Free Missing From Home by Mary Burchell Page A

recognised the individual drive-in, flanked by large stone plant-pots, and she hurried on past the curve in the road which hid the other pavement from her view.
    And then she stopped dead, with the most dreadful jerk of dismay. For there was no Chipperfield Hotel — or any other kind of hotel—opposite the garage. There was just a block of very new-looking offices.
    For a panic-stricken moment or two, she tried to tell herself she had mistaken the garage. And then, certain though she was that this at least she had recognised, she went up to the man who was standing by the line of pumps.
    “I was looking for the Chipperfield Hotel,” she said, in a voice she could not keep entirely steady. “It—I thought it was opposite, on that corner .”
    “So it was, my dear, until something like a year ago,” the man assured her.
    “Did the—the people who ran it move elsewhere ? ” asked Marilyn desperately.
    “No. The old lady died. It was a family affair, I believe. And the place was sold up. Pretty penny they got for it too, I reckon,” the man added reflectively. “It’s a good site. Funny you should come and ask me about it. You’re the second young lady this morning to come enquiring for the Chipperfield.”
    “Oh, that would be my sister,” cried Marilyn, thankful for even this frail link with Pat. “When was that? Where did she go?”
    “We-ell, I’d say it was best part of an hour ago. And as for where she went I couldn’t tell you. She just got back into her taxi—for she’d some luggage with her—and drove away.”

 
    CHAPTER I V
    FOR several panic-stricken minutes after she left the garage, Marilyn walked about in an aimless sort of way. She tried to persuade herself that somehow, for some unknown reason, Pat might have lingered in the district. But soon the absurdity of such an idea forced itself upon her. Why should Pat do that? To the best of her belief Marilyn would not be visiting the hotel until Wednesday. She had no reason whatever to think that the urgency of events would bring her young sister there sooner.
    “Then what would be the most likely thing for her to do when she found the hotel no longer existed?” Marilyn asked herself distractedly. “What would I do in the circumstances?”
    Surely the most obvious and urgent thing would be to re-establish contact with her one ally in order to disc u s s —or even report—changed plans.
    “Would she dare to phone home?” thought Marilyn. “Risky—but what else could she do? She would have to risk Mother’s answering instead of me, of course. But then she could always just hang up quietly if Mother did reply. She may even have tried that already! In fact, I ought to be at home now, so as to get any message before the parents return.” And, galvanised into action by the sheer relief of having something specific to do, Marilyn made for the nearest Underground station as fast as she could. Once in the train, she fumed and counted and recounted the stations on the map opposite her and wondered if a taxi would have been quicker. But she had been rather lavish with taxis recently and the expense of this undertaking were already proving distinctly more than she and Pat had anticipated.
    Fortunately, it was only five minutes’ walk from her local station to the flat, and Marilyn did it in just under three. She was panting when she emerged from the lift, and she gave an extra gasp when she realised that a completely strange young man was standing outside her front door.
    “Good morning,” he said, before she could address him. “Are you by any chance Marilyn Collamore?”
    “Yes.” Marilyn regarded him suspiciously. “Who are you ? ”
    “My name’s Jerry Penrose and—”
    “Oh, I know about you ! ” She immediately became wary. “You met my mother, didn’t you? And you did some self-appointed sleuthing about my sister.”
    “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he replied stiffly. “But if you would prefer me to take no