The Balloon Man (21 page)

Jem was always ready to join in an aperitif or possibly two. Between them they persuaded Sarah to have a glass of white wine,
and Davy, who was sagging with exhaustion because he had refused to take a nap, snuggled up to his mother on the sofa and
fell asleep. Every time Sarah made a move, though, he roused himself in case she might be having any notions about leaving
him alone on the couch.
She rested her head against the pillows and let the others do the talking.

“What is it with that kid?” Miriam asked softly. “Is he coming down with something, do you think?”

“No, it's Max. Davy's become so frantic since his father disappeared that he won't even let me take a bath unless I wear my
swimsuit so that hell have something to hang on to. I can't understand why he's behaving this way, Miriam. Max has been gone
for long periods before this.”

“But you weren't scared stiff about him,” Miriam said shrewdly. “A little worried, maybe, as who wouldn't be, knowing he was
chasing criminals, but not plain out of your mind the way you are now. No matter how stiff you keep that upper lip, kids sense
your feelings. And the rest of us aren't much better.”

“Have you told Mother Bittersohn?”

Miriam always seemed to get stuck with the tidings of no great joy. Sarah had felt guilty about accepting her offer to break
the news to Max's parents, but she hadn't wanted to talk about it with Davy listening, and he'd been hanging on to his mother's
shirttails all day. At least that was her excuse.

Miriam nodded soberly. “I had to, it's going to be on the news tonight. I wasn't crazy about the publicity, but the cops pointed
out we couldn't overlook the possibility that someone might have seen him. Poppa agreed, and Momma gave them that picture
of Max Brooks took at his birthday party. They wanted to come over or call you,
Sarah, but I told them to leave you alone, that you had enough on your plate without them asking questions you couldn't answer
and dumping their worries on you when you've got enough of your own”

Sarah couldn't throw her arms around Miriam without disturbing Davy, so she had to content herself with a pat and a watery
smile. “Miriam, you're wonderful I don't know how to thank you.”

“For what? Acting like a person?” Max'ssister didn't go in for emotional displays. “Do you think we can risk turning on the
TV if we keep the volume down? I'll keep my finger on the off button and use it if Davy so much as stirs.”

Sarah could have predicted what the opening sentence of the story would be. “Foul play is feared. …” How they love disasters,
she thought, glaring at the announcer's studiously grave face. There was a picture of Max standing beside the car and then
a close-up of the photograph that was Sarah's favorite. She gazed hungrily at it until tears blurred the ruggedly handsome
features and thick dark hair and familiar smile. The story ended with an appeal to viewers to call the police if they had
any information.

Miriam switched off. “Better wake that kid up or he'll never go to bed tonight,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “I'll
see what I can scrape up for supper. How many are we expecting?”

“I don't know where Jesse and Charles have got to,” Sarah answered. “I suppose they'll be joining us.”

“They're patrolling,” Jem said. “And if I know those two, praying they run into an intruder. Jesse is armed with a Malay kris
he borrowed from Anora, and Charles has my sword stick. I wanted to join the defense, but Egbert wouldn't let me, so I gave
Charles the stick. Did I ever tell you about the time I …”

Sarah let her uncle ramble on. She didn't bother asking where he'd obtained a sword stick. It was the sort of thing he would
have. Or if he didn't, some other Kelling would. Anora Protheroe's husband, George, had collected Oriental art and antiquities,
including a few lethal weapons. She was only surprised Jesse hadn't borrowed a morning star or a few poisoned darts.

The news broadcasts had informed all the family members who hadn't already known. The phone started ringing almost at once
and never let up. Jem dealt with some of them while Egbert and Miriam performed their usual miracles in the kitchen. After
Charles and Jesse had been summoned by Egbert's energetic performance on the penny whistle, Charles took over the phone. His
role of a proper English butler, à la Mr. Hudson, was one of his best. Hearing him intone “I really could not say, moddom”
got rid of several importunate callers.

Percy Kelling went so far as to telephone, after the rates had gone down. He was, of course, concerned about how this would
reflect on the family, especially the family finances. Between trying to coax a few bites into Davy and taking a few herself,
Sarah let him know in the circuitous
way Percy favored that this was not a propitious time for family chats. They'd be in touch with Percy and/or Anne as soon
as they had any definite information.

“Interfering old ice cube,” Jem grumbled.

“No, Uncle Jem, I think he was really concerned. He said if there was anything he and Anne could do, anything, anytime, just
let them know. He even asked if I needed money!”

“That's an offer I never expected to hear from Percy,” Jem admitted. “He's not so bad, I guess, except for being so damned
honest. Did I ever tell you about the quarter?”

“Yes,” Sarah said. “Davy, just one more bite of Aunt Mimi's wonderful casserole.”

“Miriam hasn't heard it, though,” Jem said triumphantly.

Only once in his whole career as a certified public accountant had Percy run into a situation that might have left a black
spot on the name of Kelling, Kelling, and Kelling. It was a matter of twenty-five cents. Percy had gone over the books—big
old ledgers back then, not computers—over and over and over again. He had forgone the supper that he didn't feel he deserved,
he'd racked his brain, he'd gone back in the ledgers as far as he could go. Finally he'd collapsed from overwork and inanition
and slept facedown on the ledgers until his father came in punctually at half-past five A.M. Trembling with weakness and the
odium of failure, he'd confessed his ineptitude.

His father had taken one look at Percy's careworn face
and stooped over. “Here” he'd said, handing his son the shiny silver twenty-five-cent piece that had rolled under Percy's
desk. “Go buy yourself some breakfast. And next time, make damned good and sure that you know what you re looking at.”

Jesse's expression showed what he thought of that sterling example of rectitude. “If he was determined to be that honest,
why didn't he just contribute a quarter of his own?”

“Your generation doesn't understand these things,” Jem retorted.

“Darn right.” Jesse always watched his language when Davy was around. “I haven't got time to set you straight, Uncle Jem.
What do you say we go back on duty, Charles?”

“You aren't going to stay out there all night, I hope,” Sarah exclaimed.

“They're just trying to get out of helping with the dishes.” Miriam had begun clearing the table.

“A vile canard, moddom, if I may say so,” Charles said. “We will tidy up in our usual efficient fashion before we return to
our posts. Would you like me or Jesse to drive you home?”

“No thanks, Charles, I think I can make it, even though it's all of five miles. I'll be on my way, then, Sarah, unless you'll
let me put Davy to bed. He's asleep on your lap.”

“I'll carry him, he's too heavy for Sarah.” Jesse scooped the boy up. Davy roused long enough to demand his mama
but accepted Sarah'sassurance that she would be up soon and would stay with him all night.

Egbert insisted on escorting Miriam to her car. Leaving Charles to swathe himself in a ruffled print apron before tackling
the cleanup, Sarah went to the living room and called the Tulip Street house.

“I tried to telephone earlier, but the house line has been busy all evening” Brooks said. “No, Sarah dear, I'm sorry; there's
nothing new about Max, but Theonia wants to speak with you.”

Theonia knew what Sarah wanted before she spoke.

“Yes, dear, I've been trying. Have you?”

“What, tea leaves or tarot cards? I don't have your talent, Theonia.”

“You have something else going for you, Sarah. It doesn't need props, and it's stronger than any poor talent I might have.
Don't worry, it's going to be all right. Go to bed, go to sleep, and dream about Max.”

Jem had the same idea. “Come on, Sarah, you need your rest.”

“All right, Uncle Jem, I'll be a good little niece and toddle upstairs, to my beddy-bye the minute the Sandman shows up with
his pail and shovel. What was it you used to say when we children were crammed into cots at the old summer place? Good night,
sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite.”

Jem produced a chuckle. “I'd forgotten about that. It
was just a moronic snatch of doggerel I picked up in the army.”

Jem looked a bit moist about the eyes. He kissed her on the forehead and made a quick exit. “You know where to find me if
you want me. Just holler.”

I wish I could holler for Max, Sarah thought. Where in God's name could he be?

Another beautiful morning in a less than beautiful spot. Max greeted the dawn with a growl. He hated to wake up. There was
nothing to wake up for, and he'd been having wonderful dreams. Sarah had seemed so real; he'd heard her voice as clearly as
if she were standing next to him, seen her so distinctly that he felt as if he could reach up and touch her.

If he hoped to see her again, and he did, he'd better be up and doing. Doing what? For starters, there was breakfast. A scant
cupful of brackish water in the plastic cup and a nice cud of seaweed. What should it be this morning, Irish moss or kelp
or maybe a tasty morsel of laver?

Bare rock didn't make for a comfortable bed. He'd wrapped the good old red bathrobe around him, over his wrinkled filthy clothes.
It provided an extra layer of warmth, but not much padding.

After he'd slurped up the water he shed the bathrobe and
spread it out on the highest point of his estate, anchoring it with a few pieces of rock. A swim would get the kinks out,
but why rush it, when it might be his sole means of entertainment for the day? He perched on the ledge and stared out across
the water.

So far he hadn't seen any living creature except those daintily streamlined shiners that kept darting in and out among the
seaweeds and the big birds overhead, such as the fulmars and the albatrosses. These appeared to be pelagic, however, scorning
to rest on his ridiculous apology for an island. For all he knew, there might be seals or walruses or sea lions or hippogriffs
or heffalumps on other, larger islands. The briny Atlantic was teeming with aquatic mammals and other wonders of the deep;
but so far they hadn't come to call, and who could blame them? He wouldn't be here either if he could help it.

A nice, fat seal or walrus would really hit the spot about now. If he couldn't get a walrus, he'd settle for almost anything
edible that wasn't seaweed, even if he had to skin the creature himself.

It was strange how a man who'd always thought of himself, when he did think of himself, as being at least partly civilized
could turn into a ravening caveman once the provisions ran low. How long had it been, Max wondered, since he'd carved a roast
turkey or barbecued a beefsteak? He'd never been any great meat eater until now, when he wanted it so desperately and saw
no way of getting some.
Resignedly he scooped up a handful of seaweed and began chewing.

Perhaps an Eskimo would come along in a kayak full of whale meat and give him some, or a Lorelei would stop long enough to
sing him a few lieder before swishing her tail and waving him a cheery “auf Wiedersehen” on her way to the Rhine. He wondered
vaguely how much seaweed a person had to eat before it added up to the normal number of calories required by a normal-size
adult male, even one whose sole exercise consisted of swimming around and around a rock. A bushel? A pickup truck full? What
the hell, it would keep him alive. He wanted to stay alive, for Sarah's sake as well as his own. What was going on at Ire-sons
Landing? Had there been any responses to the inquiries he and Brooks had set afoot before he was snatched?

That would be one way of passing the time—thinking about the case. He felt hollow and a little light-headed still, but his
headache was gone and his brain seemed to be functioning a trifle better than it had the previous day.

The Kelling rubies. That was where it had started. The last time he'd seen or heard of them, they had been in the possession
of the lady in Amsterdam. They were Sarah's by rights, nobody denied that except the lady in Amsterdam. She claimed she'd
acted in good faith when she paid over a large sum of money to a man who said he was the owner, and who could prove her wrong?
Max couldn't prove it, though he had his doubts. Mevrouw Vanderwoude was the only buyer who had managed to hang on to the
originals,
instead of letting Harry Lackridge substitute a copy. That suggested she'd had her doubts about Harry, or she wouldn't have
taken precautions. In any case, she had been informed, by Max himself, that Lackridge had no right to sell the jewels, even
if they had been given to him by Caroline Kelling, Sarah's loathed aunt and mother-in-law. Caroline hadn't the right to sell
them, either, only to wear them while she lived.

But Sarah refused to go to court over the damned things. She detested them, she didn't want them, they had been bought and
paid for. That had been all right with Max. He didn't want the damned things, either. There was no insurance company involved,
and the last actual owner, Sarah's husband, Alexander, had left no direct descendants, so the decision was Sarah's.

Mevrouw Vanderwoude had also had no living heirs. Was it possible that she had had a belated attack of conscience and decided
that the stolen rubies should be returned to their rightful owner when she was finished with them? That would explain why
the parure hadn't been sold with the rest of her jewelry and why it had not been mentioned in her will. She could have made
provisions before she died to restore the parure to Sarah, by means of a letter to her lawyers.