oOo

"One whiskey, straight up!" Roger Williams ordered even before he'd taken a seat at the bar of the Cheshire Cat. By God, he needed a drink right now, he thought, hoping that the bar man, who was drying glasses with a rather dirty dishrag, would be quick about it. Although he'd never admit as much to Beverly Kingston, the events of the evening had shaken him but good. In the afternoon, he'd received a call from Patrick asking him to meet him at the usual place, an abandoned cottage in the middle of nowhere. He had thought nothing of it at the time, especially since it had been agreed that he'd supply the Kingston's with everything they needed for the moment. But when he'd arrived at the cottage, all he'd found was Patrick's dead body. He'd been shot once in the back of the head. Poor devil, Roger thought. If someone deserved to die like that, it was Beverly.

Finally, the glass appeared before him. He nodded to the bar man, who nodded back to his regular patron, and gulped down his whiskey, relishing the burn in his throat. He would need many drinks tonight until he could forget Patrick's face, his sightless eyes staring at him with what he could swear was accusation.

"Another one, Jimmy!" he called out to the man behind the bar, one James Stevens, known as Jimmy among his better customers.

Jimmy grumbled a reply, but proceeded to move his considerable bulk in Roger's direction.

The worst was what he found pinned to Patrick's chest. He hadn't even dared to mention the small piece of paper to Beverly. There had only been one word on it, but that had been enough to nearly scare him witless. The note had read: Xavier. How Xavier could have possibly known about their meeting place, he had no idea. The man seemed to have near supernatural powers. Not only was he in possession was unequivocal evidence implicating Roger Williams in the death of a young woman, but also evidence linking him to a number of lesser crimes.

It was just over two years ago, that he'd received the first letter from Xavier. At first, he hadn't known what to make of them. There had been no threats or demands in those first letters, only veiled hints at his less than savory past. Then Xavier had started to make demands: a false passport here, a sum of money there. Nothing big, never. Just enough to remind Roger that he was in this man's power. He wasn't the only one, as he had later learned. Patrick and Beverly had gotten them too and Peter as well. Probably everyone from their old gang, even though Roger had lost touch with several of them over the years. Patrick was the first who gotten death threats. Then Beverly had gotten one herself. That was when she had decided that Xavier had to go. And when Beverly made up her mind to do something then God have mercy on whoever stood in her path.

The second whiskey had appeared on front of Roger Williams without him even noticing. When he did, he grabbed the glass and quickly gulped it down as well.

"Tough night?" Jimmy inquired.

"As tough as they come," Roger replied. It hadn't been easy to get rid of Patrick's body and car. At first, Roger had considered burning them, but then had thought better of it. He'd shoved the body into the boot of Patrick's car and had driven it a few miles to an out of the way lake. It was into it that he'd pushed the car along with its contents. Without a car, it had been a long walk back to the cottage and by the end of it, he was thoroughly freezing. Unable to stand the empty cottage for a moment more, he'd jumped into his own car and driven straight back to town.

"Get me another one, will ya, Jimmy?" Roger called out, already feeling effect of his first two drinks.

"You sure are knocking them back tonight!" Jimmy exclaimed as he poured Roger his third drink.

"Good old Irish therapy." Roger simply replied, reaching for the drink as soon as it had been poured.

"Wanna talk about it?" Jimmy asked solicitously.

Roger heaved a sigh.

"Come on, man, It'll do you good to get it off your chest," Jimmy encouraged.

"All right, but you can't breathe a word of this, to anyone!"

"Mum's the word," Jimmy promised.

oOo

Paul Temple couldn't sleep. He'd spent most of the day waiting for the phone to ring. Sir Graham Forbes however had yet to get back to him. Paul had also half expected Steve's kidnapper to make contact with him, but that hope too had been unfulfilled so far. Detective Harrington had called on him in the afternoon.

The detective had not been too pleased to have received a telephone call from Agent Tobin of the FBI, but other than express his displeasure, he had had little information to impart. There was still no trace of either of the missing women and all avenue's explored so far had been dead ends. Paul had been tempted to share what he knew about Xavier with the NYPD man, but had thought better of it. As long as Steve was missing, possibly in the hands of the blackmailer himself, he dared not go through official channels.

Now it was well into evening and Paul was restlessly pacing the room once more. He was startled however by a knock on the door. Swiftly crossing the room to open it, Paul came face to face with one of the porters of the hotel.

"What it is?" he barked, his tone tense and abrupt. He had hoped it would be the detective bearing good news, but instead the porter informed him that a young woman was waiting downstairs and insisted on seeing him.

"What name did she say?" Paul asked.

"Jocelyn Raynor."

Paul didn't know anyone by that name, but betrayed no hint of surprise. He agreed to see her and followed the porter down into the lobby.

Jocelyn Raynor was fidgeting agitatedly, a tense frown on a face that only lightened marginally when she spotted Temple.

"Mr Temple!" she exclaimed.

"What can I do for you, Miss Raynor?" Paul inquired politely, hoping that she wasn't a reporter on track of a story.

"I need to speak to you, Mr Temple."

"Well, what about?"

"It's about your wife. Or at least I think it is," she didn't meet his eyes.

Paul was as if electrified by her words. All fatigue and weariness he had felt just moments ago vanished instantly. "Do you know where my wife is?" Paul had to restrain himself to just one question, not wanting to scare the already frightened-seeming woman.

"I can't tell you here," she shot a nervous glance at their surroundings.

"We can go into the lounge," Paul offered, trying not to let his anxiety and impatience get the better of him. "Would that be all right?"

"Yes, that would be better," Jocelyn replied gratefully and followed Paul into the lounge. He indicated a seat and she sat down. Paul followed suit. She looked around, still seeming anxious, as if she expected to have been followed.

"Do you know where my wife is?" Paul repeated his earlier question.

The woman nodded. "Yes, I do. She is at a mansion somewhere near Glennview, a small town in upstate New York. I don't know exactly where, but it was fairly long drive from the Glennview station by car."

Paul looked at her quizzically.

"You see, I'm a nurse. I usually find work through an agency. Yesterday, the agency telephoned me and told me that they had a job for me. All I had to do was take the train out to Glennview and my employer, a Mr Williams, would pick me up there. I did as I was asked and a man picked me up at the station. When we arrived at the mansion, a woman told me that I was to care for her sister who was recovering from a horseback riding accident. I didn't recognize the woman at first, but now I'm sure that it was Beverly Kingston - the actress! The papers said she'd been kidnapped and yet there she was!"

"And what about the woman you were supposed to look after?" Paul asked, struggling to keep his anxiety in check and maintain his self-composure while Jocelyn Raynor told her story.

"I didn't recognize her, but when I changed her bandages, I could see that she had been in no horseback riding accident. She had been shot. Then I remembered reading in the papers this morning about that other woman who they said had been kidnapped with Beverly Kingston. I wouldn't have cared about that, you see, because I really need this job, but when I told her, Mrs Kingston, I mean that her sister needed to go to a hospital because she was running a fever and Mrs Kingston told me to shut up and go back to work, I knew that something was wrong. I waited until everyone was gone and then I snuck out."

Though the nurse's account was somewhat muddled, Paul was able to extract the salient points from it quickly.

"Then you came here? Why not just phone for the police?" There was a note of reproach in his voice that he'd been unable to suppress.

"I'm sorry, I really am, I couldn't do that," she blushed furiously. "I just couldn't."

Paul didn't press her for details. It was probably that she had been in trouble with the law before and had been chosen for that very reason, her employers thinking that she wouldn't dare to go to the authorities even if good pay didn't silence her.

"Please, you must keep me out of this. I can't be mixed up in this," Ms Raynor pleaded, returning Paul's attention to their conversation.

"I'm not sure I can do that," the novelist replied slowly. "By the way, if you didn't know the location of the mansion, how did you get back here?" The inconsistency in her story had struck him before, but he wanted her to tell him what she knew before he taxed her with it.

"Oh, I knew you wouldn't believe me!" she cried. "You think I'm mixed up in this don't you?" She sounded close to tears and Paul noticed that they were starting to attract attention from the other patrons in the lounge.

"No, that's not what I think," he said soothingly. In reality he didn't know yet what to think. Her story made sense, but only up to a point. He was determined to find out what she wasn't telling him or he might just find himself walking into a trap. "But I need to know everything you know and if you know how to get to the mansion, I'm going to need your help."

"I can't go back there," she wailed, burying her face in her hands. Paul felt acutely uncomfortable faced with the display of emotion, but wondered at the same time how genuine it was.

"Nobody is saying that you have to go back there. I all want is to know how to get there," he asked, his voice hard. He couldn't allow himself to be taken in by a few tears. And even if she was genuinely upset, Paul had bigger worries than the possibility that he might hurt her feelings.

"I followed the tracks to the road, that's all I did," she told him. "When I got to the road, I just looked for the tracks and started walking along the road in that direction." Her sudden calm after the fit of hysterics struck Paul as unnatural. Unless of course, the hysterics had been solely for his benefit.

"So there is no road leading to the mansion?" he asked, pushing his doubts to the back of his mind for the time being.

"Not real road no, just a sort of dirt track," she explained.

"Then you'll have to come with us," Paul decided. "I'm going to call the police and..."

He was cut off by her tearful protests. "I told you, I can't go back there," she managed, choking back a sob before starting to cry in earnest. Once again Paul noticed that people had started staring, but he paid them no mind.

Paul moved to get up to place the call to Detective Harrington, but then hesitated. He had no choice but to leave Jocelyn alone while he went to telephone. There was a significant chance that she would take off the moment he turned his back to her. Still, he could hardly chain her to the table. Of course, he could tell the hotel staff what had happened and, in case they did indeed believe this rather extraordinary story, he could ask them to keep an eye on her. After brief consideration however, he decided against it. If she wanted to run, he would let her. Whether she had told him to truth or not, he had no choice but to pursue this lead. If there was a mansion as she had described, the local police in Glennview was bound to know about it, so her presence wouldn't be essential after all.

oOo

"Jocelyn! Jocelyn!" Beverly Kingston called out for the third time. As before there was no answer. Beverly got up from her armchair, resigned to having to find the wretched woman herself when the door to the sitting room opened, revealing Rodrick, the Kingston's faithful manservant.

"You haven't seen Jocelyn by any chance?" she barked at him angrily.

"No ma'am, I have not," Roderick, who had been in their employ for years and wasn't easily fazed by her stormy temper, didn't betray any hint of being offended.

"Well, go look for her! I want to see her immediately!" Beverly ordered. Rodrick, looking as placid as ever, quietly withdrew.

Beverly began to pace. She had the distinct feeling that evening would bring even more unwelcome surprises than she'd already had that day. While she didn't feel grief over Patrick's death, it had been an unnecessary complication that left her with a problem and more than a few unanswered questions. She could only hope that Williams had managed to dispose of his body all right, the fellow was none too bright. At any rate, he should have been back by now, and his absence further fueled her uneasiness.

"Mrs Kingston?" Rodrick's voice shook her from her worries.

"Well?" she asked, already suspecting what the answer was going to be.

"I was unable to locate Jocelyn. Her hat and coat have disappeared as well," he reported matter-of-factly. Beverly could feel the fury rising in her. How dare that miserable creature run away? She grew livid just thinking about her.

Rodrick cleared his throat, reminding her of his continued presence.

"That will be all, Rodrick." Beverly dismissed him casually, all the while already pondering where exactly Jocelyn's disappearance left her.

It all depended, she thought, what the silly girl was going to do. Beverly doubted she would go to the police, not with that matter of a young girl's death at her last post hanging over her. Besides, she could have just called the police from the phone here, if that was what she wanted. But she might tell someone what she had seen. Maybe she had recognized her, after all, Beverly had been fairly well-known as a film actress and despite changing her hair, people were bound to recognize her. In that case, Jocelyn might even go to the papers. What a disaster that would be, assuming that anyone would believe her story. It might just interest an enterprising young journalist enough to investigate the story and make his way out to this god-forsaken place. And if it wasn't a journalist it would be some other busy-body. It simply wouldn't do. Beverly walked over to a small writing desk. Opening the top drawer, she took out a thick manilla envelope along with a smaller one. It would have to be, whether she liked it or not. If she had learned anything in her years if struggling for the big break, it was that she had to think of herself first.

oOo

"Do you have any idea when he'll be back then?" Paul didn't try to hide his considerable irritation at the fact that all the officer manning the phone at Harrington's precinct would tell him that the detective was currently in the field and could not be reached.

"I'm sorry sir, but it's impossible to say when Detective Harrington will be back, he is currently.."

"In the field, yes, I know," Paul finished the sentence, curling his left hand into a fist in frustration.

"Would you like to leave a message?" the officer on the other end of the line added after a short pause. He sounded rather flustered.

"No, thank you." Paul hung up without another word. He walked over to the reception desk.

"I need to hire a car as quickly as possible," he told the head porter. "Where can I go?"

"There is a garage down the block, sir. Just go out the main entrance and turn left," the porter informed him, "You can hire a car there."

Paul thanked him. He hurried back into the lounge, but wasn't surprised to see Jocelyn Raynor gone. Paul wasn't surprised in the least. She had most likely left as soon as his back was turned. He would simply have to find Steve without her then.

TBC