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  “Surely” said the lad, and he got in with spry goodwill.

  As Harry took off like a rocket, Dorinda did not even turn her head.

  When they had whipped around a couple of curves, the lad said mildly, “If it’s the doctor you want, do you think I ought to say he lives the other direction?”

  “Never mind him.” Harry braked and stopped the car with a coy skid. “Listen to me. Here. Take this.” Harry was pulling out money. “Send our bags here.” He slapped a card on top of the money and thrust all into the lad’s hands. “And let it be assumed that we are at the doctor’s. Give us a start. I’m getting her out of here. Don’t talk.”

  “Roger. Wilco,” said the garrulous native, quaintly, and got out.

  Harry roared them off along the winding roads of the green land. “Tied up like a chicken, eh? O.K. So we’ve just flown the coop.” (Jean was not amused.) So he said, “Well fly home. From Shannon. Get out the map.”

  “In my bare feet, I’m flying home?”

  “Listen, honey,” said Harry, steering like mad, “we’ll find you a doctor, in the first biggish town. Shoes, too.”

  “I don’t want a doctor,” shouted Jean. “I’m not interested in shoes. I want to know what’s going on. And if you don’t tell me, I’m going to drop dead, here and now, in a rented car, and you’ll be sorry.”

  “I would, surely,” said Harry, and then before she could hit him, as her whole mien threatened to do, he began to tell her.

  * * *

  In Los Angeles, it was visiting hours at St. Bart’s Hospital. “You’re looking pretty good, Em,” Callie said, thrusting some dilapidated flowers into a vase.

  “Oh, I’m better, much better. And how is … everyone?”

  “Fine. All fine. Well …” Callie surveyed her bouquet. “Like I always say. Choose one. The kids or the flowerbed.”

  “Are the children with you today? Downstairs?”

  “Not today. Hey, Em, relax. Rex is home. One of us is always with them. You know that. Say, I probably won’t come tomorrow. Rex thinks he’ll drop by. Make a change for you, too.”

  “Very nice,” said Miss Emaline vaguely. “It’s just ’til … Wednesday.”

  “Ho, they’re letting you out Wednesday? Good.”

  “No, no. I mean—I don’t know. I wasn’t—thinking of that.” Miss Emaline stirred and tried to smile at her sister.

  “If something’s bothering you, Em,” said Callie, “what can I do?”

  “Well, it’s nothing much. Just … There is a woman here. She seems to work here. I believe I know her, Callie. She’s from Dolabela.”

  Miss Emaline had been worrying about Mei Fong all day. She knew that Mei couldn’t possibly stumble upon the name Dolabela—even by accident—in the records, because Miss Emaline had taken care to give Honolulu as her home address. So that if Mei just did not happen to come into this room.…

  But here was Callie saying happily, “What do you know? Old-home week, eh? Do you good to swap a few yarns?”

  “No, no,” said Emaline. “She hasn’t seen me.”

  “Well, then, listen,” said Callie, “why don’t I go see if I can find her? What’s her name?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather not, Callie. Please. Callie, you won’t …” Emaline rose from her pillow accusingly.

  “Sure, I won’t, if you don’t want me to,” said Callie, and she sat down and did not ask the obvious question.

  “Because I am so much better off,” said Miss Emaline weakly, answering the question just the same, “just being quiet.” (And safe, she thought.)

  But her conscience winced. She must not lie to her sister. “Oh, Callie, you know I can’t tell you everything. Yes, she worries me, a little, but I can’t tell you why. You know I can’t burden you. This is for me to bear.”

  “Whatever you say,” said Callie, amiably. Then in a moment she added gently, “You always did go for bearing burdens, Em. I wouldn’t take them from you, unless you’d ask. You know that.” Then she grinned. “It’s sure awful quiet around here. Too quiet for me.”

  It was eight o’clock in the evening, over the Atlantic, where they were. Jean, who had been mulling and musing, said softly, “I blew it, didn’t I, Harry? About that remembering?”

  He had learned something about this girl. So he said, “True. And I blew it when I used the singular. I said to Dorinda, the other pig. So now she knows there’s just one more. What a goof, eh? Never mind. We’re for the waiting game. How is your head?”

  “O.K. Although not as clear as it’s been cracked up to be.”

  “Comes of being hit on it?” He mumbled this. This had frightened him out of some of his wits, he felt.

  “I don’t understand the Butlers,” she mourned.

  “Honey, they don’t understand you, either, believe me.”

  “O.K.” Jean sighed and slipped her other foot out of her other new shoe.

  They had shopped frantically, in the duty-free shops at Shannon Airport, Harry spending money like water, babbling nonsense, and looking over his shoulder constantly. Jean was now wearing her new suit of Irish wool, and her new Irish linen blouse, and her head was not aching anymore, and the bruise on her thigh was passive, unless touched, and they were going home, and all they had to do was wait, and yet …

  The trouble was they had boarded in such high spirits. In the first place, they felt they had got away. In the second place, Harry had phoned Bonzer, from the airport, with Jean on guard against any and all eavesdroppers, and Bonzer had said in calm accents that, having reason to suspect this phone of being tapped, he, Bonzer, would not go into detail about how things were. He would certainly inform Mr. Fairchild’s father of Mr. Fairchild’s impending arrival, and would, of course, meet the plane. And felt that Mr. Fairchild would be glad to be done with long and arduous journeying, and he, Bonzer, would be glad to see him, and Miss Cunliffe, too.

  So concluding gleefully that Bonzer knew something, they had boarded, tourist-class this time, and, going jauntily down the aisle of the plane, had seen a little man, huddled by a window, meek as a mouse.

  So Harry had fallen into the upholstery of his own seat and held his head.

  After takeoff, recovering somewhat, he had gone to pounce upon Vance Miller and had demanded to know where Dorinda Bowie was now.

  “I really couldn’t tell you, Mr. Fairchild,” Vance had said apologetically, as if he didn’t know.

  Well, she wasn’t on this plane. Harry had made sure of that, and come back to hold his head some more.

  Still, they mustn’t be too cast down. Harry had pointed out that his brother, the governor, could always resign. More hopeful if the good guys couldn’t find what they were all after, neither could the bad guys, since it must be noted that, if the bad guys knew any other way to go, then why were they following? Always following?

  Therefore, the thing for Jean and Harry to do (even if Bonzer had the third pig located) was to lie low and refuse to go anywhere. How, then, could they be followed?

  And after all (although the Fairchilds did not have the child safe or Bonzer would have said so) there could be better news at home than they could guess.

  They had spoken thus, wisely, and fallen silent. Now they fell silent again, and, time having jumbled into such confusion that there was no longer any pattern of night and day, they dozed, keeping each to himself any qualms, any memories, and any anticipations, as the plane carried them steadily toward the city of New York, the United States of America.

  Varney said, “Quit fooling with those damn things, Dorinda. Not going to be a message on metal.”

  “I suppose not,” she sighed, jingling the coins in her restless hand. “All there was, I took. Nobody seemed to care.”

  “There was a diversion, right?” said Varney, sullenly.

  “How come you and Vance had that brilliant idea?” Her tone was not praise.

  “Pig had to be in the castle. Who else, in that hole, would have been just going through
Los Angeles?”

  “Johnny Roach?” she said casually.

  “Who’s he?”

  “One of the peasants. Did postgraduate work at Berkeley, so they say All kinds of people are traveled, these days. As well as my father’s daughter.” She sounded bitter.

  “Hell,” said Varney, “it was in the castle. Listen, when I stopped you to tell you where I had her, you figured to con it out of Fairchild. But when Vance showed up at the hut, he said Fairchild hadn’t even got into the castle, so …”

  “I got in,” she shrugged. “And as long as you got out, skip it. Wrong pig. There’s one more. Somewhere.”

  “You should have let me alone,” he growled. “How come you fell for that nutty bit about she couldn’t remember?”

  “I didn’t, for long. The fact is, she doesn’t know where the other pig is.”

  “So?”

  “So you tend to get a little rough, Vic. Harry wouldn’t have moved.”

  “No?” He was skeptical.

  “Some people take time out, to bury their dead,” she snarled at him. “You messed things up once already, didn’t you, Vic? I seem to have heard, somewhere, that it’s not easy to get a dead man to tell you where things are.” Her profile seemed as hard and as sharp as a knife. Her whole face menaced.

  “Beckenhauer made a stupid move.” Varney sank back into his seat. “So it happened. So lay off, will you? Nobody will prove it.”

  “Where?” she said between her teeth. “Where?”

  “The Fairchilds haven’t got the kid yet,” he said, pretending to be drowsy. “We got eyes on all of them.”

  “We’ve got eyes in the operating room?” she blazed. “How do you know what the doctor says to his patients?”

  “I’d agree, the doc’s a daisy. But you’re forgetting, Dorie. Our line into the house, she says this Harry is the Fairchilds’ only hope.” Varney sank deeper. “Him and his pigs.”

  “How is the governor?” she asked shortly.

  “On a spot. We get the kid, he can’t resign.”

  “But it narrows,” she said and looked down at the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Why not grab both of them, say in New York? Vance is on the plane with them. We’re only an hour and a half behind.”

  “Because they don’t know, yet, where the other pig is. The right one. The one other. And we don’t know how they expect to get to know. Unless …” Dorinda smoldered. “How long would it take to get that information out of them? Then get the location of the pig, from whoever has it?”

  Varney stirred uneasily. “Yeah, and then get the pig. Then get the kid. Forget it,” he advised. “Quicker to let them find the damned pig and then, zingo! So try and take it easy, Dor.”

  “But it narrows,” she said. “I wish there was another way.”

  “Maybe there’ll be news,” he consoled her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Paul Fairchild was holding court from one of the big chairs in his bedroom, late as it was (and still Sunday night in Los Angeles!), when they arrived. The old man seemed alert and more vigorous, more like his old self, than he had been in months. He hung on Harry’s first words, accepted them, and did not appear to be crushed by them.

  So Harry felt that the decision he had made in the car, on the way here, had been the right one.

  Dick, the doctor, wanted to know if this was an Irish lassie, and if so—good for Harry. So Harry introduced Jean Cunliffe. Tom, the governor, who had flown over for the night, became courtly and put her into a ringside seat, while Harry greeted the woman called Mei, who seemed to be staying in the house, and Cousin Elaine Fairchild.

  Cousin Elaine seemed subdued.

  All Harry had said, in the first place, was that they had run down a couple of places where a clue might have been, but it hadn’t been in either of them. Now, he said, there was a third possibility, but a winding way to go, before they could find out exactly where, and it would take too much time.

  This was a falsehood.

  Harry had been nervous as a cat, going through Customs, boarding another plane, in New York (where Vance Miller had seemed to vanish). And nervous as a very nervous cat at International, in Los Angeles. But Bonzer had met them, and brought the car to them, without anything happening.

  Once on the freeway, it had seemed safe to speak, if safe anywhere, so Bonzer had spoken.

  The admirable Bonzer had proceeded as instructed in the matter of the traveler’s check and all had gone as Mr. Fairchild had hoped it would go. There had been only one ten-dollar check. Bernie’s associates, although in great distress—what with one partner dead of a knife wound and the other hospitalized—had most efficiently (and even on a Saturday) secured the home address of the signer of the check.

  The yellow pig had been purchased by a man named Michael Mizer, who had a ranch, not too far from Anza, California, which ranch was, as Bonzer had taken pains to discover, one hundred and fifty odd miles away from here, and seemingly in, or beyond, some mountains. Bonzer had done nothing more about the yellow pig, pending instructions. For one reason, he had sensed that he was sometimes being followed. For another, he had felt sure that Mr. Fairchild would wish to go himself.

  But Harry wasn’t going, or even telling that they knew where to go.

  He had been horrified, even terrified, by what had happened to Jean Cunliffe in Ireland. He wasn’t going to let it happen again. The child might or might not be safe where she was. Harry didn’t know where she was, or whether safe, but he did know where Jean Cunliffe safely was now, and he said as much and added that he was going to see to it that she was kept safe, because a bird in the hand and so on.

  There was, he had said, a spy in his father’s house and no such spy was going to be told where the right pig could be found. Therefore, he was not even going to admit that he knew. No, not even to his father. His father was a big boy now, and he could take it. He’d have to, Harry said, and that was that.

  Jean had been somewhat startled to hear all this about herself. She hadn’t argued with him.

  Now she was absorbed in a study of this house and these people. As for the house, she would have called it a castle, had she not so recently (today!) been in a real one. The women in the room she glanced at curiously, and dismissed. The governor, she thought, was charming, in looks and manner. The doctor she liked very much, for his blunt good cheer. But almost at once, she began, without analysis, to fall for Harry’s daddy.

  Paul Fairchild was telling them the news, now.

  The Honolulu police had tracked down the missionaries from Dolabela, what few of them had collected in that city. There was their leader, a Reverend Mr. Webb, recently widowed, and there had been four devoted women besides, each earning a living as best she could and all living humbly. But at the moment, there were only three devoted women. The fourth one, a Miss Hanks, was on the Mainland, attempting to contact some churches, so it was said. It was not known in exactly what city, or even in what state, she was now. It was not known exactly how she had traveled, whether by ship or plane, or on what day, or at what hour.

  But she had taken with her the Webbs’ foster daughter, a little girl named Barbara.

  The police would trace this Miss Hanks, sooner or later, whatever way she had taken, said Harry’s daddy. And what did Harry think of that?

  Harry winced a little and caught the warning in his brother’s eyes.

  “We think she’s in Los Angeles,” his father went on. “My little girl.”

  “Yep,” said Dick. “If you look closely at Bernie’s letter, you’ll see that’s implied. So Daddy’s got a small army roaming the streets, checking hotels, motels, boarding houses, and ringing every doorbell with the name of Hanks on it.”

  And who else, thought Harry in dismay, has a small army doing the same?

  “But no luck yet,” said Dick cheerfully. “Biggish place, Los Angeles and environs.”

  Tom said, “In effect, impossible. We can’t wait for luck. So I’ve got an interview with the press
, set up for the morning. Going to be taped and broadcast. Nationwide. See, I haven’t quit, and I’m not going to quit. The execution date is Wednesday, at 8 A.M.”

  “Too bad,” said Dick, “we can’t shove it ahead a little, like tomorrow morning?”

  Tom said cuttingly, “That’s impossible. But I figure to get it into their heads that I am not a private party. That their plot won’t work. Can’t work.”

  “Right,” said the old man.

  Harry found himself whistling without sound.

  “I put my neck right out on the chopping block,” said the governor. “Fix it so that whole population knows I can’t and I won’t. That ought to make them stop and think.”

  “Damn right,” said the old man.

  “Well, well,” said Harry, in admiring tones.

  “Good move,” said Dick.

  “Smart,” said Harry, quickly.

  He and his brothers were in good rapport. He was no longer the odd one out. They were all the old man’s sons, Harry, Dick and Tom. The old man looked fond, and said nothing.

  Harry appeared to relax. “So I shall now my tale unfold.” Then he stiffened and cast a stern eye around the room. “Mei, I don’t remember the rest of your name, excuse me, please?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Fairchild.”

  “Would you leave this room, please?”

  “Certainly.” The woman rose. She looked momentarily stricken and her eyes, on the old man, were revealing, but she recovered her natural dignity and moved gracefully toward the door.

  “And Cousin Elaine,” said Harry, “would you please leave us together, just the immediate family?”

  The other woman began to remind Jean of Miss Beale. She was not as plump, and a sandier, drier, paler-looking creature, but she looked now as if she would pop. And in her own way, she did. “I am very sorry,” she said in a dreary whine, “if you feel that I don’t belong. I have been here so many years and taken care of your father so very very intimately I should have thought that I was one of the family. The fact is …”

  “Just go,” said Harry, blandly. “Because the fact is, I don’t intend to say another word, until you do.”