The Follower by Patrick Quentin Read Free Book Online Page A

Why hadn’t he waited? Why hadn’t he followed his heart rather than his head? He’d been crazy to go away and leave her alone.
    Now that he knew she hadn’t killed Corey he could go to the police. But the danger was much too urgent for the lumbering machinery of the law to help. Apart from anything else, it would be days before they’d trust him once he’d confessed to hiding Corey’s body. No, this was something he had to handle himself. He had to find Ellie.
    With a sudden inspiration, he thought of Arlene. He hadn’t seen her or had her in his mind since his marriage. But Ellie still went to Maurice’s at least once a week to have her hair done. It was just possible that Arlene might know something.
    In the great excitement of his marriage to Ellie he had never stopped to think whether his complete neglect of Arlene might have hurt her. He didn’t think of it now. Arlene was just someone who might have some information about his wife.
     
    *
     
    The reception room of Maurice’s was a foamy pink and white. A great bowl of daffodils stood in front of a plate-glass window. A couple of women lounged, cross-legged, in deep chairs, smoking and reading fashion magazines. The blonde receptionist glanced up from trimming her nails and beamed.
    ‘Why, stranger, look who’s here.’
    ‘Hey, Gloria. Arlene around?’
    ‘She’s doing a finger wave. She should be through any minute. Take a seat. I’ll go see.’
    She clicked away on high heels through the glass door which led to the beauty rooms. The two women glanced up from their magazines, assessing Mark with the shameless appraisal of the smart and rich. They did not interest him. He sank into a chair and reached for the nearest magazine. It was Harper’s Bazaar . He flicked through the pages idly. A portrait of the Duchess of Windsor showed something with which she had wowed Cap d’Antibes. He turned the page and was confronted with a photograph of his wife.
    Its unexpectedness gave him a jolt. There was Ellie gazing out at him. She was half turned from the camera, in a long black evening gown, ruffled at the hips and slashed down the back. She was looking over her shoulders with her eyes glamorously half closed. It wasn’t really like her. It was too posed and languorous. It had none of her reckless little-girl quality. But it was Ellie.
    The caption beneath the picture said that Mrs Mark Liddon, the former and celebrated Miss Eleanor Ross, was modelling a new evening gown of tiered black marquisette which Valentina had made for her. Mark read the paragraph through twice. Mrs Mark Liddon. It gave him a warm feeling of possession. Wherever she was, whatever had happened, she was still his. Mrs Mark Liddon. He peered at the photograph proudly, searching for the little mole under her left shoulder. It didn’t show.
    The receptionist came tapping back.
    ‘Arlene’ll be right out in a minute, Mark.’
    She turned her brightness on the two women and led them away through the glass doors. Mark sat by the daffodils looking at Mrs Mark Liddon, the former and celebrated Miss Eleanor Ross.
    The fluffy room was empty now. The falling snow outside hushed everything. Mark heard the glass doors open, heard footsteps.
    A voice said: ‘Mark.’
    He got up and turned. Arlene was standing a few feet from his chair. She had cut her red hair short and wore it in little curls on top of her head like Ellie’s. It didn’t become her. She’d been putting on weight too. She was a good-looking girl, but weight had always been her trouble — even as a kid.
    ‘Hi, Arlene.’
    She wasn’t smiling. She was looking straight at him. Her mouth was unsteady.
    ‘Why didn’t you ever come and see me?’
    He said literally: ‘I’ve been out of town.’
    ‘I know that. I mean, why did you never come and see me after the marriage?’
    He could feel the emotional tension in her, but he didn’t want to cope with it. Not now. He said: ‘I just never got around to it, baby. I’ve been