I groped around, trying to find the telephone, found it, lifted the receiver. There was no humming sound on the line. I rattled the cradle once, twice, smiled grimly, hung up. They had cut the wires.
I crossed to the window, lifted the curtain an inch, looked out. The Plymouth still stood deserted on the runway. I couldn’t see the woman, but after peering round I saw a dark shape lying by the office building. It could have been Ben or it might have been one of the dogs.
I went back to the lobby, stood listening.
Clair came to the head of the stairs; she had a flash-light in her hand.
“Keep that light off the curtains,” I said softly.
“Are the police coming?” she asked.
“The line’s cut,” I returned. “Wait here. I’m going to look out the back.”
“Don’t go out,” she said breathlessly. “I know that’s what they expect you to do. They’re watching the doors.”
I thought she was probably right.
“I won’t,” I said, moved along the short passage to the kitchen.