Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

“No trouble! Absolutely!” Mr. Starr limped to the rear door and opened it with a flourish, before the driver could get out to open it for him. He squinted back at Sybil, smiling hopefully. “It’s the least I can do for you, after our exhausting session.”

Sybil was smiling, staring into the shadowy interior of the car. The uniformed driver had climbed out, and stood, not quite knowing what to do, watching. He was a Filipino, perhaps, not young after all but with a small, wizened face; he wore white gloves. He stood very straight and silent, watching Sybil.

There was a moment when it seemed, yes, Sybil was going to accept Mr. Starr’s offer, and climb into the rear of the long sleekly black limousine, so that Mr. Starr could climb in behind her, and shut the door upon them both; but, then, for some reason she could not have named — it might have been the smiling intensity with which Mr. Starr was looking at her, or the rigid posture of the white-gloved driver — she changed her mind and called out, “No thanks!”

Mr. Starr was disappointed, and Mr. Starr was hurt — you could see it in his downturned mouth. But he said, cheerfully, “Oh, I quite understand, Blake — I am a stranger, after all. It’s better to be prudent, of course. But, my dear, I will see you tomorrow—?”

Sybil shouted, “Maybe!” and ran across the street.

6. The Face

She stayed away from the park. Because I want to, because I can.

Thursday, in any case, was her voice lesson after school. Friday, choir rehearsal; then an evening with friends. On Saturday morning she went jogging, not in the oceanside park but in another park, miles away, where Mr. Starr could not have known to look for her. And, on Sunday, Aunt Lora drove them to Los Angeles for a belated birthday celebration, for Sybil — an art exhibit, a dinner, a play.

So, you see, I can do it. I don’t need your money, or you.

Since the evening when Aunt Lora had told Sybil about her parents’ boating accident — that it might have been caused by drinking — neither Sybil nor her aunt had cared to bring up the subject again. Sybil shuddered to think of it. She felt properly chastised, for her curiosity.

Why do you want to know? — you will only make yourself cry.

Sybil had never gotten around to telling Aunt Lora about Mr. Starr, nor about her modeling. Even during their long Sunday together. Not a word about her cache of money, hidden away in a bureau drawer.

Money for what? — for summer school, for college.

For the future.

Aunt Lora was not the sort of person to spy on a member of her household but she observed Sybil closely, with her trained clinician’s eye. “Sybil, you’ve been very quiet lately — there’s nothing wrong, I hope?” she asked, and Sybil said quickly, nervously, “Oh, no! What could be wrong?”

She was feeling guilty about keeping a secret from Aunt Lora, and she was feeling quite guilty about staying away from Mr. Starr.

Two adults. Like twin poles. Of course, Mr. Starr was really a stranger — he did not exist in Sybil Blake’s life, at all. Why did it feel to her, so strangely, that he did?

Days passed, and instead of forgetting Mr. Starr, and strengthening her resolve not to model for him, Sybil seemed to see the man, in her mind’s eye, ever more clearly. She could not understand why he seemed attracted to her, she was convinced it was not a sexual attraction but something purer, more spiritual, and yet — why? Why her?

Why had he visited her high school, and sat in upon a choir rehearsal? Had he known she would be there? — or was it simply accident?

She shuddered to think of what Aunt Lora would make of this, if she knew. If news of Mr. Starr got back to her.

Mr. Starr’s face floated before her. Its pallor, its sorrow. That look of convalescence. Waiting. The dark glasses. The hopeful smile. One night, waking from a particularly vivid, disturbing dream, Sybil thought for a confused moment that she’d seen Mr. Starr in the room — it hadn’t been just a dream! How wounded he looked, puzzled, hurt. Come with me, Sybil. Hurry. Now. It’s been so long. He’d been waiting for her in the park for days, limping, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, glancing up hopefully at every passing stranger.

Behind him, the elegantly gleaming black limousine, larger than Sybil remembered; and driverless.

Sybil? — Sybil? Mr. Starr called, impatiently.

As if, all along, he’d known her real name. And she had known he’d known.

7. The Experiment

So, Monday afternoon, Sybil Blake found herself back in the park, modeling for Mr. Starr.