The Unsuspected

said to anyone,' she warned, and smiled and closed the door. He stood on the step outside for some time, but at last he went away.

She pulled at her fingers with nervous anxiety. Now she felt disloyal. And guilty. And soiled. But why? What was it now? She mustn't trust Francis. He'd said so himself. She shook her head angrily. She was only doing what he had suggested because she didn't

trust him.

Besides, he isn't here, she thought, and she sat down and covered her eyes.

Chapter Twenty- seven

The police were going to check hospitals and all that, and send out a missing-person alarm, Grandy had told her comfortably. It meant that there would be an eye out for Francis for miles around. They would find him, he'd said confidently. Grandy had gone off in his ramshackle car, wearing his old brown hat jauntily.

But Mathilda, waiting alone in the long room downstairs, was not satisfied and far from confident. She wished Jane would come back, or that she knew where Jane was, so that she could go there. There were so many questions Jane could answer. Oliver was in the

house, and Mathilda wished he'd go away. He was upstairs and any minute he would probably appear and perhaps he'd want to hash things over. She wished he wouldn't. She wished she weren't alone, but she wished it weren't Oliver who would probably come to keep her company. She wished—wished— She didn't know exactly what it was she wished or what she was waiting for. Vaguely, she was waiting for some word, some news. Did she expect them to find Francis in a hospital? Did she expect them to find him at all? What if they did?

She tried to think, tried to clarify. There were two opinions about the disappearance of Francis. One, that he had run away deliberately, having failed to do whatever he had been attempting to do here. Two, that he had been prevented by violence from getting to the police by someone who didn't want him to get to the police. And, of course, there was a third possibility, which took in all the normal suppositions, that he had been taken ill, he had been in an accident.

She realized that it was the normal land of disappearance that the police would be able to check, and would be attempting to check now—sudden illness, accident, sudden death. They would also be covering the possibility that he had gone away voluntarily, in which case he wouldn't be hurt at all, but they would find him someday. Through their teletype system, his description, persistent vigilance.

But the possibility they would not cover, and, moreover, had no machinery for covering, was that he had met with malicious violence. For if he had been hidden away, they were not searching in the right kind of place or looking deep enough or close enough, she

thought.

She was huddled in the corner of a sofa, as if the room were cold. If only Jane would come back. If only Oliver would come downstairs and not talk, but do something. If only the police would send somebody and start here. If only she could tell someone these

thoughts, so that something would be done. She didn't think Grandy had made it clear. Grandy didn't suspect violence.

She began to shiver uncontrollably. She thought, I'm freezing, Jane's words came back to her, 'Frozen up, just stuck, just letting things happen.'

Mathilda uncurled herself and sat up. This was paralysis. She rejected it. She would not wait.

A little later, she was walking down Grandy s drive. The bus for downtown passed within two blocks of Grandy s house. This was one of the city conveniences of which he boasted. The nearest bus stop was obvious. Tyl had no choice to make. She knew this was

the way Francis must have come yesterday morning.

She wore her short fur jacket and a little black hat. There was a strong spring breeze blowing her black skirt around her pretty legs. She stood there at the bus stop with her eager, forward-leaning look, and she had no trouble with the bus drivers. They were all

glad to lean out as she hailed them, and listen to what she had to say. 'Can you remember Thursday morning —yesterday morning? Can you remember if a tall man with dark hair and dark eyes, a youngish man, got on your bus that morning?'

'What time, about, miss?'

“I'm not sure. About ten, I think.'

'Lots of people get on and off, miss.'

'Oh, I know, but try to remember. He would be wearing a gray coat, I think.'

'Not much to go on, miss. Lots of men—'

'Yes, yes, but try! It was at this stop. I'm sure of that. And yesterday morning. Just yesterday. His eyes were dark. His eyebrows—But I guess he wouldn't have been smiling.'

'Sorry, miss. Don't think I can help you.'

'How many drivers are there on this route?'

“Six, miss.

'Thank you.'

She tried again with the next driver and the next. The fourth man sucked his lip and said, 'What do you want to know for?'

'Oh, because he was going somewhere, and he never got there, and I've been wondering.'

The driver said, 'Maybe I got your man. A fellow that changed his mind.'

'He . . . did?'

'Yeah, yesterday morning. Tall, you say?'

'Tall, dark.'

'I wouldn't wanta say he was dark. I wouldn't have noticed. But there was a tall fellow in a gray coat waiting here, only he didn't get on.'

'He didn't?'

'No. Just as I was pulling up, a fellow comes up behind him—friend of his, I guess. So he turns around and goes off with the other guy. Gets in his car, see? The other guy notices him and picks him up. Happens all the time. People getting a lift. That help you any?'

'He went off with a friend?' said Mathilda incredulously.

The bus driver thought she was a stunner. 'Listen, miss, I only said he was a friend. How do I know? All I know is, this guy didn't get on my bus. He was waiting for the bus, see, but he don't get on, on account of this other guy?'

'Did you notice the other guy?'

'Gosh.' The driver pushed at his cap. The passengers were shuffling in their seats. He couldn't chat any longer. 'I dunno. Nothing special I can remember. But they got in this D.P.W. car.'

'What's that?'

The door began to wheeze shut. 'D.P.W.! Department of Public Works I' he shouted at her. The bus moved off.

D.P.W. D.P.W. Mathilda stood on the empty corner and looked around her. Houses here were set in fat lawns, far apart, well back from the street. Nobody was about or would have been.

Wait, there was someone across the street. A gardener doing some spring paining. She ran across. She fetched up the outer side of the hedge and the man stopped his work.

'Please, were you working here yesterday?'

'Nah.'

'Oh,' she said, disappointed. She turned away.

'Whatsa matter, lady?'

'I only wondered if you'd seen a certain car,' she said. 'But if you weren't here—'

'I was over at Number Sixty- eight,' he said, and spat.

'Where?'

'Over there.' His thumb showed her the neighboring lawn. I work there Thursdays. Here Fridays.'

'Oh, then maybe you did see it! There was a car with D.P.W. On it. Yesterday morning.'

'Yeah,' he said, and spat again.

'You saw it!'

'Sure I saw it.'

'Did two men get in?'

'Yeah.' There was something curious and yet reserved in his glance, as if he could tell her something if she had the wit to ask, but would not offer it.

'One of the men was waiting for the bus?'

'I couldn't say about that.'

'It doesn't matter. I want to know where—which way did the car go?'

He pointed.

That way?'

'Yeah'

'Did it go straight on? Did it turn?' She thought, I'll never be able to do this. This is hopeless.

'Turned left on Dabney Street,' he told her surprisingly.

'Oh! Oh, thank you!' She started to run, stopped, looked back. 'Was there anything—anything more you noticed?'

A curtain dropped in his interested eyes. 'Nah, I didn't notice anything,' he said.

But she thought. He did. There teas something about it, something queer.

She thanked him again and walked briskly in the direction of the Dabney Street corner. Now what to do? Now, ought she to call the police? Tell them about that car? Surely they could trace all cars so marked. Those cars must belong to the city. She ran back again.

The gardener hadn't begun to clip yet. He was just standing there, looking after her.

'One thing more,' she gasped. 'It was a car from this town? I mean it was the D.P.W. here?'