The Mask

wheeled to confront him, gasping, certain that he was leaping toward her, perhaps with a knife in his hand—But he was gone.
    Vanished. Again.
    He hadn’t had time to reach any of the shrubs that were large enough to conceal a man, not during the split second her back had been turned. Even if he had been a much younger man than he was, in the very best condition, a trained runner—even then he couldn’t have gone more than halfway to the gate in such a short time.
    So where was he?
    Where was he?
     
     
    From the offices of Maugham & Crichton on Front Street, Carol and Jane drove a few blocks to the Second Street address that was supposed to be the home of Linda Bektermann. It was in a good neighborhood; a lovely French country house, at least fifty years old, in fine condition. No one was at home, but the name on the mailbox was Nicholson, not Bektermann.
    They rang the bell at the house next door and talked to a neighbor, Jean Gunther, who confirmed that the French country place was owned and occupied by the Nicholson family.
    “My husband and I have lived here for six years,”
    Mrs. Gunther said, “and the Nicholsons were next door when we moved in. I think I once heard them say they’d lived in that house since 1965.”
    The name Bektermann meant nothing to Jean Gunther.
    In the car again, on the way home, Jane said, “I’m really a lot of trouble for you.”
    “Nonsense,” Carol said. “I kind of enjoy playing detective. Besides, if I can help you break through your memory block, if I can uncover the truth behind all the sleight-of-hand tricks that your subconscious is playing, then I’ll be able to write about this case for any psychology journal I choose. It’ll definitely make my name in the profession. I might even wind up with a book out of it. So you see, because of you, kiddo, I could become rich and famous some day.”
    “When you’re rich and famous, will you still talk to me?” the girl teased.
    “Certainly. Of course, you’ll have to make an appointment a week in advance.”
    They grinned at each other.
     
----
     
    Using the kitchen phone, Grace called the offices of the Morning News.
    The switchboard operator at the newspaper didn’t have an extension number listed for Palmer Wainwright. She said, “So far as I know, he don’t even work here. And I’m sure he’s no reporter. Maybe one of the new copy editors or somebody like that.”
    “Could you connect me with the managing editor’s office?” Grace asked.
    “That would be Mr. Quincy,” the operator said. She buzzed the proper extension.
    Quincy wasn’t in his office, and his secretary didn’t know whether or not the paper employed a man named Palmer Wainwright. “I’m new here,” she said apologetically. “I’ve only been Mr. Quincy’s secretary since Monday, so I don’t know everybody yet. If you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll have Mr. Quincy return your call.”
    Grace gave her the number and said, “Tell him Dr. Grace Mitowski wishes to speak with him and that I’ll only need a few minutes of his time.” She seldom used the honorific in front of her name, but it came in handy in cases like this, for a doctor’s phone calls were always returned.
    “Is this an emergency, Dr. Mitowski? I don’t think that Mr. Quincy’s going to be back until tomorrow morning.”
    “That’ll be good enough,” she said. “Have him call me first thing, no matter how early he gets in.”
    After she hung up, she went to the kitchen and stared out at the rose garden.
    How could Wainwright vanish like that?
     
    For the third evening in a row, Paul and Carol and Jane prepared dinner together. The girl was fitting in better day by day.
    If she stays with us just another week, Paul thought, it’ll seem like she’s always been here.
    The salad consisted of hearts of palm and iceberg lettuce. That was followed by eggplant Parmigiana with spaghetti on the side.
    As they were starting dessert—small dishes of richly flavored spumoni—Paul said, “Any chance we could postpone the trip to the mountains for two days?”
    “Why?” Carol asked
    “I’m a bit behind in my writing schedule, and I’m at a very critical point in the book,” he said. “I’ve written two-thirds of the toughest scene in the story, and I hate to leave it unfinished just to go on vacation. I won’t enjoy myself. If we left Sunday instead of tomorrow, that would give me time to polish off the end of the chapter. And we’d still have eight days at the cabin.”
    “Don’t look at me,” Jane said. “I’m just