Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

flashlight’s beam revealed a blanket folded on the ottoman. Shewrapped the blanket around her and shined the beam on her wristwatch. It was only 5 P.M.
    She finished the apple, put the core in an ashtray and closed her eyes. She was so tired again. So unreasonably tired. She started to drift off, unable to fight the overwhelming fatigue.
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    A patrol car, its siren screeching, raced Twaddle and Lyons to the heliport on East 34th Street.
    â€œWe don’t have much time,” Twaddle said. “And we still don’t have Lisa Markey’s address in Windham. But while they are searching for it, we will be on our way there. By the time we get to the helipad, Ambrose, if that’s where he’s gone, will already be at least thirty minutes ahead of us.”
    The pilot was already at the controls of the helicopter when the squad car pulled up. Twaddle and Lyons scrambled aboard.
    â€œThere is a major storm in the Windham area,” the pilot informed them. “If it hasn’t passed, we may have to circle around until it does.”
    â€œThat could work to our advantage,” Twaddle said. “Pray God, it does.”
    The next hour was spent in silence, broken only by Twaddle’s one remark. “I should have known immediately,” he said. “Why else would she have fled the airport without her suitcases? Ambrose was the one she was afraid of. And now looking at his dossier, we have the whole picture.”
    Finally they spotted the emergency landing lights of the Windham helipad.
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    Janice and Mike found nothing else in Alexandra’s papers to suggest where she might have gone. At six o’clock they tried to concentrate on the evening news. The Watergate scandal was the top story.
    A harried-looking President Nixon was being threatened with impeachment. The calls for his resignation were growing louder.
    The Big Apple’s steady drumbeat of fiscal problems was raising the possibility of bankruptcy.
    A neighbor had reported a new piece of evidence against a young mother who was under suspicion for the murder of her two children.
    When the doorbell rang, a persistent demanding ring, they both were startled. Michael sprang up to answer it. Larry Thompson was at the door.
    â€œI thought she was dead,” he said in a near shout. “A newspaper reporter who has sources inside the police department told me that when they removed the Beauty Mask, you said the dead girl was not your sister.” His face was deadly white, his tone of voice ragged and demanding. “You’ve got to tell me. Is Alexandra alive? Is she alive?”
    They had promised Twaddle that they would not reveal the truth to anyone. But looking at the tortured expression in Larry Thompson’s eyes, Janice was compelled to answer. “Yes, she is,” she said flatly.
    The icy calm she had managed to maintain broke.
    In a burst of words, she sobbed, “The police believe that whoever murdered Lisa Markey did it by mistake and is stalking Alexandra. The detectives are on their way to Windham in a helicopter, hoping that she is staying in Lisa’s ski cabin. But they’re not sure that she is there. And they still don’t know the exact address in Windham.”
    Thompson stared at her as wildly conflicting emotions played out on his face. He grasped Janice’s arm. “Why didn’t they ask me?” he demanded. “I know the address. I KNOW IT.”
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    Alexandra opened her eyes. Although it was still raining, it was not the torrential rain of the early afternoon. Without the flashlight shecould see the bare outlines of the furniture in the room. She was still exhausted, but the consuming fatigue that had kept her sleeping almost round the clock since she had arrived here three days ago was diminishing.
    It was in London that it had started. She had almost been hit by a car.