Ellen Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  "Listen Paul, I need to talk to you."

  "Any time, my son," rumbled Paul, being fatherly. "But I'm on my way to a meeting with the Dean. I was already out of the office when I heard the phone. Had a devil of a time getting my key out and the door unlocked. Figured I'd get to the receiver just as the other party hung up."

  "It's about Platinia."

  "Platinia?" Paul sounded less harried; and more interested.

  "She's ... missing."

  "What does that mean?

  "It means what it says. She's run off."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know. And the worst of it is, she wouldn't know, either. She's scared. Scared of this world. Scared in general."

  "Right."

  "And I don't know what to do. I have no idea how to go about finding her. I can't even call the police. What would I tell them? Officially, she doesn't exist in our world. She doesn't' have a birth certificate. No security card. No ... past. She might not even have fingerprints, for all I know."

  "It's a problem."

  "I just found out. So I haven't done anything. Except to call you."

  "I've got to go to this meeting. But it won't last long. Or if it does, I can duck out early. I'll use the slumber time to think of something, don't worry. Meanwhile, my advice is to do nothing. Because there's nothing you can do."

  "I ... guess."

  "You're emotionally involved in this, John. Trust your old chairman on this one."

  "I ... OK."

  "I've got your word?"

  "Yeah."

  "All right. I'll go to the meeting. But I'll be thinking about what to do, so sit tight. I'll call you back in half an hour."

  "Thanks Paul."

  "It'll be all right. Don't worry."

  * * * * *

  After the longest half-hour John could remember, all of it spent combing the house in hopes of picking up a clue about what happened to Platinia, John's pick up of the receiver cut the first ring short. "Yes?"

  "Paul, here." John had never been happier to hear Paul's growl.

  "So -- what do I do?"

  "Here's my suggestion. First, you can get it out of your head that you can do something yourself. I know you've been sitting there thinking about driving around. Hoping to spot her on the street. That kind of thing."

  "I've thought about it."

  "Right. But that's what I mean about being emotionally involved. You don't think straight. Kansas City has over a million people if you count the burbs. And she could be anywhere by this time."

  "The only new thing I've discovered is that she seems to have taken some money I kept for emergencies."

  "How much?"

  "A couple hundred. I had it in the top dresser of my bureau in case I needed to buy groceries in the dead of night."

  "As I said, she could be anywhere. With a couple of c-notes, farther than anywhere."

  "I suppose."

  "This is a job for a professional."

  "Call the police?"

  "No. That little problem about the girl not "existing" in this world makes that a last resort. No. What I'd do is call a private detective."

  "Sounds ... good."

  "I don't know who's a good P.I. and who isn't. The best you can do is to get the Yellow Pages and look up private detective. If you can, check out the phone numbers and get one located north of the river. A local would have a better chance of knowing where someone might go."

  "Good advice."

  "I'll get off the line then, and let you do that."

  "Thanks Paul. You don't know how much this has helped."

  "You'd do the same for me."

  "Right."

  They hung up.

  Digging the Yellow Pages from its hiding place under the phone table, John looked up detectives. A lot of them. After running his finger down the phone numbers, found only one located north of the river, his advertisement saying: "Inexpensive. Results guaranteed."

  John dialed.

  A click.

  "This is the Robert Zapolska Detective agency." An answering machine. In a woman's voice that practically purred. "Mr. Zapolska is on a case at the moment. Please leave your name and number at the sound of the tone and Mr. Zapolska will return your call. .... Beep ...."

  "This is John Lyon. I think I need a detective. I'd appreciate a call."

  John's mind raced. Should he say something about the nature of the problem? Maybe ... but what?

  Still with nothing to add after giving his home and office phone numbers, John could only finished with a whiny plea to call as soon as possible!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 8

  "John Lyon, speaking." John had just returned to his office after somehow finishing his nine-o'clock Western Civ. class. With Platinia missing for two days, it had been difficult to concentrate on the topic of the day: Mercantilist Economic Theory. Like any distraction, guilt made you forgetful. Guilt, because, other than leaving a message on the detective's answering machine, he'd done nothing to locate Platinia, the phone interrupting that disparaging line of thought

  "Bob Zapolska." Said with a soft hiss, John unsure of the name.

  "Who?" As worried about the missing girl as he was, John tried to concentrate on the caller as John moved the phone to his own desk and sat down in his chair. Though John attempted to learn his student's names, he was never able to remember them all.

  "Bob Zapolska. Detective."

  Of course! Not a student with a feeble excuse for missing an exam, but the very person John had been hoping would call.

  "Right," John said dryly, glad for the call but remembering that a day and a half had gone by without a word from the P.I. "I expected to hear from you yesterday."

  "Case."

  Why was the man whispering? Could he be phoning from a stakeout?

  "I see." There was a long pause, John expecting to be asked what he wanted. On the other hand, the detective knew John had called for some reason or John wouldn't have left a message on the man's machine. Worried, tired, discouraged, John was now arguing with himself. "What I phoned about is a missing person." Silence on the line. "A girl is missing."

  "Daughter?"

  "Not my daughter." Silence again, the P.I. not making this any easier. "A ... friend."

  "Call the police?"

  "Ah ... no." What did John say next? Not the truth, certainly. "She's just a friend. Staying with me. She may not even be missing. That's why I haven't notified the police." Another profound silence. "She's been staying with me to escape ... an abusive husband." Pretty lame. "I'm a college instructor at Hill Top College." Maybe that would make it sound like John wasn't hunting down his own girl friend.

  "How young?"

  An interesting question. John had never decided. While Platinia had the physical look of a child, she had ... experienced eyes. "Early twenties. But she looks younger. Is small."

  "Two-hundred a day." That was a lot of money for John.

  "That's really more than I can ...."

  "Includes expenses." The detective was still using that whisper of a voice -- perhaps the man's normal sound.

  "Still ...."

  "Results Guaranteed."

  John thought of his abused bank account. He could hardly afford one day at those prices. Still, John had to try something. He guessed he could get a loan.

  "I can only buy a couple of days of your time. Three, at the outside."

  "I don't find her, you don't pay."

  "Sounds fair." More than fair, actually.

  "1836 Chouteau."

  "What?"

  "Office. In the Ludlow Building. Need some facts. The number is 16. At 2:00."

  "I'll be there."

  * * * * *

  The phone conversation -- if that's what you could call it -- followed by the interview, had taken place four days ago.

  Four days!

  Call him Z, the man had said as he began to take John's description of Platinia.

  A big man with a limp, was John's fi
rst impression when the P.I. answered his office door. Short gray hair. Lined face. A taciturn man with a voice as strangled as his eyes were pale.

  Entering, John had found the two room office to be as ratty as the man. But what did P.I.s -- to say nothing of their offices -- look like, anyway?

  The phone rang, returning John to his own office.

  Paul picked up.

  "Hi, hon."

  Had to be Ellen.

  Another moment of listening before the big man scraped back his chair.

  "I'm on my way!"

  With that, Paul slammed down the receiver, was up and reaching for his coat on the hook behind the door.

  "What?" John asked, alarmed. Paul never moved that fast.

  "The baby's coming," Paul barked, his forehead a scowl of wrinkles. "She's taking the other car to the hospital. No danger of it coming yet. Said not to worry."

  "You don't look worried." By this time, Paul had his hat on -- backward. Was scrambling into his overcoat."

  "What?"

  "Never mind. Can I do something?"

  "Get my classes posted for tomorrow -- just in case. Call the secretary. Tell her I'm off campus for as long as it takes."

  "Right. And listen, Paul. Good luck!"

  Paul tried to grin. "Thanks, John. We're due for some with this one."

  "I know."

  Beautiful Ellen had a difficult pregnancy.

  "Everything's going to be all right," John said, Paul already rolling like a bowling ball angry at the pins.

  * * * * *

  A baby girl. Though, like the pregnancy, the birth hadn't gone well, Ellen with bleeding problems.

  John had seen a haggard Paul briefly on Friday when Papa Bear had come to school, cheap cigars in hand, Ellen off the critical list by then.

  With permission, John had gone to see Ellen on Saturday, finding her weak, but obviously on the mend.

  After a deliberately short visit, Paul took John down the hall to the nursery to see the new baby. Like all new babies, looking like ... bait.

  * * * * *

  Nothing on Platinia's whereabouts by that Saturday afternoon.

  To keep his mind off both Platinia and Ellen, John decided to carry the under-the-stairs storage boxes out of the hall and up to second, John clearing the passage as a way of demonstrating to himself his faith in Platinia's return, both to John's house and to Stil-de-grain.

  * * * * *

  Another week. No Platinia. No detective. A slower than expected recovery for Ellen, Paul looking increasingly fatigued.

  "She's got a fever, " Paul muttered, propping his elbows on his desk, covering his sallow face with both hands. "Low grade. But they don't know what's causing it."

  John aware of the dejection in Paul's voice, the ceiling to floor book shelves at the ends of the small office closed in.

  John glanced at the department head, now slumped in his chair. "Should she go back to the hospital?" Surely, Paul had thought of ...

  "I've had her to St. Lukes," the big man mumbled. "Also K.U. Med. All the specialists say hospitalization wouldn't help. They think she'll wear the fever out, eventually. Even though they don't know what's causing it."

  "Is she taking something?"

  "A wide spectrum anti-biotic. But it doesn't seem to help."

  John had an idea like a light bulb going off! "Listen Paul, in the other world, there's no disease. It's the magic in the light. If I could take Ellen ...."

  "No!"

  "But."

  "Too dangerous."

  "But if our drugs ..."

  "End of discussion."

  And that was the conversation for that day.

  * * * * *

  Finally, progress! Returning home on a cloudy Friday, John was surprised to find a light blue, "vintage" Cavalier parked in front of his isolated house, no one either in the car or near it.

  Unlocking his house door, going inside, still trying to puzzle out the meaning of the abandoned car out front, John went into the living room to find the detective sitting in one of the large oak chairs, little Platinia huddled on the end of the divan, the girl looking lost in some kind of leather getup. A ... cowgirl outfit, complete with boots. Platinia was also wearing something he'd never seen on her before ... make up. Lots of makeup.

  John was so relieved to see her after all this time he didn't even ask the detective how he'd managed to find her, to say nothing of the man getting Platinia out of the cold and inside John's locked house. Detectives had their ways, John supposed.

  Seeing John, the investigator rose to his six feet plus of bulky weight and pointed at Platinia. A man of few words, this Bob Zapolska.

  Where had Platinia been? How had she been supporting herself after the "borrowed" two hundred had run out? Those and other questions tumbled though John's brain.

  But first things first. Nodding to the P.I., John said, "I thought you'd given up."

  "No.

  "How much do I owe you?"

  "Two hundred."

  "But its been weeks."

  "Worked a couple of half-days."

  "Amazing." John was certain the detective had intended to hold him up for as much money as possible. But only one day?

  "I'll get you a check," John going to the sideboard to do that, the detective taking the money and limping out the door without another word.

  John guessed that for only two hundred, he wasn't owed a written report. Or an oral one either.

  The front door shut, John returned to the living room, half expecting to find that Platinia had exited by way of the back door. She was still there, though, a little girl playing "dress-up."

  "Platinia," John said, the girl lowering her head, refusing to look at him, "why did you run away?"

  "Got lost." An outrageous lie.

  "How could you have done that?"

  Platinia continued to look down. Had nothing to say.

  Reconsidering, John decided that if he wished to keep Platinia from getting "lost" again, he'd better not press her for details. She had to have had a rough time out there.

  "I think I can take you home, now."

  The diminutive girl looked up at him, mascara darkened eyes wide. "Home?"

  "To Stil-de-grain."

  At that, tears ran down her cheeks.

  "Not tonight, but tomorrow night after you've gotten a full day's rest."

  * * * * *

  That was yesterday, Platinia sleeping the night and most of the day, the girl still upstairs as the winter's first storm chased a pale moon from a thickening sky.

  Time to take Platinia home to a considerably warmer Stil-de-grain.

  Lost in thought, the doorbell stunned him! Who ...?

  Stepping to the door, he opened it to peer into what was now the windy blackness of a cloud-covered night.

  "May I come in?"

  Who? .... Ellen!

  "Sure."

  John stepping aside, Ellen Hamilton, bundled in a professor's wife's plain cloth coat, came in.

  Waiting for Paul to follow, John stood there with the door open, the air cold and wet, smelling of decomposing leaves. ... Until John realized there was no Paul. That Ellen was alone.

  Puzzled, John shut the door, the warm hall air already sucked into the night.

  By this time, Ellen had unbuttoned her coat. Had stuffed her large, red wool scarf in her slash pocket.

  John helped her off with her coat. Draped the blue coat over the hall banister.

  Something was wrong, John not eager to find out what.

  Ellen ... didn't look ... right. Her face was flushed, for one thing. For another, John had never seen her looking so sober.

  "Come into the living room," he said, taking her arm, then dropping it, Ellen here without Paul. (It felt even worse that John didn't mind Paul's absence.)

  In the living room, Paul's wife sat on the end of the divan, John pulling up a chair to sit across from her.

  Even in the subdued room's shadowy light, Ellen looked feverish.

/>   "It's Paul's health," Ellen said, no "happy talk" attempted before stabbing into the painful purpose of her visit.

  "Paul? You don't look well, yourself."

  "I know. I'm not. It's this fever. I can't seem to shake it. I'm running a couple of degrees all the time."

  "And the doctors don't know what's wrong?"

  She shook her elegant head. "Something about my blood. It doesn't ... look right ... under the microscope. But no one seems to know why or what to do about it."

  "I'm so sorry." And he was. For both Ellen and Paul.

  "It's not so much that I can't seem to get well, as the way Paul is taking it."

  "He hasn't been looking that great," John agreed.

  "It's worse than that. He's not eating. Losing weight. He's not sleeping. I hear him in the night. He tries to be quiet, but he's such a big man he shakes the floor when he paces. This evening, I gave him something to knock him out. But I did that last night, too, and he only slept for an hour or so."

  "He's worried because you're not completely well?"

  She nodded. Then shook her head in confusion. "I don't know what I'm doing here. Involving you."

  "No trouble at all."

  She looked at John, her face serious. "Paul told me what you suggested. That if you took me to this other world where there's no disease, I might get well."

  With Paul as opposed as he was to Bandworld trips, John was surprised he'd mentioned it. Another sign of the chairman's worry.

  Perched there, Ellen was as breathtaking as John had seen her. Eyes an intense blue. Gold hair sleek. Now that she'd had the baby, stunning in a long black dress. A Grecian look about her, dress like a flowing robe ....

  "There's a history of heart disease in Paul's family. Blocked coronaries. I'm scared, John. Not long before his father's fatal heart attack, Paul's father looked just the way Paul does now. Same shortness of breath. If something isn't done ....

  And John had made up his mind.