Harper turned the doorknob and the door swung open as he lurched against it. He staggered into the hall, headed for the stairs, checked himself with his hand on the banister. From somewhere down the other end of the hall came a muffled groan. He stood there, weaving back and forth on his feet like a punch-drunk fighter, then started down the hall, his hand feeling along the wall for support.
He stopped opposite the second door on his left. From behind the panels the muffled tones sounded again. He swung into the room and groped for the light switch. He found the button, pushed it, and the resulting glow showed another bedroom, done in yellow with dainty, feminine hangings and pale- green furniture.
On the bed, fully clothed and with hands and feet securely bound, lay a girl. Blond hair fell about her shoulders. China-blue eyes, wide under penciled brows, stared out of a flushed face. A twisted towel had been thrust across an opened mouth and tied around her neck.
Harper seemed to stiffen. He moved unsteadily to the bed, picked at the cord binding the girl. He thrust trembling fingers into a vest pocket, took out a small penknife. He managed to open a blade and cut the ropes.
The girl sat upright as he untied the towel and began rubbing her wrists.
Harper dropped on the bed beside her and said, “Whisky.”
The girl's eyes never left his face as she got up from the bed. She continued staring at him for a second, the look in her eyes a mixture of pity and revulsion. “I'll see,” she said, and left the room.
Harper was still sitting upright on the bed, bracing himself with his hands, when the girl returned. She carried a glass and a square brown bottle. She drew the cork and poured an inch of whisky into the glass.
Harper tossed it off in one gulp. He coughed once, then reached for the bottle. The girl gave it to him, and he poured another third of a glassful. This he drank quickly and drew back his lips as the alcohol burned the cuts.
The girl dropped into a straight-backed chair, her eyes still on Harper. He returned the gaze, looking through the bloodied eyebrow without lifting his head. Finally he said, “How long have you been tied up here?”
“Over an hour. I was downstairs reading. When I went to answer the doorbell the three of them rushed in.”
“Where's the housekeeper?”
“She stays with her mother one night a week. Tonight's the night.” She leaned forward in the chair, rubbing her wrists absently. “Is—is uncle all right?” There was fear in her voice.
“I don't know.” Harper told what had happened, and as he finished the girl uttered a frightened cry, as though some forgotten memory had accused her, and sprang toward the dresser.
“They left a note,” she said, at the same time picking up a piece of paper propped against the mirror. She glanced quickly at it, handed it to Harper.
He looked at her for a moment without reading the note. One hand strayed to his face, explored with gentle fingers the bruises and cuts. Then he dropped his eyes, read:
If your uncle's life means anything to you, don't call the police. We will get in touch with you later. Don't be alarmed if you don't hear from us for a week or ten days.
Harper tossed the note to the bed. His mustache twitched above a bitter smile and his voice was hoarse, unemotional. “I'm going back to your uncle's room, get fixed up. I'll want to talk to you.”
The girl got to her feet. “Let me—bathe those cuts—”
“Afterward.” Harper moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the knob. “I'm going to take a cold shower. When I come back you can stick some adhesive tape where it'll do the most good.”
WALT HARPER'S appearance was considerably improved when he finished dressing after his shower. There was no longer any blood on his face and the cuts were clean. He gave a final tug to his tie, lighted a cigarette, turned away from the chest of drawers, and looked slowly about the room.
He inhaled deeply, blew out smoke in a thin stream. He righted the overturned chairs, walked over and opened a closet door. He pawed over a half-dozen suits, looked down at the shoes, the portmanteau and Gladstone bag in the far corner. Coming back to the chest he began at the top and examined the furnishings that filled the drawers.
There was a leather-covered wastebasket at the foot of the bed. He stepped to it, pulled out a newspaper, picked up the single envelope that lay beneath. It was empty and postmarked
Boston, Mass. June 17 1933. 6:30 P.M.
Harper turned over the envelope in his hands. He stuffed it into his pocket, stood motionless, his brown eyes thoughtful. He rubbed his mustache with the index finger of his right hand, reached back into his pocket, took out the envelope and stared at it.
“Mailed Saturday,” he said softly, “and today's Monday.” He grunted, turned on his heel, and went back to Aileen Reynolds's room.
She had recovered her composure now. Her blond hair was neatly done and her skin was pink and fresh- looking without makeup. The corners of her mouth were still red where the pressure of the towel had left its mark. She had a bottle of iodine, some cotton, gauze, and adhesive tape, and she started to work as soon as Harper sat down.
When she had finished there was a strip of plaster across Harper's eyebrow, another across his cheek bone, a third on his forehead. His left eye, blue-circled, was about half-open.
Harper poured another drink, stepped over to the straight-backed chair and eased into it. “How are you fixed for money?” he asked. And when the girl's eyes widened he added, “I mean, were you dependent on Dunlap?”
