Missing From Home

by Mary Burchell

  In all her anxiety she still felt dizzy at the thought. And then half afraid of seeming to force the issue.

  “Greg, it doesn’t seem something of an imposition, does it? I mean—I’m not panicking unnecessarily. I know everything could be all right even now. But she’s little more than a schoolgirl, really, and—”

  “She’s my child as well as yours, isn’t she?” he interrupted shortly. “You’re not the only one who’s finding it difficult not to panic.”

  Then either he rang off or was cut off, and Marilyn was saying with barely concealed eagerness, “Is he really coming?”

  “Yes, he’s coming. He should be here—” she swallowed—“this afternoon. But there must be something—something we can do before then.”

  “We might phone the various friends?” suggested Marilyn doubtfully. “See if she wrote to anyone about a possible change of plans.”

  “We could,” Clare agreed. “But I don’t think it would be much good. When your father last spoke to her, at the start of her journey, it was evidently her intention to come straight home. Any change of—of plan, voluntary or involuntary, must have happened after that. If only there were someone who spoke to her later!”

  “The young man on the boat, for instance? Didn’t he say anything about where he lived?”

  “Apart from the fact that he was catching a train from Baker Street, no. Except—oh!” Suddenly, like a light flashing on in a dark room, Clare found herself recalling that casual reference to the office where he worked. “I know where to find him! He said he worked on the top floor of one of those horrible blocks of offices in the City. He pointed out the very one. I could go there—now! Or as soon as we’ve had breakfast and allowed him time to get there. Why didn’t I think of it before? Oh, at least it’s a frail, frail link with Pat.”

  “But you don’t know his name.” Suddenly, Marilyn seemed oddly unenthusiastic. “Nor the actual firm he works for—unless they occupy the whole floor. How can you possible enquire for him? You can’t just describe him and—”

  “If I have to describe him to everyone in that block I’ll find him,” retorted her mother grimly. “Oh, if only, only he can throw some light on this horrible mystery! I almost wish I’d done that now before I troubled Greg. There might not be any real need for him to come if—”

  “There’s every reason for him to come!” cried Marilyn, her voice shrill with indignant protest. “This young man’s nothing to us, while Dad is Pat’s father. He has every right to be here if something is wrong.”

  “I wasn’t questioning his right, Mari dear.” Clare spoke gently, because she saw her younger daughter was suddenly near to excited tears. “It was only that I didn’t want to bring him here unnecessarily. Perhaps to look as though there—there were some attempt to get him home on false pretences.”

  “He wasn’t even thinking of such a thing, I’m sure.” Marilyn spoke sulkily. “I don’t know why you want to keep him away.”

  “I don’t, child! If he wants to come—”

  She stopped. How on earth was one to try to explain the inexplicable now? Did the child think that she was the one to force the separation?—Not that Greg had been exactly that either. It was just a mutual arrangement to satisfy them both. If “satisfy” was the word.

  “Well, anyway, Dad’s coming,” said Marilyn, and expelled her breath in a long sigh of something between relief and defiance. “And I shouldn’t have thought there was any need to follow up this young man.”

  “But of course there is! Anything which could give us the faintest hint of explanation is worth following. You must see that.”

  Marilyn did. And as swiftly as she had become obstructive before she became compliant now.

  “All right, of course. You go, Mother. I’m not being very sensible. I suppose I’m jittery too. But you go and find this young man. And while you’re away, I have to go out and—”

  “You can’t go out, darling! Someone will have to be here in case any phone message comes through. It’s absolutely vital,” Clare insisted as she saw Marilyn’s face go blank with some sort of unexplained dismay. “What was it you wanted to do?”

  “Well—” Marilyn looked suddenly confused—“it doesn’t matter. It’ll wait, I guess. It’s not as important as—” she gulped—“getting news of Pat. I’ll go this afternoon. You’ll be staying in then because of Dad’s coming, won’t you?”

  “Ye—es.” There was the faintest hesitation in Clare’s assent. Somehow, she had not thought of having to face Greg alone in the first five minutes. She had visualised a cheerful, talkative, affectionate Marilyn helping to gloss over that difficult occasion. But, almost as though she sensed the unworthy cowardice of that thought, Marilyn went on,

  “I’m sure you’d both rather have me out of the way in the first hour or so. I do understand! And now you go off, Mum, and hunt down your young man. I’ll look after everything here.”

  With another of those swift, youthful changes of mood, she seemed to take over the direction of events, polishing her mother’s shoes, brushing her coat, finding her car keys, and finally almost hustling her on her way with a great display of affectionate energy.

  Only when she had seen the lift door close and heard the whine of the descending lift did Marilyn re-enter the flat, shut the front door and lean against it in a moment of almost motionless reaction.

  Then, deliberately, she went over to the telephone and dialled. She hummed a little nervously as she waited and, although she knew she was alone in the flat, she spoke softly when a voice answered.

  “Could I speak to Miss Foster, please? Yes—Miss Foster. She checked in last night, I think.”

  There was another pause, during which she hummed even more nervously. Then she gave a little gasp of delighted relief at the sound of a familiar voice.

  “Pat?” she said. “It’s Marilyn. I can’t come until this afternoon. But it’s worked all right, though it was rather more harrowing than I expected. Still, it’s in the best of causes. Dad’s catching a plane from Munich in an hour or two.”

  CHAPTER II

  “I’M trying to trace someone who works on the top floor of this building—” For the third time that morning, Clare Collamore forced a pleasant smile to her now pale lips and tried to look as though her enquiry were a perfectly normal one. “He—”

  “What’s the name, please?” The bright, indifferent little girl at the enquiry desk of Morgan & Petersfield, Publicity Agents, turned from her switchboard and poised a pencil above her pad.

  “That’s just it—I don’t know his name,” Clare explained. Then she hurried on, trying to ignore the girl’s blank stare of astonishment, “He’s a tall young man and this would be his first day back after a holiday abroad.”

  “You’re sure he works here?” The girl spoke briskly.

  “I think he must. I’ve tried the other two firms on this floor and he doesn’t seem to be there.”

  “But you know it’s this floor?”

  “Yes. He told me he worked on the top floor of this building. Doesn’t it ring any bell with you at all?—a tall young man. Early or middle twenties, I should think. And just back from a continental holiday. He shouldn’t be all that difficult to trace!”

  “There are over a hundred people on this staff.”

  The girl bridled slightly, as though her efficiency had been called in question. “I don’t know the half of them by sight. I’ve only been here a month. Is he on the illustrating side? or copy? or photographic—or what?”

  “I don’t know anything about him.” Like someone in a bad dream, Clare found herself on the familiar treadmill of words and suddenly, to her horror, she knew she was very near tears. “He met my daughter on the boat yesterday. And she—she’s disappeared and we’re trying to trace her. There’s just a hope that he might know something—remember something that would help us—” She stopped, unable to go on.

  “Oh, I say, I’m sorry.” Suddenly the rather pert, uncaring little girl was look
ing at her with real compassion from under her strange erection of fair hair. “Wait a minute. I’ll see if we can help you.”

  She turned to her switchboard and energetically began to pull out plugs and push others in. Then she said into the mouthpiece which hung round her neck.

  “Personnel Department? Is Sadie there?—Look, Sadie, can you tell me who’s back from leave today? No, not just a day’s leave. A real holiday. No, none of the girls. One of the men.—What? Well, I just want to know. It’s important.—Who? No, I don’t know him. Is he a tall chap?—No, don’t be silly. There’s a lady here wants him. In Mr. Cartin’s department, you say? Well, that’ll be two-one-three. Thanks a lot.

  “I think I’ve got him.” She spoke encouragingly over her shoulder to Clare. “Why don’t you sit down? You look all in.”

  Clare sank on to a nearby chair and watched some more sleight of hand with the plugs.

  “Two-one-three?” she heard the brisk voice enquiring. “Is Mr. Penrose there, please?” And then, “Mr. Penrose, there’s a lady in the outer office wants to speak to you.—Just a minute.” The girl looked over her shoulder again at Clare. “What’s the name?”

  “Mrs. Collamore. But he won’t know it. Say I gave him a lift to Baker Street station last night.” She heard this piece of information being relayed. And then the girl said, “It’s all right. He’s coming.” Two minutes later Clare’s friend of the previous evening entered from an inner office, looking puzzled, but smiling slightly as he came forward to greet her. “Hello, Mrs.—Collamore. What can I do for you?” She was not surprised that there was a slight air of reservation in his manner. He must be wondering why on earth a virtual stranger should have followed him up so determinedly.

  “I’m so terribly sorry to come bothering you at work.” Her tone was breathless and apologetic. “But I didn’t know where else to find you, and I thought you might be able to help me—us. It’s about Pat. She’s missing and—”

  “Missing?” Blessedly he seemed to take in the full gravity of that immediately, for he said quickly, “Come with me.” And ushered her through a door, along a short passage and into a small office-studio, where there was a desk, a drawing-board on an easel, a couple of hard chairs and very little else.

  “Sit down,” he said. “Take your time. And tell me what has happened.”

  In spite of his youth, there was something infinitely reassuring about his air of friendly authority. And, for the first time that morning, Clare felt the tight band round her heart relax and her breath come more easily. At first jerkily, and then more calmly, she explained to him what had happened.

  “So, you see, she was not on the train. I never quite thought she was. But she was certainly on the boat if your information is correct. You say she told you her name was Pat?”

  “Quite by chance—yes. Someone happened to call the name to another girl and she glanced up while we were talking and then, as she turned back to me, she said, ‘I thought for a moment someone was calling me. That’s my name.’ As I told you, the Pat I talked to was fair and good-looking and wore a red beret and a sort of white travelling coat.—And there’s another thing I remember now,” he added suddenly, “she wore a rather unusual bracelet. Like a charm bracelet, only instead of charms there were different semi-precious stones.”

  “Then there’s no doubt about it!” Clare exclaimed. “I gave her that bracelet myself. It was a birthday present, only a couple of months ago. But then what happened to her after she landed?—If she did land, that is!” A completely new and horrifying possibility suddenly presented itself and Clare’s eyes went wide and dark.

  “No question about that, Mrs. Collamore.” The young man was emphatic. “If you’re tormenting yourself with the idea that she might have fallen overboard you can dismiss that at once. It was a crowded boat. No one could have been out of sight of at least a dozen other people for any moment of the crossing. Besides which, I was talking to her myself almost up to the moment of berthing.”

  “Oh, thank you!” She gave him a pale, unsteady little smile. “You’re a most reassuring person, Mr.—Mr.—”

  “Penrose. Jerry Penrose is my name. And I only wish I could remember something that would reassure you entirely.” He frowned with anxious concentration.

  “There wasn’t anything she said which might give one a clue?” Clare looked at him as though she might almost will him to remember some vital detail. “Can you remember what you talked about?”

  “Mostly our respective holidays, I think. I’d been in the Tyrol and she said she’d been in Garmisch with her father.”

  “Yes. We’re separated.” Clare told him briefly. “Did she—did she say anything to suggest that the situation distressed her deeply? I’m sorry to have to ask a virtual stranger this. But one must follow every possible line of enquiry.”

  “She didn’t give me that impression at all,” was the frank reply. “She said her father was an artist—”

  “Yes. He’s Gregory Collamore.”

  “Is he?” The young man was impressed. People tended to be impressed when Greg was mentioned. “I did wonder when you mentioned the name Collamore. I was interested when she said her father was an artist, because commercial art is my own line of country.” He made a vaguely explanatory gesture towards the easel. “But we talked in the most general way. I offered to see about her luggage, along with my own, because we were nearly in then, you know. But she said she would be all right. She was a little off-brushing, in a way, to tell the truth.”

  “In what way?” enquired Clare quickly.

  “Oh, well—” he laughed and flushed slightly. “I was thinking I’d like to see more of her. She’d made a good deal of an impression on me, you might say,” he admitted with engaging candour. “And I said something about perhaps seeing her on the train on the way up to London. But she said a bit coolly, ‘I think not,’ and—”

  “She said that?” Clare stared at him. “But you never told me that before!”

  “Why should I?” He looked a good deal surprised. “I suppose it was just her way of saying she didn’t want to take things further.”

  “She didn’t necessarily mean that at all! Don’t you see?—she might have meant you wouldn’t see her on the London train because she wouldn’t be there. Think!” Clare pressed him. “From the way she said it, could she have meant that?”

  “I—don’t know.” Jerry Penrose looked taken aback. “Yes, I suppose she could. Though that doesn’t really get us much nearer an explanation of her disappearance, does it?”

  “At least it suggests that—” Clare swallowed—“she went of her own free will. I simply can’t imagine why she should or what could induce her to stay away from home and terrify us all like this. There wasn’t—” again she hesitated painfully, for it seemed monstrous to discuss Pat so intimately with a stranger—“there wasn’t anyone else travelling with her, I suppose?”

  “Not as far as I could see. Certainly she gave the impression of being on her own while I was talking to her.”

  “Well, at least there’s a crumb or two of comfort in what you have told me, and I’m terribly grateful and mustn’t take up any more of your time.” Clare gave him her really beautiful smile, at which he exclaimed fervently,

  “I only wish I could have helped you more. You don’t feel like going to the police, I suppose?”

  “Only as a last resort. Especially now there’s a strong possibility that she has gone intentionally. In any case, I’ll leave that decision to my husband, when he comes this afternoon.”

  “Oh, he’s coming home? I’m glad!”

  “How nice of you.” Clare looked faintly amused. “Why?”

  “Because I think it’s such a ghastly thing for any woman to have to handle on her own. Her husband should be there at such a time. At least—well, I’m sorry. It’s not my business, of course.” He looked rather taken aback at his own outburst.

  “Don’t apologise. You don’t know how much you’ve helped me. Do you mind
if I give you our phone number, and then if you happen to recollect anything later—anything at all—I’d be so grateful if you would ring.”

  “Yes, of course.” He reached into a side drawer of his desk and after a bit of rummaging produced a slightly battered card. “And that’s my home address if you need me at any time.”

  She took the address gratefully and gave him her own. Then, with a touchingly courteous air of concern, he accompanied her to the lift and saw her on her way.

  All the way home Clare was vaguely comforted by the recollection of his smile, which had something vaguely familiar about it. And it was not until she actually arrived at her own front door that she realised, with a slight sense of shock, that it reminded her of Greg when she had first met him.

  Marilyn greeted her eagerly with the news that her father had telephoned from Munich airport to say that he had secured a seat on the plane and would be at the flat by the late afternoon.

  “I wish you could be here too, when he arrives, Marilyn,” Clare exclaimed.

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t, Mother.” Her youngest daughter assumed her most mulish expression. “And anyway, I don’t think I should be. Of course, it’s better for you two to meet on your own at first. Anyone else would be a—an intrusion. And I’m not going to be that,” she concluded with obstinate virtue. “Now tell me what happened. Did you find your young man?”

  “Yes. His name’s Jerry Penrose.” And, nothing loath, Clare gave a detailed account of her meeting with him.

  Marilyn listened with the utmost attention, though there was a slight, nervous fluttering of her eyelashes when Clare advanced the theory that Pat was staying away of her own accord.