During the police preliminaries Ivy Ferguson Conway crouched in a chair and refused to move, like a child waking in the dark after a nightmare. Her husband’s voice mingled finally with that of the uniformed policeman on duty in the foyer. Conway came in, shaking his head. “Lost him, John. He must have slipped the MG through that parking area at the shopping center. When I tumbled to it and backtracked, there was no sign of him.” Vallancourt tilted his head in Ivy’s direction. Conway looked startled. He crossed the room, stooped over her, spoke quietly. Some of the blankness left her eyes. She moaned suddenly, grabbed her husband about the neck, and began to sob. He picked her up, glanced at a policeman, got a nod, and carried Ivy out of the room. A lanky, sweating detective in a rumpled gray suit followed the Conways out. Vallancourt knew him; his name was Woody Britt. Britt was in charge at least for the moment. He had questioned Vallancourt in a halting fashion, unsure of himself.
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