"Lot of good that does," said Pam. "All right, I'm going back over to the insectarium and try to get in through one of those windows."

"The windows are high," said Jo. "You'll need a ladder."

"Gladys?" said Pam. Her voice was so tight the word was a squeak.

"In the garage, ma'am. I'll go get it."

"I'll come with you," said Jo. "I can hold the ladder or climb it myself."

"You're sick," I said. "Let me."

She closed her door and positioned herself between Pam and me. "I'm fine. It was just a twenty-four-hour thing."

"Still-"

"No problem," she said firmly. "You probably don't have rainclothes, right? I do. Come on, let's not waste any more time."

She and Pam hurried down, picked up Gladys, and headed toward the kitchen.

Cheryl remained alone in the entry. Fidgeting again. Looking everywhere but up at us.

Then right up at us.

At me.

"What is it, Cheryl?" I said.

"Um… can I get you something? Lemonade- no, too sweet… coffee?"

"No, thanks."

She nodded as if expecting the answer. Kept bobbing her head.

"Is everything okay, Cheryl?" said Robin.

The young woman jumped. Forced herself to stand still.

Robin went down to her. "What's the matter, hon?"

Cheryl kept looking up at me.

"It's pretty scary," I said. "Dr. Bill disappearing like this."

She began rubbing her thighs, over and over. I followed Robin down.

"What is it, Cheryl?" said Robin.

Cheryl looked at her guiltily. Turned to me. One hand kept rubbing her leg. The other patted a pocket.

"I need you," she said, on the verge of tears.

I looked at Robin and she went to the far end of the front room. The rain was beating out a two-two rhythm, smearing the picture windows.

Cheryl's rubbing had intensified and her face was compressed with anxiety.

Sweating.

Conflict.

Then I remembered that Moreland had used her to deliver Milo's phone message.

"Did Dr. Bill give you something for me, Cheryl?"

Running her eyes in all directions, she took a folded white card out of her pants pocket and thrust it at me. Stapled shut on all four corners.

I started to pull it open.

"No! He said it's for secret!"

"Okay, I'll look at it in secret." I palmed the card. She started to leave, but I held her back.

"When did Dr. Bill give it to you?"

"This morning."

"To deliver tonight?"

"If he didn't come to the kitchen."

"If he didn't come to the kitchen by a certain time?"

She looked confused.

"Why would he come to the kitchen, Cheryl?"

"Tea. I fix the tea."

"You fix tea for him every night at a special time?"

"No!" Distraught, she tried to pull loose again. Staring at my pocket, as if expecting the paper to burst through.

"Gotta go!"

"One second. Tell me what he told you."

"Give it to you."

"If he didn't want tea."

Nod.

"When do you usually make him tea?"

"When he tells me."

She started to whimper. Looked down at my hand on her arm.

I let go. "Okay, thanks, Cheryl."

Instead of running off, she held back. "Don't tell momma?"

Moreland's trusty courier. He'd figured her limited intelligence would keep her on track, eliminate moral dilemmas.

Wrong.

"All right," I said.

"Momma will be mad."

"I won't tell her, Cheryl. I promise. Go on now, you did the right thing."

She hurried away and I took the card to Robin. It was too dark to read and I didn't want to put on the lights. Hurrying back up to our suite, I popped the staples.

Moreland's familiar handwriting:

DISR. 184: 18

"What?" said Robin. "A library catalogue number?"

"Some kind of reference- probably a volume or page number. He's been leaving cards since we got here. Quotes from great writers and thinkers: Stevenson, Auden, Einstein- the last one was something about time and justice. The only great thinker I can come up with who matches "DISR' is Disraeli. Did you notice a book by him up here?"

"No, only magazines. Maybe there's an article on Disraeli."

"Architectural Digest?" I said. "House and Garden?"

"Sometimes they run features on ancestral homes of famous people."

She divided the magazines and we started scanning tables of contents.

"French Vogue," I muttered. "Yeah, that'll be it. What Disraeli wore when addressing parliament. Now available at Armani Boutique. What the hell's he getting at? Even at his darkest hour the old coot's playing games."

She discarded an Elle, started scrutinizing a Town &Country.

"Using poor Cheryl as a messenger," I said. "If he had something to tell me, why couldn't he just come out and say it?"

"Maybe he feels it's too dangerous."

"Or maybe he's just going off the deep end." I picked up a six-year-old Esquire. "Everything he does is calculated. I feel like a character in a play. His script. Even this disappearance. Middle of the night, so damned theatrical."

"You think he faked it?"

"Who knows what goes on in that big, bald head? I sympathize with the fact that his life's falling apart, but the logical thing would have been to beef up security and wait until Ben's lawyer arrives. Instead, he lets the staff go home early and puts his daughter through this."

Rain hit the window so hard it shook the casement.

I ran my finger down another contents page, tossed it. "Why choose me to play Clue with?"

"He obviously trusts you."

"Lucky me. It makes no sense, Rob. He knows we're leaving. I told him this afternoon. Unless in his own nutty way he thinks this'll keep us here."

"Maybe that or something else spurred him to action. But he could also be in real trouble. Knew he was in danger and left a message for you because you're the only one he's got left."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Someone could have gotten in here and abducted him."

"Or he fell, like he did in the lab."

"Yes," she said. "I've noticed he loses his balance a lot. And the absentmindedness. Maybe he's sick, Alex."

"Or just an old man pushing himself too hard."

"Either way, his being out there on a night like this isn't a pleasant thought."

The rain kept sloshing. Spike listened, tense and fascinated.

We finished the magazines. Nothing on Disraeli.

"There are books in your office," she said. "In back, where the files are."

"But they're not categorized," I said. "Thousands of volumes, no system. Not too efficient if he's really trying to tell me something."

"Then what about that library off the dining room?" she said. "The one he told us wouldn't interest us. Maybe he said that because he was hiding something."

"A book on or by Disraeli? What is this, Nancy Drew and Joe Hardy's blind date?"

"Let's at least check. What could it hurt, Alex? All we've got is time."

We went downstairs again. The house was a scramble of streaks and shadows, hidden angles and blind corners, ripe with charged air.

We passed through the front room and the dining room. The library door was closed but unlocked.

Once inside, I turned on a crystal lamp. Dim light; the salmon moiré walls looked brown, the dark furniture muddy. Very few books. Maybe a hundred volumes housed in the pair of cases.

Unlike the big library, this one was alphabetized: fiction to the left, nonfiction to the right, the former mostly Reader's Digest condensed editions of best-sellers, the latter art books and biographies.

I found the Disraeli quickly: an old British edition of a novel called Tancred. Inside was a rose-pink, lace-edged bookplate that said EX LIBRIS: Barbara Steehoven Moreland. The name inscribed in a calligraphic hand, much more elegant than Moreland's.