LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER THREE--PROTECTION OF PROPERTY

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      Foam did not need the aid of Euclid to reject the vanishing theory as absurd. If the girl were actually lost inside Pomerania House, it stood to reason that she must be still there--in the flesh. It seemed to him that the mystery admitted one of two explanations.

      The first was that Evelyn Cross had slipped away voluntarily out of the house. Unfortunately, the chances of this were remote, since it involved choosing the identical blind moment of four witnesses, all endowed with normal senses.

      The second was that she had been kidnapped--in which case Goya must be the agent. This, too, was not a watertight theory. Apart from the necessity of co-operation with another person--or persons--in Pomerania House, Goya would have to devise as ingenious and foolproof hiding place for her victim, in view of the inevitable search of her premises.

      Foam considered that such a crime would be highly hazardous, but he had no choice in the matter he had either to find the girl--dead or alive--or to disprove her father's suspicions. Cross was in no mental state to wait patiently for proof that Evelyn had merely slipped away. Besides, delay was dangerous because, in the worst case, the girl would be gagged and trussed-up in a restricted space, with a shortage of air.

      At the far end of her room, Madame Goya sat at a small table near the radiator, stitching gloves. An adjustable lamp threw a cone of light upon her work, but left her face in shadow. Behind her were closely drawn window curtains of lined brown velvet.

      Foam looked around for the evidence of a bed other than the inadequate divan, before he asked a question.

      "Do you sleep here, madame?"

      "I?" repeated the lady incredulously. "What a grim idea. I have a flat in St. John's Wood--This is merely a lock-up place of business."

      It did not suggest a workshop to Foam's suspicious eye. It was so tidy and free from snippets or threads that he suspected the glove-making to be a blind to some dingier profession. At the same time he remembered the major's statement about objectionable tenants, so concluded that the line could not be too obvious.

      He turned to the major.

      "You searched the room thoroughly, of course?" he asked, "What about the window?"

      "It was closed and the shutters bolted," replied Major Pomeroy. "This room is nearly hermetically sealed--Madame prefers to work by artificial light."

      Foam's nose confirmed the statement. The temperature was that of a forcing frame, while the air smelt of burnt pastilles, rotten apples and fog. He glanced at the open door of the cupboard wardrobe which revealed a fur coat on a stretcher, and then crossed to the long mirror.

      "Sure there is no door hidden behind this?" he asked as he tried to shake the frame.

      "Look for yourself," invited the major. "The rawl-plugs are fixed as tight as a vice and there are no signs of tampering. You can take it from me that I've examined and tested every fixture personally."

      "Not enough," declared Foam. "They must all come down."

      He was surprised by the relief in Cross' eyes.

      "I'll say this for you. Major," he said. "You know how to pick them. This young man seems to understand." Holding Foam's arm in a powerful clutch, as though to enforce his sympathy, he went on speaking. "You understand, don't you? I'm a stranger over here in a strange city and my daughter disappears in a strange house; not a friend near. No one I can trust or count on. It's like banging at a locked door. I can't get in."

      "Everything is being done," said the major in a soothing voice, "I've rung up my builder and asked him to come over. He should be here soon."

      "Soon?" repeated Cross with savage scorn. "Stop spoon-feeding me with dill water. While we're wasting time, what's happening to her? It's easy for you to be calm, but it's my girl that's gone. I'll break up the place if I have to do it myself."

      As he spoke he gripped the mirror and tried to tear it from the wall.

      In spite of his acquired crust and his ingrained suspicion of emotion, Foam felt a certain sympathy with his client. He had recently lost a favourite dog while he was exercising it in one of the parks. He soon regained it since his profession gave him a pull in dealing with dog thieves; but he still remembered the sharp thud of his heart when no cocker spaniel answered to his whistle and the horrible emptiness of the expanse of grass.

      In order to give Cross time to recover, he turned to Major Pomeroy. "Who is this builder you've sent for?" he asked.

      "He's the man who does all my conversion work," explained the major. "He's only in a small way of business, but he's honest and capable. His name's Morgan. To save time"--he stressed the words for Cross' benefit--"I told him to bring along a couple of men with picks, just in case it may be necessary."

      "Good. I'll see if he's come."

      Glad of an excuse to leave the torrid room, Foam went outside onto the landing and looked down into the hall. As he waited, he took note of his surroundings. The upper portion of the mansion had been redecorated recently, for the rough parchment-tinted paper was clean; but there were a number of scratches on the enamel paint of the staircase wall, evidently caused by the arrival and removal of furniture.

      The damage seemed to point to the conclusion that, in spite of his system, the major's tenancies were short-lived. He was beginning to wonder the cause when the major gave him a practical proof of his consideration. He came out of No. 16 and stood beside Foam.

      "It's fair to put you wise," he said in a rapid whisper. "I can't vouch for Cross. I know nothing about him. Better watch your interests and ask for a cheque in advance."

      "Thanks. That's--"

      Foam broke off as Cross appeared. Biting on a cigarette and blowing it up into continuous smoke he began to tramp the landing as though unable to keep still. As he passed No. 15, the door was opened and a dark girl, wearing slacks, limped outside.

      With her arrival, a new element entered into Foam's life. He was one of those men who invest the past with glamour and whose boyhood was his happiest memory. Although he still lived in the same house--and liked it very much--it had shrunk and changed for the worse. The meals were not so good as they used to be. His parents had aged regrettably. The rest of the family had grown into uncongenial adults with families of their own. And the weather--which used to be perpetual summer--had gone to blazes.

      Among the friends of his boyhood was the gardener who had borne a resemblance to the porter of Pomerania House; but his most treasured recollection was of a black-haired schoolgirl who had spent one holiday at the house next door. She was from the country and she introduced him to new adventures of her own invention.

      He never forgot that enchanted summer or the girl who taught him to play. He never saw her again, but the instant he caught sight of the tenant of No. 15, he felt a rush

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