The House Of The Bears by John Creasey

accompanied by a flash of flame. There was a gasp, a thud – and then only heavy breathing.
    Palfrey climbed over the rock wall, and stood still. Every moment he expected that hoarse voice to come again, but it did not. The breathing grew easier. He took another step forward, but started when a man said: ‘Hang around a minute, will you?’ The new voice was startling enough in itself; the fact that it was American registered vaguely on Palfrey’s mind.
    ‘I’ll shine a light,’ the man said. ‘Keep your distance a minute, Palfrey.’ A light flashed out towards him. It shone into his face, lingered for a moment, then moved off. Palfrey, dazzled by the glare, heard the man say: ‘Sorry. I don’t recognize you. Is your name Palfrey?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Fyson didn’t seem to like you,’ the man said. There was a hint of laughter in his voice. Palfrey warmed to him. ‘Do you know Fyson?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Take a look,’ said the American. He shone the torch on the figure of a man who was lying unconscious with his head against a rock. ‘Have you lost your wife?’ asked the American.
    ‘Yes, she vanished.’
    ‘Right here, you mean?’
    ‘Yes. Not long ago – not twenty minutes ago.’
    ‘Then I should quit worrying,’ said the American. ‘She’ll be around here some place. Are you really a doctor?’
    ‘Look here, I want to find my wife,’ said Palfrey. ‘Shall we go into other things afterwards?’ The American did not reply, and Palfrey moved forward. ‘Yes, I am a doctor, and I was going to see a patient. The police in Corbin will verify that later.’
    ‘I don’t know that I want to see the police in Corbin or any place,’ said the American, ‘but I guess I’ll take you at your word, Palfrey. Your wife just disappeared off the road, did she, somewhere around here?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘We’ll see. Wait a minute, Fyson might do some good for once in his life – if he’s alive – and produce a flashlight.’ He bent down, and Palfrey could see his hands and face; the rest of his body was in shadow. The hands went through Fyson’s pockets, and he gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Here’s one,’ he said, and switched on a second torch. ‘You go right, I’ll go left.’ He moved off.
    The encounter had prevented Palfrey from giving all his thoughts to Drusilla; now his fears flooded back. He began to sweat, and now and again he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
    ‘Palfrey,’ called the American. ‘She’s here. There couldn’t be two women on this damned hillside on the same night, could there? She’s okay,’ he added, as Palfrey began to stumble forward. He shone his torch, and Palfrey saw Drusilla sitting against a rock, her head lolling forward.
    Drusilla’s pulse was slow but steady; there was a smell of chloroform.
    Palfrey looked up at the American. The two torches were resting on a ledge, and he could see his face. It was a berry brown, merry face, with impudent blue eyes.
    ‘Have a look at Fyson, will you? If he’s dead, he’s dead, and that’s all about it, but if he’s alive, I shall want you to do me a favour. Your wife will be all right here, I guess.’
    Palfrey took off his coat and wrapped it round Drusilla’s legs, then picked up his torch and looked about for the unconscious man, The American came with him. Palfrey knelt down, felt the man’s pulse, and was surprised by the American’s sharp voice: ‘Is he dead?’
    ‘No. It’s probably concussion.’
    ‘Sure. You bleed a lot from concussion.’
    ‘The blood’s from his torn scalp,’ said Palfrey.
    ‘That’s grand,’ the other went on. ‘Now I guess I want you to help me carry him to your car and take him in that to my car – and then wish me good night.’
    ‘Oh, do you?’ said Palfrey.
    ‘I know the police are your friends, but don’t forget that you might not have found your wife without me, Palfrey. That’s a turn that deserves another,’ He repeated the words in a hoarse voice,