She Faded into Air

The story of the alleged disappearance of Evelyn Cross was too fantastic
for credence. According to the available evidence, she melted into thin
air shortly after four o'clock on a foggy afternoon in late October. One
minute, she was visible in the flesh--a fashionable blonde, nineteen
years of age and weighing about eight and a half stone.

The next minute, she was gone.

The scene of this incredible fade-out was an eighteenth-century mansion
in Mayfair. The Square was formerly a residential area of fashion and
dignity. It had escaped a doom of complete reconstruction, but some of
the houses were divided up into high-class offices and flats.

This particular residence had been renamed "Pomerania House" by its
owner, Major Pomeroy. He speculated in building property and had his
estate office, as well as his private flat, on the premises.

The ex-officer might be described as a business gentleman. Besides being
correctly documented--Winchester, Oxford and the essential clubs--he had
not blotted his financial or moral credit. In appearance he conformed to
military type, being erect, spare and well dressed, with a small dark
tooth-brush moustache. His voice was brisk and his eyes keen. He walked with
a nonchalant manner. He had two affectations--a monocle and a fresh
flower daily in his buttonhole.

Shortly after four o'clock on the afternoon of Evelyn Cross' alleged
disappearance, he was in the hall of Pomerania House, leaning against
the door of his flat, when a large car stopped in the road outside. The
porter recognized it as belonging to a prospective client who had called
previously at the estate office to inquire about office accommodation.
With the recollection of a generous tip, he hurried outside to open the
door.

Before he could reach it, Raphael Cross had sprung out and was standing
on the pavement. He was a striking figure, with the muscular development
of a pugilist and a face expressive of a powerful personality. Its
ruthless force--combined with very fair curling hair and ice-blue
eyes--made him resemble a conception of some old Nordic god, although
the comparison flattered him in view of his heavy chin and bull-neck.

He crashed an entrance into the hall, but his daughter, Evelyn, lingered
to take a cigarette from her case. She was very young, with a
streamlined figure, shoulder-length blonde hair and a round
small-featured face. With a total lack of convention she chatted freely
to the porter as he struck a match to light her cigarette.

"Confidentiality, we shouldn't have brought our dumb-bell of a chauffeur
over from the States. He's put us on the spot with a traffic cop."

"Can't get used to our rule of the road," suggested the porter who
instinctively sided with Labour.

"It is a cockeyed rule to keep to the left," admitted Evelyn. "We took a
terrible bump in one jam. I'm sure I heard our number plate rattle. You
might inspect the damage."