The World's Finest Mystery Part 33

His wife grabbed the microphone and said quickly, "That concludes our program for this evening. Because of the shortened nature of tonight's meeting, we will try to schedule another program shortly. If you wish to be notified of it, please leave your name and address on the pad by the door. As usual, we also have some hardcover editions of Haggard's novels for those who would like to borrow them till the next meeting."

There was an immediate hum of conversation from the crowd, and Jean sensed that the abrupt ending was most unusual. A dozen or so people came forward to accept the proffered books, doled out by Mrs. Grist from two piles, while the rest of the audience filed out. Jean hurried to the front of the hall and requested a copy of She. "Excuse me," she said to Grist's wife. "I'm Eugene Forsyth's sister. I came to hear his talk. Where is he?"

That stopped her momentarily. "I know nothing of your brother," she said. "He was taken ill minutes before his talk and left the hall."

"You must have his address."

Her husband had gone on ahead, but now he returned to grip her arm. "Come, Antonia."

She looked into Jean's eyes and said simply, "I can't help you." Then they were gone.

Jean looked around with a feeling of helplessness. Most of the audience was gone, but the young woman in the pink-rimmed gla.s.ses was still there, watching her. Perhaps she had overheard part of the conversation. Jean strode across the hall to join her. "You're the one who asked the question about Eugene," she said. "I think he's my brother."

The woman put a hand to her mouth. "I'm worried about him."

"What's the matter? Where is he? What's happened to him?"

She glanced around nervously. "Look, I can't talk here. Meet me at the coffee bar on the corner in ten minutes. Turn left, and cross the street."

"All right," Jean said. The young woman hurried away without giving her name.

Jean left a moment later, lingering along the dark street to gaze casually into lighted shop windows. She was almost to the corner when she heard a woman's scream and the thump of metal against flesh. Someone yelled, and two or three people nearby turned and ran. Jean reached the corner and saw them standing by a fallen figure on the pavement.

"What happened?" she asked a man.

"Car hit her. I just caught a glimpse of it. He didn't even stop."

"Did anyone get his license number?" somebody else asked, but no one answered.

Jean saw the pink-framed gla.s.ses on the street by the body. "Is she-?"

"Someone call nine-one-one, but I don't think it'll do much good."

She didn't wait for the ambulance and police to arrive but hurried away from there. Whatever was happening, whatever it meant, was a threat to her. More especially, it seemed to be a threat to her brother Eugene. Something had happened to him, but she couldn't bring herself to think about that. The young woman in the pink-framed gla.s.ses had suspected as much, or she wouldn't have asked that question at the close of the meeting.

Jean hurried home to her apartment, parking the car in its usual place and ducking in the side door. The accident she'd almost witnessed had unnerved her, possibly because it might not have been an accident. A car had hit the woman and then sped off in the night. Did such things happen as a rule? Wasn't it far more likely that an innocent motorist would have stopped and tried to help the victim?

On the eleven o'clock television news, a report of the fatal accident was in the second spot, right after a fire in a pizza parlor across town. Police were seeking the driver of the vehicle, and the victim's name was being withheld pending notification of next of kin. She read the following morning's paper at work over coffee, as was her custom. The dead woman was now identified as Amanda Burke, an unmarried librarian employed at the main library downtown. That might explain her interest in H. Rider Haggard, but it didn't explain her connection with Jean's brother, if there was one.

On her lunch hour, she walked the few blocks across town from the radio station to the main library, dodging fire engines on the way. It was a new four-story building with a gla.s.s-topped atrium that flooded the place with subdued sunlight. Amanda Burke had worked in the literature division, and Jean headed there at once. She identified herself to the librarian at the desk and said, "I met Amanda Burke last evening shortly before her terrible accident. I wonder if you could tell me something about her."

The woman stared at Jean as if she were from another planet. "You're a radio reporter, did you say?"

"No, no, I just work at the station. I- it's very important for me to learn what I can about Amanda. I believe she was a friend of my missing brother."

The woman hesitated and then said, "Mark Jessup knew her. He might be able to tell you something."

She rang him on the phone, and after a few moments, a tall, angular young man joined them at the desk. "Hi, I'm Mark Jessup. Can I help you?"

"I wanted to ask you about Amanda Burke."

He led her over to some chairs near the window. "Amanda was a wonderful young woman. We're all still in shock over the accident."

"I almost saw it happen," Jean explained. "I'd just met her, and she wanted to talk further about my brother."

"What's his name?"

"Eugene Forsyth."

He nodded. "She's mentioned someone named Eugene. I kidded her about having a boyfriend, and she didn't deny it."

"I'm afraid something bad has happened to my brother, but I don't know what." She gave a little laugh. "I know it's crazy to be concerned, when I don't even know where he's been for the past two years."

"Have you seen him lately?"

She shook her head. "Just his picture at a meeting of the Haggard Society."

"That's where you met Amanda?" Jessup asked.

Jean nodded. "My brother was supposed to speak there, and I went to hear him. They said he'd been taken ill, but Amanda questioned that from the floor. The people running the meeting, Martin Grist and his wife, abruptly ended it."

"Strange."

"What do you know about the Haggard Society?"

"Not a great deal. Grist's wife brings flyers around to leave at our information desk downstairs whenever they're having a meeting."

"Did Amanda have a family?"

"In New York, I think. They've been notified."

She looked into his face and decided he was a man she could trust. "Could you let me know if anything turns up among her possessions here at the library? Especially anything about my brother? Here, I'll write down my home phone number."

He took it from her with a smile. "I'm sure he'll turn up, but if I hear anything, I'll let you know."

In the days that followed, it was as if the events involving the Haggard Society had never taken place. Jean thought about it constantly, her mind dwelling on the picture of her brother every time she picked up the borrowed copy of She and read a few pages. There was no listing for the society in the phone book, and when she dialed a number for the only Martin Grist listed, there was never an answer.

One day she found herself back at the library, and Mark Jessup helped her search through the computer database for some mention of the Haggard group. "Not a thing except the dates of their meetings," Jessup told her, swinging the computer screen around so she could view the listings for herself.

"What about Fenley Hall?" she suggested. "Somebody must own it. They must rent it for their meetings."

"Good idea," he said, smiling at her. "I'll check on it."

But the following day, when she came again on her lunch hour, the news was gloomy. "The owner of Fenley Hall is in New York," Mark told her. "They know nothing about the society except that it's a literary group. They rent the hall for the third Wednesday of every month and pay in advance. Occasionally, someone calls to arrange an additional meeting."

She was discouraged by the news, another dead end, and perhaps that was why he invited her out to dinner that night. The idea cheered her, and it was not until they were starting dessert at a small Italian restaurant near the library that she suddenly blurted out, "This is like a date!"

Mark grinned at her across the table. "Sure. What's wrong with that?"

For the first time, she really looked at him. He wore his sandy hair a bit long, and when he smiled, he had tiny dimples in his cheeks. She guessed him to be in his late twenties, about her own age. He was of medium build, tall but hardly athletic. "How did you happen to become a librarian?" she asked, trying to steer the conversation away from dating.

"I was recruited by Longyear Corporation just out of college. They had quite a corporate library and wanted me to run it. I always liked books, so I let them pay for my librarian's degree. Right after I got it, the company downsized, and I was out on the street. I was a librarian without a library, so I went to work for the city."

"That's where you met Amanda?"

He nodded. "A swell girl. If she was deliberately killed-"

"What about my brother? You said she mentioned his name, but you never met him."

"I think he brought in flyers for patrons to pick up, the way Mrs. Grist does. That's how Amanda met him."

After dinner, Mark walked her the few blocks to her apartment but declined an invitation to come up. Later, when she was alone, she thought about the evening and decided she liked him. When he phoned her at the radio station the following day, she was almost pleased. "How's business at the library today?" she asked.

"Fine. I have some news for you. I thought you'd want to know Mrs. Grist stopped by with another stack of announcements. The Haggard Society is holding a special meeting on Thursday, and your brother is listed as the speaker."

"My G.o.d! I have to go!"

"That's not all. I was on the information desk when she came in, and I told her we had new regulations. Anyone leaving material for distribution at the library had to give us the address of the organization. She grumbled a bit, but she gave it to me. They're out on Willow Terrace."

"That's a residential street."

"It must be where she and her husband are living now."

"I'm going there after work," Jean decided.

"Not alone! Remember what happened to Amanda."

"I'll be all right."

"Let me drive you out. They won't try anything with me along."

She had to agree it might be safer. "All right. I get finished here at five."

Promptly at five o'clock, Mark was waiting in the parking lot. "I managed to get out a bit early," he said, pa.s.sing her the Haggard Society announcement on pink paper.

"You have the Grists' address?" she asked grimly.

"Right here." He showed her the slip of paper.

"Let's go talk to them."

The house was a modern colonial with a wide driveway and two-car garage. Mark Jessup parked in front of it just as Grist himself emerged to check the mailbox. He seemed none too happy to see them, but Mark had already called out his name before he could retreat inside the house. "What is it?" he asked. "I'm a busy man."

"I know Mrs. Grist from the library," Mark quickly explained. "My friend here, Jean Forsyth, wants to ask you about her brother."

Martin Grist peered at her, squinting as if the sun bothered his eyes. "You're Eugene's sister? Weren't you at our last meeting?"

"That's right. I haven't seen him in some time, and I'm anxious about him."

"He'll be speaking again on Thursday night. You can see him then." He turned back toward the door.

"But-"

"I'm sorry. I have no time now."

Jean was not to be put off so easily. She followed him up to the door and might have continued inside, but suddenly the entry was blocked by Mrs. Grist. "Go away!" she commanded. "We don't want you here. My husband and I are very busy."

Mark hurried up to Jean's side. "Come on. We can't learn anything here."

Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be led back to the car. Both the Grists had disappeared into the house and closed the door. "That was a waste of time," she grumbled.

They drove back to the station parking lot where she'd left her car. She felt somehow she should repay him for the time he'd spent going out there with her. "I've got some pasta at home if you'd like to join me for a light supper. It's not much, but-"

"I love all sorts of pasta," he insisted.

"Then come along. Follow me in your car. You know where I live."

It proved to be the most pleasant evening Jean had spent in some time, enough to make her forget the growing concern for her brother. More than that, Mark was a perfect gentleman, ending the evening with a chaste good-night kiss as he left the apartment. She watched at the window as he drove away, against a night sky lit by a distant fire, perhaps in a warehouse across town.

Rather than face the dirty dishes in the morning, Jean tackled them right away, bundling up the rest of the rubbish to drop down the incinerator chute in the hallway. By the time she'd finished and was walking back along the darkened hall to her apartment, she decided she was ready for bed. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was already a few minutes after midnight.

That was when a hand darted out from the shadows and closed over her mouth as another pinned her arms. "Don't scream," a voice whispered in her ear.

She felt a rush of terror and then a soothing recognition.

It was her brother Eugene.

"You've changed," she said when they were back in her apartment with the door safely shut. She'd poured them each a gla.s.s of wine. "You're looking a bit like our father these days."

The young man seated opposite her, barely past thirty, wore dark-framed eyegla.s.ses and a neat mustache that combined to make him seem older. "I hope not," he said with a smile. For just an instant, he was the brother she remembered and loved from her youth, and then the vision faded, and he was this stranger who had entered her life.

"Where have you been, Eugene? I haven't heard from you in two years."

"I've been working here and there," he answered with a shrug. "Sometimes it was difficult to keep in touch."

"I never would have found you if I hadn't heard about your lecture. Are you living in town?"

"I'm here for a while," he said, keeping it vague.

"That woman Amanda, the one who was killed by the car-"