next. Thanks a lot."

"Sorry we couldn't help you."

He went out slowly.

* * * * *

872 Maple was a rambling frame house dozing on a wide flower-bordered
lot. There was nothing sleepy about the diminutive woman who opened the
door to Jim's knock. Snapping black eyes peered at him from a maze of
wrinkles. A veined hand moved swiftly to smooth down the white hair that
framed her face.

"Looking for someone, young man?"

"Just information, Mrs.--"

"Collins, and it's Miss. Don't give out information about guests. You a
bill collector?"

"No, Miss Collins. As a matter of fact, I'm trying to check up on an old
friend I lost track of. Helen Simmons. She lived at this address for a
while."

"Sure did. Well, come on in. Mind you, I don't usually do this, Mr.--"

"Blair." Without any fanfare a bill changed hands.

"Mr. Blair. Well, I can't tell you much. Try that green chair for size.
What do you want to know?"

* * * * *

Jim studied the toe of his right shoe. His eyes were veiled. "I heard
she was hurt, and hard up, and I was worried. My wife and I were friends
of hers back east."

"Hurt, hard up? Humph! Not likely, spendin' all her time drivin' that
English car around. Takin' trips. I'm not sayin' she didn't mind her
manners, though."

"Did she have any close friends?"

"She was chummy with Edith Walton, the girl that works for Doc Mendel.
He's county coroner in his spare time. No men. Didn't fool around at
all. I'd a known."

* * * * *

Behind Jim's stony eyes the pattern took clearer form, as if a mosaic
approached completion. A mosaic of carefully planned events that
totalled horror. He shivered as the outlines of his hunch filled in.
Helen--what creatures were these? Helen--not dead, not poor,--carefully
planting ostensible proof of her death and going on to a new role, a new
life, in London or Paris or Rome. A free, untrammelled life. And her
child--if child was the word--in his home, repeating the pattern.
Eliminating competition as her mother undoubtedly had done. The
competition--his and Jean's children! Changeling, changeling-- No, not
that. Incubus! He shivered again.

"Rabbits on your grave, Mr. Blair?"

He looked up slowly. "Sorry. I was just wondering. Did Miss Simmons have
a job while she was here?"

"No, she didn't. One thing she did do was rent a place. Used to be
Blands Hardware. Paid a