been dropping downhill without realizing it as I moved toward the house. My right hand shot out to brace myself against a tree, then scraped rough bark soundlessly as I lowered myself to a squatting position. This was closer than I'd intended to get, but here I was.
I was looking into a bedroom that seemed unoccupied. The floor was bare wood, and I could see a made bed and the corner of a dresser. The walls were white, freshly painted and free of decorations.
Keeping low and backing a few feet into the cover of the woods, I moved to my left and the next lighted window. This window had drapes, but they were partly open. I saw a dim shadow movement inside, and I inched farther to my left and closer so I could see into the room.
There was Bender, standing at the end of a long polished wood table. His attach6 case was open on the table and he was reading from a sheet of white paper, glancing up now and then to gauge the effect of his words on his audience.
That audience was five men and at least three women seated at the long table in the otherwise unfurnished room. They were all neatly dressed, sitting erect and listening intently to whatever Bender was saying. At the head of the table sat a man in his late twenties, almost foppishly well dressed, wavy dark hair in a short but stylish cut, keen blue eyes. He seemed to be in charge, and occasionally he'd interrupt Bender to ask a question, then jot notes in an open file before him. I knew I was looking at Jerry Congram.
Maybe Bender was reporting that he'd had to kill Tad Osborne. I saw a marked reaction around the table, bodies leaning back, hands in motion on the polished wood, heads turning slightly to check other responses. Congram was sitting perfectly still, with absolute calm. He rapped on the table a few times with the cap of his pen.
All eyes were focused again on Bender, and he began to read. Congram seemed to be taking more notes.
What I knew I should do was exactly what I wanted to do: get away with what information I had.
When I stood to back away from the window, my left leg was asleep, and I lurched slightly. A dead branch I hadn't realized was against my shoulder cracked and fell loudly to the ground.
Almost immediately a face was at the window, suspicious, angry. I was crouched again, motionless, as the man peered out into the darkness. I watched his eyes roam, seeking an object on which to fix themselves. The expression on his intent face remained the same as his gaze passed over me twice. At the slightest indication that he'd seen me I was ready to run for my car. My legs were even more ready than I was, and my heart was pumping as if I were already running.
After a final dart-eyed look around, the man turned, said something.
The lights in the room went out.
The man could see outside more clearly now, without the reflections on the window. I almost straightened and bolted. I could barely make him out through the dark glass, the same angry expression on his face, as if he wanted to find someone. More faces appeared at the window. At least I was wearing dark clothing, and I was almost completely concealed by some sort of viny plant. Their eyes still weren't accustomed to the dark, and I knew if I had the nerve to stay still I probably wouldn't be seen. I was glad the window was closed; they might have smelled my fear.
Then suddenly the lights came back on, the drapes swished closed. The house's occupants seemed to have decided the noise they'd heard was of nonhuman origin.
I remained where I was, without moving, for another few minutes, fighting my powerful urge to break and run, willing my tensed muscles to relax.
Then, very slowly, with the greatest of care, I moved directly away from the house. When I thought I'd moved far enough up the hill, I began making my way through the trees in the direction of my parked car. I walked faster as I put distance between myself and the house, putting more of a premium on speed than on silence with each step. The woods were thinner now. Low brush snapped and swished at my ankles, and I no longer had to constantly brush branches away from my face in the darkness. I was already squeezing the car's ignition key in my right hand, though I couldn't recall reaching into my pocket for it.
I got to the car, managed to open the door with a fear-awkward hand and clambered in behind the steering wheel. I was careful to close the door without slamming it. On the second try I hit the keyhole with the ignition key and thanked assorted gods as the engine turned over. After backing from the driveway, I forced myself to drive slowly-simply someone passing through the subdivision who had innocent reason to be there. I knew now that I'd make it if no one heard my heart.
The car bucked as it took the steep, chuckholed road, then seemed to be grateful for smooth road as I made a left turn and drove for the city.
What I had witnessed, I realized, was a Gratuity Insurance business meeting, and the topic of business was Tad Osborne's murder. No doubt it had been Gratuity 'agents' who'd beaten Belle Dee, trying to erase a link between the murdered Victor Talbert and the company. To have killed her, too, might only have triggered a deeper, more dangerous investigation.
And how much did Gratuity know about me? Was it my presence at the Poptop Club and at Belle Dee's apartment that had prompted her beating? I wished I knew more about Gratuity Insurance and Jerry Con-gram. I understood enough now to be really scared, maybe enough on which to act.
Bender, at least, would be a sure-fire suspect for Osborne's murder, and he could probably be made to talk in the process of plea bargaining. I thought about OS-BORNE and the shock it must have been for him to realize his fatal mistake. Maybe he'd gone further with Bender than he would have, to impress Alison.
Then I remembered something about the conversation in Osborne's office, and dominoes began to fall.
When I reached the city, it occurred to me that I might actually have been spotted back at Devon Acres and that someone might be following me. For about fifteen minutes I drove aimless patterns on bleak side streets, breaking traffic laws a few times to see if anyone would break them with me rather than be left behind.
By the time I was satisfied that I wasn't being followed, I was lost. But my pulse was comfortably slower. I was about to stop and consult my street map when I found myself on Fifty once again and regained my sense of direction.
When I registered at the TraveLodge, they told me at the desk that Alison had left a message. She would be waiting for me in the cocktail lounge until ten. The wall clock behind the desk read nine fifteen. I thanked the clerk, and he told me where the lounge was and gave me a room key.
I entered the dim, quiet lounge and walked to where Alison was sitting, sipping a tall, clear drink. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked up at me, and I smiled at her and sat down.
'Where have you been?' she asked, somewhat in the tone of an irate wife.
'To a place called Devon Acres, one of those partially constructed subdivisions with more hope than houses.'
'You look like you had some trouble.'
For the first time I realized the evening's activities had taken a toll on my appearance. My hands were dirty and scratched and there was a small, jagged tear in the right sleeve of my sport coat. My hair was mussed, and no doubt there was grime on my face.
I ordered a double bourbon on the rocks and told Alison everything that had happened.
When I finished, she sat surveying me with a look of narrow-eyed intelligence, a white curve of smoke drifting like an ethereal question mark above her cigarette in the ashtray at her elbow. 'Now are you going to the police?'
'Yes,' I said, 'but not right away like I should. First I'm going to claim the right that I've earned to nail down my end of this business. I think it's time for you to take me to Joan Clark.'
The' surprise passed from her face in an instant, but an instant was all I needed. I knew Alison was too smart to deny knowing Joan Clark's whereabouts.
She picked the cigarette from the ashtray, absently replaced it without drawing on it. Now that I was bringing the police in on the case, Alison had little choice but to do as I asked.
'Joan's in my apartment,' she flatly admitted. 'How did you guess I was hiding her?'
'Dale Carlon mentioned that you were a family friend,' I said, 'and that you knew Joan. Where would Joan go for help in her predicament, afraid for her life? Not to the police or to her father. Not to a private investigator, one of a bad type and a total stranger. But you, a family friend, another woman and a trained investigator in your work, could understand and have a professional interest. And more importantly, you could work on the case without
