Ellen Under The Stairs by John Stockmyer Read Free Book Online Page B

I'll call you
back in half an hour."
    "Thanks Paul."
    "It'll be all right. Don't
worry."
     
    * * * * *
     
    After the longest half-hour John could
remember, all of it spent combing the house in hopes of picking up
a clue about what happened to Platinia, John's pick up of the
receiver cut the first ring short. "Yes?"
    "Paul, here." John had never been
happier to hear Paul's growl.
    "So -- what do I do?"
    "Here's my suggestion. First, you can
get it out of your head that you can do something yourself. I know
you've been sitting there thinking about driving around. Hoping to
spot her on the street. That kind of thing."
    "I've thought about it."
    "Right. But that's what I mean about
being emotionally involved. You don't think straight. Kansas City
has over a million people if you count the burbs. And she could be
anywhere by this time."
    "The only new thing I've discovered is
that she seems to have taken some money I kept for
emergencies."
    "How much?"
    "A couple hundred. I had it in the top
dresser of my bureau in case I needed to buy groceries in the dead
of night."
    "As I said, she could be anywhere.
With a couple of c-notes, farther than anywhere."
    "I suppose."
    "This is a job for a
professional."
    "Call the police?"
    "No. That little problem about the
girl not "existing" in this world makes that a last resort. No.
What I'd do is call a private detective."
    "Sounds ... good."
    "I don't know who's a good P.I. and
who isn't. The best you can do is to get the Yellow Pages and look
up private detective. If you can, check out the phone numbers and
get one located north of the river. A local would have a better
chance of knowing where someone might go."
    "Good advice."
    "I'll get off the line then, and let
you do that."
    "Thanks Paul. You don't know how much
this has helped."
    "You'd do the same for me."
    "Right."
    They hung up.
    Digging the Yellow Pages from its
hiding place under the phone table, John looked up detectives. A
lot of them. After running his finger down the phone numbers, found
only one located north of the river, his advertisement saying:
"Inexpensive. Results guaranteed."
    John dialed.
    A click.
    "This is the Robert Zapolska Detective
agency." An answering machine. In a woman's voice that practically
purred. "Mr. Zapolska is on a case at the moment. Please leave your
name and number at the sound of the tone and Mr. Zapolska will
return your call. .... Beep ...."
    "This is John Lyon. I think I need a
detective. I'd appreciate a call."
    John's mind raced. Should he say
something about the nature of the problem? Maybe ... but
what?
    Still with nothing to add after giving
his home and office phone numbers, John could only finished with a
whiny plea to call as soon as possible!
     
    * * * * *
     
Chapter 8
     
    "John Lyon, speaking." John had just
returned to his office after somehow finishing his nine-o'clock
Western Civ. class. With Platinia missing for two days, it had been
difficult to concentrate on the topic of the day: Mercantilist
Economic Theory. Like any distraction, guilt made you forgetful.
Guilt, because, other than leaving a message on the detective's
answering machine, he'd done nothing to locate Platinia, the phone
interrupting that disparaging line of thought
    "Bob Zapolska." Said with a soft hiss,
John unsure of the name.
    "Who?" As worried about the missing
girl as he was, John tried to concentrate on the caller as John
moved the phone to his own desk and sat down in his chair. Though
John attempted to learn his student's names, he was never able to
remember them all.
    "Bob Zapolska. Detective."
    Of course! Not a student with a feeble
excuse for missing an exam, but the very person John had been
hoping would call.
    "Right," John said dryly, glad for the
call but remembering that a day and a half had gone by without a
word from the P.I. "I expected to hear from you
yesterday."
    "Case."
    Why was the man whispering? Could he
be phoning from a stakeout?
    "I see." There was a long pause, John
expecting