for a few seconds before she let the gun drop.
McCracken held fast to the cat. “You called someone. Who?”
“The party that hires me from time to time.”
“To do what?”
“Search out rare, precious gems and then furnish detailed descriptions. The cat, you’re hurting her!”
“No I’m not. You did that with the crystals you saw at Earnst’s?”
“Yes.”
“And then they were stolen.”
“I had nothing to do with it. Please let the cat go!”
McCracken wasn’t ready to do that yet. “Who are these men?”
“I don’t know. I swear it! They sought me out, paid me enough money so I wouldn’t have to move from my house. I never meant any harm!”
“These men did plenty today. They’re coming, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Let the cat down.”
“How long?”
“A half hour. Twenty-five minutes maybe.”
“I’ll be going, then. I’ll have to tie you up but I won’t make the bonds too tight. I promise.”
He let the panther down easy and tied Lydia Brandywine into a chair with drapery cords stripped from the wall. He checked to make sure they weren’t too constricting and was halfway to the double doors when he headed back for the glass table.
“She’ll probably be in a bad mood when she wakes up,” he said, lifting the cat food dish up and placing it next to the snoring panther. “I hate to see a good meal go to waste.”
The car screeched onto Lydia Brandywine’s property exactly twenty-seven minutes later. McCracken watched it from a concealed position behind a tree with his Hertz rental stowed safely out of sight. After fifteen minutes the three men returned to their car, and Blaine climbed back into his and followed them all the way back into Manhattan. It was rush hour and he fought with his nerves as the car he was shadowing maneuvered ahead of him, out of sight on occasion. He couldn’t risk being spotted by the men. If they were pros, it wouldn’t take much. He had given Lydia Brandywine his real name and she would have passed it on to them. A check would be made, and the men would know they had problems.
He managed to keep their car in sight right until it swung off Park Avenue onto East 48th Street. They continued on past Lexington and slowed as they crossed over Third Avenue into the Turtle Bay neighborhood, parallel parking into a spot before the low 200s. Blaine pulled past them and double-parked. In his rearview mirror he watched the three men climb out of their car and ascend the steps to the right half of a slate-brown townhouse duplex squeezed between a pair of larger brick buildings. One of the men pulled the steel security grating open and another unlocked the townhouse’s door. Seconds later all three men had disappeared inside.
McCracken saw a space open up almost directly across from the townhouse and reversed diagonally across the street to take it. Tires squeezed against the curb, he settled back against the seat. At this point his plan was to wait until the three men, or at least two of them, departed again before making his way inside the townhouse. Until then, he was alone with his thoughts.
The choice of Turtle Bay for a headquarters or meeting place struck him as strange. After all, this neighborhood was one of Manhattan’s most fashionable, home to numerous celebrities and wealthy businessmen. The townhouses on the north side of the street enjoyed a common garden, Amster Yard, which was not visible from the front; just one of the many features which placed Turtle Bay among the city’s most prestigious residential areas.
Two hours passed. Blaine watched the night fall soundly and the lights come on in the street, those inside the rows of townhouses slowly joining them. Cars continued to line both curbs but traffic had thinned markedly. Across the street, an entry light flashed on over the townhouse he was watching.
McCracken felt something was out of place and gazed up at the windows. None showed any light. Odd. If the men
McCracken held fast to the cat. “You called someone. Who?”
“The party that hires me from time to time.”
“To do what?”
“Search out rare, precious gems and then furnish detailed descriptions. The cat, you’re hurting her!”
“No I’m not. You did that with the crystals you saw at Earnst’s?”
“Yes.”
“And then they were stolen.”
“I had nothing to do with it. Please let the cat go!”
McCracken wasn’t ready to do that yet. “Who are these men?”
“I don’t know. I swear it! They sought me out, paid me enough money so I wouldn’t have to move from my house. I never meant any harm!”
“These men did plenty today. They’re coming, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Let the cat down.”
“How long?”
“A half hour. Twenty-five minutes maybe.”
“I’ll be going, then. I’ll have to tie you up but I won’t make the bonds too tight. I promise.”
He let the panther down easy and tied Lydia Brandywine into a chair with drapery cords stripped from the wall. He checked to make sure they weren’t too constricting and was halfway to the double doors when he headed back for the glass table.
“She’ll probably be in a bad mood when she wakes up,” he said, lifting the cat food dish up and placing it next to the snoring panther. “I hate to see a good meal go to waste.”
The car screeched onto Lydia Brandywine’s property exactly twenty-seven minutes later. McCracken watched it from a concealed position behind a tree with his Hertz rental stowed safely out of sight. After fifteen minutes the three men returned to their car, and Blaine climbed back into his and followed them all the way back into Manhattan. It was rush hour and he fought with his nerves as the car he was shadowing maneuvered ahead of him, out of sight on occasion. He couldn’t risk being spotted by the men. If they were pros, it wouldn’t take much. He had given Lydia Brandywine his real name and she would have passed it on to them. A check would be made, and the men would know they had problems.
He managed to keep their car in sight right until it swung off Park Avenue onto East 48th Street. They continued on past Lexington and slowed as they crossed over Third Avenue into the Turtle Bay neighborhood, parallel parking into a spot before the low 200s. Blaine pulled past them and double-parked. In his rearview mirror he watched the three men climb out of their car and ascend the steps to the right half of a slate-brown townhouse duplex squeezed between a pair of larger brick buildings. One of the men pulled the steel security grating open and another unlocked the townhouse’s door. Seconds later all three men had disappeared inside.
McCracken saw a space open up almost directly across from the townhouse and reversed diagonally across the street to take it. Tires squeezed against the curb, he settled back against the seat. At this point his plan was to wait until the three men, or at least two of them, departed again before making his way inside the townhouse. Until then, he was alone with his thoughts.
The choice of Turtle Bay for a headquarters or meeting place struck him as strange. After all, this neighborhood was one of Manhattan’s most fashionable, home to numerous celebrities and wealthy businessmen. The townhouses on the north side of the street enjoyed a common garden, Amster Yard, which was not visible from the front; just one of the many features which placed Turtle Bay among the city’s most prestigious residential areas.
Two hours passed. Blaine watched the night fall soundly and the lights come on in the street, those inside the rows of townhouses slowly joining them. Cars continued to line both curbs but traffic had thinned markedly. Across the street, an entry light flashed on over the townhouse he was watching.
McCracken felt something was out of place and gazed up at the windows. None showed any light. Odd. If the men
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