Before Dorothy had met John Kragopoulos at the office, she had tried to camouflage her red-rimmed eyes with a dusting of powder. She'd tried to convince herself that after all, showing the Hunt place would be an outlet, an action that could be concentrated on for a little while and keep her mind from its endless squirreling for clues to the children's whereabouts. What clues?
Normally she took prospective clients on a brief tour of the area before showing a property, to let them see the beaches and lakes and marina; the stately old homes that were scattered between Cranberry Highway and the bay; the breathtaking views from Maushop Tower; the old town landmarks.
But today, with the sleet beating a sharp tattoo on the car roof and windows, with the sky filled with black fields of clouds and with the cold sea air chilling the very marrow of the bones, she headed directly for The Lookout.
It was so hard to keep her mind on what she was doing. She felt so distracted and shaken. She who hadn't cried in years was having to bite her lips to keep tears back. There was a crushing weight on her shoulders, a weight of grief and fear that she could not hope to support alone.
As she drove the car along the treacherously slick road, she stole an occasional glance at the swarthy-complexioned man beside her. John Kragopoulos was somewhere in his mid-forties. He had the build of a weight-lifter, yet there was an innate courtliness in his bearing that complemented his slightly accented manner of speaking.
He told Dorothy that he and his wife just sold their restaurant in New York and agreed their next venture would be in an area where they would want to settle permanently. They were anxious to be where well-to-do retired people could be found for winter business, as well as the summer-resort trade.
Mentally reviewing these points, Dorothy said, 'I'd never recommend investing in a restaurant over on the other side of the Cape any more; it's just one mass of motels and pizza parlours now – absolutely frightful zoning – but this side of the Cape is still lovely. The Lookout has unlimited possibilities as a restaurant and inn. During the thirties it was renovated extensively and turned into a country club. People didn't have money to join expensive country clubs at that time, and so it never caught on. Eventually Mr Hunt bought the house and grounds – nine acres in all, including one thousand feet of waterfront property and one of the finest views on the Cape.'
'The Lookout was originally a captain's house, was it not?'
Dorothy realized that John Kragopoulos had done some homework on the place – a sure sign of real interest. 'Yes, it was,' she agreed. 'It was built by a whaling captain in the sixteen-nineties as a gift for his bride. The most recent renovation, forty years ago, added two floors, but the original roof was put back on, including one of those charming little balconies near the peak of the chimney – widow's walks they're called, because so many of the captains' wives used to watch in vain for their men to come back from a voyage.'
'The sea can be treacherous,' her passenger agreed. 'By the way, is there a dock with the property? If I relocate up here, I plan to buy a boat.'
'A very good one,' Dorothy assured him. 'Oh, dear!' She gasped as the car skidded dangerously when she turned on to the narrow winding road that led up to The Lookout. She managed to straighten the wheels and glanced anxiously at her passenger. But he seemed unperturbed, and remarked mildly that she was a brave lady to risk driving on such icy roads.
Like a surgeon's knife the words penetrated to the core of Dorothy's misery. It was a frightful day. It would be a miracle if the car didn't skid right off this narrow road. Whatever interest she had talked herself into about showing the house vanished. If the weather were only decent, the beaches and streets and woods would be filled with men and boys looking for Missy and Michael; but in this weather only the heartiest would think of going out -especially since many felt it was a useless search.
'I don't mind driving,' she said thickly; 'I'm just sorry Mr Eldredge isn't with us. But I'm sure you understand.'
'I understand very well,' John Kragopoulos said. 'What an agonizing experience for the parents to have young children missing! I am only sorry to take your time today. As a friend and co-worker, you must be concerned.'
Determinedly, Dorothy did not let herself reply to the sympathy in the man's voice and manner. 'Let me tell you more about the house,' she said. 'All the windows to the front look over the water. The front door has an exquisite fanlight, which was a feature on the finer houses of that period. The large downstairs rooms have wonderful gable-end fireplaces. On a day like this many people would enjoy going to a restaurant where they can watch the storm while they enjoy a good drink and good food and a warm fire. Here we are.'
They rounded the curve, and The Lookout was in full view. To Dorothy it seemed strangely bleak and dreary as it loomed against the shrouded embankment. The weather-beaten shingles were stark grey. The sleet slapping against the windows and porches seemed to reveal mercilessly the peeling shutters and sagging outside steps.
She was surprised to see that Mr Parrish had left the garage doors open. Maybe he had been carrying groceries his last trip in and had forgotten to come out again to pull the door down. But it was a break for them. She'd drive right into the roomy garage and park her car beside his station wagon, and they'd be able to make a run for the house with some protection from the garage overhang.
'I've got a key to the back door,' she told John Kragopoulos after they'd got out of the car. 'I'm so sorry I didn't think to bring Ray's golf umbrella. I hope you don't get too wet.'
'Don't worry about me,' he chided. 'I'm pretty rugged. Don't I look it?'
She smiled faintly and nodded. 'All right, let's make a dash for it.' They ran out of the garage and kept close to the wall as they covered the fifty feet to the kitchen door. Even so, the sleet pelted their faces and the wind pulled at their coats.
To her annoyance, Dorothy found that the door was double-locked. Mr Parrish might have been more considerate, she fumed. She rummaged through her bag for the key to the top lock and found it. She gave a quick yank at the bell to let Mr Parrish know they had arrived. She could hear the ringing sound echoing upstairs as she pushed the door in.
Her prospective buyer seemed unperturbed as he brushed sleet from his coat and dried his face with a handkerchief. He was a low-keyed person, Dorothy decided. She had to will herself not to sound either nervous or overly talkative showing the place. Every fibre of her being made her want to rush this man through the house. See this… and this… and this… Now let me go back to Ray and Nancy, please; maybe there's been some news of the children.
She did notice that he was carefully studying the kitchen. Deliberately she reached for her own handkerchief to dab at her face, aware suddenly that she was wearing her new suede winter coat. This morning she'd decided to wear it because of this appointment. She knew it was becoming and that the grey shade complemented her pepper-and-salt-coloured hair. The big deep pockets were what made her conscious that she wasn't wearing her old storm coat – but the storm coat would certainly have been a better choice today.
And there was something else. Oh, yes. When she had put on the coat, she had wondered if Jonathan Knowles would stop into the office this afternoon and maybe notice it. Maybe this would be the day when he'd suggest they might have dinner together. She had daydreamed like that only hours ago. How could everything change so quickly, so terribly…?
'Mrs Prentiss?'
'Yes. Oh, I'm sorry. I guess I'm a bit distracted today.' To her ears she sounded falsely cheery. 'As you can see, the kitchen needs modernizing, but it is very well laid out and roomy. That fireplace is large enough to cook for a crowd – but I'm sure you'd settle for modern ovens.'
Unconsciously she'd lifted her voice. The wind was howling around the house with a harsh, mournful sound. From somewhere upstairs she heard a door slam and, just for a second, a wailing sound. It was her nerves; this house upset her today. The kitchen was freezing, too.
Quickly she led the way into the front rooms. She was anxious that Mr Kragopoulos have the important first impression of the water view.
The savagery of the day only enhanced the breathtaking panorama that met their eyes when they stood at the windows. Angry whitecaps churned, lifted, fell, crashed on the rocks, pulled back. Together they stared at the tumultuous beating of the water on the rocks at the base of the cliff below.
'At high tide these rocks are completely covered,' she said. 'But just down a little to the left, past the jetty, there's a beautiful big sandy beach that is part of the property, and the dock is just past that.'
She took him from room to room, pointing out the magnificent wide oak floors, the massive fireplaces, the leaded-paned windows, the way the overall layout lent itself to a fine restaurant. They went up to the second floor, and he examined the large rooms that could be rented to overnight guests.
'During the renovation, they changed the small bedrooms into baths and connected them with the large rooms,' Dorothy explained. 'As a result, you've got really beautiful units that only need painting and papering. The brass beds alone are worth a fortune. Really, lots of the furniture is very good – look at that highboy, for example. I used to have an interior decorator's shop, and a house like this is my idea of a dream to work on. The possibilities are endless.'
He was interested. She could tell by the way he took time to open closet doors, pound walls and turn on water taps.
'The third floor has more bedrooms, and then Mr Parrish's apartment is on the fourth floor,' she said. 'That apartment was designed for the resident manager of the country club. It's quite spacious and has a wonderful view of the town as well as the water.'
He was pacing off the room and did not answer. Feeling pushy and garrulous, Dorothy walked over to the window. She should give him a chance to consider the house quietly and come up with any questions that might occur to him. Hurry, hurry, she thought. She wanted to get out of here. The insistent need to be back with Ray and Nancy, to know what was happening, was overwhelming. Suppose the children were out somewhere, exposed to this weather? Maybe she should take the car and cruise up and down; maybe they had just wandered away. Maybe if she tried to look in the woods, if she called them… She shook her head. She was being so foolish.
When Nancy had left Missy at the office with her yesterday, she'd said, 'Please make her keep her mittens on when you go out. Her hands get so cold.' Nancy had laughed as she handed Dorothy the mittens, saying, 'As you can see, they don't match – and I'm not trying to set a style. This kid is always losing mittens.' She'd given her one red mitten with a smile face and a blue-and-green-checked one.
Dorothy remembered the cheerful smile with which Missy had held up her hands when they'd gone for their drive. 'Mommy said don't forget my mittens, Aunt Dorothy,' she warned reproachfully. Later on, when they'd picked up Mike and stopped for ice-cream, she'd asked, 'Is it all right if I take my mittens off when I eat my cone?' Blessed little baby… Dorothy dabbed at the tears that rushed to her eyes.
Determinedly she composed herself and turned back to John Kragopoulos, who had just finished making notes on the size of the room. 'You don't get high ceilings like these any more except in these wonderful old houses,' he exulted.
She couldn't tolerate being here like this any longer. 'Let's go upstairs now,' she said abruptly. '1 think you'll like the view from the apartment.' She led the way back into the hall and to the front staircase. 'Oh, did you notice that there are four heat zones in this house? It saves a lot of fuel bills.'
They walked up the two flights of stairs quickly. 'The third floor is exactly like the second floor,' she explained as they passed it. 'Mr Parrish has been renting the apartment on and off for six or seven years, 1 guess. His rent is quite minimal, but Mr Eldredge felt that the presence of a tenant discourages vandals. Here we are -just down the hall.' She knocked at the door of the apartment. There was no answer. 'Mr Parrish,' she called.
'Mr Parrish.'
She began to open her handbag. 'That's strange. I can't imagine where he'd go without his car. But I've got a key here somewhere.' She started to rummage through her bag, feeling unreasonable annoyance. Over the phone Mr Parrish had obviously been unhappy that she was bringing someone over. If he had been going out, he might have told her. She hoped the apartment was tidy. There weren't that many people looking for a three-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar investment. They hadn't had even a nibble on the property in nearly a year.
Dorothy did not realize that the handle was being turned from the inside. But when the door was pulled open abruptly, she looked up and gasped and stared into the searching eyes and perspiring face of the fourth-floor tenant, Courtney Parrish.
'What a dreadful day for you to have to come.' Parrish's tone was courteous as he stepped aside to let them pass. By holding the door back and getting out the way, he reasoned, he might be able to avoid shaking hands. He could feel that his hands were drenched in perspiration.
His eyes darted from one to the other. Had they heard the little girl – that one cry? He was such a fool… getting too eager. After the phone call, he'd had to hurry so much. Picking up the children's clothing, in his excitement he'd almost missed the little girl's undershirt. Then the can of baby powder had spilled. He'd had to wipe that up.
He'd taped the children's hands and feet and mouths and hidden them in that secret room behind the fireplace downstairs that he'd discovered months ago in wandering through the house. He knew those hidden rooms were peculiar to many old Cape houses. The early settlers used to hide in them during Indian attacks. But then he'd panicked. Suppose that fool of a real-estate woman knew about that room and decided to show it? It was reached by a spring in the built-in bookcase in the main room downstairs.
Suppose she knew about it; just suppose. Even as Dorothy's Buick sedan pulled up and into the garage, he had dashed from his watching point at the window and rushed down to get the children. He'd carried them up and thrown them into one of the deep closets in the bedroom. Better… much better. He could say that he used that closet for storage and couldn't find the key. Since he had put a new lock on, that fool of a real-estate woman couldn't possibly have a duplicate. Besides, the other closet in the room was practically the same size. She could show that one. That was where he could make a mistake… by getting complicated.
They'd dallied downstairs long enough for him to make one last inspection of the apartment; he hadn't missed anything, he was sure. The tub was still full but he'd decided to leave it. He knew he'd sounded too annoyed over the phone. Let Dorothy think that that was the reason; he'd been just about to bathe. That would justify annoyance.
He wanted so much to get back to the little girl that it was painful. From deep in his loins he felt frantic desire. Right now, there she was, just a few feet from them all, behind that door, her little body half-naked. Oh, he couldn't wait! Be careful. Be careful. He tried to pay attention to the voice of reason that kept cautioning him, but it was so hard…
'John Kragopoulos.' That damn fellow was insisting on shaking his hand. Clumsily he tried to dry his palm on his trouser leg before grasping the outstretched hand that he could not ignore. 'Courtney Parrish,' he said sullenly.
He could see the fleeting expression of distaste come over the other man's face when their hands touched. Probably a damned fag. Half the restaurants on this side of the Cape were run by fags. Now they wanted this house too. Well, fine. After today he wouldn't need it.
Suddenly he realized that if this house were sold, no one would ever find it suspicious if as Courtney Parrish he didn't come back to the Cape. Then he could lose weight
and let his hair grow and totally change his appearance again, because he would want to be here for Nancy 's trial, after they found the children's bodies and accused her. Why, this wasn't a problem at all. Fate was playing into his hands. This was meant to be.
He shuddered as a wave of exhilaration surged through his body. Why, he could even ask about Nancy. It would be only neighbourly. Feeling suddenly confident, he said courteously, 'I am pleased to meet you, Mr Kragopoulos, and rue the weather in which you first observe this wonderful house.' Miraculously, the dampness was leaving his hands and armpits and groin.
The tension in the small foyer relaxed tangibly. He realized that most of it was emanating from Dorothy anyway. Why not? He'd seen her countless times in these past years, in and out of the Eldredge house, pushing the children on the swing, taking them in her car. He had her number: one of those dreary middle-aged widows trying to be important to someone; a parasite. Husband dead. No children. A miracle she didn't have a sick old mother. Most of them did. That helped them to be martyrs to their friends. So nice to Mother. Why? Because they needed to be nice to someone. They had to be important. And if they had children, they concentrated on them. The way Nancy 's mother had.
'I have been listening to the radio,' he said to Dorothy, 'and am so disturbed. Have the Eldredge children been found yet?'
'No.' Dorothy felt all her nerve endings tingling. From inside she could hear that the radio was on. She caught the word 'bulletin'. 'Excuse me,' she cried, and hurried into the living-room and over to the radio. Swiftly she turned up the volume. '… storm increasing. Gale winds from fifty to sixty miles an hour are predicted. Driving is hazardous. The air and water search for the Eldredge children has been suspended indefinitely. Special patrol cars will continue cruising in Adams Port and vicinity. Chief Coffin of Adams Port urges that anyone who believes he or she may have any information report it at once. He urges that any untoward incident be discussed with the police, such as a strange vehicle that may have been seen in the neighbourhood of the Eldredge home; any unfamiliar person or persons in the area. Call this special number: KL five, three eight hundred. Your privacy will be respected.'
The commentator's voice continued. 'Despite the urgent appeal for clues to the missing children, we have it on good authority that Mrs Nancy Harmon Eldredge will be taken to Police Headquarters for questioning.'
She had to go to Nancy and Ray. Dorothy turned to John Kragopoulos abruptly. 'As you can see, this is a charming apartment, quite suitable for two people. The view from both the front and back windows in this room is really spectacular.'
'You are an astronomer, perhaps?' John Kragopoulos spoke to Courtney Parrish.
'Not really. Why do you ask?'
'It is just that magnificent telescope.'
Belatedly Parrish realized that the telescope was still positioned facing the Eldredge house. Seeing that John Kragopoulos was about to look through it, he gave it an abrupt push so that it tilted upward.
Tenjoy studying the stars,' he volunteered hastily.
John Kragopoulos squinted as he looked through the lens. 'Magnificent equipment,' he cried. 'Simply magnificent.' Carefully he manipulated the telescope until it was pointing in the same direction as it had been when he had first noticed it. Then, sensing the other man's antagonism, he straightened up and began to study the room. 'This is a well laid out apartment,' he commented to Dorothy.
'I have been most comfortable here,' Parrish volunteered. Inwardly he was fuming at himself. Once more he had suspiciously overreacted. The moisture was pouring from his body again. Had he forgotten anything else? Was there any sign of the children around? Frantically his eyes darted around the room. Nothing.
Dorothy said, 'I'd like to show the bedroom and bath if it's all right.'
'Of course.'
He'd straightened the coverlet on the bed and shoved the can of baby powder into the night-table drawer.
'The bathroom is as large as most of today's second bedrooms,' Dorothy told John Kragopoulos. Then, as she glanced around it, she said, 'Oh, I'm so sorry.' She stared down at the filled tub. 'We did catch you at an inconvenient time. You were just about to bathe.'
'I have no rigid schedule to follow.' Despite the words, he managed to leave the impression that she had indeed inconvenienced him.
John Kragopoulos stepped back into the bedroom hastily. He realized that this man obviously resented their coming. Leaving the tub like that was a clumsy way of making the point. And that duck floating in the tub. A child's toy. He winced, disgusted. His hand touched the closed door. The satiny quality of the wood intrigued him. Really, this house was beautifully constructed. John Kragopoulos was a hard-headed businessman, but he also believed in instinct. His instinct told him that this house would be a good investment. They wanted three hundred and fifty thousand for it… He'd offer two ninety-five and come up to three twenty. He was sure he could get it for that.
The decision finalized in his mind, he began to take a proprietary interest in the apartment. 'May I open this closet?' he asked. The question was perfunctory. He was already turning the handle.
'I'm sorry. I changed the lock on that closet and can't seem to find the key. If you'll look in this other closet… they're practically identical.'
Dorothy looked sharply at the new handle and lock. Both were run-of-the-mill low-priced hardware-store items. 'I do hope you kept the original handle,' she said. 'All the doorknobs were specially cast solid brass.'
'Yes, I have it. It needs fixing.' God, would that woman insist on turning the handle? Suppose the new lock gave? It wasn't a very tight fit into the old wood. Suppose it slid open?
Dorothy relaxed her grip on the handle. The slight flare of annoyance she'd felt vanished as quickly as it had come. What, in the name of heaven, difference did it make if all the brass handles all over the universe were changed? Who cared?
Parrish had to clamp his lips together to keep from ordering that nosy woman and her prospective buyer out. The children were just on the other side of the door. Had he tightened their gags enough? Would they hear the familiar voice and try to make some kind of sound? He had to get rid of these people.
But Dorothy wanted to go too. She was aware of an indefinably familiar scent in the bedroom – one that made her acutely aware of Missy. She turned to John Kragopoulos. 'Perhaps we should start… if you're ready.'
He nodded. 'I'm quite ready, thank you.' He started to leave, this time obviously avoiding shaking hands. Dorothy followed him. 'Thank you, Mr Parrish,' she said hastily over her shoulder. 'I'll be in touch with you.'
She led the way down the stairs to the main floor in silence. They went through the kitchen, and when she opened the back door she could see why the gale warnings were in effect. The wind had heightened sharply in the brief time they'd been in the house. Oh, God, the children would die of exposure if they were outside all this time. 'We'd better make a dash for the garage,' she said. John Kragopoulos, looking preoccupied, nodded and took her arm. Together they ran, not bothering to stay under the overhang. With the increased wind velocity there was simply no protection from the sleet, which was now finely blended with snow.
In the garage, Dorothy walked between the station wagon and her car and opened the door on the driver's side. As she began to slide into her car, she glanced down. A bright red scrap of material on the garage floor caught her eye. Getting out of the car again, she bent down, picked it up, then slumped back into the car seat, holding the object against her cheek. John Kragopoulos, sounding alarmed, asked, 'My dear Mrs Prentiss, what is wrong?'
'It's the mitten!' Dorothy cried. 'It's Missy's mitten. She was wearing it yesterday when I took her out for icecream. She must have left it in the car. I guess I kicked it out when I got out of the car before. She was always losing her mittens. She never had two on that matched. We always joked about that. And this morning, they found the mate of this one on the swing.' Dorothy began to sob – a dry, hacking sound that she tried to stifle by holding the mitten against her lips.
John Kragopoulos said quietly. 'There is little that I can say except to remind you that a merciful and loving God is aware of your pain and the agony of the parents. He will not fail your need. Somehow I am confident of that. Now, please, wouldn't you like me to drive?'
'Please,' Dorothy said in a muffled voice. She pushed the mitten deep into her pocket as she slid over. She wouldn't want Nancy or Ray to see it; it would be too heartbreaking. Oh Missy, Missy! She'd taken it off when she started to eat the cone yesterday. She could see her dropping it on the seat. Oh, the poor little kids.
John Kragopoulos was glad to be driving. A great restlessness had come over him in the room with that hideous man. There was something too slimy and sour-smelling about him. And that scent of baby powder in the bedroom and that incredible toy in the tub. How could a grown man need such trappings?
Upstairs, Parrish stood to one side and watched from the window until the car had disappeared around the bend in the lane. Then, with trembling fingers, he drew out the key from his pocket and unlocked the closet door.
The boy was conscious. His sandy hair fell on his forehead, and his large blue eyes were filled with terror as he stared mutely up. His mouth was still securely taped and his hands and legs still firmly tied.
Roughly he pushed the child aside and reached past him for the little girl. He lifted out her limp body and laid her on the bed – then shrieked in outrage and despair as he stared down at her closed eyes and pinched blue face…