Free The Three Sirens by Irving Wallace Page B

you then. I had to miss it this morning. Overslept. What should I tell Suzu? Anything special?”
    “The usual.”
    “Okay…By the way, the last of the research came in from Los Angeles.”
    “Anything exciting?”
    “Haven’t had time to look at it yet. We’ll go over it together at breakfast.”
    “Fine.”
    After she heard Marc leave, she hurriedly fastened on her brassiere, then pulled on her panties, garter belt, rolled on her sheer stockings and secured them, and got into the pink slip. Emerging from the warm bathroom into the cooler, sunny upstairs bedroom, she wondered if the final research had turned up anything more. In minutes she would know. Quickly, she combed her hair, made up her lips, but used no cosmetics on the rest of her face, then stepped into her light cocoa-colored wool skirt, drew on the beige cashmere sweater, buttoned it, found some low-heeled shoes, shoved her feet into them, and hastened into the hall and descended the stairs.
    Suzu, grinning, was putting down the breakfast, and Marc was at the kitchen table, bent over an open folder, when Claire entered. She hailed Suzu, and then brushed her palm over Marc’s crewcut as she pecked a kiss at his cheek.
    She slid into a chair, gulped her grapefruit juice, grimaced, having forgotten to sweeten it. She looked across the table. “Isn’t Maud back yet?”
    “Still hiking across the moors,” said Marc, without looking up.
    Claire broke off the corner from a piece of toast. “Well,” she said, indicating the research, “does our Polynesian Disneyland really exist?”
    Marc lifted his head, then shrugged. “Maybe yes, maybe no. I wish I could be as sure as Matty.” He tapped the papers in front of him. “Our graduate students seem to have done a thorough job, even at the Library of Congress, combed South Seas literature, published and unpublished. No mention of The Three Sirens anywhere. Absolutely not a word—”
    “That shouldn’t be surprising. Easterday said it was an unknown group.”
    “I’d feel more comfortable if there was something in print. Of course—” He began to leaf through the notes again. “—certain other findings tend to support Easterday a little.”
    “Like what?” asked Claire, her mouth full.
    “There actually was a Daniel Wright, and he did live in Skinner Street in London before 1795. Also, there was an attorney named Thomas Courtney practicing in Chicago—”
    “Really? … Anything more about him?”
    “Dates, mostly. He’s thirty-eight. Degrees from Northwestern and the University of Chicago. Junior partner in some old-line firm. Flew for the Air Force in Korea in 1952. Then back in practice in Chicago. The listings stop in 1957.”
    “That’s when he went to the South Seas,” said Claire, flatly.
    “Could be,” said Marc. “We’ll know soon enough.” He closed the folder, and devoted himself to his cereal and milk.
    “Eleven shopping weeks left to Christmas,” said Claire.
    “I don’t think The Three Sirens will quite be Christmas,” said Marc. “It’s no place for a woman, among those primitives. If I could leave you behind, I would.”
    “Don’t you dare try,” said Claire, indignantly. “Besides, they’re not entirely primitives. Easterday said the Chief’s son spoke in perfect English.”
    “Plenty of primitives speak English,” said Marc. He smiled suddenly. “Including some of our best friends. I wouldn’t want you to spend too much time with them, either.”
    Pleased by his unusual concern, Claire touched his hand. “You mean you really care?”
    “Male duty and instinct,” said Marc. “Protect one’s mate … But seriously, field trips are not picnics. I’ve told you how much I hated the ones I’ve been on. They’re never as idyllic in real life as they sound when they’re glossed over in print. You usually find you don’t have much in common with the natives, aside from working with them. You miss all the amenities of life. Inevitably, you get laid