Mrs. Grant nodded slowly. "You may be right. I hadn't thought of it that way."
"And you can undoubtedly use the money," Browne added. "There'll be more. How much more depends on how the book sells. It may be a steady income for a few years."
"All right," Mrs. Grant said, making up her mind. "I'll let you publish it."
"Fine!" Mr. Browne said heartily. "I felt you would. And any time you need money just call me."
Fred's birthday came in February. He was seventeen now, and the knowledge filled him with dismay. It had been months since his father had vanished.
Or had his father vanished? Maybe his memory of those people vanishing was as wrong as his memory of which way his door opened! To check it he spent an afternoon in a newspaper office searching back papers until he found the accounts. He read them all carefully. They were as he remembered them.
And in him, slowly, grew the realization that he was going to use someone. He was going to choose someone and try to make that person disappear. More, he knew that that person was going to be Curt Gaard. He decided against calling and making an appointment. He would go to the man's office and put over the sixteen-year-old act.
With a great deal of shyness he confided to the receptionist that Curt was a very special friend of his mother's. She talked into the inter-office phone, did a lot of listening and yessing. Finally she told Fred that Dr. Gaard wanted him to wait a few moments. Then she dialed an outside number. Fred listened to the clicks and knew it was his home phone. The psychiatrist was going to talk to his mother. He hadn't wanted that, but it wouldn't matter materially.
The wait lasted almost half an hour. Then, with heart pounding, Fred was walking toward the dark walnut door to the inner office. Inside, he caught a comprehensive glimpse of the rumored couch, luxurious desk and chairs, thick expensive rug, and an assortment of floor-lamps and oil paintings. Then the psychiatrist was upon him, heartily welcoming him.