Beyond the Vanishing Point | Page 4

if by dark she had not rejoined
him. They suggested that doubtless the young lady had gone shopping.
"Maybe she did," I agreed. But in my heart, I felt differently. "She'll be
waiting for us in the Hotel when we get there, Alan."
"But I'm telling you we saw Polter this morning. He lives here--not
thirty miles from Quebec. We saw him on the Terrace after breakfast.
Recognized him immediately of course."
"Did he see you?"
"I don't know. He was lost in the crowd in a minute. But I asked a
young French fellow if he knew him. He did know him, as Frank
Rascor. That must be the name he wears now. He's a famous man up
here--well known, immensely rich. I didn't know if he saw us or not.
What a fool I was to leave Babs alone, even for a minute."
We were speeding over a white-clad valley with a little frozen river
winding down its middle. Night had almost come. The leaden sky was
low above us. It began snowing. The lights of the small villages along
the river were barely visible.
"Can you land us, Alan?"
"Yes, surely. At the Municipal Field just beyond the Citadel. We can
get to the Hotel in five minutes."

* * * * *
It was a flight of only half an hour. During it, Alan told me about Polter.
The hunchback, known now as Frank Rascor, owned a mine in the
Laurentians, some thirty miles from Quebec City--a fabulously
productive mine of gold. It was an anomaly that gold should be
produced in this region. No vein of gold-bearing rock had been found,
except the one on Polter's property. Alan had seen a newspaper account
of the strangeness of it; and on a hunch had come to Quebec, being
intrigued by the description of the mine owner. He had seen Frank
Rascor on the Dufferin Terrace, and recognized him as Polter.
Again my thoughts went back into the past. Had Polter stolen that
missing fragment of golden quartz the size of a walnut which had been
beneath Dr. Kent's microscope? We always thought so. Dr. Kent had
some secret, some great problem upon which he was working. Polter,
his assistant, had evidently known, or partially known, its details. And
now, four years later, Polter was immensely rich, with a "gold mine" in
mountains where there was no other evidence of gold!
I seemed to see some connection. Alan, I knew, was groping with a dim
idea, so strange he hardly dared voice it.
"I tell you, it's weird, George. The sight of him. Polter--heavens, one
couldn't mistake that build--and his face, his features, just the same as
when we knew him."
"Then what's so weird?" I demanded.
"His age." There was a queer solemn hush in Alan's voice. "George,
when we knew Polter, he was about twenty-five, wasn't he? Well, that
was four years ago. But he isn't twenty-nine now. I swear it is the same
man, but he isn't around thirty. Don't ask me what I'm talking about. I
don't know. But he isn't thirty. He's nearer fifty! Unnatural! Weird! I
felt it, and so did Babs, just that brief look we had of him."
I didn't answer. My attention was on managing the plane. The lights of
Levis were under us. Beyond the City cliffs, the St. Lawrence lay in its

deep valley; the Quebec lights, the light-dotted ramparts with the
Terrace and the great fortresslike Hotel showed across the river.
"Better take the stick, Alan. I don't know where the field is. And don't
you worry about Babs. She'll be back by now."
* * * * *
But she was not. We went to the two connecting rooms in the tower of
the Hotel which Alan and Babs had engaged. We inquired with half a
dozen phone calls. No one had seen or heard from her. The Quebec
police were sending a man up to talk with Alan.
"Well, we won't be here," Alan called to me. He was standing by the
window in Babs' room; he was trembling too much to use the phone. I
hung up the receiver and went though the connecting door to join him.
Babs' room! It sent a pang through me. A few of her garments were
lying around. A negligee was laid out on the large bed. A velvet
boudoir doll--she had always loved them--stood on the dresser. Upon
this Hotel room, in one day, she had impressed her personality. Her
perfume was in the air. And now she was gone.
"We won't be here," Alan was repeating. He gripped me at the window.
"Look." In his hand was an ugly-looking, smokeless, soundless
automatic of the Essen type. "And I've got another one for you.
Brought them with