A Question of Time

his cane. They found old Sarah warming her hands before a fire in the main room of her house.

'Mrs. Tyrrell? I was wondering—can you remember ever meeting Bill, here, before you were introduced last night?'

The old woman looked from one man to the other. 'I feared there might be complications,' she said at last. 'Is there trouble with time now, gentlemen?'

'I don't know,' said Joe. Bill, his mouth slightly open, stood looking from one of them to the other.

'Young man,' said Sarah, looking at Bill. 'I thought last night that we might possibly have met before. But a great many strange things happened to me in the comparatively brief time that I lived with Edgar Tyrrell.'

Haltingly, at Joe's urging, Bill told the story of his recent wanderings.

Sarah heard him out. 'I suppose that what you say is not impossible, young man. The house as you describe it sounds correct. Perhaps a young man, who seemed out of place, did once drop in when I lived there. Perhaps I was able to advise him as to which way to walk, to get home—before the sun went down.'

'And the little girl?' Joe asked.

'I have told you that I had a daughter.'

'Where is she now?'

'I don't know. Tell me of my grandniece. That's what I'm paying you for.'

Old Sarah's reaction to what the young man had to say of Cathy was definitely positive. Her eyes greedily devoured Bill's pair of Polaroids.

'Oh yes, yes, that's her,' she murmured. 'And living freely, by herself? Then there may be hope.'

A few minutes later Joe and Bill returned to Joe's rooms in the hotel, where they had left John acting as bodyguard for Brainard.

John opened the door for them. 'We had a transatlantic call while you were out. From Mr. Strangeways.'

Joe paused in the act of pulling off his coat. 'What'd he want?'

'He suggested we call our home office, and start Angie looking into other vanishings that have taken place in this area. He thought, and I agree, that over the years there have probably been a fair number.'

'Okay.' Joe grunted with relief as he settled himself in a chair. 'Then ring her up.'

In a minute Joe himself was talking to Angie, John's young wife. He asked her to find out how many people disappearing in or near the Canyon had any known connection with the Tyrrell House and its inhabitants.

He added, 'Of course even those with no known connection might possibly be Tyrrell's responsibility.'

When Joe hung up the phone, Brainard, who had been peering cautiously out the window, turned and called in a low voice: 'Keogh?'

'Yeah?'

'That's one of them out there now. One of the men who are after me. Just standing there on the walk, as if he wants to make sure I see him.'

Joe picked up his cane and got on his feet. He looked out cautiously, past the curtain that Brainard was holding back a little. 'The big guy with the fur collar.'

'Yeah.'

'Sure?'

'Of course I'm sure. After what these people have said to me I'm not likely to forget what they look like.'

'Got a name for this one?'

'This one introduced himself as Preston. Mr. Smith and Mr. Preston is what they told me. Of course I have no idea if those names are really…' Brainard, with a fatalistic shrug, let his words trail off.

'All right. I'll just go say hello,' said Joe, and reached once more for his jacket. At the same time he sized up Bill and John, then let his gaze settle on the former. 'Bill, you look bigger and uglier. Come out with me and back me up. Don't say anything and don't do anything unless it looks like I really need help. John, mind the store.'

Preston, who had heavy, dark eyebrows and a mustache to match, hadn't moved. A second man, sharp- featured, built on a smaller scale but also strong and solid-looking, came from somewhere to join him, as Joe, with Bill staying a step behind, came hobbling out from the hotel. All four of their hands in jacket pockets, Smith and Preston watched their approach without expression.

Joe halted a couple of steps away. 'You're looking at my window. Anything I can help you with?'

'I don't think so,' said Smith, evidently giving the question serious consideration. His sharp features split in a smile. 'If I decide I need a shoeshine, I'll let you know.'

The big man in the fur collar took a more direct approach. 'You a cop?' he demanded.

Joe shook his head. 'Not any more,' he answered mildly. 'But they're not far away. Smith and Preston, huh?'

Smith turned his head to Preston. 'D'ja hear that? I think the gimp is threatening us with cops. Maybe our lawyer ought to talk to him.'

Preston gave what was probably a well-practiced impression of a man whose inner rage was mounting swiftly. He spat in the general direction of Joe's shoes. Out of the corner of his eye Joe saw Bill start to step forward and then hold back.

A couple of Park Rangers in their tan uniforms and Smokey the Bear hats were coming along the walk, among the usual gaggle of tourists. The rangers were talking geology, not paying any attention yet to four unhappy-looking men who stood in a loose group. Balancing on his cane, Joe reached out with quick, deft fingers, and snatched the cigarette from between Preston's fingers. He crushed out the glowing end on the furry lapel of the man's expensive jacket, so a fine thin wisp of smoke went up into the air of the winter afternoon. The gesture was quick and unobtrusive, as if he were only brushing away a little dust.

Preston twitched and started, as if the fur had been his skin. He said three foul words in a low, distinct voice. He started to sway forward.

Smith, aware of the Rangers nearby, put out an arm to hold him back. It was more of a gesture than a tug, but it succeeded.

To Joe, Smith said, in a new, dangerous voice: 'Tell Brainard he better pay his debts. Paying debts is a law of nature, see, gimp? Sooner or later we all have to do it. Sooner or later.'

'I'll tell him,' Joe said flatly.

Old Sarah was sitting with her eyes closed, trying to remember. Was it only her imagination, or did a ghost of memory really come teasing back, a strangely-dressed young man who had dropped in at the house on the Rim one warm afternoon in the early thirties?

So many peculiar things had happened to her in the thirties. When you lived with a vampire, when you lived with Edgar Tyrrell, what difference more or less one strange young man?

Had the young man stayed until Edgar appeared, shortly after sunset? Or had Sarah, as she hoped she was remembering, managed quietly to save his life?

But the thirties were gone now, out of reach for her if perhaps not for Edgar. The most important thing, of course, was the modern evidence provided by Bill and his photographs, evidence that Cathy at least was still alive, and not being held somewhere against her will.

Nothing really helpful about Edgar, though. What helpful news could there ever be about him? The only helpful news would be, perhaps, that he was dead; sooner or later the true death came for all, even the nosferatu. But in Edgar's case, in the case of a man who so often did tricks with time—or perhaps, one with whom time so often played its own tricks—not even a confirmed report of death would guarantee that he could henceforward be considered harmless.

Sarah shuddered.

She had never really understood the work to which her husband had devoted his life. The research, the art —whatever the right name for it was—which had fascinated her husband and evidently still obsessed him, beyond all the attractions to which normal humans could be subject.

Sarah had never understood his work. But she had learned to fear it terribly.

Joe, re-entering his hotel room, said to the waiting Brainard: 'They're gone for now.'

'Thanks.'

'Por nada. I don't think they've gone very far.'

'I know it.'

'But I've at least given them something to think about. I can get in touch with some people I know, try and