“Let’s have a snack,” Phyllis said. Regretfully she took off the red hat, smoothed out the veil and put it down on a coffee table. Mr. Carter added another thread to his trout fly, examined it closely, then put it down and followed them into the kitchen.
While Phyllis made coffee, Mallen told the old man what had happened. Mr. Carter’s answer was typical.
“Try some fishing tomorrow and get it off your mind. Fishing, Jim, is more than a sport. Fishing is a way of life, and a philosophy as well. I like to find a quiet pool and sit on the banks of it. I figure, if there’s fish anywhere, they might as well be there.”
Phyllis smiled, watching Jim twist uncomfortably on his chair. There was no stopping her father once he got started. And anything would start him.
“Consider,” Mr. Carter went on, “a young executive. Someone like yourself, Jim—dashing through a hall. Common enough? But at the end of the last long corridor is a trout stream. Consider a politician. You certainly see enough of them in Albany. Briefcase in hand, worried—”
“That’s strange,” Phyllis said, stopping her father in mid-flight. She was holding an unopened bottle of milk in her hand.
“Look.” Their milk came from Stannerton Dairies. The green label on this bottle read: “Stanneron Daries.”
“And look.” She pointed. Under that, it read: “lisensed by the neW yoRK Bord of healthh.” It looked like a clumsy imitation of the legitimate label.
“Where did you get this?” Mallen asked.
“Why, I suppose from Mr. Elger’s store. Could it be an advertising stunt?”
“I despise the man who would fish with a worm,” Mr. Carter intoned gravely. “A fly—a fly is a work of art. But the man who’d use a worm would rob orphans and burn churches.”
“Don’t drink it,” Mallen said. “Let’s look over the rest of the food.”
There were three more counterfeited items. A candy bar which purported to be a Mello-Bite and had an orange label instead of the familiar crimson. There was a jar of Amerrican ChEEse, almost a third larger than the usual jars of that brand, and a bottle of SPArkling Watr.
“That’s very odd,” Mallen said, rubbing his jaw.
“I always throw the little ones back,” Mr. Carter said. “It’s not sporting to keep them, and that’s part of a fisherman’s code. Let them grow, let them ripen, let them gain experience. It’s the old, crafty ones I want, the ones who skulk under logs, who dart away at the first sight of the angler. Those are the lads who put up a fight!”
“I’m going to take this stuff back to Elger,” Mallen said, putting the items into a paper bag. “If you see anything else like it, save it.”
“Old Creek is the place,” Mr. Carter said. “That’s where they hide out.”
Saturday morning was bright and beautiful. Mr. Carter ate an early breakfast and left for Old Creek, stepping lightly as a boy, his battered fly-decked hat set at a jaunty angle. Jim Mallen finished coffee and went over to the Carmichael house.
The car was still in the garage. The windows were still open, the Bridge table set, and every light was on, exactly as it had been the night before. It reminded Mallen of a story he had read once about a ship under full sail, with everything in order—but not a soul on board.
“I wonder if there’s anyone we can call?” Phyllis asked when he returned home. “I’m sure there’s something wrong.”
“Sure. But who?” They were strangers in the project. They had a nodding acquaintance with three or four families, but no idea who might know the Carmichaels.
The problem was settled by the ringing of the telephone.
“If it’s anyone from around here,” Jim said as Phyllis answered it, “ask them.”
“Hello?”
“Hello. I don’t believe you know me. I’m Marian Carpenter, from down the block. I was just wondering—has my husband dropped over there?” The metallic telephone voice managed to convey worry, fear.
“Why no. No one’s been in this morning.”
“I see.” The thin voice hesitated.
“Is there anything I can do?” Phyllis asked.
“I don’t understand it,” Mrs. Carpenter said. “George—my husband—had breakfast with me this morning. Then he went upstairs for his jacket. That was the last I saw of him.”
“Oh—”
“I’m sure he didn’t come back downstairs. I went up to see what was holding him—we were going for a drive—and he wasn’t there. I searched the whole house. I thought he might be playing a practical joke, although George has never joked in his life—so I looked under beds and in the closets. Then I looked in the cellar, and I asked next door, but no one’s seen him. I thought he might have visited you—he was speaking about it—”
Phyllis explained to her about the Carmichaels’ disappearance. They talked for a few seconds longer, then hung up.
“Jim,” Phyllis said, “I don’t like it. You’d better tell the police about the Carmichaels.”
“We’ll look pretty foolish when they turn up visiting friends in Albany.”
“We’ll have to chance it.”
Jim found the number and dialed, but the line was busy.
“I’ll go down.”
“And take this stuff with you.” She handed him the paper bag.
Police Captain Lesner was a patient, ruddy-faced man who had been listening to an unending stream of complaints all night and most of the morning. His patrolmen were tired, his sergeants were tired, and he was the tiredest of all. Nevertheless, he ushered Mr. Mallen into his office and listened to his story.
“I want you to write down everything you’ve told me,” Lesner said when he was through. “We got a call on the Carmichaels from a neighbor late last night. Been trying to locate them. Counting Mrs. Carpenter’s husband, that makes ten in two days.”
“Ten what?”
“Disappearances.”
“My Lord,” Mallen breathed softly. He shifted the paper bag. “All from this town?”
“Every one,” Captain Lesner said harshly, “from the Vainsville housing project in this town. As a matter of fact, from four square blocks in that project.” He named the streets.
“I live there,” Mallen said.
“So do I.”
“Have you any idea who the—the kidnapper could be?” Mallen asked.
“We don’t think it’s a kidnapper,” Lesner said, lighting his twentieth cigarette for the day. “No ransom notes. No selection. A good many of the missing persons wouldn’t be worth a nickel to a kidnapper. And wholesale like that—not a chance!”
“A maniac then?”
“Sure. But how has he grabbed whole families? Or grown men, big as you? And where has he hidden them, or their bodies?” Lesner ground out the cigarette viciously. “I’ve got men searching every inch of this town. Every cop within twenty miles of here is looking. The State police are stopping cars. And we haven’t found a thing.”
“Oh, and here’s something else.” Mallen showed him the counterfeited items.
“Again, I don’t know,” Captain Lesner confessed sourly. “I haven’t had much time for this stuff. We’ve had other complaints—” The telephone rang, but Lesner ignored it.
“It looks like a black-market scheme. I’ve sent some stuff like it to Albany for analysis. I’m trying to trace outlets. Might be foreign. As a matter of fact, the FBI might—damn that phone!”
He yanked it out of its cradle.
“Lesner speaking. Yes...yes. You’re sure? Of course, Mary. I’ll be right over.” He hung up. His red face was suddenly drained of color.
“That was my wife’s sister,” he announced. “My wife’s missing!”
Mallen drove home at breakneck speed. He slammed on the brakes, almost cracking his head against the windshield, and ran into the house.
“Phyllis!” he shouted. Where was she? Oh, God, he thought. If she’s gone—
“Anything wrong?” Phyllis asked, coming out of the kitchen.
“I thought—” He grabbed her and hugged until she squealed.