I dipped my fingers into the side pockets of the case. In one of them I found a small, blue-covered diary dated 1948. I thumbed through it quickly. The entries were few and far between. There were several references to ‘Jack’, and I guessed he was Jack Brett, the naval deserter, Mifflin had told me about.
24.1 Movie with Jack. 7.45. 28.1 Dinner L’Etoile. Meet Jack 6.30. 29.1 Home for week-end. 5.2 Jack rejoining his ship.
Nothing more until March 10th.
10.3 Still no letter from Jack. 12.3 Dr. Salzer asked me if I would like outside work. I said yes. 16.3 Start work at Crestways. 18.3 Mr. Crosby died.
The rest of the diary was a blank as her life had been a blank since that date. She had gone to Crestways presumably to nurse someone. She had seen Crosby die. So she had been locked up in this room for two years and had drug shot into her in the hope that sooner or later her mind would deteriorate and she wouldn’t remember what had happened. That much was obvious, but she still remembered. The horror of the scene still lingered in her mind. Maybe she had come suddenly into the room where the two girls had been fighting for the possession of the gun. She may have drawn back when Crosby had taken a hand in the struggle, not wishing to embarrass him, and she had seen the gun swing on Crosby and the shot fired.
I looked at the still, white face. Sometime, but not now, there had been character and determination in that face. She wasn’t the type to hush anything up, nor would she be influenced by money. She was much more likely to insist on the police being called. So they had locked her away.
I scratched the side of my jaw thoughtfully and flapped the little diary against the palm of my hand. The next move was to get out, and get out quickly.
And as if in answer to this thought, there was a sudden and appalling crash that shook the building: it sounded as if part of the house had collapsed.
I nearly jumped out of my skin, reached the door in two strides and jerked it open. The corridor was full of mortar and brick dust, and out of the dust came two figures: guns in fists, running swiftly towards Hopper’s room—Jack Kerman and Mike Finnegan. At the sight of them I gave a croaking cheer. They pulled up sharply, their guns covering me.
Kerman’s tense face broke into a wide, expansive grin.