Read Online Assignment - Quayle Question by Edward S. Aarons - Free Book Online Page B

me.” “You’re never stupid, Debbie. Deb, listen. You haven’t seen your father since Zermatt?”
    “No.”
    “He’s not at Ca’d’Orizon?”
    “No.”
    “All right. I’ll see you at eight. Debbie?”
    “Yes?”
    “I really need you, Debbie.”
    “I need you, Martin.”
    “But this is different. We’ll talk about it.”
    “Yes.”
    The front door of the apartment gave off a melodic chiming sound. She felt the grip on her wrists tighten. She had not seen any weapons evident among the trio, but their very silence, the way they moved, the way they had so speedily ransacked her apartment—looking for what? —gave her warning enough. She kept silent, sick with a sense of betrayal. Even if she shouted a warning, she knew Martin would be taken in as unprepared a manner as she had been.
    She whispered, “You’re not going to hurt him?”
    “It depends,” one of them said.
    “On what?”
    “Maybe on you, Miss Quayle.”
    The chimes sounded again. The dancer went to open the door. She heard Martin’s exclamation, heard a quick, muffled thud, heard the door close sharply. She suddenly strained against the grip that kept her flat against the wall. She was strong, she knew all sorts of tricks, but the man who pinioned her was too good for her capacities, too ready, too well-trained. Something sharp hit her stomach and now, when it was too late, she cried out to Martin, and then something was pushed against her face, over her mouth and nostrils, and she couldn’t breathe. She tried to struggle for another moment, and then everything became of no importance. She wanted to weep as she felt the curtains dropping, one by one, like clouds drifting in thickening layers over the fruitful fields of her mind.
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    “Miss Quayle?”
    “I want to know what your people did with Martin.” “You may learn all that in due course. Did Martin ever explain his problem to you?”
    “No.”
    “Not over the phone, when vou and he appointed to meet at your apartment?”
    “No. Martin rarely talked of intimate business problems over the telephone.”
    “But of course he did. Daily. From wherever he happened to be, on Rufus Quayle’s orders.”
    “That would be routine business. He wouldn’t talk about this thing that troubled him.”
    “This thing that required your peculiar talents to solve?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “And he never hinted what its nature was?”
    “I suppose it affected Q.P.I. interests.”
    “Nothing beyond that?”
    “I told you, he didn’t even hint to me what it was.”
    “Was this not unusual?”
    “Our relationship, since the divorce, is unusual.”
    “What was he supposed to bring you on that evening?” “Some papers he wanted me to study. Some computer output to analyze.”
    “But he had nothing on his person when we intercepted him at your apartment, my dear child. How do you explain that?”
    “I can’t.”
    “You look dejected, poor girl.”
    “I feel dejected. How long does this go on?”
    “As long as necessary.”
    “Let me go. Please. I’m worried about Martin. Do you have him? I want to see him.”
    “Why didn’t Martin have anything with him, if he was coming to see you and ask you to study something for him?”
    “I can’t explain that.”
    “But you must.”
    “I simply can’t.”
    “I see. You are obstinate. Unusually loyal. Do you realize that your life is at stake?”
    “I don’t care.”
    “And Martin’s?”
    “Martin is an innocent.” “No one is innocent in this affair. No one in the world. Do you not care what has happened to him? And what will happen to him if you do not cooperate?”
    “What have you done to him?”
    “You will see.”
    “I can’t tell you what I simply don’t know.”
    “About Martin?”
    “Yes, about Martin.”
    “But you know so much about Q.P.I., do you not?”
    “I suppose so. But nobody knows it all. Not even the computer memory