Darker Than You Think Read Online Free PDF Page B

murmured silently, for he had learned to be cynical about
elaborate press releases. He would wait and see. Strolling through
the terminal building, he glimpsed April Bell's vivid hair in a phone
booth. Nobody in sight looked like her Aunt Agatha, and he reminded
himself to be skeptical of women, too.
    He
drank two cups of hot coffee at the lunch counter in the waiting
room; but the chill in him came from something colder than the raw
east wind, and it was still unthawed when a croaking loudspeaker
announced the arrival of the regular airliner. He hurried out to
catch Walraven.
    The
airliner taxied on past the dark transport where Mondrick waited, to
stop opposite the terminal building. Two or three businessmen got
off, and a dreamily sedate honeymoon couple. Walraven strutted
heavily down the steps at last, his brassy voice booming impressively
as he told the pert little air hostess about his contacts in
Washington.
    Walraven
struck an inflated pose for the Star photographer,
but he wouldn't be quoted on anything when Barbee tried to interview
him. Off the record, he was planning a strategy conference with his
great good friend, Preston Troy. He asked Barbee to stop at his old
law office for a drink just any time, but he had nothing for the
record. He tried to push his weak chin out again for the
photographer, and got into a taxi.
    Preston
Troy would supply the strategy, Barbee knew, and hire somebody to
write suitable words for the record. The truth about Walraven, as the
empty false front for Troy's own political ambitions, would make real
news. But not for the Star. Barbee
let him go and hurried back to Mondrick's transport.
    "Mama,
I'm afraid!" He heard the high voice of little Pat Quain from
the uneasy waiting group, and saw her held close in Nora's arms.
"What has happened to my Daddy?"
    "Sam's
all right." Nora didn't sound too sure. "Just wait, dear."
    Three
police cars had pulled up outside the steel fence. Half a dozen
uniformed men were already escorting the impatient reporters and
photographers toward the huge chartered plane, and two of them turned
to herd back the anxious relatives and friends.
    "Please,
officer!" Rowena Mondrick sounded almost frantic. "You must
let me stay. Marck's my husband, and he's in danger. I must be near,
to help him."
    "Sorry,
Mrs. Mondrick." The police sergeant was professionally firm.
"But we'll protect your husband— not that I see any cause
for all this alarm. The Foundation has asked us to clear the field.
Everybody except the press and radio people will have to move back."
    "No!"
she cried sharply. "Please—you can't understand!"
    The
officer took her arm.
    "Sorry,"
he said. "Please come quietly."
    "You
don't know anything," she whispered bitterly. "You can't
help—"
    Firmly,
the officer led her away.
    "Please
stay, Mother," little Pat was whispering stubbornly. "I
want to see my Daddy—and I will too know him."
    Herself
as pale as the frightened child, Nora Quain carried her back toward
the lights of the terminal building. Mama Spivak uttered a low
wailing cry and began to sob on the little tailor's shoulder. Old Ben
Chittum shook his black pipe in the other policeman's face, quavering
hotly: "Look here, officer. I've been praying two years for my
boy to get back alive from them dern deserts. And the Spivaks here
have spent more than they could really afford to ride the planes all
the way down from New York City. By golly, officer—"
    Barbee
caught his indignant arm.
    "Better
wait, Ben."
    The
old man limped after the others, muttering and scowling. Barbee
showed his press credentials, submitted to a swift search for
concealed arms, and joined the reporters gathered beneath the vast
wing of the transport. He found April Bell beside him.
    The
black kitten must have been returned to Aunt Agatha, after all, for
the snakeskin bag was closed now. Pale and breathless, the girl was
watching the high door of the plane with a feverish-seeming
intentness. She seemed to