Page 5 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

Graham grunted. “Very true.”

It was unfortunate that the very qualities that made for a skilled secretary—intelligence, organizational talents, and the ability to anticipate her employer’s needs before he was even aware of them—were the same qualities that eventually caused problems.

He was always careful to hire experienced single women who lacked family and social connections. His current secretary was a fine example. Raina Kirk was in her thirties and alone in the world. There was no man in her life and no close relations. When it came time to let her go, there would be no problems.

“Don’t worry,” Julian said. “Anna Harris is just a secretary who made off with her employer’s property. Her first objective will be to try to sell the notebook. But it will be difficult for her to find a buyer for such an exotic item. Once she starts putting out feelers, she’ll give herself away very quickly.”

“Let’s hope you’re right. One more thing.”

Julian had been about to open the door. He sighed rather theatrically and turned back to face Graham.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Was it absolutely essential to make such a mess of the Spencer job? The murder is making headlines because the police believe that whoever killed the victim is a homicidal maniac.”

“Which distracts them from the true reason for the kill,” Julian said with exaggerated patience. “That was the point. They are now looking for a madman—or, possibly, a madwoman. They won’t make the connection to the notebook.”

He let himself out into the reception area. Graham saw him give Raina a warm, seductive smile just before he closed the door.

Graham sat down at his desk. Julian’s explanation for the bloody death was reasonable, but he could have taken a less spectacular approach. A motor vehicle accident or a suicide might have generated headlines—Helen Spencer moved in society—but neither would have involved the police.

He realized that what concerned him was Julian’s penchant for the sensational. He clearly enjoyed the thrill of the kill. Graham understood.We’re only young once,he reminded himself. Nevertheless, it was time that Julian matured and learned to control his impulsive nature.

Graham contemplated the portrait of himself that hung on the wall. The artist, Tamara de Lempicka, had used her talent to give him an aura of mystery and glamour. He appeared both intensely masculine and darkly sensual. The light turned his blond hair to gold. His green eyes glowed like jewels. Lempicka had called him Lucifer during the sittings and tried to seduce him. Her illicit liaisons were the stuff of legend. He smiled at the memory.

Better to reign in hell,he thought, especially when one commanded such a profitable version of Hades.

He was untroubled by thoughts of heaven and hell because he was not a religious man. He did not consider himself a vain man, either, but he had to admit that he was quietly pleased with the portrait. He was some thirty years older than Julian, but the similarity between the two of them was unmistakable. Anyone who saw Julian standing next to the Lempicka portrait would recognize the truth immediately.

Like father, like son.

Chapter 3

When Chicago was several miles behind her, Irene pulled off Route 66 to spend yet another night at yet another anonymous autocamp.

After a dinner of stew and homemade biscuits, she retired to her cabin and took the notebook out of the handbag. She had glanced at it briefly the night she fled the mansion, but she had been too focused on getting away from New York to take a closer look.

She sat on the edge of the cot and examined it by the light of the kerosene lantern. There was a name on the first page. It had been written in a tight, precise hand.Dr. Thomas G. Atherton. Below the name was a phone number. The rest of the pages appeared to be covered in some sort of code, all of it in the same handwriting.

She puzzled over the strange numbers and symbols for a time before it dawned on her that she was looking at scientific notations. It struck her that she was in possession of the personal notebook of a mathematician or a chemist. But that made no sense. Helen Spencer had never displayed any interest in either subject.

At dawn Irene awoke from a restless sleep with a sense of resolve. She was running. She needed to know more about what she was running from.

After a breakfast of eggs and toast, she used the autocamp phone booth to call the number on the first page of the notebook. The operator requested several coins.

“Where is this number located?” Irene asked, chucking money into the slot.

“New Jersey,” the operator said.

A moment later a polished female voice answered.

“Saltwood Laboratory. How may I direct your call?”

Irene took a deep breath. “Dr. Atherton, please.”

There was a short, brittle pause on the other end of the line.

“I’m sorry but Dr. Atherton is no longer with us.”