How’s business?”
“I wish I could say good, Mr. Shields.”
“Anybody been in?”
“Not a soul, Mr. Shields.”
“Any calls for me?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Shields.”
“What about calls for Bob?”
“That’s right, I should have told you. His wife phoned, looking for him—some kind of family matter, I believe. Is he still with you, Mr. Shields? Maybe he ought to call her.”
“Didn’t you tell her where we were?”
“I didn’t know,” Teddy said. “You and Bob just went off. Where are you?”
Shields nearly told him, biting back the words barely in time. “It doesn’t matter, Teddy. Lock up at nine and go home. If I see Bob, I’ll let him know.”
He hung up before Teddy could protest.
Upstairs next; there was nothing else to do. With no great hope he shouted, “ROBERTS!” and waited, listening. There was no reply, not even a whisper of sound.
He’s had a heart attack, Shields thought, sprinting up the steps. Why the hell didn’t I think of that? Bob’s an old man. Probably felt bad, sat down somewhere …
And died.
But maybe not. Maybe Bob’s still alive, and if I call for an ambulance in time—
The upper floor was dark. The switches Roberts had thrown when they came in obviously did not control the lights on this floor, so that was where Roberts would have gone first: to the upstairs switches, wherever they were.
He had not reached them. Whoever had broken the glass had reached him first.
And yet they’d be right here, Shields thought. Here at the head of the stairs. They’d have to be. He imagined the doctor and his wife returning from a late dinner party. Their children would be asleep; they would probably have given the housekeeper and the maid the evening off. They would unlock the front door and let themselves in, turn on a light in the foyer, climb these stairs, and turn on another light in this upstairs hall to find their bedroom.
His fingers groped along the wall, feeling only smooth oak paneling. The rain dripped from the eaves as before; but when a second or two had passed, the house was no longer weeping alone in the silence. An instrument with a voice as deep as an organ (though it was not really an organ) sobbed, too, its notes long and throbbing, reedy and infinitely sad. Hearing them, Shields froze. Seconds passed before he identified the melody. It was the “Valse Triste” from Peer Gynt.
It’s recorded music, he thought, it has to be. There’s a speaker system, and I’m listening to a record or a tape.
Yet the wall he touched seemed to vibrate ever so slightly in sympathy with the deepest tones; it seemed that he could hear the squeak of the pedals.
There’s no switch here. So it must be—has to be—on the other side of the hall. Why would an intruder play music? To cover the sounds of his movements, of course, now that breaking the glass has given him away. Most burglars wouldn’t be that smart—this is no kid, a clever man, a dangerous man.
Shields’s fingertips swept the paneling to his left, found a switch plate, and pushed in the old-fashioned switch.
Light flooded the hall.
It was empty save for three ill-assorted occasional chairs. “Valse Triste” moaned on and on, seeming to gather strength from the light. He could no longer hear the rain.
He had not been frightened earlier in the dark. Or rather, he had been afraid only for Roberts, afraid that the older man was dead or dying. Now it seemed that the yellowish hall light must soon reveal some abomination, showing him the naked face of Hell, or revealing that his own hands were drenched with blood. Those hands shook; so that he would not see them, he jammed them into his pockets. Sick now with fear, stomach churning and legs shaking, he went slowly down the hall.
A doorway opened into a dark room on his right. He reached inside and found the switch; the room was empty except for five display cases pushed against its walls.
And yet something prowled the old house. He wanted to
“I wish I could say good, Mr. Shields.”
“Anybody been in?”
“Not a soul, Mr. Shields.”
“Any calls for me?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Shields.”
“What about calls for Bob?”
“That’s right, I should have told you. His wife phoned, looking for him—some kind of family matter, I believe. Is he still with you, Mr. Shields? Maybe he ought to call her.”
“Didn’t you tell her where we were?”
“I didn’t know,” Teddy said. “You and Bob just went off. Where are you?”
Shields nearly told him, biting back the words barely in time. “It doesn’t matter, Teddy. Lock up at nine and go home. If I see Bob, I’ll let him know.”
He hung up before Teddy could protest.
Upstairs next; there was nothing else to do. With no great hope he shouted, “ROBERTS!” and waited, listening. There was no reply, not even a whisper of sound.
He’s had a heart attack, Shields thought, sprinting up the steps. Why the hell didn’t I think of that? Bob’s an old man. Probably felt bad, sat down somewhere …
And died.
But maybe not. Maybe Bob’s still alive, and if I call for an ambulance in time—
The upper floor was dark. The switches Roberts had thrown when they came in obviously did not control the lights on this floor, so that was where Roberts would have gone first: to the upstairs switches, wherever they were.
He had not reached them. Whoever had broken the glass had reached him first.
And yet they’d be right here, Shields thought. Here at the head of the stairs. They’d have to be. He imagined the doctor and his wife returning from a late dinner party. Their children would be asleep; they would probably have given the housekeeper and the maid the evening off. They would unlock the front door and let themselves in, turn on a light in the foyer, climb these stairs, and turn on another light in this upstairs hall to find their bedroom.
His fingers groped along the wall, feeling only smooth oak paneling. The rain dripped from the eaves as before; but when a second or two had passed, the house was no longer weeping alone in the silence. An instrument with a voice as deep as an organ (though it was not really an organ) sobbed, too, its notes long and throbbing, reedy and infinitely sad. Hearing them, Shields froze. Seconds passed before he identified the melody. It was the “Valse Triste” from Peer Gynt.
It’s recorded music, he thought, it has to be. There’s a speaker system, and I’m listening to a record or a tape.
Yet the wall he touched seemed to vibrate ever so slightly in sympathy with the deepest tones; it seemed that he could hear the squeak of the pedals.
There’s no switch here. So it must be—has to be—on the other side of the hall. Why would an intruder play music? To cover the sounds of his movements, of course, now that breaking the glass has given him away. Most burglars wouldn’t be that smart—this is no kid, a clever man, a dangerous man.
Shields’s fingertips swept the paneling to his left, found a switch plate, and pushed in the old-fashioned switch.
Light flooded the hall.
It was empty save for three ill-assorted occasional chairs. “Valse Triste” moaned on and on, seeming to gather strength from the light. He could no longer hear the rain.
He had not been frightened earlier in the dark. Or rather, he had been afraid only for Roberts, afraid that the older man was dead or dying. Now it seemed that the yellowish hall light must soon reveal some abomination, showing him the naked face of Hell, or revealing that his own hands were drenched with blood. Those hands shook; so that he would not see them, he jammed them into his pockets. Sick now with fear, stomach churning and legs shaking, he went slowly down the hall.
A doorway opened into a dark room on his right. He reached inside and found the switch; the room was empty except for five display cases pushed against its walls.
And yet something prowled the old house. He wanted to
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