And the two women smiled at one another in that tentative way two women who had a single man in common often did.
Ilsa Gans asked directions to the office of Dr. Smith. Along the way, she flashed her smile at every male who looked like he worked at Folcroft and asked, "What's Dr. Smith like?"
The answers fit into two uniform categories.
The polite people said he was dull, but nice.
The more honest people called him a miserly Scrooge.
No one seemed to like him much.
"There was no one seated at the big reception desk outside Dr. Smith's office.
"Darn," said Ilsa Gans. "I'll bet his secretary would have spilled plenty."
Ilsa put her ear to the door to Smith's office, and hearing nothing, tried the door. It gave. She entered carefully.
"Oops!" said Ilsa when she bumped into a frumpy woman in a blue print dress.
"Excuse me," said Mrs. Harold Smith politely.
"I'm looking for Dr. Smith," Ilsa said uncertainly.
"So am I. I'm his wife. I came to have lunch with Harold, but I guess I should have called first because Harold has left for the day and no one seems to know where he is." Mrs. Smith giggled nervously.
"His wife?" asked Ilsa. "Maybe you'd like to meet Mr. Conrad."
"Mr. Conrad?" Mrs. Smith said blankly. "A very good friend of your husband."
"Oh, really. I don't think I've ever heard the name before."
"Oh, they go back years. To the war. Here, I'll take you to him. Just let me drop this off on Dr. Smith's desk."
"A bottle of baby oil?" asked Mrs, Smith.
"For his skin."
"Oh," said Mrs. Smith, who thought it very odd that this young girl would leave such a thing on her husband's desk. But she was such a cheerful little thing that Mrs. Smith was more than happy to accompany her.
Dr. Smith returned to his office, his face even more bitter than usual.
"Good morning, Dr. Smith," said Mrs. Mikulka. "How was your trip?"
"Unsatisfactory," said Smith, tight-lipped. He had taken a chance, flying to Mount Olive, the scene of the last Harold Smith killing. Using forged identification that credited him as an FBI agent, Smith had made the rounds of the Mount Olive police and the friends, relatives, and neighbors of the late Harold Q. Smith.
He had turned up exactly nothing, no clues to the person or persons who had decapitated Smith's fellow name carrier.
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Mikulka, as Dr. Smith stamped into his office. "Did Mrs. Smith reach you?"
Smith paused. "Reach me?"
"Yes, she was here yesterday. I'm afraid I couldn't tell her where to reach you. She was very worried. Funny thing, I left her in the office while I grabbed lunch and when I came back she was gone."
"Gone." The word croaked from Smith's throat. Suddenly he remembered calling home from the airport and receiving no answer. It didn't mean anything at the time, but now...
"Please get my wife on the phone," Smith said.
At his own desk, Dr, Smith pressed the button that raised the concealed CURE computer terminal. He keyed in a report request on the FBI agent he had secretly detailed to watch over his house.
The report came back. Subject reported taking a taxi at 11:22 the previous day. No record of return. No other unusual activity.
Smith tripped the intercom.
"No answer, Dr. Smith," said Mrs. Mikulka. "Shall I keep trying?"
"No," said Dr. Smith. "Please have the head of security sweep the grounds for any sign of my wife."
"Sir?"
"Do it!"
The head of security reported directly to Dr. Smith an hour later. A search of the grounds had been instituted. The only untoward item was the sudden disappearance of a patient, a Mr. Conrad.
"Conrad," said Smith, dismissing the man. That was the multiple amputee patient. There was no connection there.
The CURE line rang. It was Remo.
"Smitty," Remo said. "I think we have a lead on the nebulizer. We're going to follow it up."
When there was no answer, Remo said, "Smitty?"
"My wife has been kidnapped," Smith blurted out.
"Sit tight. Chiun and I are on our way."
"No," said Smith. "You stay on the nebulizer. That's your first priority."
"Don't go cold-blooded on me, Smitty. We can help. This is your wife we're talking about. The Smith killer?"
"I think so. It's hard to tell. I don't know,"
"You sound pretty rattled. Are you sure you don't want our help? Chiun and I may be going on a wildgoose chase anyway."
"This may be a personal matter," said Harold Smith, regaining control of his voice. "And I will handle it. Personally."
"Suit yourself," said Remo, hanging up.