advantage. As he watched, Chet saw that the station wagon was not only coming
into Packensaw; it was taking the very street that led past this hotel.
FIVE minutes later, Chet had checked out, which wasn't difficult,
considering that he'd paid for his hotel room in advance. Five more minutes, and
Chet was again a stowaway. This time, instead of being on a freight train, he
was huddled in the back of a station wagon, parked outside a grocery store.
The chauffeur came from the store, laid some packages in the seat in front
of Chet, and started for Thorneau's. Out of Packensaw, up the hill, through the
gate unchallenged. Then the wagon was parked near an ample five-car garage that
was dwarfed by the more than ample stables close beside it. When the chauffeur's
footsteps faded from the gravel, Chet climbed out.
Apparently the chauffeur had entered the house by a back door that looked
like the sally port of an ancient fortress. But it wasn't Chet's plan to use the
service entrance. Keeping clear of the gravel, he took a wide detour around the
house, benefiting by the early dusk cast by the great boughs of spreading elms
that flanked the sloping lawn. Striking a flagstone walk that led toward the
castellated residence, Chet approached the front door in the style of a visitor
who had been passed by the gatekeeper and various caretakers who patrolled the
spacious premises.
A liveried servant answered Chet's bold ring. When Chet stated that he'd
like to meet Mr. Thorneau, the servant turned him over to a mild-faced man, who
looked like a private secretary, which he was. Politely, the secretary inquired:
"You are Mr. Cranston?"
Prompted to say "yes," Chet did. He was immediately conducted through a
tier of magnificently furnished rooms to a closed door, where secretary said,
with a departing bow.
"You may enter the study, Mr. Cranston. I know that Mr. Thorneau expects
you."
HAND on the knob, Chet paused until the secretary had turned a corner. With
his other hand, Chet then produced the revolver that he had snatched from the
watchman at the Pyrolac plant. Opening the door, he stepped through, and slammed
the barrier behind him.
Thorneau was seated behind a large oak desk, signing letters that lay on
the glass top. Hearing the door's thud, he looked up. Again, Chet was impressed
by the blunt, deep-eyed visage, with lips that could flicker one of those half
smiles that many artists sought so vainly to portray. Indeed, Thorneau's manner
was amazing. Not a hair's-breadth did it vary from his expression of the evening
before, when the strain had been Chet's, not Thorneau's.
"Good afternoon, Conroy," spoke Thorneau, his tone a low boom. "I did not
expect to see you so soon, or so suddenly."
Chet stared hard, across the leveled gun.
"You mean you expected me eventually?"
"Of course," replied Thorneau. "That is why I placed watchers about the
grounds. I am surprised that you managed to slip past them. Perhaps I was too
casual when I ordered them simply to watch out for strangers. I should have
given them your description."
