"Yes, I'm sorry. It's painful. And perhaps I'm wrong--- I'll admit. But you'll think now? Who?
Tell me who might have come?"
Chris had her head down, frowning in thought. Then she looked up at Kinderman. "No. No, there's no one."
"Maybe you then, Miss Spencer?" he asked hems "Someone comes here to see you?" "Oh, no, no one," said Sharon, her eyes very wide.
Chris turned to her. "Does the horseman know where you work?" "The horseman?" asked Kinderman.
"Her boyfriend," Chris explained.
The blonde shook her head. "He's never come here. Besides, he was in Boston that night. Some convention."
"He's a salesman?"
"A lawyer."
The detective turned again to Chris. "The servants? They have visitors?"
"Never. Not at all."
"You expected a package that day? Some delivery?"
"Not that I know of. Why?"
"Mr. Dennings was--- not to speak ill of the dead, may he rest in peace--- but as you said, in his cups he was somewhat--- well, call it irascible: capable, doubtless, of provoking an argument; an anger; in this case a rage from perhaps a delivery man who came by to drop a package. So were you expecting something? Like dry cleaning, maybe? Groceries? Liquor? A package?"
"I really wouldn't know," Chris told him. "Karl handles all of that."
"Oh, I see."
"Want to ask him?"
The detective sighed and leaned back from the table, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat. He stared glumly at the witchcraft book. "Never mind, never mind; it's remote. You've got a daughter very sick, and--- well, never mind." He made a gesture of dismissal and rose from the chair. "Very nice to have met you, Miss Spencer." "Same here." Sharon nodded remotely.
"Baffling," said Kinderman with a headshake. "Strange." He was focused on some inner thought. Then he looked at Chris as she rose from her chair. "Well, I'm sorry. I've bothered you for nothing. Forgive me."
"Here, I'll walk you to the door," Chris told him,, thoughtful.
"Don't bother."
"No bother."
"If you insist. Incidentally," he said as they moved from the kitchen, "just a chance in a million, I know, but your daughter--- you could possibly ask her if she saw Mr. Dennings in her room that night?"
Chris walked with folded arms. "Look, he wouldn't have had a reason to be up there is the first place."
"I know that; I realize; that's true; but if certain British doctors never asked, 'What's this fungus?' we wouldn't today have penicillin. Right? Please ask. You'll ask?"
'When she's well enough, yes; I'll ask."
"Couldn't hurt. In the meantime..." They'd come to the front door and Kinderman faltered, embarrassed. He put fingertips to mouth in a hesistant gesture. "Look, I really hate to ask you; however...''
Chris tensed for some new shock, the prescience tingling again in her bloodstream "What?"
"For my daughter... you could maybe give an autograph?" He'd reddened, and Chris almost laughed with relief; at herself; at despair and the human condition.
"Oh, of course. Where's a pencil?" she said.
"Right her!" he responded instantly, whippeng out the stub of a chewed-up pencil from the pocket of his coat while he dipped his other hand in a pocket of his jacket and slipped out a calling card. "She would love it," he said as he handed them both to Chris.
"What's her name?" Chris asked, pressing the card against the door and poising the pencil stub to write. There followed a weighty hesitation. She heard only wheezing. She glanced around.
In Kinderman's eyes she saw some massive, terrible struggle.
"I lied," he said finally, his eyes at once desperate and defiant. "It's for me."
He fixed his gaze on the card and blushed. "Write 'To William--- William Kinderman'--- it's spelled on the back."
Chris eyed him with a wan and unexpected affection, checked the spelling of his name and wrote, William F. kinderman, I love you! And signed her name. Then she gave him the card, which he tucked in his pocket without reading the inscription.
"You're a very nice lady," he told her sheepishly, gaze averted.
"You're a very nice man."
He seemed to blush harder. "No, I'm not. I'm a bother." He was opening the door. "Never mind what I said here today. It's upsetting. Forget it. Keep your mind on your daughter. Your daughter."
Chris nodded, her despondency surging up again as Kinderman stepped outside onto the stoop and donned his hat.
