Where Are the Children? Read online

  “Then you mean—” Lendon began.

  “Doctor, I mean, as Nancy’s lawyer and friend, if you can break through her amnesia, do it—quickly! I have persuaded Ray that it is worthwhile to waive any immunity. The overriding necessity is to find out what Nancy may know; otherwise it will surely be too late to help her children.”

  “Can I telephone a drugstore and get something delivered?” Lendon asked.

  “You call, Doctor,” Jed ordered. “I’ll send a squad car over to pick up whatever you need. Here—I’ll dial the drugstore for you.”

  Quietly Lendon phoned his instructions and when he had finished went into the kitchen for a glass of water. Oh, the waste, he thought—the awful waste. The tragedy that had begun with Priscilla’s accident . . . cause and effect . . . cause and effect. If Priscilla had not died, she probably would have persuaded Nancy not to marry so young. The Harmon children would never have been born. Sharply he pulled himself back from useless speculation. The kitchen had obviously been gone over for fingerprints. Grains of powder were still evident on the countertops, around the sink and on the stove. No one had wiped up the stain from where coffee had spilled.

  He returned to the dining room to hear Chief Coffin say, “Remember, Jonathan, I may well be exceeding my authority as it is. But I’m going to have a tape recorder on in that room when that girl is questioned. If she confesses to anything under sedation, we may not be able to use it directly, but I’ll know what to ask her under regular questioning later.”

  “She’s not going to confess to anything,” Jonathan said impatiently. “What concerns me is that if we accept her innocence as a fact—not only about Michael and Missy’s disappearance but also her innocence in the murder of the Harmon children—then our next supposition becomes this: if the killer of the Harmon children wrote the article for the Community News and used a Hyannis post office, he has been here on the Cape for some time.”

  “And you are saying that he abducted the Eldredge children this morning,” Chief Coffin finished.

  Jonathan relit his pipe and puffed at it vigorously before answering. “I’m afraid so,” he said. His tone of voice, deliberately devoid of expression, made Lendon understand what he meant. Jonathan believed that if the killer of the Harmon children had taken Michael and Missy Eldredge, they were probably dead.

  “On the other hand,” Jed theorized, “if we remove Mrs. Eldredge as a suspect, it is equally possible that someone who never came forward at the Harmon trial knew something about those murders, wrote that article and has now kidnapped the Eldredge children. A third possibility is that the two cases are unrelated except that someone reading that article and recognizing Nancy Eldredge has become involved in the disappearance this morning. The children may have been taken by a frustrated mother who feels Nancy doesn’t deserve them. I’ve seen a lot screwier rationalizations than that in my day.”

  “Jed,” snapped Jonathan, “what I’m trying to say is that no matter who else may have become involved, one fact is very clear: I don’t believe there’s any question but that Nancy knew more than she told about the disappearance of her children seven years ago.”

  Lendon raised an eyebrow. Jed frowned deeply. At the expressions on the faces of the two men, Jonathan slapped his hand impatiently on the table. “I’m not saying that that girl is guilty. I am saying that she knew more than she told; probably knew more than she was aware of knowing. Look at the pictures of her on the witness stand. Her face is an absolute blank. Read the testimony. For God’s sake, man, read the trial testimony. That girl was out of it. Her lawyer may have upset her conviction on a technicality, but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t let that district attorney crucify her. That entire setup stank, and you’re trying to reenact it here.”

  “I’m trying to get away from your theories . . . and that’s all they are . . . and perform my job, which is to recover those children—dead or alive—and find out who abducted them.” Jed was clearly out of patience. “In one breath you tell me she’s too sick to be questioned and in the next one that she knows more than she ever let on. Look, Jonathan, you said yourself that writing a book about questionable verdicts is a hobby with you. But those lives aren’t hobbies with me, and I’m not here to help you play chess with the law.”

  “Hold on.” Lendon put a restraining hand on the Chief’s arm. “Mr. Knowles . . . Jonathan . . . you believe that whatever knowledge Nancy has of the death of her first family may help us find the Eldredge children.”

  “Exactly. But the problem is to extract that knowledge, not drive it deeper into her subconscious. Dr. Miles, you are considered an expert in the use of sodium amytal in psychiatry, are you not?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Is it possible you might be able to have Nancy reveal not only what she knows of this morning’s events—which I suspect will be nothing—but also information about the past that she doesn’t even know she has herself?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Then unless she can tell us something tangible about Michael and Missy’s whereabouts, I beg you to try.”

  When Dorothy was readmitted to the house an hour later, the family room and kitchen were deserted except for Bernie Miles, the policeman charged with answering the phones. “They’re all in there,” he said, jerking his head toward the front parlor. “Something pretty queer going on.”

  Dorothy hurried down the hall, but stopped at the doorway of the room. The greeting she was about to utter died on her lips as she took in the scene before her.

  Nancy was lying on the couch, a pillow under her head, a quilt tucked around her. A stranger who looked like a doctor was sitting beside her, speaking softly. Nancy’s eyes were closed. An anguished-looking Ray and grim-faced Jonathan were side by side on the love seat. Jed Coffin was sitting at a table behind the couch, holding a microphone pointed toward Nancy.

  As Dorothy realized what was happening, she sank into a chair, not bothering to take off her coat. Numbly she slipped her chilled fingers into the deep side pockets, unconsciously gripping the scrap of damp, fuzzy wool that she felt in the right-hand pocket.

  “How do you feel, Nancy? Are you comfortable?” Lendon’s voice was tranquil.

  “I’m afraid. . . .”

  “Why?”

  “The children . . . the children . . .”

  “Nancy. Let’s talk about this morning. Did you sleep well last night? When you woke up did you feel rested?”

  Nancy’s voice was reflective. “I dreamed. I dreamed a lot. . . .”

  “What did you dream about?”

  “Peter and Lisa. . . . They’d be so grown up. . . . They’re dead seven years. . . .” She began to sob. Then, as Jonathan’s iron grip held Ray back, she cried, “How could I have killed them? They were my children! How could I have killed them . . . ?”

  15

  BEFORE DOROTHY HAD MET John Kragopoulos at the office, she had tried to camouflage her red-rimmed eyes with a dusting 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 view 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 ca
r 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 had 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 anymore; it’s just one mass of motels and pizza parlors 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 onto 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 coworker, 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 fan-light, 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 gray. 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 old 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 gotten 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 fiber 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 gray shade complemented her pepper-and-salt-colored 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, this 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 white-caps 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 pane 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 r
esult, you’ve got really beautiful units that only need painting and papering. The brass beds alone are worth a fortune. Really, most 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.