The Mysterious Disappearence of Leon (3 page)

At times she thought those seven long years of pokes and jabs and smells of simmering soups would never end; then suddenly, one day, her dream came true.

Leon’s fourteenth card with the fourteenth message had arrived.

Nineteen-year-old Mrs. Carillon locked the last suitcase and studied herself once more in the full-length mirror. She was singing one of Leon’s messages at the top of her lungs, because she was happy, and because it hurt Miss Anna Oglethorpe’s sensitive ears.

“Grown a moustache—it’s red, red, red....”
⁷

Every December 9th Leon had written her a message inside identical wedding anniversary cards decorated with violets. Mrs. Carillon knew every word of the fourteen messages by heart; still, she wondered what her husband looked like as a grown man. Would she recognize him?

“No problem,” she thought as she pinned a stray black curl in place. “Leon, I mean Noel, is sure to recognize me.” She appeared taller than her five feet in her purple high-heeled shoes; but she had to admit that she still looked something like a dumpling. Besides, she was wearing a purple-flowered dress....

A car horn honked. Mr. Banks had arrived to drive her to the station.

Mrs. Carillon grabbed her bags stuffed with purple-flowered resort clothes and ran down the stairs.

“Good-by soup! Good-by house!” she shouted.

“And good-by, forever, Miss Anna Oglethorpe!”

Leon’s Fourteen Messages
⁸

1. Hi!
Leon

2. I am fine. How are you?
Leon

3. I hate school. I’m the smallest one here.
Leon.

4. Got to wear glasses because I can’t see the blackboard.
Leon
.

5. My best friend is called Pinky.
Leon

6. I’m writing the story of my life. You are in it.
Leon

7. I’m going to wear a black tie to mourn my folks from now on and always.
Leon

8. Who wrote that awful soup song? I can’t stand it! I hate the song as much as I hate the soup. In fact, I hate all soup—except won ton.
Leon
(I hate my name, too!)

9. Pinky taught me how to ride a horse—it’s great fun, except the stable only has slow nags. I think I’ll get a horse of my own.
Noel
(That’s my new name. It’s much more genteel, don’t you think?)

10. Help! Mr. Banks won’t let me buy a horse. Try and make him change his mind.
Noel

11. Found a great job. Tell tight-wad Banks to keep his old riding boots—I don’t need handouts.
Noel

12. Grown a moustache. It’s red!
Noel

13. Shaved off my moustache.
Noel

14. Meet me at the Seaside Hotel, Palm Beach, this Friday.
Noel

Leon? Noel!

No one in the lobby of the Seaside Hotel recognized her, or her purple-flowered dress. She announced herself to the desk clerk and was handed a key to room 1164. No one was in the room.

Mrs. Carillon wondered whether today was Friday; then she saw the note in the familiar handwriting propped up on the desk.

Put on a bathing suit and meet me at the dock.

Noel

No one seemed to recognize her, or her purple-flowered swimsuit. She jostled through the throng of vacationers looking for—no, not a black tie, no one wore neckties with bathing trunks—glasses, perhaps, and a red. . . . Suddenly, she saw him.

“Leon, I mean Noel!” Mrs. Carillon shrieked and threw her arms around a skinny man with brown hair, red moustache, and sunglasses. The little man struggled desperately to free himself from her tight embrace.

She didn’t realize her mistake until a pretty blonde woman hissed, “Seymour, what are you doing?” and yanked him out of her arms. Mrs. Carillon watched the couple hasten away. She was too confused and embarrassed to feel someone tapping her on the shoulder.

“Mrs. Carillon?” And another tap.

Mrs. Carillon spun around. A tall, clean-shaven man with brown hair and sunglasses smiled down at her.

“Leon?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Noel,” he replied.

The Last Message
⁹

It was an awkward moment, not at all the way she had dreamed it would be. Fourteen years had passed; they had grown up into strangers.

“We still have time for a sail,” Noel said at last. “Let’s go! ”

Mrs. Carillon studied her handsome husband as he guided the sailboat out of the bay. “I never would have recognized you,” she said.

Noel turned to her and smiled.

She smiled.

They sat there and smiled.

They didn’t move; the boat didn’t move. It hung suspended on the crest of a monstrous wave. It teetered. It crashed into the thrashing sea, smashed.

Mrs. Carillon somersaulted into the wild water, rose to the surface, climbed onto the broken hull, and looked about her.

“Leon, Leon!” she shouted at the bobbing head a few yards away. The head went under; the head came up; the head went under; the head came up.

“Leon!” she cried.

And he answered:

“Noel
glub
C
blub
all. . .I
glub
new. . . .”
¹⁰

Mrs. Carillon didn’t know what hit her, or what happened next. Two days later she woke up in a hospital with an aching head.

“How’s Leon—Noel?” were her first words.

“Leon Noel?” repeated the nurse. “You must mean the man who was rescued with you. Just a cut on the elbow. We patched him up right away and let him go.”

Mrs. Carillon returned to the hotel, but Noel was no longer registered there. The only message was a check-room stub for her luggage. She finally found a bellhop who remembered delivering a plane ticket to a man of her description.

“A ticket to New York, I think.”

A Pain in the Arm

Cafifi, Carigan, Carillon Furs, Carillon Records, Carin
. . . No Noel Carillon was listed in the New York City telephone book, and “Information” never heard of him.

Mrs. Carillon phoned the furriers. No one there knew anyone named Carillon; no one could even remember how the company got its name.

She phoned the record store. The owner, a Mr. Spitz, said he had chosen the name “Carillon” because it sounded so musical.

She phoned Mr. Banks. No, he had no idea where Noel could be. Why doesn’t she come back home and wait for him there?

Back to bony Miss Anna Oglethorpe? Never!

Mrs. Carillon didn’t know what to do next. Confused and frightened, she knelt in the airport phone booth and prayed that Noel would come for her.

Noel didn’t come.

She prayed and prayed some more, and still Noel didn’t come.

Then she remembered what her father always said: “Nobody gets nothing for nothing.” She would give anything to find Noel; but what did she have to give?

She would give her half of the Pomato Soup fortune to charity, if only Noel would come for her. Her ten-room house. Her purple-flowered clothes. Her dimples. Her right arm . . . and then the phone rang.

She jumped up and a hot, searing pain shot through her right arm. “Leon, Noel?” she shouted into the mouthpiece.

“Hello, Max’s Delicatessen?

“Two corned beef sandwiches, lean, and don’t forget the pickles,” said the dangling receiver as Mrs. Carillon hobbled, stiff-kneed, away from the phone booth. Tears streamed down her cheeks and nose and off her chin; but her right arm didn’t hurt anymore.

3
_*
Mrs. Carillon’s Lists and Letters

A Letter to Mr. Banks

Dear Mr. Banks:

Here I am, still in New York City. I am not coming home. I have made up my mind that the important thing is to find Noel. You see, I have a feeling that he is suffering from amnesia, or even worse. Whatever the trouble is, I just know he needs me; and I need him very much.

Please let me know if you hear from him—right away!

You will notice the hotel’s name and address on this stationery. This is where to send me some money to get by on. Don’t pay any attention to the telephone number.
¹¹
I will be in and out of my room so much that I won’t be here when you call.

A very Merry Christmas to you,
Mrs. Carillon

Bulletin Sent to the Bureau of Missing Persons, the F.B.I., and the U.S. Post Office

MISSING

Noel Carillon, alias Leon Carillon

Age: 21

Height: About 6ʹ2ʺ. Weight: Thin. Eyes: Nearsighted.
Sometimes has red moustache; always has brown hair.
Wears black neckties except with bathing trunks.
Handsome. Genteel. Can stand on his head.
Likes horses and won ton soup.
(Owns half of a soup. Does not own a horse.)
May be in company of man called Pinky.
Occupation: Yes.

The Meaning of the Glub-blubs

Message:

Noel
glub
C
blub
all. . .I
glub
new. . . .

1. Noel = Noel. (I must have called him “Leon.”)

2. C
blub
all. . . .

ball
call
fall
gall
hall—(a good possibility! City Hall?)
mall
Paul—(St. Paul’s?)
shawl
tall
wall

3. I
glub
new. . . . = in New York City

Solution:

Noel. City Hall (or St. Paul’s) in New York City
¹²

Mrs. Carillon’s Plan of Search