She Faded into Air

Book 488: Murder Room

by Ethel Lina White

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

At four o'clock on a misty October afternoon in London, Evelyn Cross, blonde, nineteen and fashionably dressed, vanishes into thin air. Evelyn is the daughter of wealthy Raphael Cross. She has been seen going into the flat of Madame Goya, a fortune teller in Mayfair, but in response to Mr Cross's distracted enquiries, Madame Goya swears that his daughter never entered her flat. Then another millionaire's daughter goes missing in the same block of flats, and Cross decides to employ the services of Alan Foam, Private Investigator. But if Foam thinks this is a straightforward case of find the victim, he'll need to think again ...

Release date: March 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

THE story of the alleged disappearance of Evelyn Cross was too fantastic for credence. According to the available evidence, she melted into thin air,
shortly after four o’clock, on a foggy afternoon in late October. One minute, she was visible in the flesh—a fashionable blonde, nineteen years of age and weighing about a hundred and
twenty pounds.

The next minute, she was gone.

The scene of this incredible fade-out was an eighteenth-century mansion in Mayfair. The Square was formerly a residential area of fashion and dignity. It had escaped a doom of complete
reconstruction, but some of the houses were divided into high-class offices and flats.

This particular residence had been renamed “Pomerania House” by its owner, Major Pomeroy. He speculated in building-property and had his estate office, as well as his private flat,
on the premises.

The ex-officer might be described as a business-gentleman. Besides being correctly documented—Winchester, Oxford and the essential clubs—he had not blotted his financial or moral
credit. In appearance he conformed to military type, being erect, spare and well-dressed, with a small dark toothbrush mustache. His voice was brisk and his eyes keen, in contrast with a nonchalant
manner. He had two affectations—a monocle and a fresh flower daily in his buttonhole.

Shortly after four o’clock on the afternoon of Evelyn Cross’s alleged disappearance, he was in the hall of Pomerania House, leaning against the door of his flat, when a large car
stopped in the road outside. The porter recognized it as belonging to a prospective client who had called previously at the estate office to inquire about office accommodation. With the
recollection of a generous tip, he hurried outside to open the door.

Before he could reach it, Raphael Cross had sprung out and was standing on the pavement. He was a striking figure, with the muscular development of a pugilist and a face expressive of a powerful
personality. Its ruthless force—combined with very fair curling hair and ice-blue eyes—made him resemble a conception of some old Nordic god, although the comparison flattered him in
view of his heavy chin and bullneck.

He crashed an entrance into the hall, but his daughter, Evelyn, lingered to take a cigarette from her case. She was very young, with a streamlined figure, shoulder-length blonde hair and a round
small-featured face. With a total lack of convention she chatted freely to the porter as he struck a match to light her cigarette.

“Confidentially, we shouldn’t have brought our dumbbell of a chauffeur over from the States. He’s put us on the spot with a traffic cop.”

“Can’t get used to our rule of the road,” suggested the porter who instinctively sided with Labor.

“It is a cockeyed rule to keep to the left,” admitted Evelyn. “We took a terrible bump in one jam. I’m sure I heard our number plate rattle. You might inspect
the damage.”

To humor her, the porter strolled to the rear of the car and made a pretense of examining the casualty before he beckoned the chauffeur to the rescue. When he returned to the hall, the Major had
already met his visitors and was escorting them up the stairs.

The porter gazed speculatively after them, watching the drifting smoke of the girl’s cigarette and the silver-gold blur of her hair in the dusk. The skirt of her tight black suit was
unusually short so that he had an unrestricted view of her shapely legs and of perilously high-heeled shoes.

As he stood there, he was joined by an attractive young lady with ginger hair and a discriminating eye. Her official title was “Miss Simpson,” but she was generally known in the
building by her adopted name of “Marlene.” She was nominally private secretary to a company promoter who had his office on the second floor; but as the post was a sinecure, she spent
much of her time in the ladies’ cloakroom on the ground floor, improving her appearance for conquest.

“Admiring the golden calf?” she asked, appraising the quality of the silken legs herself before they disappeared around the bend of the staircase.

“She’s got nothing on you there, Marlene,” declared the porter. He had a daughter who was a student at a commercial school and was biased in favor of typists.

“Except her stockings, daddy. Where’s the boss taking them?”

“I was asking myself that. The gent’s a party after an office. There’s only a small let vacant, right at the top, and that’s not in his class.”

“Maybe the girl’s going to Goya to get her fortune told,” suggested the ornamental typist, tapping her teeth to suppress a yawn.

For nearly ten minutes she lingered at the foot of the stairs, chatting to the porter and on the outlook to intercept any drifting male. The place, however, was practically deserted, so
presently she mounted the flight on her way back to her office. She paused when she reached the landing of the first floor, where there were three mahogany doors in line, each embellished with a
chromium numeral.

Just outside the middle door—No. 16—the Major stood, talking to Raphael Cross. Impressed by the striking appearance of the fair stranger, she patted the wave of her ginger hair and
lingered in the hope of making a fresh contact.

Consequently she became a witness to the beginning of the amazing drama which was later entered in Alan Foam’s casebook as “Disappearance of Evelyn Cross.”

Although she was friendly with the Major, on this occasion he was neither responsive nor helpful. He merely returned her smile mechanically. Only a keen observer might have noticed a flicker of
satisfaction in his hawk-like eye, as though he had been expecting her.

Then he started the show, like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, by pulling out his watch.

“Your daughter’s keeping you a dickens of a time,” he remarked to Cross. “I thought she said she’d be only a minute. You’re a patient man.”

“Used to it.” Cross grimaced in Continental fashion. “I’ll give her a ring.”

He prodded the electric bell of No. 16 with a powerful forefinger. After a short interval it was opened by the tenant of the apartment—Madame Goya.

She was stout, shortish and middle-aged. Her blued-white permanently waved hair did not harmonize with an incongruous dusky make-up and orange lipstick. Her eyes were dark, treacly and
protruding, in spite of being set in deep pouches. She wore an expensive black gown which flattered her figure, and a beautiful emerald ring.

“Will you tell my daughter I’m ready to go,” said Cross.

“Pardon?” asked the woman aggressively. “Your daughter?”

When Cross amplified his request, she shook her head.

“Miss Cross was here only to make an appointment. She left some time ago.”

“Left?” echoed Cross. “Which way?”

“Through this door, of course.”

He stared at her as though bewildered.

“But the Major and I have been standing outside,” he said, “and I’ll swear she never came out.”

“Definitely not,” agreed Major Pomeroy. “Are you sure she’s not still inside, Madame?”

“If you don’t believe me, come in and see for yourself,” invited Madame Goya.

Throbbing with curiosity, the ornamental typist crept to the closed door of No. 16, after the men had gone inside. She heard voices raised in angry excitement and the sound of furniture being
bumped about. Presently the Major came out alone. His face wore a dazed expression as he took hold of her elbow.

“You’ve just come upstairs, Beautiful, haven’t you?” he asked. “I suppose you did not notice a blonde in black, coming down?”

“No,” she replied. “I didn’t meet a pink elephant either. It’s not my day for seeing things. What’s all the blinking mystery?”

“Hanged if I know,” said the Major helplessly. “Boss out, isn’t he? Be a good girl and nip around to every office and flat in the place. Ask if anyone’s seen her.
They haven’t. I know that. But I’ve got to satisfy her father.”

The ornamental typist made no objection to being useful, for a change. She spun out her inquiries to a series of social calls throughout Pomerania House. True to the Major’s forecast, no
one had seen a loose blonde, so presently she returned to the first floor.

Raphael Cross—the fair stranger who had attracted her fancy, had come out of No. 16 and was pacing the landing as though on the verge of distraction. Her first glance at him told her that
it was no time for overtures. His features were locked in rigid lines and his eyes looked both fierce and baffled.

He glared after the figure of the porter as the man returned to his station in the hall. The Major spoke to him in a low voice.

“You heard what the fellow said. I’ve known him for years, before I employed him. He’s definitely reliable.”

“The hell he is,” growled Cross. “Someone’s lying. Where’s my girl?”

“Oh, we’ll find her. I admit it’s an extraordinary affair. Almost uncanny. I’m at a loss to account for it myself. But you may be sure there’s some simple
explanation.”

“I know that. This is a put-up job. There’s someone behind all of this. It’s an infernal conspiracy.”

Major Pomeroy stiffened perceptibly, while the sympathy died from his eyes.

“Whom do you suspect?” he asked coldly.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve got my girl back. I don’t leave this ruddy place without her. Order that porter to see to it that no one goes out of this building until
there’s been a systematic search through.”

“Certainly. . . . Shall I ring up the police?”

The question checked Cross’s hysteria like a snowball thrown in his face. He hesitated and gnawed his lip for some seconds before he made his decision.

“No, Pomeroy.” His voice was low. “This may be—kidnaping. If it is, the police are best kept out.”

The Major’s hostility melted instantly.

“I understand,” he said in a feeling voice. “Come down to my office and I’ll ring up a reliable private detective agency.”

Halfway down the stairs, he returned to caution Marlene.

“Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut—there’s a good girl.”

“Cross my heart.”

Within two minutes after the men had entered the Major’s office, she was telling the whole story to the tenant of the flatlet, No. 15. This lady—according to her visiting card
inserted in the slot of the door—was named “Viola Green,” while her occupation was supposed to be that of a mannequin.

She limped out on to the landing, her hands in her pockets and a cigarette between her lips; yet in spite of her pose of nonchalance, there was no hint of stereotyped boredom in her face. Her
expression in its vivid expectancy was a challenge to the future, as though she claimed the maximum from life and refused to admit to compromise.

She was distinctly attractive, although both face and figure were somewhat too thin. Her short black hair had bright brown gleams and her eyes were hazel-green. She wore black slacks, a
purple-blue pullover and rubbed silver sandals.

Although the majority of males in Pomerania House were on friendly terms with Marlene Simpson, the women avoided speaking to her. Viola Green was the exception. She was not only unhampered by
snobbery or moral criticism, but she was responsive to a psychic bond between them.

Both girls were held in allegiance to the lure of the profession. Viola had studied at an academy of dramatic art, while Marlene had toured the Provinces as a glamour girl in a cheap revue.
Total lack of success had forced them into uncongenial jobs, but their thwarted instincts drew them together to discuss the stars of stage and screen with passionate interest.

On this occasion, Viola only wanted to hear the scenario of the drama of the first-floor landing.

“So what?” she asked, with an economy of language familiar to Marlene.

She listened to the story with wide-eyed openmouthed interest, but at its end, she made the requisite ribald comment.

“Well, I’ve heard of people wanting to reduce quickly, but that’s overdoing it. . . . Was she kidnaped?”

“That’s what it looks like to me,” replied the ornamental typist. “I saw her go up and I was mucking about in the hall all the time afterward. But she never came down,
unless she’s the Invisible Man.”

“What’s your guess?” asked Viola.

“I believe Goya stunned and gagged her. She’d about ten minutes to play with. Then she hid her in a cubbyhole behind the paneling. There might be one behind the mirror or at the back
of the clothes closet. But the blonde’s father swears he won’t go until she is found, so he’ll soon scoop her out. . . . Oh boy, you should see the father. Hundred-percent Aryan
and like an earthquake. He’s got that look in his eye that tells you he knows all the answers.”

Viola, who was growing bored, distracted her attention.

“Your telephone’s been ringing for ages,” she said.

“Yes, I heard it,” commented Marlene. “Sounds quite profane. I seem to recognize my master’s voice. Perhaps I’d better listen to his little trouble. See you later.
By-by.”

She mounted the stairs in a leisurely fashion while Viola stood and gazed down into the hall. About this time, when dusk blurred its modern improvements, the old mansion had power to fascinate
her. She did not recall the patched and powdered ghosts of Berkeley Square, but only the lately receded tide of the last century, as she thought of the families who had lived private lives within
those walls.

In those spacious days, the offices had been double drawing rooms where parties were held. Girls in white tulle frocks had sat on the stairs and flirted with their partners behind feather fans.
Children had peeped down enviously from between the banisters.

But now the clocks were stopped and the music stilled. Sighing at the thought, she limped across to the tall windows at the end of the landing. Outside, the Square garden was spectral with
misted shadows and tremulous with tattered leaves shaking from the plane trees. In the distance a sports car hooted through the darkness.

It was driven by Alan Foam who was on his way to investigate the alleged disappearance of Evelyn Cross.

Viola was still gripped by the story, although her common sense rejected it as nonsense. At that time she was yearning after her old gods and suffering from histrionic starvation. Unable to
resist the chance of dramatizing herself, she stretched out her hands and groped in the air.

“Lost girl,” she whispered. “Where are you?”

As she waited, the lights were turned on throughout the building. She heard the faint tapping of typewriters and the distant ringing of telephone bells. The atmosphere of Pomerania House was
entirely normal—commercial and financial.

There was no warning wave from the future to tell her that this was a prelude to a moment charged with horror, when she would cry out in anguish to someone who was not there and get no answer
from the empty air.

WHEN Alan Foam was asked why he had become a private detective he explained that he liked solving riddles and wanted occupation which would take him
out-of-doors. His original ambition had been the Secret Service, but circumstances forced him to accept his father’s compromise of a share in the firm of Girdlestone & Gribble.

On the whole he was disappointed with the work. Instead of adventures, his main activities were protecting people from blackmail and aiding them to procure divorce. In the course of a few years
he became tough and cynical, with no illusions as to the fragrance of hotel bedrooms and with a conviction that the human species had evolved the most deadly type of bloodsucking parasite.

At times when his mind rebelled against its storage of gross details, he considered the antidote suggested by his mother.

“Why don’t you marry, Alan?”

“Waiting for the right girl,” he told her. “I’ve checked too many hotel registers.”

“Well, hurry up and find her.” She added inconsequently, “You used to be such a dear little boy.”

There were times, however, when he was keenly interested in his work, especially when his enterprise had been recognized by his superiors. It was after one of these rare occasions that he leaped
to the telephone and tried to disentangle the statement from Major Pomeroy’s secretary.

It appeared so unlike the routine case of disappearance that he was afraid it was too good to be true.

“You say she’s gone—but she never left the building?” he queried.

“Well, it sounded like that when they were both shouting at me,” replied the girl doubtfully. “But it doesn’t make sense. I suppose I got it wrong.”

“Never mind. I’m on my way.”

As Foam scorched through the dun shadows of the Square, he was struck by its derelict appearance. It seemed darkened by a pall of antiquity and decay. The old houses might have been barnacled
hulks of vessels stranded in a dry dock by the receded tide of fashion.

When he approached Pomerania House, it suddenly glowed with lighted windows. A large and powerful car was parked outside, while the porter stood on the pavement, fraternally scanning the stop
press in the chauffeur’s paper.

Following his custom, Foam looked keenly at both men. The chauffeur was a clumsy Hercules, showing a section of standardized glum face below his goggles. The porter appealed more to Foam as a
type of labor. He was elderly with a square sensible face and steady blue eyes.

He did not return Foam’s approval, for he looked at him sourly. The detective understood the reason for his instinctive antipathy. He knew that he was regarded as a by-product of the
police force and consequently to be avoided like a mild form of plague.

The porter stiffened as he spoke to the chauffeur in his official voice.

“Your guv’nor says not to wait for him. He may be kept here till midnight.”

“Am I to come back and fetch Miss Evelyn?” asked the chauffeur.

His voice was tinctured with curiosity, but the porter was not to be drawn.

“I’ve given you the message,” he said.

After the car had driven off, he spoke to Foam.

“From the Agency? You’re expected. This way.”

Foam followed him through the lobby and into the hall of Pomerania House. As he looked around him he had partly the sensation of being in a museum. Its proportions were fine although some of its
space had been encroached on by offices. Most of the paneling on the walls had been preserved and also a large oval portrait in a tarnished gilt frame which hung over the original carved
mantelpiece. This was a painting of a former owner of the house by Sir Joshua Reynolds and depicted a Georgian buck with full ripe cheeks and a powdered wig.

The old crystal chandelier—long disused—was still suspended from the ceiling. The statue of a nymph poised on a pedestal gazed reproachfully at all who used the telephone booth, as
though it were the bathing hut where she had left her clothes and to which they denied her re-entry.

In contrast with these relics of the eighteenth century, the flagged marble floor, as well as the shallow treads of the curving mahogany staircase, was covered with the t. . .