They crossed the Sheep Meadow, crossed the walk, crossed an old covered bridge; and they were at the head of a flight of shallow steps.
“The Vale of Cashmere!” cried Mooney, as though he were announcing a miracle.
Harse said nothing.
Mooney licked his lips, glancing at the kit Harse carried under an arm, glancing around. No one was in sight.
Mooney coughed. “Uh. You’re sure this is the place you mean?”
“If it is the Vale of Cashmere.” Harse looked once more down the steps, then turned.
“No, wait!” said Mooney frantically. “I mean—well, where in the Vale of Cashmere is the Nexus Point? This is a big place!”
Harse’s pale eyes stared at him for a moment. “No. Not big.”
“Oh, fairly big. After all—”
Harse said positively: “Come.”
Mooney swore under his breath and vowed never to trust anyone again, especially a bartender’s brother; but just then it happened. Out of the snowy bushes stepped a man in a red bandanna, holding a gun. “This is a stickup! Gimme that bag!”
Mooney exulted.
There was no chance for Harse now. The man was leaping toward him; there would be no time for him to open the bag, take out the weapon. …
But he didn’t have to. There was a thin, singing, whining sound from the bag. It leaped out of Harse’s hand, leaped free as though it had invisible wings, and flew at the man in the red bandanna. The man stumbled and jumped aside, the eyes incredulous over the mask. The silvery flat metal kit spun round him, whining. It circled him once, spiraled up. Behind it, like a smoke trail from a destroyer, a pale blue mist streamed backward. It surrounded the man and hid him.
The bag flew back into Harse’s hand.
The violet mist thinned and disappeared.
And the man was gone, as utterly and as finally as any chambermaid or driver of a truck.
There was a moment of silence. Mooney stared without belief at the snow sifting down from the bushes that the man had hid in.
Harse looked opaquely at Mooney. “It seems,” he said, “that in these slums are many. Dangers?”
Mooney was very quiet on the way back to the hotel. Harse, for once, was not gazing into his viewer. He sat erect and silent beside Mooney, glancing at him from time to time. Mooney did not relish the attention.
The situation had deteriorated.
It deteriorated even more when they entered the lobby of the hotel. The desk clerk called to Mooney.
Mooney hesitated, then said to Harse: “You go ahead. I’ll be up in a minute. And listen—don’t forget about my knock.”
Harse inclined his head and strode into the elevator. Mooney sighed.
“There’s a gentleman to see you, Mr. Mooney,” the desk clerk said civilly.
Mooney swallowed. “A—a gentleman? To see me?”
The clerk nodded toward the writing room. “In there, sir. A gentleman who says he knows you.”
Mooney pursed his lips.
In the writing room? Well, that was an advantage. The writing room was off the main lobby; it would give Mooney a chance to peek in before whoever it was could see him. He approached the entrance cautiously. …
“Howard!” cried an accusing familiar voice behind him.
Mooney turned. A small man with curly red hair was coming out of a door, marked “Men.”
“Why—why, Uncle Lester!” said Mooney. “What a p-pleasant surprise!”
Lester, all of five feet tall, wispy red hair surrounding his red plump face, looked up at him belligerently.
“No doubt!” he snapped. “I’ve been waiting all day, Howard. Took the afternoon off from work to come here. And I wouldn’t have been here at all if I hadn’t seen this.”
He was holding a copy of the paper with Mooney’s picture, behind the pillar of black fog. “Your aunt wrapped my lunch in it, Howard. Otherwise I might have missed it. Went right to the hotel. You weren’t there. The doorman helped, though. Found a cab driver. Told me where he’d taken you. Here I am.”
“That’s nice,” lied Mooney.
“No, it isn’t. Howard, what in the world are you up to? Do you know the Monmouth County police are looking for you? Said there was somebody missing. Want to talk to you.” The little man shook his head angrily. “Knew I shouldn’t let you stay at my place. Your aunt warned me, too. Why do you make trouble for me?”
“Police?” Mooney asked faintly.
“At my age! Police coming to the house. Who was that fella who’s missing, Howard? Where did he go? Why doesn’t he go home? His wife’s half crazy. He shouldn’t worry her like that.”
Mooney clutched his uncle’s shoulder. “Do the police know where I am? You didn’t tell them?”
“Tell them? How could I tell them? Only I saw your picture while I was eating my sandwich, so I went to the hotel and—”
“Uncle Lester, listen. What did they come to see you for?”
“Because I was stupid enough to let you stay in my house, that’s what for,” Lester said bitterly. “Two days ago. Knocking on my door, hardly eight o’clock in the morning. They said there’s a man missing, driving a truck, found the truck empty. Man from the Coast Guard station knows him, saw him picking up a couple of hitchhikers at a bridge someplace, recognized one of the hitchhikers. Said the hitchhiker’d been staying at my house. That’s you, Howard. Don’t lie; he described you. Pudgy, kind of a squinty look in the eyes, dressed like a bum—oh, it was you, all right.”
“Wait a minute. Nobody knows you’ve come here, right? Not even Auntie?”
“No, course not. She didn’t see the picture, so how would she know? Would’ve said something if she had. Now come on, Howard, we’ve got to go to the police and—”
“Uncle Lester!”
The little man paused and looked at him suspiciously. But that was all right; Mooney began to feel confidence flow back into him. It wasn’t all over yet, not by a long shot.
“Uncle Lester,” he said, his voice low-pitched and persuasive, “I
