And then to see through the window a man materializing out of the floor at the end of her kitchen, making a mockery of locks and keys—
A trapdoor, thought Amanda, trying to take some of the horror out of this. And—not fleeing when the coast was clear that afternoon, but returning to his underground habitat—he must be the escaped convict, bafflingly possessed of a fact which Mrs. Balsam did not know, biding his time until the police hunt had slackened in intensity.
A man who had made that bid for freedom, and been successful so far, would be very alert to the possibility of danger with someone demonstrably awake during his venture up into the kitchen. Amanda deliberately did not think of him listening, concentrating, just under the floor. Instead, she placed in her mind the exact location of her handbag with the all-important car keys: on the end table with the two stamped letters which had triggered this whole situation.
She whispered imperatively to Rosie, “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” and tiptoed down the hall and into the living room. Her heart began a helpless acceleration, because after the lighted glow of the bedroom it was like entering a black cave which might or might not contain an animal with its head up, sniffing. She skirted the end of the couch, trying to walk weightlessly, remembered that there was an armchair at an oblique angle to it a few feet away, negotiated that passage, put her hand cautiously out and down.
A pottery ashtray rocked sharply on wood, and it was all Amanda could do not to sob like Rosie, and then her fingers touched leather. She seized the handbag, turned with a little more certainty, gathered up her coat and then the plaid blanket as she passed the couch again, had to be careful to confine herself to a walk because even this carpeting wouldn’t drink up all vibration and they wouldn’t be safe until they were in the car with the doors locked and the engine running.
Rosie was sitting obediently on the hassock in Mrs. Balsam’s bedroom, her eyes round with bemusement. Amanda plucked her car keys out of her bag, dropped them into her coat pocket for easy location in the dark, and deployed the blanket with a reassuring smile. “Here we go,” she said, and lifted the child and tiptoed to the patio door.
Apple was there, wagging her tail in greeting, and this time her companion was not a Doberman pinscher.
The restaurant was the blackest Justin had ever been in, punctuated by orange-shaded table lamps which created an impression of lights at sea. He held Lucy’s arm firmly, and not only because of the leg-breaking obscurity which contained two steps down. “You’ll feel better when you’ve had some food,” he said.
“Oh, but all those cheese and crackers,” said Lucy vaguely, being seated with some difficulty.
One cheeseless cracker, Justin remembered, because when the female magician had finally produced a platter of stuffed olives and cubes of Cheddar and crackers there had been what amounted to a genteel stampede. The wounded woman in lavendar chiffon had been helped to a good deal, solicitously. The sneakered man responsible for the navy-blue bump on her shin and the coffee table propped up with books had discreetly vanished.
The menu here was written on the label of a jug in trembly and indecipherable script, and as Justin peered at it without success a waiter arrived, jaunty in patched jeans. “Something from the bar, sir?” he offered alertly, observing Lucy’s lolling head.
“Just something to eat, at the moment. What’s quickest?”
The waiter said with disdain that there was a chefs salad with julienne—
“We’ll have that,” said Justin summarily. “Where is the telephone?”
He was told. He said to Lucy, “Will you be all right while I make a quick call?” and, upon her glassy assent, picked his way through the midnight gloom to the single booth at the back.
A fat man in a tiny Tyrolean hat was in possession. Justin, normally civilized in such matters, patrolled mercilessly back and forth because his need to hear Amanda’s voice suddenly outstripped his need for food. Where was she, two nights before Christmas? (Well, where was he? Out with Lucy Pettit. Amanda wouldn’t be able to reach him if, undone by the sentiments of the season, she tried. In which case, in any case, the thing to do was demolish the salad, drop Lucy off at her apartment with all possible speed, and go home and listen to his telephone not ringing.)
The fat man emerged from the booth, staring hard and unpleasantly at Justin, who said, “Sorry, urgent matter,” and took his place. He tried his trio of numbers again, letting Mrs, Balsam’s ring the longest in case she had gone to bed, but nobody was home anywhere.
Examine this. Was he suddenly determined on Amanda out of a sophomoric whim, merely because she was unavailable? No. There was nothing sophomoric about his feeling for Amanda.
The salad had arrived in his absence. Lucy was gazing at hers oddly. Justin said encouragingly, “This looks very good,” and used salt and a pepper grinder the size of a young pillar. He lifted his fork, although he was almost hungry enough to do without one, and Lucy, forehead glistening ominously, said, “Justin, you will have to get me out of here. I mean right now, this minute.”
There was no mistaking her; equally, there wasn’t time to try to break the secret code on the jug. Justin put down too much money for a pair of chef’s salads no matter who the chef was, said briefly to the waiter who accosted them suspiciously in the murk a few moments later, “We’ve paid. You will rue any delay, believe me,” and made
