SHE FADED INTO AIR (A Thriller). Ethel Lina White
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should say it's crystal gazing and a spot of blackmail," she replied. "Crowds of society people steal up to consult her. My guess is she's in with a bunch of business crooks and gets tips from tainted sources. I mean she bets on certainties and sometimes sells the dope to her clients. She knows which horse is going to be pulled and which round the heavyweight is going to sleep."
"Have you heard of any trouble with the police?"
"No. She'd be too cautious. When I asked her to tell me my fortune, you should have seen the dirty look she gave me."
Although he believed the case was finished, Foam continued to tap her feminine intuition for the pleasure of watching each change of expression which swept over her vivid face. "Have you any slant on Miss Power?" he asked.
"No. If she's what she looks like, you know as much about her as I."
"The major, then?"
"Oh, he's a gentleman--even when I'm late with my rent. But he's like a gull after money. He sees it miles away and swoops."
"Thanks. Thanks for everything. I've got to get back to the office."
She looked after him wistfully when he reached the door. "It's been fun, hasn't it?" she said. "Come in again and tell me the end of the story."
"I'll do that...But this is the end of the case." Foam spoke confidently and with conviction.
On his return to the office, he outlined the affair to his senior--Mr. Gribble--who agreed that Cross had been fooled, not so much by his daughter as by his own conscience. Such a fury of suspicion and fear indicated a murky past when it was based on the certainty of enemy action.
"That's his own affair," was the cynical official opinion. "Find out if his cheque is good."
Another case had broken, so Foam worked late. Just as he was about to leave, he rang up Cross' hotel, merely for confirmation.
"Is that the bureau?" he asked. "Can you tell me whether Miss Evelyn Cross is in?"
"No," replied the clerk. "She went out this afternoon and she's not come back yet."
Foam had lived that moment before...For an instant, he felt a sense of frustration and loss, as though he were staring again at a stretch of empty grass and whistling to a dog which was already far in the distance.
He shook off the impression. Opening his notebook, he reread the high-pressure jottings he had made in No. 15 on the characters in the case.
"Raphael Cross. Volcanic. Too good looking. Unfatherly, dark horse."
"Major Pomeroy lean, long faced, well dressed. Old school tie, decent instincts. God save the King."
"Madame Goya. White hair, dirty face. Fishy business. Wouldn't play cards with her."
"Miss Power. Blonde, solid, tweedy hard voice. Been to right school."
"Viola Green. Brunette. Too thin. Wears trousers. Anti-property bias. Stimulating."
It seemed to him a pitiably poor collection of drivel. Such a pallid crop of potted personalities was not worth, pencil or paper.
Yet there--under his eyes--were two separate clues which, later, were to help him towards a solution of the mystery.
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