I got the impression he was sweating during his pause. I was sweating a little myself. Two weeks.

�We couldn�t turn up a trace of her,� he said. �And then I thought of you. She was found of you once. I know you wrote occasionally � until I flatly told her the practice must stop.�

�You can rest your mind easy on that,� I said. �She hasn�t written recently, and no kind of impulse brought her here. Any reason she might have walked out on you?�

My suggestion brought a splutter, a terseness to his voice. �I�m quite sure she�d never take a walk on me, Holloway � unless her thinking got fouled up.� He hesitated, then added, �She hasn�t been exactly well since her mother returned from a European trip ill, and died three weeks ago. Her mother traveled a lot and Lisa was never very close to her, but the death upset Lisa. She imagined someone was trying to kill her. I didn�t know that until her father told me after her disappearance.�

A jolt of sickening fear hit me. Paranoid? Not Lisa, I told myself.

�I�m coming to Clearview,� I said.

�I don�t think that�s quite necessary, Holloway. We are doing everything��

I slammed the receiver down.

I stood there a minute, sorting my thoughts. There�d been nothing on the teletype about her disappearance. Her old man and Gardiner were obviously keeping it quiet. There might be any murder of reasons for their doing that. And maybe some of the reasons weren�t quite kosher.

I called my boss, the ulcerous individual who holds down the city desk on our afternoon daily. It took some talking to convince him our sheet should send a man all the way to Clearview, but I did.

I went back up to my room, threw a few things into a Gladstone, and scrounged in the rear of a bureau drawer for a few of Lisa�s letters. I reread her last post card. Anything between the lines? Maybe. Maybe not. I tossed aside an old birthday greeting and opened an envelope that was postmarked Rogersville, instead of Clearview. The note sounded a little sentimental, as if she�d been spanking a bottle. I wouldn�t recognize her, it had been so many years since I�d seen her, the note read. She was enclosing a snap taken by one of those sidewalk photographers that catch you in action.

I looked at the print. It was fuzzy, crowded with people on the sidewalk. A woman who must have�been Lisa was walking under a neon sign that read:

I jammed the letter in my pocket and went down to call the railway station...

A tightness crawled into my chest as I rode a taxi out to Lisa�s house, late that afternoon. The neighborhood was quiet, old, elegant, smug.

The taxi veered into a driveway bisecting a wrought-iron fence, and I got out to have my first glimpse of the solid mass of cream-colored brick where Lisa had spent most of the years of her life.

A Negro butler answered the door, showed me into a long living room. The grand piano with its loaded music rack reminded me of the times I�d danced with Lisa and listened to her soft, rich singing close to my ear.

Somebody cleared his throat, and I turned. Perry Admin Jones, Lisa�s father, had entered the room.

He was a short, stocky man who looked as if he carried great power in his thick shoulders. His head was as bald as a bird�s egg, tanned to the hue of leather. His eyes were the coldest gray I had ever looked at, in perfect keeping with his thin, sharp nose and steel-trap mouth. Everything about him radiated a restless, merciless fountain of raw energy.

�Gardiner phoned me you might show up, Holloway.� His eyes swept me up and down. So I was the guy who�d known Lisa better than casually during the closing days of the war. I wasn�t surprised that he didn�t like me worth a damn.

�Ollie made a mistake wiring you,� he said. �We can take care of our own affairs without any meddling from you.�

�Then I�ll have to get some answers some place else. I want to know where she got the idea that someone was trying to kill her.�

Rogersville was a good-sized industrial town in the eastern part of the state. Factories strung along a river. Blocks of grimy houses struggling for breath in the smog. Shops and bustling traffic downtown. A town swollen with workingman�s money when the wheels turned and the engines roared. A town that would starve if the wheels ever � swung to a stop.

I got off the train in early afternoon, jostled through a gate, handed my bag, to a redcap. Voices, hurrying footsteps, the chuffing of an engine in the distance, the sepulchral intonation of an announcer on a loud-speaking system made a rolling babel of sound about me.

Then for just an instant the crowd broke, parted, and I saw them. Pickens, Jones, and Gardiner. Two fat pumpkins and a string bean.

The break was quickly closed by an eddy of people, and I knew that only a freak stroke of luck, a chance glance at the moment a trough appeared in the waves of people had permitted me to spot Pickens�s tall form with Jones and Gardiner like shadows behind him.

I knew then that Pickens was good. He knew his business. I�d taken great care in leaving Clearview, yet he had successfully shadowed me, doubtless phoning Gardiner and Jones while I was at the station getting ready to board my train.

The redcap guided me down a long, sloping corridor. We angled right toward the domed waiting room. Around the ell, I touched his arm. As he paused, I said, �Keep walking, but take this.�

I handed him the letter with the Rogersville postmark. The shot of her coming out of The Dive was still inside the envelope.

�Mail this to Steve Holloway, care of General Delivery, City. Got it?�

He got it when I slid, the five spot in his hand. For a moment I�d considered tearing the photograph in bits, dropping them as I walked, but I wanted the picture in case I hit a dead end and needed to go to the police. Too, the picture was numbered. The number would tie it to the photographer who worked for the action-shot outfit. If the area near The Dive was his regular beat, he might have seen her again. He might remember Lisa.

I took the bag from the porter�s hand, slid it into a ten-cent locker, dropped a coin in the slot, turned the key, and put the key in my pocket.

There was a bank of glass doors leading out of the station. Beyond the doors people hurried up and down the gentle slope of broad concrete. There was a winding stairway to my right, leading up to the mezzanine.

I climbed the stairs, stood well back from the smoke-begrimed marble balustrade and saw the trio burst into the waiting room. They paused momentarily, eyes sweeping the waiting room. Jones stood like an unyielding pile of steel; Gardiner hovered beside him, as if seeking protection. Like a loose, gray shadow, Pickens lighted a fresh cigarette from his old one and gave a short, clipped order. Jones moved toward the broad exit, passing beyond my view beneath the mezzanine. Gardiner hesitated, then headed toward the men�s lounge. Pickens faded into the crowd and began a circuit of the waiting room.

I was pretty much alone in the mezzaine passage. A young couple passed, coming from the mezzanine level coffee shop. An old man strolled by reading a paper.

Below, I saw Gardiner emerge from the men�s lounge. He stood in indecision until he spotted someone under the balustrade. I guessed that it was Jones. I was right. Gardiner and Jones made rendezvous at one end of the long benches below. They stood with their heads together, throwing glances about the waiting room. Jones�s face was bleak; Gardiner was plainly nervous, his features as white and soft as dough.

Then I smelled the pungent sweetness of cigarette smoke behind me. I was turned just far enough to glimpse Pickens�s chill smile when he slapped me on the temple with the palm of his hand. There was something hard and cold in his palm, a small gun. Stars pinwheeled and my knees went rubbery. I felt him helping me toward one of the benches against the far wall, away from the balustrade.

He chuckled, deep in his throat. It was a more fearful sound than any curse could have been.

I tried to get my eyes in focus, to force my lips to work. I was still conscious in a vague way, but paralyzed from the skull downward. Then Pickens patted my temple again with his palm and the lights went completely out...

I went out of the room, found a bathroom at the end of the hall, and washed the worst of my grime and pain away in cold water.

Then I went down to the street. It was nearly midnight.

I missed the trio at the morgue. Her body had already been released to her father. I rode a second cab to the station and there under a freight shed in the darkness I found Gardiner keeping a lone vigil.

Near him stood a baggage truck holding a black-draped casket. I walked up to him, and he took a hard breath.

�I�m sorry, Holloway. Our roughing you up didn�t do any good, did it?� He looked at me, and blinked at tears in his eyes. �She would have married you, wouldn�t she?�

�I don�t know. I never asked her. Our difference in social position, my belief that she acted for me through a sense of duty, seemed important once.�

�What was she to you, Holloway? I�ve got to know!�

�No,� I said, �you don�t.�

He was trembling, staring into my eyes. �Yes! Why this attachment for her? Why this willingness to take a beating, to go to the most extreme lengths for her?� His words became a soft scream. �What did she do for you, Holloway?�

I looked at the casket. �Okay, Gardiner, maybe you suspect something of the truth. But you mustn�t think evil of her. So here it is. She gave me back my belief in my manhood. In France I stepped on an anti-personnel mine. You know what those things can do to you? The doctors who operated and did the skin grafting tried to convince me that I�d be the same afterward. But I didn�t believe them. I was convinced they were handing me patter to get me well enough to empty the bed for the next man. I imagined crazy things happening to me, my hair growing long, my voice changing. She knew and understood what I was going through. And when I left the hospital she was there, ready with all her warmth to prove to me � in the one sure way it could be proved � that I was still a complete man.�

Gardiner stared at me, his face going to pieces. I heard him sobbing as I walked off the freight shed platform.

There was a small office in Police Headquarters occupied by a lean lieutenant of detectives who looked like a sandy-haired college track star. Ed Ransom was his name.

He rocked back in his swivel chair and said he�d talked to Jones. �He admitted following you here, roughing you up. He said you might even file assault charges.�

�That can wait. Have you got anything?�

He shrugged. �You�re a newspaper man and know what we�re facing. This kind of killing often slips into the unsolved file. She must have been killed for that sizable chunk of cash she was carrying. A tramp, or a mugger.�

�How about the attacks on her the week before she disappeared?�

�She was upset by her mother�s death. Her father explained that.�

A dribble of sweat crawled down my cheek. �I deny that Lisa suffered delusions! She was as level-headed as��

�Calm down, Holloway. I didn�t call it delusions. But she was certainly emotionally upset, enough to imagine things for the moment.�

�And she came here and was killed by a tramp for the money she was carrying.�

�It holds water. And remember your press card isn�t worth a damn here.�

His tone was a flat dismissal. I left to phone my paper...

Brilliant sunlight was boiling through the window of my hotel room when I awoke. I was stiff and sore. After a few minutes I crawled out of bed, flexed my muscles, and padded into the shower. The cold sting of the water made me feel better.

While I was having breakfast at a restaurant near the hotel, I saw Pickens. He was lounging in a doorway across the street.

The man gestured as he talked. The girl nodded, and I moved to the rope, unhooked it, and slipped to the floor level. I stood there looking at the bandstand, and when the girl turned, she saw me and stiffened, with a gasp.

I moved toward the bandstand. The man on the piano bench swung toward me. He was slim, clean-cut, but tired-looking, his features thin. He had lost enough of his black hair to give him a high forehead, and he was gray at the temples.

The girl � the blonde billed as Jeanine � recovered her composure. �You frightened me, standing in that half-light that way.�

Her voice was low, husky. She reminded me so much of Lisa it hurt.

The man�s voice was angry. �No one is allowed in here during rehearsals.�

�You�re Mr. Bladen?�

�Yes.�

I showed him my press card. �I want to ask you a few questions.�

�I�m busy.�

�Then perhaps you�d rather talk to the police.�

�I�m sure I have nothing to say to the police.�

�Not even about Lisa Jones?�

He stiffened, glanced at Jeanine. He must have read an affirmative in her eyes. He got to his feet. He was tall when he stood, and his shoulders slouched.

Without a word he stepped off the bandstand and passed through a door beside it. I followed him to a dressing room in the rear of the club. He sat on the edge of a bulb-ringed dressing table, folded his arms, and said, �There is little really I can tell you about � Lisa.�

I was interested in the way he spoke her name. The hesitation had not been deliberate, the hushed tone was spontaneous. I studied his face. His tiredness was even more noticeable close up, as if it had been years in the accumulation.

�You knew Lisa?�

�You seem to have gathered that much already.�

�How well?�

�Not well enough. Not nearly well enough.�

I stared at him. He was old enough to be her father, yet he had spoken as if she�d been infinitely dear to him.

�You�d better level with me, Bladen.�

Anger came to his eyes. �I told you I have nothing to say. I met her. I enjoyed her presence briefly. Her death was as much a shock to me as it was � well, to her.�

�Did you know she was running from something?�

�I guessed as much.�

�You might have guessed a little further � that somebody was trying to kill her.�

�I did. Though it seemed impossible that any such thing could happen until that body was found in the river.�

�She said nothing to give you any idea who was after her?�

�No.�

�Yet you changed your address about the time she came here the last time.�

He shrugged. �I wanted a cheaper place and moved over to the Ardmore.� He uncrossed his arms, let his hands fall to his sides. �Now, if you�re convinced there is nothing sensational I can give your paper, I�ll go back to my rehearsal.�

I allowed him to motion me out of the dressing room. The blonde girl was still on the bandstand when we passed. I mounted the steps to the foyer, and looked back once. It seemed she had her hand halfway raised to me. But I supposed she was merely getting ready to start her song.

Out on the street, Benja was still peddling his papers. He smiled at me. �Find the piano?�

I nodded. �Where is the Ardmore?�

�A small hotel one block west, turn right a block and a half. The piano tell you anything about the girl?�

The suite was hot and still. I sat there with sweat running down my face trying to soak up the real truth about Lisa. Perhaps even trying with a heavy desperation to deny it. But deny it I couldn�t. It was all there before me. Their lives. Their years, gone now down the mists of time. A wild passion. A mistake. A child coming into the world. But not the child of Perry Admin Jones.

The daughter of Andy Bladen! Forever denied him, forever beyond his reach. Until her mother had returned ill and dying from her last European trip.

So Lisa�s coming to Rogersville might not have been accidental after all. I remembered the well-filled music rack on the piano in the Jones home. I recalled the soft way she�d sung to me a few times when we�d danced years ago. Without revealing his real status, Bladen would have found it easy to go to Clearview, contrive a meeting with her. He could have introduced himself as an old friend, or a classmate of Lisa�s mother. Some of that old feeling for Estelle might have led him to call on her during her last illness.

Carefully I placed Bladen�s lost years back into their Pandora�s box. The picture was pretty well complete in my mind now. I knew the why, and I knew the who. And I knew I was helpless. I couldn�t prove a thing.

Darkness had fallen when I stepped out of the taxi that had carried me from Clearview train station out to the Jones house. I hammered with the knocker. Jones himself opened the door. His face reflected annoyance.

�You again, Holloway. You have little sense of propriety, calling at a time of bereavement.�

�I know who killed the girl,� I said.

His lips thinned; his eyes narrowed. He weighed a decision, swung the door a little wider.

Without speaking, he led the way past the living room where I�d first seen him just a short day and half ago. He paused before a doorway just beyond the living room, and said, �So you have that kind of news, Holloway? I�m extremely anxious to hear it.�

He opened the door, fumbled for a light switch. Indirect lighting flooded a study sumptuous with leather furniture. A door across the room stood open, but Jones seemed careless of being overheard, or sure we wouldn�t be.

�All right, let�s have your statement. Who killed the girl?�

�You tried.�

He looked at me with frost in his eyes. �I�ve never heard anything more insane. She was my daughter. I was planning on her marrying Gardiner, planning on many things for her future.�

He turned toward the desk. He took two steps toward it before I caught his shoulder, spun him about, and hit him. His nose went flat and he fell back across the desk. I grabbed the front of his shirt, held him pinned, and flung words at him.

�I�ll draw you a picture, Jones. Some of the places I�ll have to fill in. Most of the proof I don�t have. But a cop like Ed Ransom will take care of those details when he knows where to start looking.

�Estelle Jones hated you, spent her life traveling, detesting your presence. Then she got sick and knew she was dying. She knew you loved that. You�d been a social climber who�d married the boss�s daughter for her dough. Now you were finally going to have the top hand.

�She guessed the way you felt and told you the truth she�d kept hidden for years, the truth that Lisa didn�t belong to you. And she must have planned to fix her money so you wouldn�t get it. She must have done that very thing and you managed to keep it hidden until you could get Lisa out of the way. You hated Lisa now. She was the symbol of everything your ego had suffered � and who would suspect you, her own father?

�The accidents in Clearview misfired. She ran � to a friend in Rogersville a person she�d come to know recently whom she felt she could trust. Then you rung in Pickens, and he traced her, burgled her room, stole her ring and watch � and she thought that somebody was still after her. What could she do now? Change her identity. Disappear.

�But Pickens had a plan of his own. If he killed her, he got his pay for that and nothing more. But if Lisa was buried, yet continued to live, he had a grip on you. One word from him and Lisa, the living Lisa, will know the truth about her mother�s money. Ransom will break Pickens into a million pieces to find out the real identity of the nameless little chirpie that Pickens picked up, battered beyond recognition, and planted in the river wearing Lisa�s watch and ring. Pickens wanted only too make sure that you controlled the money long enough for him to take what he wanted as a price for a second, future killing � of the real Lisa.�