Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
***
The dirty brick building on the edge of Soho was narrow and tired-looking. The tiles in the entrance were all cracked, and so was the glass on the building directory. A shadowy stairway led up to Ian Fisher-Stone's third-floor office. It smelled of stale cigar smoke.
As Frank climbed past the tattoo parlor on the second floor he began to suspect that Jillian's agent wasn't high on the ladder of success. The dingy, tiny reception room he finally reached seemed to confirm that. Holes actually showed through the worn Oriental carpet, and the photos on the walls were faded from age. Piled high on a small reception desk were dozens of fat, dusty file folders.
Since there was no one seated behind the cluttered desk, Frank crossed the threadbare rug and tapped on the frosted glass door. Peeling gold letters spelled out Ian Fisher-Stone, Talent Representatives.
When Frank rattled the door, a muffled voice said something unintelligible.
Frank turned the dented brass doorknob.
The agent's inner office was no larger than the outer one. His desk was about the same size and equally cluttered. There were more piles of crammed folders leaning on a row of battered wooden filing cabinet along one wall. The framed photos of actors and actresses on these walls weren't quite as old and faded as the ones outside. Frank noticed a gap in the lowest row. Unfaded wallpaper showed where a photo had been.
Fisher-Stone himself was something of a surprise. He was a heavy, red-faced man with slicked-down blond hair and a mustache, quite dapper in a tweedy suit and a silk ascot tie. "Yes, my lad, how can I be of service?" he asked, motioning Frank to a rickety chair facing his desk.
"My name is Frank Hardy," Frank said as he sat. "My brother and I want to locate one of your clients."
The agent said, "You look quite young - if you don't mind my saying so - to be a 'tec.'"
Frank shrugged. "But we are investigators. And we're looking for Jillian Seabright."
"Our Jill, eh? Very fine girl." Fisher-Stone pronounced the word more like "gell."
Frank continued. "Do you have any idea where she might be?"
Fisher-Stone made a vague fluttering gesture with one hand. "Over the hills and far away," he answered, chuckling. "She's off on some holiday jaunt. Not sure exactly where, old boy."
"She simply dropped out of the play she was in?"
"Opportunity, don't you know, for an unexpected bit of vacation. Off she went."
"And this doesn't bother you?"
"Not a bit," answered the agent. "Well, no, I take that back. There has been a good deal of interest in our Jill the past week or so. Inquiries from movie companies and the like. Most inconvenient, not being able to say where she went."
"Movie offers?"
"Ah, yes. Her career seems on the brink of taking off, I'd say. Imagine those blokes have seen her in," - for a second Fisher-Stone's eyes went vague - "that play of hers."
Frank gave the man a sharp glance. "I keep forgetting the title. What is that play?"
Fisher-Stone flipped a fingertip along his mustache. "Truth to tell, dear boy, I can never remember it myself. Fine play, though, and Jill is splendid in it."
Frank nodded. "I've heard that she's especially good in the hospital scene."
"Yes, she got raves for that."
Frank said, "A photograph of her would be very helpful."
"Sorry, my lad, don't have a one left."
"How's that?"
"Well, with all this increased interest in our Jill, I've been sending a lot of them around." He gestured at the gap in the line of wall photos. "Even had to ship off my own autographed pic of the child."
"How about negatives?"
The agent fluffed his mustache again. "Off at a photography shop. Pop by toward the end of next week and I'll have a likeness of Jill that I'll be happy to turn over to you."
He stood up, straightening his ascot. "Frightfully sorry, but I have an important meeting with the BBC very shortly. I'll have to ask you to run along."
Rising from his chair, Frank stepped over to the filing cabinet. "Why don't I just check Jillian's file - just to make sure there aren't any photos left." He found a drawer marked P-S and reached for the handle.
"Not too likely." The agent came swiftly out from behind his desk, whipping a wicked-looking blackjack from inside his expensive jacket.
Frank dodged the first swing and aimed a solid punch at the older man's ribs.
But Fisher-Stone showed he had some quick moves. He twisted, and Frank's knuckles only scraped along the man's side. The blackjack flashed, catching Frank at the elbow. His arm went numb.
He tried a chop with his other hand, but the man brought the blackjack up against the side of Frank's head.
Frank staggered back and was hit twice more, hard. He dropped to the floor, the man's voice ringing in his ears.
"You're much too curious, my lad. Too curious for your own good."
Jillian Seabright's apartment was on the third floor of a gray stone building in a mews just a few blocks from Baker Street. The building was managed by a heavyset woman in her late sixties. She wore a long, heavy sweater over a flower-patterned dress. Her hair had been dyed a reddish shade of blond.
"I've been wondering somewhat about the poor dear myself," she confided to Joe after he'd explained that he was trying to find Jillian. "Come in, and I'll fix you a cup of tea."
Grinning, Joe followed her into the building and along a shadowy hall to her ground-floor flat. "Do you remember the last time you saw Jillian?"
"Well, now, it was ... let me see." The woman shuffled into her parlor on slippered feet, nodding him toward a yellow chintz armchair. "Must be a good ten days. It was that night we had such a fearful rainstorm."
"I guess we weren't in London then." Joe sat as the woman disappeared into the kitchen.
"I'll just put the water on," the woman said. My name is Sharon Farnum - Mrs. Farnum, though I've been a widow nearly eight years now."
Returning to the parlor, she settled into a chair opposite Joe. "Is it some sort of trouble poor Jillian's in?"
"Someone is anxious to talk to her about some movie work."
"She's a very talented actress, is Jillian. I saw her in that play - 'Tis a Pity She Won't Be Woo'd. Very good she was, although I didn't understand a word of the play itself."
"Could you tell me more about the last time you saw her?"
"It was a weeknight, about ten days ago, as best I can recall." Mrs. Farnum frowned, trying to drag up some memories. "She was on her way to the theater for that evening's performance. I'd just been marketing and saw her coming downstairs. She lives up on the third floor."
"Did you talk to her?"
"Just a bit of a chat - reminding her to take an umbrella - and she was off."
Joe frowned. "You haven't seen her since?"
The teakettle started to whistle. Mrs. Farnum shook her head and rose, and Joe followed her to the kitchen doorway. "Jillian didn't give you any notice that she was going away?"
"She didn't, no. Though at first I wasn't too concerned. I mean, her rent's paid for the month, and her things are still in her flat." Mrs. Farnum poured the boiling water into a blue teapot.
"Does she go away often?"
"Now and then, mostly to do a play out in one of the provincial theaters."
"Does she usually tell you when she expects to be gone for a while?"
Settling the teapot, two blue cups, and a bowl of sugar on a tray, Mrs. Farnum carried it back into the parlor. "Jillian always told me where she was off to and how long she'd be gone. She's a very considerate girl." She frowned. "That's why, I must admit, I've been a little concerned this time. It isn't like her to be gone so long without leaving word."
"Over the past few weeks, ma'am, has she had any unusual visitors?"
"Not that I - wait, I'm a liar. One night about two weeks ago I happened to stay up late to catch a special program on the telly. I noticed a very fancy car dropping Jillian off. Quite grand, it was - a Rolls-Royce."
"Did you get a glimpse of the driver?"
"That I didn't, Mr. Hardy." She shook her head. "Milk for your tea?"
"No thanks, ma'am," he said. "Did Jillian have any regular boyfriends?"
"Not recently, no."
"Any old boyfriends who might have made trouble for her sometime or another?"
Mrs. Farnum froze over her cup in mid-pour. "You suspect the child's come to grief, don't you?"
'We don't have any idea yet what's become of her," Joe said. "But when people disappear, it helps to know if anybody's been making threats."
"Oh, that's terrible." The teapot rattled against the cup as Mrs. Farnum's hand shook. She nervously bit at her lower lip. "Poor Jillian."
"We don't know anything yet. She may be perfectly fine someplace. Don't get upset."
Mrs. Farnum resumed pouring. "Did that person in that fancy car do her harm?"
"I don't know, but I'm curious about who might have been driving it."
She rose and handed him a cup of tea. "Help yourself to sugar."
"I'll drink it straight," he replied. "What about the other tenants here - how many are there?"
"At the moment there's just Miss Lore and Mr. Singh."
"Are they at home?"
"Miss Lore is over in Paris on business. Mr. Singh - a very nice young man from India - is at the bank where he works."
After taking a sip of his tea, Joe put the cup on a small table near his chair. "I'd like to have a look around Jillian's rooms."
"Well now, I don't know ... "
"She might have left something behind - something that would help us find her."
"Yes, I can see where that's possible," Mrs. Farnum said. "Tell you what. I'll give you my passkey, and you can just trot up for a look. I'm expecting a phone call from my cousin Irene. I'm afraid I'll just have to wait here."
She pressed the key into Joe's hand. "Take your look around, then pop in here and return the key. And do tell me if you find anything."
"I will, ma'am."
"You sure you don't mind my not coming along with you?"
Joe smiled. "Not at all," he assured her.
***
The apartment was at the rear of the building on the top floor. A large, slanting skylight in the living room let in gray midmorning light. Rain spattered on the glass panes in a steady rhythm.
Joe went quickly through the whole place first, checking out each room and making sure the young woman wasn't there. He looked into all the closets, even under the bed. Jillian - or worse, her dead body - wasn't there. The flat was very neat and tidy. After searching, he noted that he didn't see a single photo of the missing young woman.
"I don't think I've ever seen or heard of an actress who didn't keep pictures of herself around," Joe muttered as he passed from the kitchen to the living room, glancing around.
The antique trunk that served as a coffee table was bare. And although there were spaces on the bookshelves for little glass vases and knickknacks, there were no picture frames.
Beyond the living room, Joe found a neatly made bed and a bedroom in perfect order. There was no sign of a struggle having taken place. He looked again into the clothes closet, which gave off a faint scent of flowery perfume.
Joe noticed that there was probably a suitcase missing. A set of matching luggage sat in a row on the closet floor. There was a gap between suitcases two and three - a space large enough to hold another suitcase. Fallen across the largest bag was an expensive-looking black evening dress. Not something a girl would leave lying, wrinkled, on the floor of her closet, he thought.
Joe frowned. Suppose it was a rush job - somebody grabbing clothes to toss into that missing suitcase so it would look as if Jillian had packed her bag. They wouldn't care about a wrinkled dress that had fallen off its hanger.
On the other hand, maybe Jillian was just sloppy. Joe shook his head. That didn't fit in with how neat she'd left the room - the whole apartment, in fact.
Joe checked the bureau drawers, the boxes on the top shelves of the closet, and under the bed - twice. But he turned up no pictures at all. None of Jillian, none of Jed Shannon, none of anyone. No letters, either.
He had the feeling that someone had been through the girl's flat fairly recently and done some careful editing of its contents.
In the living room, Joe did find something, but he wasn't sure what it meant.
Beside the trunk he found a small pile of magazines. Five of them were fashion or theater periodicals, all with recent dates. But the sixth was a British newsweekly that had come out five months earlier. Joe found a small red paper clip serving as a page marker. Opening the magazine, Joe found a piece about a young woman named Emily Cornwall.
According to the story, Miss Cornwall was the heiress to not one but two large fortunes and had been living abroad for several years in a warmer climate because of her health. Rumors had reached the magazine that the heiress would be returning to England in a few months. Under the will of her late, eccentric grandfather, Sir Danvers Talbot, she was due to receive "the fabled Talbot emeralds" on her twenty-first birthday. That date would fall - Joe glanced at the date on his watch. Just three days from today.
He examined a grainy black-and-white photograph, shot from a distance with a telephoto lens. It showed a slim young woman sitting on a sunlit patio next to a plump older woman. Emily Cornwall seemed pretty but looked frail.
Joe spread the magazine on Jillian's desk while he searched it. Every cubbyhole was empty. There wasn't even an unpaid bill to be found.
His back was to the flat's front door when he heard it swing open.
"Then he heard a voice say evenly, "I have a gun. Just stay right where you are."
Joe looked over his shoulder, stared, then turned around to face the intruder. "Still looking for your lost dog, Red?"
Standing in the open doorway was the red-haired young woman he'd bumped into after last night's shooting. She still had her black shoulder bag, but this time she had her hand thrust inside it.