“Maybe we’re both crazy. It might be a good idea if we both went to see a good psychiatrist.”
“Both of us? Can two people go crazy the same way? Wouldn’t it be one or the other of us?”
“Not necessarily. It’s rare, but it does happen. Folie a deux.”
“Folee adooh?”
“Contagious insanity. Their weak points match up and they make each other crazier.” She thought of the cases she had studied and recalled that usually one was dominant and the other subordinate, but she decided not to bring it up, as she had her own opinion as to who was dominant in their family, an opinion kept private for reasons of policy.
“Maybe,” Randall said thoughtfully, “what we need is a nice, long rest. Down on the Gulf, maybe, where we could lie around in the sunshine.”
“That,” she said, “is a good idea in any case. Why in the world anyone chooses to live in a dismal, dirty, ugly spot like Chicago is beyond me.”
“How much money have we?”
“About eight hundred dollars, after the bills and taxes are paid. And there’s the five hundred from Hoag, if you want to count that.”
“I think we’ve earned it,” he said grimly. “Say! Do we have that money? Maybe that was a hoax, too.”
“You mean maybe there never was any Mr. Hoag and pretty soon the nurse will be in to bring us our nice supper.”
“Mm-m-m — that’s the general idea. Have you got it?”
“I think I have. Wait a minute.” She opened her purse, in turn opened a zippered compartment, and felt in it. “Yes, it’s here. Pretty green bills. Let’s take that vacation, Teddy. I don’t know why we stay in Chicago, anyway.”
“Because the business is here,” he said practically. “Coffee and cakes. Which reminds me, slaphappy or not, I’d better see what calls have come in.” He reached across her desk for the phone; his eye fell on a sheet of paper in her typewriter. He was silent for a moment, then said in a strained voice, “Come here, Cyn. Take a look at this.”
She got up at once, came around and looked over his shoulder. What she saw was one of their letterheads, rolled into the typewriter; on it was a single line of typing:
CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT.
She said nothing at all and tried to control the quivering at the pit of her stomach.
Randall asked, “Cyn, did you write that?”
“No.”
“Positive?”
“Yes.” She reached out to take it out of the machine; he checked her.
“Don’t touch it. Fingerprints.”
“All right. But I have a notion,” she said, “that you won’t find any fingerprints on that.”
“Maybe not.”
Nevertheless, he took his outfit out of the lower drawer of his desk and dusted the paper and the machine — with negative results on each. There were not even prints of Cynthia to confuse the matter; she had a business-college neatness in her office habits and made a practice of brushing and wiping her typewriter at the end of each day.
While watching him work she remarked, “Looks as if you saw him getting out rather than in.”
“Huh? How?”
“Picked the lock, I suppose.”
“Not that lock. You forget, baby, that that lock is one of Mr. Yale’s proudest achievements. You could break it, maybe, but you couldn’t pick it.”
She made no answer — she could think of none. He stared moodily at the typewriter as if it should tell him what had happened, then straightened up, gathered up his gear, and returned it to its proper drawer. “The whole thing stinks,” he said, and commenced to pace the room.
Cynthia took a rag from her own desk and wiped the print powder from the machine, then sat down and watched him. She held her tongue while he fretted with the matter. Her expression was troubled but she was not worried for herself — nor was it entirely maternal. Rather was she worried for them.
“Cyn,” he said suddenly, “this has got to stop!”
“All right,” she agreed. “Let’s stop it.”
“How?”
“Let’s take that vacation.”
He shook his head. “I can’t run away from it. I’ve got to know.”