise, and everything. And these guys, they’ve got a private eye with them, if you can believe that.”

“A private eye?”

Byrnes nodded again. “Definitely. He showed me his credentials, and everything.”

“What’d he want?”

“He just wanted to know where Denise was. Just like the other guy. The cousin, or whoever he was.”

“Did you tell the private eye where she was?”

“No,” Byrnes said, “I didn’t.”

“Why’d they ask you? Did they know that you knew where she’d gone?”

“I don’t think so. They were just asking around, it looked like to me—just winging it. There were three guys, besides this private eye. The three, they stayed in the car, while the private eye, he asked the questions. At least, that’s how it looked.”

“Did he go inside our building, do you know?”

“I’m not sure. I had customers, see, and I—
Hey
.” Byrnes suddenly pointed down the block. “There they are again, parking behind that sports car, there. That big blue car.”

Turning, hands propped on his hips, he watched the blue sedan’s lights go out. The car was a half block away. In the glow of the streetlamp, he could see four figures inside. Three of the men wore hats, an unusual sight in San Francisco.

“Well,” Byrnes said, “You can take it from here. Me, I’m going home. There’s an old Bogart movie on channel forty-four.
They Drive by Night.
Ever see it?”

He nodded. “Yes, it’s a good movie—a good, sound story.”

“How’d the writing go up in Mendocino?”

“Fine, thanks. Just fine.”

“Good. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me know what those fellas want, will you?”

“I will. And thanks, Harry.”

“You’re welcome.” Byrnes waved, and walked away, going in the opposite direction from the parked car. Inside the pickup, Pepper was whining.

“Just a minute, boy. Just hold it a few more minutes, if that’s the problem.” He stepped to the side of the pickup bed, and lifted out his chain saw and toolbox. Since Denise’s mother was gone, he could take the tools inside. Tomorrow, in daylight, he would take the tools down the outside staircase, to their large storage locker.

Eyeing the blue sedan, he walked to the entrance of their building, put down the tools and opened the mailbox. Four letters were inside, three for Denise and one for him—from Los Angeles. He turned the letter over, frowning at the return address, strange to him. Using his key to open the outside door, he shoved his toolbox into the opening, to keep the door from swinging shut. He would—

“Excuse me.” It was a man’s voice, behind him. The private eye, undoubtedly.

This was the one without a hat: a tall, stooped, gaunt man wearing a corduroy jacket, a wrinkled tie and nondescript trousers, baggy at the knees. His long, sad face was sallow, drawn at the mouth and nostrils. His eyes were hollow and haggard.

“You live in the building, here.” It was a statement, not a question.

He let a moment pass, silently eyeing the other man. Then, quietly, he said, “And you’re looking for Denise Holloway.”

Impassively, the other man nodded. “That’s right. You found out from the storekeeper.”

“Correct,”

The stranger took a step forward, at the same time reaching inside his jacket. Peter raised a hand. “Don’t bother. I already know that you’re a private detective. What’s it all about, anyhow?”