Captain Jack Caulford and addressed to Dorothy Spencer. The terse sentences of condolence smacked of a routine form letter, the redundant protocol of wartime sympathies. She turned her attention to the list of personal belongings accompanying the letter and quickly found the entry she was looking for—the four pages of parchment with the Chinatown stamps. The pieces were beginning to fit into place.
There was only a fleeting awareness of recrimination as she considered the story she’d told Bogardus, for most of it was true. She had revealed all, except for the death of James Spencer and its sordid circumstances, which, after all, she had yet to confirm. Her eyes returned to the name Raymond Slade, circled on the page of newsprint. She knew that if the lawyer did his job, she would soon resolve the suspicions that had haunted her since childhood. 4
Sam slept fitfully through the afternoon and the following evening and woke to the sounds of early morning hospital clatter. During the night the needle feeding the I.V. solution into his left arm had been removed. His bladder reminded him that he was still human. Taking the initiative and wishing to avoid a bed pan, Bogardus pushed the covers to one side and slid his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling for the cold, hard linoleum. It was a long way to the floor, and when his feet finally found it Sam discovered that his legs were unsteady. The pain in his head had subsided, but he was dizzy and unsure of himself as he felt his way 3
along the bed toward the bathroom between the two adjoining hospital rooms. By the time he reached the end of the bed Sam was able to walk without clinging to the furniture or the walls, though his body was stiff from nearly three days in bed. He entered the bathroom and felt for the light.
An instant after he threw the large plastic toggle switch the fluorescent tube over the sink flickered and came on. He squinted at the image in the mirror under the bright light. The attack in his apartment had taken its toll. The long narrow stitches in his head, still unbandaged from the intern’s inspection of the previous afternoon, ran along his scalp on the left side of his forehead. A small patch of hair no more than half an inch in diameter had been shaved from his already receding hairline. There was a heavy growth of stubble on his face, which provided some color to the sallow complexion and baggy eyes that stared back at him from the mirror.
Sam finished in the bathroom, turned off the light and returned to his bed. He lay awake for several hours and considered the attack in his apartment, which was in ruins with no obvious articles of value taken. It was a second-floor room, not the usual target of an experienced burglar. Entry had to be made through the front door from a common hallway, increasing the risk of observation by others living in the apartment house.
No, Bogardus was certain that it was not a random burglary. The intruder was looking for something specific. There was only one thing it could be—the Davies parchments.
But why, after all of these years, had the documents surfaced, and how did his assailant know that he had them? His analysis kept returning to Jennifer Davies. He remembered the letter he’d dictated to her before leaving his office three days earlier. There was no need to wait now. The attack in his apartment excused the need for discretion. He would call Jennifer at her office, and if there was no answer he would call her at her stepfather’s house. She could provide needed information. She could also be in danger.
Sam lay wide-awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his mind playing and replaying the events of the past week. Just before eight o’clock an orderly entered the room with a breakfast that could only be characterized as sterile. By eight-thirty he had devoured the shredded wheat, two pieces 115
of buttered toast and juice and had gagged down a half cup of tepid coffee.
It was still early but Sam
There was only a fleeting awareness of recrimination as she considered the story she’d told Bogardus, for most of it was true. She had revealed all, except for the death of James Spencer and its sordid circumstances, which, after all, she had yet to confirm. Her eyes returned to the name Raymond Slade, circled on the page of newsprint. She knew that if the lawyer did his job, she would soon resolve the suspicions that had haunted her since childhood. 4
Sam slept fitfully through the afternoon and the following evening and woke to the sounds of early morning hospital clatter. During the night the needle feeding the I.V. solution into his left arm had been removed. His bladder reminded him that he was still human. Taking the initiative and wishing to avoid a bed pan, Bogardus pushed the covers to one side and slid his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling for the cold, hard linoleum. It was a long way to the floor, and when his feet finally found it Sam discovered that his legs were unsteady. The pain in his head had subsided, but he was dizzy and unsure of himself as he felt his way 3
along the bed toward the bathroom between the two adjoining hospital rooms. By the time he reached the end of the bed Sam was able to walk without clinging to the furniture or the walls, though his body was stiff from nearly three days in bed. He entered the bathroom and felt for the light.
An instant after he threw the large plastic toggle switch the fluorescent tube over the sink flickered and came on. He squinted at the image in the mirror under the bright light. The attack in his apartment had taken its toll. The long narrow stitches in his head, still unbandaged from the intern’s inspection of the previous afternoon, ran along his scalp on the left side of his forehead. A small patch of hair no more than half an inch in diameter had been shaved from his already receding hairline. There was a heavy growth of stubble on his face, which provided some color to the sallow complexion and baggy eyes that stared back at him from the mirror.
Sam finished in the bathroom, turned off the light and returned to his bed. He lay awake for several hours and considered the attack in his apartment, which was in ruins with no obvious articles of value taken. It was a second-floor room, not the usual target of an experienced burglar. Entry had to be made through the front door from a common hallway, increasing the risk of observation by others living in the apartment house.
No, Bogardus was certain that it was not a random burglary. The intruder was looking for something specific. There was only one thing it could be—the Davies parchments.
But why, after all of these years, had the documents surfaced, and how did his assailant know that he had them? His analysis kept returning to Jennifer Davies. He remembered the letter he’d dictated to her before leaving his office three days earlier. There was no need to wait now. The attack in his apartment excused the need for discretion. He would call Jennifer at her office, and if there was no answer he would call her at her stepfather’s house. She could provide needed information. She could also be in danger.
Sam lay wide-awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his mind playing and replaying the events of the past week. Just before eight o’clock an orderly entered the room with a breakfast that could only be characterized as sterile. By eight-thirty he had devoured the shredded wheat, two pieces 115
of buttered toast and juice and had gagged down a half cup of tepid coffee.
It was still early but Sam
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