Mr West, but that don’t make any difference. But you could wait until you get to New York or Washington. Or else —”
He didn’t finish.
That was because Roger heard a voice in the outer office, and was out of his chair and moving across the room quicker than he had thought he would be able to move for days. There was only one voice like that in the world. He reached the door in two strides, and pulled it open.
Lissa was saying to a trooper:
Will I find Mr Roger West here? I was told —”
“Right here,” Roger said.
Lissa swung round, her eyes glowing. There was no sense in it, but it was like coming to the end of a journey.
19
SHAWN HOUSEHOLD
THEY didn’t move or speak, their hands did not touch.
They stood two yards from each other, Roger in the doorway with Sergeant Al behind him, Lissa oblivious of the trooper to whom she had just spoken and of the others now watching her. A girl stopped clattering on the typewriter, and silence fell. It could only have been for a few seconds, but it seemed age-long.
Sergeant Al, his little eyes bright, made a sound which might have meant anything, and broke the spell. As Roger relaxed, pictures of Janet and the boys flashed into his mind. But he felt no sense of guilt or even disquiet; it was as if emotion had been drawn out of him, leaving a strange emptiness that was both buoyant and satisfying.
“Hi, Roger,” Lissa said, and they gripped hands. “You had me worried.”
“I was worried myself,” Roger said, and turned, still holding her hand. “This is Sergeant Al.”
“Just Al?” Lissa’s radiance brought a reluctant curve to the Sergeant’s lips.
“Sergeant Al Ginney, ma’am.”
“I’m Lissa Meredith,” said Lissa.
All three went into the smaller office, and the Sergeant motioned to chairs and sat down himself, but Lissa continued to stand.
“I can’t wait to hear everything. Roger, is it true that you’ve seen Ricky?”
He nodded.
“How — how was he?” She seemed almost afraid to ask.
“Frightened,” Roger told her, “but not hurt.”
“You’ll just
“Yes.”
What’s happening up there?” Lissa asked. “Washington called me and said Ed Pullinger had arrived, too. I don’t know the whole story yet.” She glanced at Al Ginney. “Have you had instructions from Washington, Al?”
“No, ma’am. I would get them through Albany, anyway,” the Sergeant told her. “But I guess I don’t need instructions to do what Mr Pullinger says, and he says to let Mr West do anything he pleases.”
“Where is Mr Pullinger?”
“In bed. I guess he had a pretty hard time.”
“Do you know what happened to him in New York — and to you?” Lissa asked Roger.
He told me about it.”
Then we needn’t disturb him,” Lissa decided. We’ll drive to the Shawns’ place at once. There isn’t a thing more you can do here. Are you ready?”
“There’s one little thing,” Roger said. “That paper-knife, Sergeant.”
When he told her of the significance of the knife, she opened her handbag and took out a folded card; Roger saw that this had her photograph on it.
We’ll take that knife, Al,” she said.
Ginney studied the card, then studied her.
“Sure can, ma’am. I’ve taken the prints off it, they’re on the record, and I’ve sent copies to New York by special messenger and to Washington by air. Mr West thinks they might be that important. There’s a funny thing, Mr West. We’ve men up at Webster’s old house, but haven’t found another set of those same prints. We don’t know for sure, but we think the man who left them on the knife arrived only an hour or so before Mr West got away.
“He wore gloves,” Roger said. “He always wore gloves or had his fingers taped. He forgot himself for ten minutes, and that was enough.” Having the prints, knowing there were no others, heightened his sense of buoyancy. “I’m ready when you are, Lissa.”
What’s holding us back?”
