Mrs. Avery, the former actress Rhona Brent, is in seclusion in a hotel suite in Athens where Avery was preparing for the production of a major film.
Somewhere in Europe. Of course that bland receptionist at Harry’s office had known all the time where to reach him. But now nobody knew where to find Harry Avery, and that left Rhona sitting alone in an Athens hotel, possibly a widow, with all Harry’s money and nobody to protect her from the scavengers who would move in when she was most vulnerable. More important at the moment, she was the only person, aside from Harry, who knew the origin of The Bandits; she was the only person who knew what had happened to the carbons of the scripts he had left in the garage of her now-extinct bungalow court. Brad’s coffee turned cold while he thought about it. He wasn’t superstitious and he didn’t consider himself psychic; but he had survived the jungle by instinct and hunches, and instinct was giving him strong vibrations now. It seemed strange that he had awakened thinking of Rhona. Strange how the unexpected cheque came in the mail. Strange how there was just one woman he could never get out of his mind.
Instinct was followed by impulse. Brad looked at his wrist watch. It was after nine now and Estelle, always the first one in every morning, would be at her office. He left the newspaper in the chair, chucked the coffee into a trash can and skirted the pool taking the long way back to his apartment. Once inside, he called the office. Estelle answered.
“I have a three o’clock appointment with the Wittenbergs this afternoon that I won’t be able to keep,” he told her. “I’ve got to see a doctor. My malaria’s come back.”
“I didn’t know you ever had malaria,” Estelle said.
“I did—and the only way to check it is to lie low for a few days. I’ll be in Monday if I can.”
“But the Wittenbergs—”
“Tell them I have to reconsider the deal.”
It was done. By the time he hung up the telephone, Brad knew he would go all the way. He turned on the radio to see if there was any additional information on Harry’s missing plane, on the nine-thirty news. He dressed while the newscaster repeated the story in the paper and then left the apartment. He drove to the bank, arriving as it opened, and cashed the windfall cheque. The next stop was an “adult” book store on Santa Monica Boulevard where another survivor of Vietnam continued to survive, by catering to a reading public with an I.Q. of 55 and under, and operating a cut-rate charter flight travel agency on the side. He had nothing on a direct flight to Athens for three days, but there was a cancellation on the 12.50 flight to London where Brad could catch a BEA for the final leg of the journey. That left just two and a half hours to pack a bag and get to L.A. International. Moving fast meant less time for thinking. There would be time for that in flight. He needed a story for Rhona. He could tell her that he was the London representative of an American business firm and had picked up the news about Harry on the BBC. Flying down to see if he could be of service from that city would seem more logical than an impulsive flight from Los Angeles. He wanted her to think he was settled and well situated—not just another ex-G.I. on the loose.
Once the plane was in the air, he had no misgivings. It was good to be mobilized again. The irony of man’s lot was that the brain worked better under pressure. He felt more alive than he had since he was under fire, and it didn’t matter if he never saw the Wittenbergs again. After several hours of flight he relaxed and went to sleep. He dreamed about the girls at the swimming pool, but now it was the blonde who held his attention as she got up from the lounging pad and walked towards him, and it seemed natural that she had become Rhona with her strange, waif-like smile.
Brad awakened and looked out of the window. He had slept a long time. The wing of the giant jet was bathed in moonlight.
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Copyright © 1955 by Helen Nielsen, Registration Renewed 1983
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4130-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4130-8
Stranger in the Dark Page 20
