Goldengirl

‘I remember — my dead publisher. So they have phones up there, do they?’

Of course she couldn’t know he was in no mood to trade humour. ‘Actually, I’m in New York. Something has come up—’

‘New York? Isn’t that where the Serafin girl is thought to be? I saw the item on NBC News last evening. Bill must be out of his mind with worry. Is there any development yet?’

‘Nothing,’ said Dryden. ‘Everyone’s waiting for a ransom demand. Professor, when we talked, you were good enough to tell me a little about the growth hormone, HGH, and the work that’s being done in your Institute with children suffering from arrested growth. If you recollect, I put a question to you about the possible effect of HGH on normal children, and you were pretty short with me — warned me I was on very doubtful ground.’

‘I remember saying that, yes.’ The note of coolness carried over on her voice.

‘I’m back on the same ground,’ he admitted. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t trouble you if it wasn’t important. I have just one question pertaining to what you said before. The answer could profoundly influence things here.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Professor Walsh. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Would the reason for your reservation about the use of HGH be that it has a connection with diabetes?’

‘You’ve got it in one,’ said Professor Walsh. ‘If you administer HGH in large amounts over a considerable period of time, you produce a condition of hyperglycemia that stimulates the beta cells of the pancreatic islands. It causes them to hypertrophy and degenerate, resulting ultimately in chronic diabetes. HGH is diabetogenic, Mr. Dryden. Anyone who uses it knows that.’

Melody had arranged a 1350 flight from Kennedy Airport. They landed in Cleveland in a little over an hour and a half. The conversation between them was minimal. From Cleveland Hopkins Airport they took a taxi into the center and east along Euclid Avenue.

Caradock Lodge was not visible from the road. Dryden asked the driver to let them out a 100 yards past the gate. They settled the fare and walked back. There was a drive lined with tall, green-barked trees. A short way around the curve was the Lodge, mock-gothic to the pointed roofs of its ivy-covered towers. Inside, a dog barked. Melody slipped her hand inside Dryden’s arm.

The bell, at least, was modern. It was answered by a uniformed nurse, sallow-skinned and tight-lipped.

‘Yes?’

‘Visitors,’ Dryden announced, ‘for Miss Goldine Serafin.’

‘There must be a mistake,’ she said without blinking. ‘There is nobody of that name here.’

‘Definitely no mistake,’ said Dryden. ‘This is Miss Fryer, Dr. Serafin’s secretary. My name is Dryden, and I look after Miss Serafin’s business interests. You probably have orders to admit nobody. We understand your difficulty, but’ — he took a step forward — ‘this is an emergency. It is necessary for us to see the young lady, whatever name she is using here. Would you kindly take us to her? We flew in from New York specially.’

The door slammed in their faces.

‘I guess the answer is no,’ said Melody.

‘I shouldn’t have mentioned New York,’ said Dryden. ‘Serafin will have warned her about newsmen.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘You keep ringing the bell at regular intervals while I scout around the outside, hoping that dog is tied up. Give me three minutes, and then walk back up the drive and wait at the gate.’

He stepped over an ornamental chain and started across a lawn, taking stock of the leaded windows on ground level. Every one was fastened. The interior was too much in shadow for anyone to be visible from where he was. He heard Melody ring the bell.

He moved around the projecting turret at the left of the house and found a paved area surrounded by a low hedge. There was a garden table there with a bentwood chair beside it. The breeze lifted the corner of a magazine on the table. A jug of water had ice cubes floating in it. Someone had moved fast.

On this side of the house was a french window. It appeared to be closed, but as he approached, he noticed it move slightly with the wind. He eased it open and stepped inside.

The room was wood-paneled and thickly carpeted, but had an institutional look to it, the armchairs, shabby from much use, facing each other in two arc shapes across a low table supplied with glass ashtrays. A potted palm beyond them was a geriatric case itself.

Dryden jerked at the sound of the doorbell, remembered Melody, and crossed the room into a corridor redolent of lavender polish. He could hear the voice of the nurse speaking on the phone in an adjacent room. No mystery who she was calling: ‘Yes... Yes... I sent her upstairs, to her room... Certainly, I will... Yes, in fact, they are still ringing... Very well...’