The Follower by Patrick Quentin Page A

her unless it’s already been sent out.’
    ‘It has been sent out,’ said the blonde. ‘We mailed it yesterday.’
    ‘To our home address?’
    ‘No, Mr Liddon. We sent it after Mrs Liddon the way she asked us to.’
    ‘That’s fine. Then she’ll be getting it in a couple of days.’ With studied casualness he said: ‘By the way, she did call and explain, didn’t she?’
    ‘Call, Mr Liddon?’
    ‘We changed our vacation plans at the last minute. She meant to call you and give you the new address. Didn’t she do it?’
    ‘No, Mr Liddon. She didn’t call.’
    It was almost certain that Victor hadn’t been here, but he would have to check. ‘And she didn’t send anyone else in to pick it up?’
    ‘No, Mr Liddon.’
    ‘Then where did you mail the package?’
    The blonde was definitely less cordial now. ‘Where is Mrs Liddon now?’
    ‘Palm Beach,’ Mark extemporized.
    He saw the blonde’s face pull down its shutters against him. The smile was still there, but it meant nothing.
    ‘Then it has gone to the wrong address. But if you give me the new one I’ll see that the package is forwarded the moment it comes back.’
    She was gazing at him challengingly. She was smarter than he had imagined. There was nothing for it now but to try the ‘frankly charming’ approach. He grinned at her.
    ‘This is kind of embarrassing. Maybe I should have come out with it from the start. The truth is I’ve been away and came back unexpectedly early. There was no chance of letting my wife know. She’s away for Christmas. I remembered the suit and thought I could maybe locate her through you.’
    The blonde was implacable now. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Liddon. It’s against our policy to give out our clients’ addresses.’
    ‘But I’m her husband.’
    The little dark salesgirl glanced at him under her lashes.
    He suppressed an impulse to jump on the blonde, shake her and force the address out of her. There was a better way of handling this.
    The blonde was saying: ‘I’m sorry, Mr Liddon. I wish we could help you.’
    He glanced quickly at the other girl. The lashes drooped lower. That’s okay,’ he said to the blonde. ‘Sorry I troubled you.’
    ‘It’s no trouble, Mr Liddon. I hope it will all work out. Merry Christmas.’
    The dark girl moved with bored languor at his side to conduct him off the premises.
    As she opened the door for him she ran a hand behind her dark hair, shaking it away from her neck. ‘Goodbye, Mr Liddon,’ she said in the elegant Derain accent. ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Liddon.’
    It was eleven-thirty. There should be a good half-hour before the Derain employees started going for lunch. His bank was just around the corner. He went to it and drew out a thousand dollars. As he left the bank, he passed a news-stand where an old canvas awning shielded the papers from the snow. Even if the greatest calamity had happened and Corey’s body had already been discovered, he knew there could be no announcement yet. But he bought a paper and searched through it methodically.
    He found nothing, tossed the paper into a trash container and returned to Derain’s. He skirted the block and located the employees’ exit. He crossed the street. There was a book store, its window decorated with red paper wreaths, green paper bells and tinsel snow. He stepped into the doorway, turned down his coat collar and waited.
    An occasional employee straggled out of the exit. At exactly twelve-thirty the blonde appeared. She was wearing a Persian lamb coat and tall fur overshoes. She looked like a competent Valkyrie. She turned towards Fifth Avenue and disappeared into the throng of shoppers. It was five minutes later that the little dark salesgirl came out. She’d put on a simple black coat and a fur cap. She glanced up at the falling snow and then across the street. He moved over and joined her.
    ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what a coincidence.’
    She looked sidewise at him under long black lashes. Her eyes were very big