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Authors: K. N. Shields
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safe now. No one can know who he is.” The colonel set the picture facedown on the shelf. “Or who he ever was.”
Helen Prescott and her eight-year-old daughter, Delia, arrived at Dr. Steig’s at six thirty. The servant took their coats. Helen wore a stylish walking costume of English serge with double box plaiting and apron drapery in the front. The dark blue material complemented her fair skin and blue eyes. She wore her rich brown hair up in a popular style, knotted and braided but long enough, in her case, to cover the back of her neck. Helen gave a soft rap at the study door, then entered.
Dr. Steig looked upfrom his desk, where he was pecking away, mostly left-handed, on his Daugherty Visible typewriter. Delia skipped across the room, doing a twirl to show off her fancy cashmere jersey dress, before giving Dr. Steig a hug.
“Thank you, sweet child. What a surprise.”
“You did invite us for dinner,” Helen reminded him.
“Oh, heavens, forgive me. Just gotten distracted with something. Why don’t we dine out?”
“Can we?” Delia asked.
“If you need to get that done first, I could do the typing for you,” Helen said.
“What? No, this is nothing. I can finish it later.”
“It’s not a problem, Uncle Virgil. I could have it done for you in no time.” She approached to get a look at the document.
Dr. Steig released the paper from the typewriter. “Not at all, dear. It’s nothing. A sensitive matter. I need to attend to it personally.” He set the paper atop several pages of notes, then deposited the bunch in the top right drawer of his desk.
Once Helen was close enough, she noticed the circles beneath her uncle’s eyes. “Are you feeling all right? You look as though you haven’t slept.”
“I’ll be fine. Get a good night’s rest tonight. It’s just this pressing matter.”
Helen took a half step back, her nose wrinkling as she puzzled it out. “It’s that awful business in the papers, isn’t it? At the Portland Company.”
“Not appropriate to discuss in front of Delia.”
“Yes, Delia,” Helen said. She showed him a sarcastic smile. “Or any other fragile ears.”
“I’m certainly not going to discuss it while we dine.” He rose and moved toward the coatrack by the door.
“Then you can tell me all about it later.”
“Police business, dear. Highly confidential.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” Helen said with a glance back at Dr. Steig’s desk. “So it must be terribly gruesome.”
9
A n hour after leavingUnion Station, Lean reached the town of Old Orchard Beach and made his transfer. While he rode the narrow-gauge dummy train that shuttled him several miles from that summer resort town to the beachfront depot at Camp Ellis, he read two newspapers he’d bought. The
Eastern Argus
declared, WOMAN MURDERED AT PORTLAND CO. and HORRIBLY MUTILATED BODY—POLICE SEEK INDIAN SUSPECT. Not to be outdone, the
Daily Advertiser
screamed, BLOODY MURDER THE WORK OF INDIANS, and RIPPER-STYLE KILLING BY BLOODTHIRSTY RED SAVAGE.
After reading the stories twice through, Lean turned his attention to the passing scenery as the open-air train rattled along the dunes. It moved through the evangelical summer community of Ocean Park, then past the salt marshes, where Goose Fair Creek emptied into Saco Bay. Lean stared out to his left at the Atlantic. The sun, less than half an hour from setting, lit the beach and the ocean water from behind him. He had managed to telephone his house from the station to explain he wouldn’t be home until late, and now he thought of returning here next weekend to give Emma a well-deserved day of leisure.
Two miles on, past an empty landscape of dunes and long stretches of scrub pines, the dummy train deposited Lean and a load of fellow travelers at Camp Ellis. The spot was a sandy point capped with a long rock jetty extending straight out into the ocean from the north bank of the slow-moving Saco River. He could hear the festive noises
Helen Prescott and her eight-year-old daughter, Delia, arrived at Dr. Steig’s at six thirty. The servant took their coats. Helen wore a stylish walking costume of English serge with double box plaiting and apron drapery in the front. The dark blue material complemented her fair skin and blue eyes. She wore her rich brown hair up in a popular style, knotted and braided but long enough, in her case, to cover the back of her neck. Helen gave a soft rap at the study door, then entered.
Dr. Steig looked upfrom his desk, where he was pecking away, mostly left-handed, on his Daugherty Visible typewriter. Delia skipped across the room, doing a twirl to show off her fancy cashmere jersey dress, before giving Dr. Steig a hug.
“Thank you, sweet child. What a surprise.”
“You did invite us for dinner,” Helen reminded him.
“Oh, heavens, forgive me. Just gotten distracted with something. Why don’t we dine out?”
“Can we?” Delia asked.
“If you need to get that done first, I could do the typing for you,” Helen said.
“What? No, this is nothing. I can finish it later.”
“It’s not a problem, Uncle Virgil. I could have it done for you in no time.” She approached to get a look at the document.
Dr. Steig released the paper from the typewriter. “Not at all, dear. It’s nothing. A sensitive matter. I need to attend to it personally.” He set the paper atop several pages of notes, then deposited the bunch in the top right drawer of his desk.
Once Helen was close enough, she noticed the circles beneath her uncle’s eyes. “Are you feeling all right? You look as though you haven’t slept.”
“I’ll be fine. Get a good night’s rest tonight. It’s just this pressing matter.”
Helen took a half step back, her nose wrinkling as she puzzled it out. “It’s that awful business in the papers, isn’t it? At the Portland Company.”
“Not appropriate to discuss in front of Delia.”
“Yes, Delia,” Helen said. She showed him a sarcastic smile. “Or any other fragile ears.”
“I’m certainly not going to discuss it while we dine.” He rose and moved toward the coatrack by the door.
“Then you can tell me all about it later.”
“Police business, dear. Highly confidential.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” Helen said with a glance back at Dr. Steig’s desk. “So it must be terribly gruesome.”
9
A n hour after leavingUnion Station, Lean reached the town of Old Orchard Beach and made his transfer. While he rode the narrow-gauge dummy train that shuttled him several miles from that summer resort town to the beachfront depot at Camp Ellis, he read two newspapers he’d bought. The
Eastern Argus
declared, WOMAN MURDERED AT PORTLAND CO. and HORRIBLY MUTILATED BODY—POLICE SEEK INDIAN SUSPECT. Not to be outdone, the
Daily Advertiser
screamed, BLOODY MURDER THE WORK OF INDIANS, and RIPPER-STYLE KILLING BY BLOODTHIRSTY RED SAVAGE.
After reading the stories twice through, Lean turned his attention to the passing scenery as the open-air train rattled along the dunes. It moved through the evangelical summer community of Ocean Park, then past the salt marshes, where Goose Fair Creek emptied into Saco Bay. Lean stared out to his left at the Atlantic. The sun, less than half an hour from setting, lit the beach and the ocean water from behind him. He had managed to telephone his house from the station to explain he wouldn’t be home until late, and now he thought of returning here next weekend to give Emma a well-deserved day of leisure.
Two miles on, past an empty landscape of dunes and long stretches of scrub pines, the dummy train deposited Lean and a load of fellow travelers at Camp Ellis. The spot was a sandy point capped with a long rock jetty extending straight out into the ocean from the north bank of the slow-moving Saco River. He could hear the festive noises
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