books. There must be hundreds of Paiges in the greater Chicago area, but the last of the old-time newsboys had mentioned Evanston and Skokie, and that was a logical place to start.
Paige, Wilbur.
Or Paige, William.
Or something like that.
He’s gotta be dead by now. Gotta be.
But maybe not.
And even if Paige, Wilbur, or Paige, William, was dead—maybe there was a Wilbur or William Paige, Jr., living in the old house, or at least in the old neighborhood. In the old town. Living in the old home town.
And if that didn’t work—if there was no Wilbur Paige or William Paige or if there was and it turned out to be the wrong Wilbur or William Paige—Lindsey had the Paige Publications bibliography. God bless Scotty Anderson, and God bless Lovisi, the publisher, for getting Anderson to do the research.
If he couldn’t find Paige, he could look for Violet de la Yema or Salvatore Pescara or Del Marston or Walter Roberts or J. B. Harkins or Bob Walters.
Somebody still had to be alive.
Lindsey would find the survivor.
An hour after starting, Lindsey realized that it was mid-afternoon and he hadn’t eaten any lunch. He ordered a sandwich and a pot of coffee from room service and went back to work.
After another hour he rolled the room service cart back into the hall, yawned and stretched and stood at his window looking out over Lake Michigan. The frozen mist had stopped falling but the sky was still filled with fat clouds. They looked full of moisture, ready to let it go any time the mood overtook them. The lake itself looked cold and black and ugly.
Lindsey went back to work. He’d already tracked down two William Paiges in Skokie as well as three in Evanston, plus three Wilbur Paiges in Skokie and none in Evanston. Why was that? Had Evanston banned Wilburs?
Not likely.
Worse, none of the Williams or Wilburs or their spouses or children had anything to do with Paige Publications, or had even heard of Paige Publications. An Eleanor Paige in Evanston (“I live with my son William since my husband died”) remembered the Paige Building in Chicago. It had been a family joke between her husband and herself. (“There’s our building. Isn’t it nice being landlords? I wonder how the tenants are doing.”) But in fact her husband had been a wholesale butcher with a shop near the stockyards, and her son was regional manager for the Piggly-Wiggly supermarket chain and they really had nothing to do with the Paige Building or with Paige Publications.
Lindsey straightened his tie, slipped into his suit-coat and took the elevator downstairs. He walked into the bar and ordered a whiskey. There was a TV set above the back bar, tuned to CNN. Of course there was a set in Lindsey’s room, but he hadn’t turned it on. The picture looked murky and for a moment Lindsey thought the satellite was acting up, but the bartender leaned his elbows on the wood and pointed at the set with one thumb.
“What do you think of that?”
Lindsey tried to figure out what he was looking at. This might be one of those wonderful medical shows featuring super blowups of some poor soul’s intestinal parasites.
The announcer intoned, “These are the photographs that have the world of ichthyology in an uproar. Have scientists from the University of Nevada really found Tahoe Tessie, the mountain lake’s cousin of Scotland’s famous Loch Ness Monster, or is it merely a sunken log, or perhaps an overgrown Mackinaw trout?”
The image cut to a perfect co-anchor team seated behind a news desk. They weren’t Dan Rather and Connie Chung but they could have passed for clones. The Connie had been speaking. Now the Dan took over. “In the Kremlin today, forces loyal to former leader.…”
The bartender used the remote control to cut the volume on the set. “Lake Tahoe, hey? That’s a little puddle. Those professors ought to take a look at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Then they’d see what a real monster looks like. Waddaya think?”
Lindsey said, “You’re absolutely right.” He paid for his whiskey, left most of it in its glass and headed back to his room. Once there he looked out the window again at the now black sky and black lake. He sighed and went back to work.
He could go in either of two directions. He could spread his net wider—look for Wilbur or William Paiges in Chicago proper, or in other suburbs—or he could keep trying Paiges in Evanston and Skokie, but not limit himself to William or Wilbur.
He decided on the latter course.
Another hour’s work and he hit pay dirt. He’d had to go a little past Evanston, but not very far. A Paul Paige on Willow Road in Winnetka announced that he’d just got home from work at the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry where he was a senior curator. Yes, he knew about Paige Publications and the Paige Building. No, he didn’t know any William or Wilbur Paige, but his father had been Walter Paige, founder and president of Paige Publications. No, he was no longer alive. Nor was his wife, alas.
But Paul was alive and well thank you very much and what was it that Mr. Lindsey wanted?
Lindsey explained that he was with International Surety and was trying to find the beneficiary of a life insurance policy.
Mr. Paige said, “I’ve heard ’em all, brother, and believe me, that one’s the oldest in the book.”
Lindsey dialed Winnetka again. This time a woman answered. Lindsey asked, “Is this Mrs. Paige?”
Her voice was smooth but not particularly friendly. “No, Mrs. Paige died many years ago. Who is calling?”
Lindsey said, “I’m sorry. I meant, Mrs. Paul Paige. I’m trying to—”
“Are you the insurance man?” she cut him off.
“Yes, but I’m not a salesman. I give you my word of honor.”
“Then just what do you want?”
Lindsey tried to explain the Vansittart situation in twenty-five words or less. He must have done pretty well, because the woman who was not Mrs. Paige finally said, “All right, you may come to the house. Tonight. It’s—” he could almost hear her look at her watch “—almost six-thirty now. We should finish our dinner by eight o’clock. You may join us then for coffee. Paul and I will try to assist you.”
Lindsey thanked her.
“But I warn you,” she added, “if you even try to sell me anything, I will go in the other room and get my gun and come back and kill you. I’m not joking.”
She hung up.
Lindsey vowed silently not to try to sell her anything.
The phone rang. It was Gina Rossellini. How was Lindsey doing, did he need any help with the case, and was he all at loose ends in a strange city and looking for company for dinner?
He thanked her for the offer but begged off. He thought about phoning Marvia or Mother at home, then remembered the difference in time zones. He dialed Marvia at Berkeley police headquarters.
He got through to her and told her that he’d located the Paige
