by Jerry eBooks
“Yes,” Bill said. “Who is this?”
“Never mind that. Listen. If you have any hope of seeing your wife again, do as I say.”
Bill’s hand shook. He had to fight down the red mist which obscured the room. The voice droned on.
“Tell the cops you’ve heard from her. Tell them that she’s all right. Tell them—make up your own story. If you do your wife will come back to you in a few days. If you don’t, you’ll never see her again!” There was laughter on the line, laughter that was humorless, mocking, cruel. “She won’t die an easy death.”
Bill steadied the phone. The red mist of rage was rising again. “If you harm her, so help me God, I’ll get you. Believe me, I’ll do it. Go where you want, I’ll kill you if it takes the rest of my life!”
The laughter mocked him again. “Just do as I say, and she’ll come back. Otherwise I’ve told you what will happen. She’ll make a gorgeous corpse!” The phone went dead in Bill’s hand. Frantically he dialed the operator and told of the call. She explained that it was impossible to trace local calls on the dial system.
He sank in a chair and wiped cold sweat from his face. The feeling of impotence maddened him. To have had the man on the telephone and not to be able to get hold of him! Bill looked at his hands, thinking how it would feel to have them around the neck of the man he’d talked to . . .
He brought himself to with a start. That stuff could wait. Now he had something to go on, something to give the cops. He dialed the number of Headquarters, but as the ringing drummed in his ear, he slammed the instrument back in the cradle.
The sweat started out on his forehead again; if he called the police and followed the kidnapper’s instructions, claiming that Helen was all right, the search would be stopped. Naturally, that was what the man wanted. If, on the other hand, he told them of the call, it might mean a slow death to the woman he loved.
It was ten minutes before Bill made his decision. The criminal’s word wasn’t worth its echo, and the realization of this, in Bill’s mind, tipped the scales. He picked up the telephone and dialed.
MAHONEY was outraged. He spluttered a moment, then he calmed down. He said, “The last time we had a kidnapping we had a posse of five thousand people out. We got the guy cold. We’ll get your wife back, Gordon. Was there any mention of a ransom?”
“No. There’s something screwy about this—”
“Wait,” Mahoney said. “How about an ex-boy friend? That’s an angle. We can’t overlook anything.”
“That’s out,” Bill said. “She came. here from west Texas three months ago. There were no local boy friends. You can take that from me.”
“Okay.” Mahoney paused. Then, “Does anybody hate your guts?”
“Well . . .”
“I don’t mean dislike. I mean a real honest to Joshua old-fashioned hate. How about that?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How about business? You came here from the West coast, didn’t you? You opened a new type drive-in. You’re on your toes, you introduced new ideas, and you ran a couple of guys out of business. They lost their shirts bucking you. Is that right?”
“Sure, but I don’t believe any of them would—”
“Let me handle that. And let me tell you something, son. A few years of police business will convince you that a human being can be mighty blasted low, given reason enough. I’m not overlooking a thing. Give me the names of those guys.”
Bill mentioned two competitors, both of whom had gone bankrupt. Mahoney was about to hang up, but Bill said:
“Wait! There’s something else, Keep this out of the papers. If the kidnapper finds out that I called you—well, I told you what he said. A slow death.”
“Right. Not a word to the papers or the radio. Leave that to me. You go back to work. I’ll call you if anything turns up.”
Bill lit a cigarette as he hung up. The cops were going all out now. If this was some crazy idea of revenge, the thing would come out all right. He tried to remember the voice; there had been a haunting familiarity about it, something that almost rang a bell in Bell’s memory. The man had done his best to disguise it, and his effort had been good enough to make identification impossible. It was maddening.
He tried to remember the words. Was there a clue there? Did the man give himself away by using any particular phraseology? Bill racked his brains, but he couldn’t find the right answer. He swallowed an aspirin tablet to relieve the headache and stretched out on the couch to think.
His mind wandered to the day he first saw Helen. She wore the costume he’d designed for his car hops: high-waisted slacks of rich blue, and a bellboy jacket of orange silk, topped with a white shanko. She’d been hired by his assistant and Bill drove up that morning and parked. His car hadn’t stopped before she was there, smiling, attentive, menu in hand. Bill had shaken his head. He’d said:
“Don’t mind me, pal. I own the joint.”
But it had taken him a minute to form the words. It had taken much longer than that to get acquainted. She’d been around. She was suspicious of bosses who wanted to take her out, and Bill didn’t blame her.
He thought of their marriage. She’d worn a white suit, and the flame of her hair, the softness of her skin, the boyish verve of her personality, had almost taken Bill’s speech away. His voice had been low, husky with emotion as he promised “. . . to love and to cherish . . . until death do us part . . .” Death! That’s what the guy on the phone had promised!
He swore to himself; it was half oath, half prayer, but he meant every word as he had meant few things before in his life, “God! Help me to get her back, unharmed.”
The telephone bell interrupted. It was Connor, the reporter.
“Gordon, we’ve got a tip. Your wife was seen in Homestead about an hour ago. Mahoney and the sheriff are going down with a crew. Do you want to go, too?”
“You bet!”
“Okay. We’ll pick you up.”
The tip was a dud. Some woman had looked like Helen and somebody called the police. It was getting dark when they dropped Bill off at the house, and he climbed the steps to the porch.
A LARGE white envelope was sticking out of his mailbox. He withdrew it and unlocked the door. Inside, he looked at the envelope. There was no name, no address. He ripped it open. There was a typewritten slip inside. It read:
You should have obeyed. Now it’s too late.
Bill fought down the sickening vacuum inside his stomach. Suddenly he had the sensation of no longer being alone. He spun around and a face disappeared from the living room window.
He dropped the note and plunged out into the street. No one was in sight, The street lights were not lit, due to dim-out regulations. He started around the house, The man might be hiding in the back. Bill didn’t believe he could have got away that quickly.
He stumbled over something. It was a rock the size of a billiard ball, and he picked it up. The weight felt good in his hand.
He tiptoed around the entire house, hardly daring to breathe. He found no one, and stopped out In front. A slight blur of white caught his eye on the lawn about ten feet from the sidewalk. He retrieved it. It was an empty match packet advertising a Fort Lauderdale restaurant.
Bill thought fast. There was no way of knowing what the clue was worth. Any passerby might have discarded it. And then again, he remembered what Mahoney said about revenge.
Inside the house, he put in a call for Mahoney. The Captain had just come in and Bill told about the note, the visitor, and the match-paper. Mahoney swore volubly.
“What’s the name of the restaurant?”
“You wait there,” Mahoney said. “Leave the note alone. We’ll be right out. Lauderdale, huh?”
So Bill hung up and waited. He fumbled for a cigarette, but the pack was empty. He walked to the sideboard. There should be a carton or two. He took a pack, and something clicked in his brain. A missing piece of the puzzle fell into place.
“Damn!” he said. “Why didn’t I
think of that before!”
A moment later he was running down the street.
A boy was selling papers outside the drugstore. He looked at Bill, his urchin’s face screwed up in query. “Find your wife yet, Mr. Gordon?”
“Not yet, sonny. But I’ll get her back soon. Mighty soon.”
The boy’s eyes followed him into the store. Except for the soda jerker, who wiped the fountain with an eye on the clock, the place was empty. Bill ordered a drink. He sipped it and listened for some sign of activity in the back of the store. There was none.
“Dixon in?” Bill asked.
“No. He went out a while back. Anything you want?”
“Yes,” said Bill. “May I use the typewriter back there a minute?”
The boy nodded and Bill strode to the back of the store and pushed through the swinging door.
The usual clutter of the pharmacist’s trade littered the work table. There was a flight of stairs behind a partition, which led to the cellar, and a back door to the alley. Bill had to work fast—be gone before the druggist returned.
He wound paper in the small portable typewriter on one end of the table and began to type. If this didn’t work out, there was no harm done. If it did, he would have something else to show Mahoney. He picked out the letters from memory: You should have . . .
There was an explosion in Bill’s brain. The room swam in a dizzy pattern and then went dark.
BILL came to lying on his side. He was on the back seat of a small sedan, bound hand and foot with tape. There was some sort of gag in his mouth. The pulsing throb in his head came rhythmically and brought back the scene in the drugstore.
The driver’s bulk was silhouetted against the glow of the headlights. There was something familiar about the man but Bill couldn’t place him. He raised his head until he could look out, careful to make no sound, but the world outside the car was dark.
One thing he realized hopelessly—this wasn’t the road to Fort Lauderdale. If Mahoney, when he found Bill gone, decided to look into the match-paper clue, it would lead him in another direction. The Lauderdale road was a main highway and Bill knew it well. Even with the dimout restrictions, he would have known it. He caught sight of a dangling bit of Spanish moss. They were heading back into the Everglades.
The pace of the car slackened. The driver shifted, then turned his head. Bill relaxed and watched through slitted eyes. The man took a brief glance, then faced front again, satisfied.
The car slowed still more, then turned into a bumpy lane. There were several of these roads, Bill knew, leading back into the swamp for considerable distances. Some of them went to old sawmills, others to tomato patches on newly dried-out land.
He raised his head slowly. The glint of a drainage canal showed on the right. The driver’s attention was concentrated on the road. It took three attempts for Bill to sit up. He drew his legs up high, wriggled until his back was firm against the cushion, then kicked out with both feet at the base of the driver’s skull. One heel landed squarely but the kick was not hard enough. The man recovered and turned, cursing.
He stopped the car and reached for a hip pocket. Bill shot his bound feet out in short, sharp jabs, straight for the face. The driver tried to grab the flailing feet, failed, as a heel caught his jaw. He slumped to the seat.
Bill knew the man wouldn’t be unconscious long. He felt the sweat stand out on his forehead as he kicked the door latch, then fell through the open space to the road. He managed to rise, lever the front door open with an elbow, and drag the man out.
He sat on his erstwhile captor’s stomach while his fingers searched the man’s pants pockets. A leather blackjack came from the hip. Bill dropped it and explored the others. Then he noticed a light gold chain running through the belt. He pulled on it, brought out a small gold pocket knife and three keys.
It was difficult to open the knife with his hands bound so tightly, but he managed. Just then the man moved. Bill lunged for the discarded blackjack as the man tried to sit up. The weapon was useless to Bill, bound as he was, so again his feet came into play and the form relaxed.
A moment later, Bill was free. The knife, held in his teeth, loosened his wrists and the rest was simple. He rose and looked down at the unconscious figure. He recognized the man. Bill had seen him several times at Dixon’s. Dixon, or someone, had called him Angelo. Bill thought he was a Cuban.
He ripped the laces from the man’s shoes and bound his thumbs together behind his back. The laces were strong; a thumb would pull out of joint before they broke. He lashed the ankles with the leather belt, then dumped the form unceremoniously in the rear of the car. The knife, with the keys and the blackjack, he slipped in his pocket, then drove the car along the narrow road, wondering what he would do if he met someone. His jaw set stubbornly; he would cross that river when he came to it.
Angelo groaned, then cursed slowly and steadily. On a sudden impulse, Bill stopped the car. “Where is Helen?” he demanded.
The only reply was an increase in the volume of abuse. Bill smiled grimly and found a package of matches.
“You’ll talk,” he said. “You’ll open your mouth when I hold the match to your bare foot.”
The shoes were back on the lane. Bill had dropped them when he removed the laces. He struck a match and held the flame under an instep. Angelo writhed, shifting his feet away from the tiny flame.
“Okay,” Bill said. “You haven’t been hurt yet. But I can hold your feet and give you a taste of hell. Where is my wife?”
The man’s eyes were wide in the light of the match flare. “God!” he said. “You’d do it! You’d burn my feet off!”
“If you’ve hurt Helen, I’ll burn them to the knees! Where is she?”
Angelo broke abruptly. “She ain’t hurt,” he said swiftly. “I was waiting for—” then he shut up as abruptly as though he’d lost his voice.
It took a moment more for Bill to learn that Helen was in a cabin, which the road led to. Who, or what this Angelo was waiting for, Bill didn’t know. The car leapt forward.
A MILE further on a clearing in the scrub growth showed up on the left. Bill twisted the wheel, followed the tracks of former cars. A good sized cabin was in the center of the clearing. Three windows stared blankly. There were no lights showing.
Bill piled out of the car, leaving the bound man. He ran for the door, thought of the keys he’d taken and got them out. The second key fitted the lock. He eased the door open slowly, found a light switch inside.
The room was well furnished. Comfortable over-stuffed couches and chairs were spread around. Bill noticed a huge radio in one corner. A gun-case on one wall held several shotguns. Strange, bulky drapes hung by the windows.
Two doors opened on bedrooms. In the second he found Helen, bound, lying on a soiled bed. Her eyes were wide.
“Bill!” she gasped. “How did you find this place?”
“No time to tell you now,” he replied. “Let’s get out fast.”
The tiny knife blade flashed as he cut the bonds. A moment later her body was limp in his arms and he held her hungrily for a long moment. A thousand questions came to his mind but this was no time to ask them. Enough to know that she was unharmed.
He drew her to the door, out into the front room. He swung the front door open and stopped short, then backed a step and slammed the door just as a bullet nicked the lintel.
It was the sight of a second car in the clearing which stopped him. A second car, and two men coming toward the house with guns glinting in their hands! One was Dixon, the druggist, the second was Angelo.
A sweep of his arm hit the light switch, and the room was dark.
“The windows,” Helen said, “have strong shutters on the inside. This place is a fort!”
They found the heavy shutters and slammed them tight. She move was just in time. A sharp spat sounded and the tinkle of falling glass.
Bill fumbled his way to the gun case, pulled down a twelve-guage. He found boxes of shells in a nearby
drawer. Each shutter had a tiny loophole in the bottom, just big enough for a gun barrel. He was sighting, the gun ready, when the lights of two more cars tore up the lane and swung into the clearing.
“Lord!” Helen said. “That’s the rest of them! This is the Rappoletti gang. They’ve been sizing up the Blanding payroll!”
Bill’s grip on the weapon tightened. The Rappoletti gang! That rang a bell. They were bank robbers, bandits, killers—but they worked out West, not here in Florida.
He watched the first car, was lining up his sights when the doors opened and a figure dropped to the ground, running, cradling a sub-machine gun in his arms.
“Mahoney!” Bill gasped. “The police!”
The lights of the cars illuminated the figures of the two men outside the house. As other police followed Mahoney, the men raised their hands in surrender. Bill flipped the light switch and threw the front door open. Connor, the reporter, was right behind the police captain.
Mahoney looked at Helen. “Are you okay?”
Her smile was answer enough. She was trying to hide the strain of the past twenty-four hours.
“What’s this Rappoletti business?” Bill asked.
Helen spoke quickly. “We must get out of here. This is the Rappoletti hide-out. They’re in Starke, looking over the chances of holding up the Camp Blanding payroll. They will be here any time.”
“No, they won’t!” Mahoney said. “A government man in Starke recognized them. They are in jail. So you can talk right here, and you should have a lot to tell.”
Helen sank weakly into a chair. Angelo’s face was white. Handcuffs glinted on his wrists. “All of them?” he said. “AH four in jail?”
“You heard me,” Mahoney snapped. “You should have gone with them.”
“I never go when they case a job,” Angelo said. “I—”
“Shut up!” Mahoney barked. Then, to Helen, “Go on, please.”
“It goes back to Texas, four years ago,” she said. “I worked in a bank out there. The Rappoletti gang held it up, got away with several thousand, and killed a teller right in front of me. This man,” she pointed to the manacled Angelo, “was the lookout. He was outside the bank and wore no mask. He came in when he heard the shot. He must have seen me too, for he remembered me, even after four years.”