The Girl In The Glass Part 4

It was a bright day, and the light coming in the train window obscured my view with its glare. Both Antony and I leaned forward, almost touching heads.

"The girl," said Sch.e.l.l, tapping his finger against the paper. "The girl in the gla.s.s." I only caught a brief glimpse of the child he'd described seeing at Parks's place-the dark, curly hair, the floral design of the dress-before he turned the paper around again and began reading aloud to us in an urgent whisper.

"The serene North Sh.o.r.e borough of Wellman's Cove has been devastated by the recent disappearance of seven-year-old Charlotte Barnes, daughter of that town's most distinguished couple, Mr. and Mrs. Harold Barnes.

"On Wednesday, September twenty-first, the child was last seen some time after one P.M. in the afternoon, playing in the garden of the family estate. She did not respond when called in for dinner at four P.M. It was soon determined that she was missing. Local police were called and the grounds and house were thoroughly searched to no avail. On the following day, a party of concerned citizens continued to comb the nearby woods and sh.o.r.eline for signs of young Charlotte.

"At the time of her disappearance, she was wearing a yellow dress, black shoes, white socks and had gold clips in her hair. She is approximately four foot tall with brown hair in pigtails, green eyes, and a missing front tooth. Should you see a child fitting this description, please contact your local authorities.

"Harold Barnes, well-known s.h.i.+pping magnate, is offering a sizable reward for information concerning his daughter's whereabouts. He could not be reached for further comment. The community's hope is that the child has wandered off and will soon be found and reunited with her family." Sch.e.l.l finished reading, sat back, and stared straight on.

"How?" I asked.

Antony reached over and slipped the paper out of Sch.e.l.l's hand. He turned it and looked at the photograph.

"Exceedingly strange," said Sch.e.l.l.

"Does this mean the kid's dead?" asked Antony.

"How old is that paper?" asked Sch.e.l.l, suddenly becoming animated. Antony unfolded it and flipped to the front page. "Four days old," he said.

"We were at Parks' place five days ago," I said.

"Yes," said Sch.e.l.l, "the twenty-second."

"A ghost?" asked Antony.

"I'm not certain of anything," said Sch.e.l.l. "But I mean to find out. What's the next stop?"

"Jamaica," I said.

"I hate to disappoint you fellows, but I'm getting off there and turning back. You two can go on to New York without me."

"Come on, Boss," said Antony. "You need a rest."

"No, no, no," said Sch.e.l.l. "I'm heading back. I have to make an appointment to see Mr. Barnes."

"You're not going to take this poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d now, with his daughter missing," said Antony.

"On the contrary," said Sch.e.l.l. "I'm going to try to find her."

"I'm in," I said.

"Free of charge," said Sch.e.l.l.

"Three words I never thought I'd hear you say," said Antony.

"I've got to get to the bottom of this," said Sch.e.l.l.

"Okay," said Antony, "what the h.e.l.l."

We got off at Jamaica and toted our luggage over to the eastbound track. While we waited for the next train, Sch.e.l.l paced impatiently up and down the platform. Antony and I sat on a bench. When Sch.e.l.l was some distance from us, the big man leaned toward me and said, "So much for our head shrinking, kid." I didn't answer as my mind was caught up in the notion that Sch.e.l.l's occult experience offered possible proof of an afterlife. The fact that there might actually be another side from which the dead might travel, and that we had played so fast and loose with it, didn't bode well for our eternal souls. Antony's thoughts must have been running along the same path, because when I asked him for a cigarette, he actually gave me one and lit it.

THE CHEATERS.

Harold Barnes wasn't an easy man to get to see, even if you wanted to offer your services "free of charge." Sch.e.l.l had called the estate but got no further than a secretary, who had curtly informed him that Mr. Barnes was not available for comment or interview. He admonished himself afterward for not thinking through the situation. "The press is most likely hounding the family at every turn. I let my eagerness get the better of me," he admitted. "From now on, I have to treat our efforts as a con, even though delusion's not the goal here."

Antony and I were dispatched on a research mission. We drove into Jamaica to the offices of the Republican Long Island Farmer Republican Long Island Farmer, where Peewee Dunnit's sister, Kate, worked as a clerk in the file room. Antony slipped her twenty dollars, and she slipped him the newspaper's dossier on Barnes. Usually when we tapped her for a file, she'd let us have it for a day or two, but with the millionaire's daughter missing, it was in hot demand by their own reporters. We could have one hour with it before it had to be returned.

We staked out a table in a diner around the corner from the paper, ordered coffee, and set about consuming and recording as much pertinent information as possible. It was a thick file, as Barnes was well-known; even if we had all day with their file, it would be difficult to decide which pieces of information were relevant to our investigation. What we might consider inconsequential, Sch.e.l.l could possibly s.n.a.t.c.h up and spin into gold. We had to work fast, with a scattershot method, and merely hope for the best.

For eye work this important, Antony wore what he referred to as his "cheaters," a pair of black, horn-rimmed gla.s.ses that he'd swiped, years earlier, from someone obviously on the verge of blindness. The scratched lenses did nothing more than magnify things ten times-not the least his own eyes. Whenever we'd chance to look up from our work at the same time, I'd get a start from the sight of those two huge peepers, big as pansies, staring at me. With me in my turban and him looking like a three-hundred-pound, six-foot-four owl, no one bothered us while we worked. We rifled madly through the stack of clipped articles, typed sheets, photographs, jotting down snippets of information. The minute hand on the big clock above the grill moved like a thoroughbred on the back turn as I noted information about Barnes's s.h.i.+pping business, his political affiliations, the movie stars who'd visited his home, the charitable contributions he'd made. From what I'd uncovered, he seemed like a typical member of the American aristocracy, yet somewhat more staid than his Gold Coast compatriots. Only five minutes before we had to return the dossier to Kate, Antony looked up, fixed me with that gigantic stare, and said, "We got him."

"How?" I asked.

"I'll tell you in the car," he said.

We shuffled the loose pages together in as close to the order as we'd found them, and I lifted the stack and banged it twice to even it out. Antony took fifty cents from his pocket and threw it on the table. Whipping off his cheaters and stowing them in his inside jacket pocket, he said, "Let's blow." I had to wait until he'd emerged from the newspaper building to get the dope on his catch. He returned to the car with a big smile on his face. As he got in behind the wheel he said, "I told Kate we might want another twenty-dollar peek at that file."

He started up the Cord, and we pulled away.

"What did you find?" I asked.

"Kid, I'm good," he said. "Nothing escapes the gaze of the cheaters."

"Okay, you're good," I said.

"Guess who stayed with Barnes when he visited the U.S.?" he asked.

"I give up."

"None other than A. Conan Doyle."

"The author?"

"Yeah."

"So what?"

"The guy's a first-cla.s.s spook booster, a true believer. Faeries, ghosts, spirits, seances, psychics, you name it, he'll believe it. You could serve him the holes in doughnuts. I found an article about Conan Doyle's stay with Barnes, which noted that they share an interest in spiritualism. Barnes is a mark."

"That's good to know, but how's it get us in to see him?" I asked.

"This is the kicker. Another article from a few years ago mentions Barnes and his fellow Harvard alumnus and close friend...guess who?"

"Parks," I said.

"Hey..." he said and turned so quickly to look at me, the car swerved momentarily into the oncoming lane.

"Watch the road," I told him.

"How'd you know?" he asked, steering back into our lane.

"I saw a diploma from Harvard on Parks's wall when we were there the first time. I just guessed."

"You're becoming more like the boss every day," he said. He shook his head and then added, "So we get Sch.e.l.l to talk to Parks, who gets on the blower to Barnes and puts in a good word for us. Bingo."

"That might actually work," I said. "Nice fis.h.i.+ng."

"Nothing escapes," said Antony. "Nothing."

Even though Sch.e.l.l wished we'd had more time to gather basic information, he was pleased with our work and agreed that Antony's plan was sound. I listened in as he put the call through to Parks. Witnessing Sch.e.l.l get his way with words was like watching a knife thrower split a hair at twenty yards. He peppered his spiel with mentions of Parks's mother and how much she'd no doubt appreciate seeing us help poor Barnes. By the time Sch.e.l.l was done, Parks would have called the emperor of China on our behalf.

Then we waited. A day pa.s.sed, and we checked the papers to see if there had been any break in the case. The search parties continued, the police were still on the job, but the girl had not surfaced, dead or alive. Sch.e.l.l pored over the meager information we'd brought him, and to see what he could turn up, he put in some calls to friends of his who traveled in high society. He was curious to find out if our subject had any shady dealings and if his marriage was sound. From all accounts, Barnes, though filthy rich, seemed to be a straight shooter On the afternoon of the second day, Sch.e.l.l and Antony were out getting the local papers and I'd just sent Mrs. Hendrickson on her way after a brutal session focusing on my Middle English p.r.o.nunciations, when the phone rang. I ran through the kitchen to the office and grabbed it on the fifth ring.

"h.e.l.lo," I said, out of breath.

There was silence, and I thought for a moment that I'd been too late. Then a soft voice said, "Hola." A pause followed. "Do you know who this is?"

There was a vague fluttering in my chest. "Yes," I said.

"You left something behind when you were here last," she said.

"A sombrero?" I asked.

"Si.".

"Have you shown it to anyone else?" I asked.

"Solamente los fantasmas," she said.

I forced a laugh.

"Si lo quieres, ven esta noche. Eleven o'clock on the beach behind the mansion."

"What'll happen if I don't show?" I asked, but she'd already hung up.

THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS AT NIGHT.

At ten o'clock that night, Antony went down the hall to the Bugatorium, knocked on the door, and called, "Boss, me and the kid are going out for a drive. I gotta get some smokes. Do you want to go?" We were hoping he'd stay put, because all Sch.e.l.l would have needed was one look at us to tell we were up to something. Luckily, he called out, as I had surmised he would, "No, I'd better not in case Barnes tries to contact us."

I wasn't happy about hiding our venture from Sch.e.l.l, but Antony was dead set on him not finding out about the hat. "Sch.e.l.l doesn't look kindly on screwups," was how he'd put it to me.

"He screwed up himself that night," I said.

"You don't get it, kid," he said. "I'll take you over there. You get the hat from the girl and we'll be back here before anybody knows what's up."

I went along with it, hating to see the big man in a quandary.

Antony knew of a spot along the North Sh.o.r.e, close to the Parks place, where there was a munic.i.p.al stairway that led down from the cliffs to the beach. All of the estates had their own private access, usually protected by locked gates. The cliffs were an excellent security feature, and since most of the real estate along the sound was privately owned, it was tough finding a way onto the beach unless you wanted to hoof it in from one of the more eastern towns.

At about ten-thirty, he pulled over at the side of a road bordered by woods. Through the dark I could just make out the head of a trail leading in among the trees toward the sound.

"Once you hit the beach, head west. Parks's place is about three-quarters of a mile down the beach," he said. "And for Christ sake, be careful on those steps."

"You're going to wait for me, right?" I asked.

"I'm gonna drive up to Wintch.e.l.l's speak, have a beer, get a couple of packs, and be back in forty minutes. If I'm sitting here all that time and a cop comes along, they're gonna want to know what I'm doing. So move your a.s.s as fast as you can. Don't make me wait."

"It's dark out there," I said.

"Yeah, that's what happens at night. Don't worry, the moon's out tonight. Once you get past the trees, it won't be so bad."

I sighed, shook my head, and got out of the car.

"Good luck," he said as I swung the door shut. Then the Cord pulled away and was gone. Although the late September days had been warm, this night was windy and cool, a strong breeze blowing in from the east. Laced in with the distinctive aroma of the sound was that of true autumn. I'd chosen to leave all of my Ondoo regalia at home and dress in normal street clothes, the easier to move in, and so as not to draw the derision of Isabel. It was her image in my mind that kept me forging on through the pitch-black woods. Acorns dropped and small animals scurried through the brambles. If there were such things as ghosts, this lonely tract of trees would have been a perfect place to meet one. I crept along, spooked by every little snap and pop.

Antony was right, as I approached the edge of the cliff, I could see moonlight s.h.i.+ning amid the branches of the pines and oaks. When I finally broke free of the woods and stood at the head of the stairway, leading down to the beach, I had a view of a milky white, full moon off to the east, a beacon reflected in the choppy waters of the sound. I took the rickety wooden stairs, holding tight to the handrail and braving the threat of splinters. The descent was steep, occasionally broken by a series of landings after each of which the steps changed direction in a zigzag course.

Once I finally reached the beach, I breathed a sigh of relief but realized, as I looked back up the rickety stairs, what a struggle the return ascent would be. The wind was really whipping down there next to the water. I looked around to find a landmark to fix the spot in my mind. If clouds should roll in it would be easy to miss the stairs. I saw, fifty paces or so off to the east, the rusting remains of an old buoy, tipped at an angle and half-buried in sand. I made a mental note that if I pa.s.sed it, I would know that I'd gone too far. I turned west and started to walk.

The wide beach was littered with stones and broken sh.e.l.ls, causing each footfall to sound as if I were traipsing along a gravel path. I turned my thoughts to Isabel and wondered why she'd asked me to meet her. My speculations ranged from blackmail to the possibility that Sch.e.l.l was right and she liked me. I rather hoped for the latter, as I had brought no money, and even though I'd only met her once, I found I couldn't forget her.

I'd paced off what I'd thought to be a little less than a mile and then turned and surveyed the area. The beach was wider now, and there were a number of larger rocks and boulders at the base of the cliffs. The moon still shone, although it appeared smaller and was rising quickly. Clouds were now intermittently skirting by, obscuring it for a minute or two at a time. Its light showed me the way to the base of a set of steps. I had no idea whether they led up to the Parks estate or if I'd overshot or underestimated my destination. On closer inspection, I found that the gate that barred entrance to them was swinging free, an open padlock dangling from the hasp.

I felt a tingling at the back of my neck as I slowly turned, peering through the shadows. In that second I wondered how I'd let Antony talk me into this foolishness. My antic.i.p.ation finally got the better of me, and I called out in a whisper, "h.e.l.lo? Isabel?" No sooner had I spoken than a pebble hit the rocks at my feet. I spun around, but saw no one.

Then, from very close by, I heard, "Psst, Senor Swami, over here." I was relieved to hear her voice, but when I looked in that direction, I saw only a clutch of boulders.

"Psst," she repeated, and I turned my gaze upward to find her sitting atop the tallest one, wearing the hat. I walked over to stand beneath her. "Hola," I said.

"Sube," she told me and pointed to a smaller boulder that led to a larger one, and then to her. I climbed the rocks, almost slipping on my last big upward step, and this drew a laugh from her.

"Nice running into you here," I said as I sat down, cross-legged.

"Has traido los fantasmas?" she asked.

"The ghosts were too afraid to follow me tonight. They heard I was coming to see you." She smiled as she removed the hat and handed it to me. Her hair, now unbraided, blew wild in the wind, and I couldn't stop staring long enough to take the hat from her. She reached over and placed it on my head.

"It looks better on you than on el gigante," she said.