A Question Of Time by Fred Saberhagen (best electronic book reader TXT) 📗

brochure before she left the desk. A moment later she was following Bill down one of the ground-floor hallways that branched from the lobby. Glancing at her brochure, she read something about the hotel having been built in 1905. Having seen the dark log walls of the lobby from inside, she could readily believe that date, though obviously the heating and lighting—and, she hoped and presumed, the plumbing—were quite acceptably modern.

      Having passed the doors of half a dozen rooms, Bill stopped at the next one and knocked.

      A cautious voice within called something. When Bill responded, the door was opened from inside, by a wiry, middle-sized, fortyish man wearing a ski sweater. His sandy hair was beginning to be flecked with gray. He sized up his visitors quickly. He said: “Come in, I’m Joe Keogh.”

      Keogh’s room was actually a suite including a small bedroom and sitting room, casually furnished in a kind of pseudo-Victorian style. In the sitting room four unmatching chairs had been drawn up around a table.

      The new arrivals were quickly introduced to Keogh’s brother-in-law John Southerland, who had come with him from Chicago. Southerland was about twenty-eight, the same height as his boss—a little under six feet—and solidly built. His light brown hair still retained a tendency to curl. At the moment he was either starting a beard or badly in need of a shave.

      Maria, studying Joe Keogh’s impressively tough-looking face, decided that his looks did him no harm in his business. She’d already learned that he had been a Chicago cop before marrying Southerland money.

      “Have a seat.” Keogh indicated the chairs around the table. His voice was mild, almost nondescript. “Glad you guys made it up here. They tell me the weather might be getting worse any time now.”

      An exchange of comments on the weather was interrupted by a tap at the door. John Southerland opened it to admit, as a trusted colleague, Mr. Strangeways.

      Brief introductions were performed. Another small chair was brought from somewhere, and presently five were seated around the table.

      A pause ensued. It seemed to Maria as if Keogh, now that he had his two reinforcements from Phoenix, wasn’t sure of how to go about explaining the job to them.

      “What we’ve got here is—has the possibility of being—a strange case,” he said at last, and paused, frowning, shooting a quick glance at Strangeways, who gazed back at him impassively.

      Wind, beginning to pick up velocity in late afternoon, moaned at the window.

      Bill cleared his throat. “Who’s the client?” he asked Keogh directly.

      When Keogh seemed to hesitate, Maria put in: “They told us down in Phoenix that this was a missing person, a seventeen-year-old girl—and that the case had what they described as possibly interesting complications.”

      Strangeways sat with his arms folded, attentive but unmoving.

      Keogh looked at Southerland. “You tell ’em.”

      The younger man cleared his throat and began, “Client’s name is Mrs. Sarah Tyrrell. She’s about eighty years old, give or take a few. Her late husband, Edgar Tyrrell, was a fairly well-known sculptor back in the early nineteen-hundreds. He was born in England, but spent his most productive years here. His stuff is enjoying something of a revival now, I understand, and the old lady is well off financially.

      “The missing girl is Sarah Tyrrell’s niece, or rather grandniece, if that’s the proper word.”

      “It is,” said Strangeways shortly. Everyone glanced at him.

      John resumed: “Cathy’s father—adoptive father, whatever that might signify—is Mr. G. C. Brainard, a lawyer who deals in art. I don’t know that he’s too happy about our being called in at this late date to investigate his daughter’s disappearance—anyway something’s bothering him. Anyway someone recommended us to the old lady, and she insisted on calling us in, and he tends to humor her, as I suppose is usual among people with wealthy aunts. Is that a fair way to put the situation, Joe?”

      Keogh only squinted, in a way that Maria Torres took to mean he wasn’t entirely sure. He glanced at Strangeways, who gave him a moody look in return, but no comment.

      “Mrs. Tyrrell is staying here?” Bill asked, when no one else seemed eager to talk.

      “Not in any of the hotels,” Joe Keogh explained. “There’s a building called the Tyrrell House, a little bit west of here, built right on the rim. It was her husband’s studio in the early Thirties, and the house where the two of them lived together. It belongs to the Park Service now, of course, but part of the agreement when the government took it over was that Mrs. Tyrrell would have the right to use the place whenever she wanted during her lifetime. She and Brainard are staying there.”

      “Was Cathy staying in that house,” asked Maria, “when she disappeared?”

      “No,” Keogh shook his head. “It’s more complicated than that. She was in one of the regular lodges—not this one—with a small group of her friends from boarding school. Everyone agrees that Cathy had never been anywhere near the Grand Canyon before her visit at Thanksgiving.

      “The kids did some of the usual tourist things, hiked around, took pictures. They had camping equipment with them, and they debated whether to take a mule ride down to Phantom Ranch—that’s an overnight trip to the bottom of the Canyon and back—but decided not to. Then, on the second day of their visit, for some reason, Cathy began acting strangely. Or so her companions thought later. She left them suddenly, saying something about going for a walk. They assumed she meant only that she was going to the Visitor Center or the general store. But a few minutes later, a disinterested witness saw a girl who looked like Cathy Brainard, and was dressed like her, carrying a pack and equipment as if for an overnight hike, starting down Bright Angel Trail alone.

      “As far as we know, that witness was the last person to see Cathy Brainard anywhere.”

      Bill said slowly: “I’m no expert, but that doesn’t sound to me like a planned kidnapping. Maybe some lunatic encountered her and—”

      Joe nodded. “I agree. There’ve been no