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Childe said he was home and OK. He hung up with some anger atBruin for making light of his concern. However, he had to admit that there wasno reason for Bruin to do otherwise. He would change his opinion after he foundout what had happened last night. Perhaps, Bruin could arrange with theBeverly HillsPolice Department...No, that wasn't going to work. The BHPD had farmore immediate duties than investigating what was, objectively speaking, avery hazylead. And there were certain things, important things, about theevents that Childe was not going to tell them. He could skip the summerhouseactivities and just say that he had been drugged with the brandy in the drawing room, but theofficers were shrewd, they had heard so many false tales and part- true tales, somany omissions and hesitations, that they picked up untruths anddistortions as easily as radar distinguished an eagle from an airliner.
Besides, he had the feeling that Magda would not hesitate toclaim that Childe had raped her and forced "perversions" upon her.
He had gotten into bed again but now he climbed out swiftly oncemore. He felt ashamed and sick. That drug had overcome his normalfastidiousness and caution. He would never have gone down on a woman he just met. Healwaysreserved this act--even if he were strongly tempted to do so--forwomen whom he knew well, liked or loved, and was reasonably sure were free ofsyphilis orgonorrhea.
Although he had brushed his teeth, he went into the bathroom andbrushed again and then gargled deeply ten times with a burning mouthwash. From the kitchen cabinet he took a bottle of bourbon, which he kept forguests, and drankit straight. It was a dumb act, because he doubted that the alcoholwould kill any germs he had swallowed so many hours ago, but it, like manypurely ritualacts, made him feel better and cleaner.
He started for bed again and then stopped. He had been so upsetthat he had forgotten to check in with the exchange or turn on the recorder. Hetried the exchange and hung up after the phone rang thirty times. Apparently, the exchangewas not yet operating again or had lost its third-shift operator. Therecorder yielded one call. It was from Sybil, at nine o'clock. She asked himto pleasecall her as soon as he came in, no matter what time it was.
It was now three-ten in the morning.
Her phone rang uninterruptedly. The ring seemed to him like thetolling of afaraway bell. He envisioned her lying on the bed, one hand droopingover the edge of the bed, her mouth open, the eyes opened and glazed. On thelittle table by the bed was an empty bottle of phenobarbital.
If she had tried to kill herself again, she would be dead by now. That is, if she had taken the same amount as the last time.
He had sworn that if she tried again, she would have to gothrough with it, at least as far as he was concerned.
Nevertheless, he dressed and was out on the street and walkingwithin a minute. He arrived at her apartment panting, his eyes burning, hislungs doublyburned from exertion and smog. The poison was accumulating swiftly, so swiftlythat by tomorrow evening it would be as thick as before--unless thewinds came.
Her apartment was silent. His heart was beating and his stomachclenching ashe entered her bedroom and switched on the light. Her bed was notonly empty, ithad not been slept in. And her suitcases were gone.
He went over the apartment carefully but could find nothing toindicate "foul play." Either she had gone on a trip or someone had taken thesuitcases so that that impression would be given.
If she had wanted him to know that she was leaving, why hadn'tshe left the message?
Perhaps her call and her sudden departure were unrelated.
There was the possibility that they were directly related butthat she had told him only enough to get him over here so that he would worryabout her. She could be angry enough to want to punish him. She had been mean enoughto do similar things. But she had always quickly relented and tearfully andshamefullycalled him.
He sat down in an easy chair, then got up again and went into thekitchen and opened the secret compartment in the wall of the cabinet rear, second shelf up. The little round candy cup and its contents of white-paperwrapped marijuanasticks--fifteen in all--were still there.
If she had left willingly, she would have disposed of this first. Unless she were very upset. He had not found her address book in any of the drawers when he
had searched, but he looked again to make sure. The book was not there, and he doubted that any of the friends she had when they were married wouldknow her whereabouts. She had been dropped by them or she had dropped themafter the divorce. There was one, a life-long friend, whom she still wrote tonow and then, but she had moved from California over a year ago.
Perhaps her mother was ill, and Sybil had left in a hurry. Butshe wouldn't be in such a hurry that she wouldn't have left the message with therecorder.
He did not remember her mother's number but he knew her address. He got theinformation from the operator and put a call through to the SanFrancisco address. The phone rang for a long time. Finally, he hung up and thenthought ofwhat he should have immediately checked. He was deeply upset to haveoverlooked that.
He went into the basement garage. Her car was still there.
By then he was considering the fantastic--or was it fantastic?-possibilitythat Igescu had taken her.
Why would Igescu do this?
If Igescu was responsible for Colben's death and Budler'sdisappearance, then he might have designs on the detective investigating the case.
Childe had pretended to be Wellston, the magazine reporter, but he had beenforced to givehis own phone number. And Igescu may have checked out the so-calledWellston. Certainly, Igescu had the money to do this.
What if Igescu knew that Wellston was really Childe? And, havingfound out that Childe had not gotten into the serious car accident he had hopedfor, hehad taken Sybil away. Perhaps Igescu pla
Childe shook his head. If Igescu were guilty, if he, say, hadbeen guilty ofother crimes, why was he suddenly letting the police know that thesecrimes had been committed?
This question was not one to be answered immediately. The onlything as ofthis moment was whether or not Sybil had gone voluntarily and, if shehad not, with whom had she gone?
He had not checked the airports. He sat down and began dialing. The phonesof every airline were busy, but he hung on until he got through toeach and then went through more exasperating waits while the passenger lists werechecked. At the end of two hours, he knew that she had not taken a plane out. Shemight haveintended to, but the airlines had been overburdened ever since thesmog hadbecome serious. The waiting lists were staggeringly long, and thefacilities at the ports, the restaurants and toilets, had long queues. Parkingfacilities no longer existed for newcomers. Too many people had simply left theircars and taken off with no intention of returning immediately. The authoritieshad imposed an emergency time limitation, but the process of towing awaycars to make room for others was tedious, involved, and slow. The trafficjam-up aroundInternational Airport demanded more police officers than wereavailable.
He ate some cereal and milk and then, though it hurt him to thinkof all the money wasted, he flushed the marijuana down the toilet. If shecontinued to be missing and he had to notify the police, her apartment would besearched. On the other hand, if she were to return soon and find her supply gone, shewould be in a rage. But surely she would understand why he had had to get rid ofthe stuff.