In the Still of the Night

West in the suitcase. He was highly nervous that it might be lost and had considered leaving it at home in his safe. But he finally felt so strongly that he should be making notes in the margin of everything West might say, that he’d brought the manuscript along. He had, of course, made carbon copies of the earlier draft, but had been lax about it in the final manuscript.
    When he finally puffed into Voorburg, sweating and gasping, the large case with his clothes and the manuscript were not at the station. It was a cool day, he’d been sweating rather vulgarly and thoroughly, and suddenly he felt very cold indeed.
    “See here, my good man,“ he said to the stationmaster, who was sitting behind his counter with his feet on it and reading a magazine about cars. “My luggage has gone missing.”
    The stationmaster, Mr. Buchanan, who was a law unto himself, gazed up slowly and said, “And who might you be?“
    “Cecil Hoornart—the literary critic. I’m sure you recognize the name.“
    “Not that I know. Lemme take a look around.”
    A train was just coming into the station and two men in cheap blue suits strolled out to the platform to watch the disembarking passengers. Cecil, who kept up with current affairs, knew why this was. Over a hundred thousand federal officers and civilian volunteers were watching roads and train stations, trying to spot anyone who had a chubby, golden-curled baby with them. Charles Lindbergh’s son had been kidnapped the month before and hadn’t yet been found.
    A moment later the door next to the counter opened and Cecil’s pigskin bag was pushed through, the brass studs on the bottom of it scraping on the floor unpleasantly.
    “Excuse me,“ Cecil said. “How do I go about getting to Grace and Favor Cottage?“
    “Oh, you’re one of the Brewsters’ guests? Why didn’t you say? Mr. Brewster was here to pick somebody up from the train, but nobody got off. Just wait in front. He’ll be back for some others in an hour. Big yellow Duesenberg. You can’t miss it.“
    “Is there a place I could get a drink while I wait?“ Cecil asked in a progressively more aggrieved tone.
    “There’s Mabel’s, but she doesn’t serve hootch to outsiders. They might be the feds and there’s a lot of them around just now.“
    “I meant a drink of water,“ Cecil said, which was an outright lie. He’d had his heart set on a gin and tonic.
    The stationmaster gestured at the water fountain on the track-side wall. “Help yourself.”
    Cecil got his drink of water and his pigskin case, and found a bench facing the main street. He sat down heavily. He was wrinkled and damp and had misjudged his footing along the way and fallen in some mud. He might not make quite the right impression. He found himself wondering if this trip had really been a good idea after all.

    Mad Henry Traver, his almost colorless blue eyes sparkling, his dark, straight hair blowing wildly in the wind, was driving a borrowed truck up Route 9, thinking madly (he didn’t mind being called Mad Henry) about his next invention, the parts of which were in the truck bed. He was so enthralled with the concept that he was thirty miles north of Poughkeepsie before he realized he’d passed Voorburg-on-Hudson.

    Raymond and Rachel Cameron were in their brand new Stutz Continental coupe, only a few miles behind Mad Henry. They didn’t miss the turnoff, however. “I still don’t understand why you wanted to do this,“ Rachel said, not looking up from her fingernails, which she was alternately filing and admiring.
    “Because I used to really like Julian West’s books.“
    “You don’t anymore?“ Rachel asked.
    “They’ve gotten too dark and grim,“ Raymond said. “But the early ones were superb.“
    “I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to get tangled up again with Lily Brewster, though.”
    “Why not?“ Raymond asked, flipping the butt end of a cigarette out the window.
    “Well, she threw you over.”
    Raymond turned to look at his sister for a moment. “She threw me over? Nonsense. It was the other way around.”
    He said no more about it as there was a roadblock ahead and traffic was at a full stop for searches for the missing baby.

Chapter 5

    While these individuals were approaching (or in Mad Henry’s case, going away from) Voorburg, Lily was in a frenzy of last-minute preparations. She had checked every room over three or four times just that morning. Suddenly she slapped her head and said, “Flowers!