A reacquaintance with the work of Baynard Kendrick may be something of a revelation to the contemporary reader. Not only will it make his present neglect seem unjustified, but downright incomprehensible.
On Friday, Dec. 20th, a week to the day since six-year-old Ronnie Connatser had been kidnapped from Miss Murray’s School, Arnold Cameron, Special Agent in Charge of the New York F.B.I., telephoned early in the morning to make an appointment with Capt. Duncan Maclain. It was arranged for 10:00 A.M. in Maclain’s penthouse office twenty-six stories above 72nd Street and Riverside Drive. Cameron arrived promptly, bringing with him Special Agent Hank Weeks and Alan Connatser, Ronnie’s father. The men were silent, grim.
Capt. Maclain, an ex-Intelligence Officer blinded in World War I, had carried on the work of a Private Investigator with the aid of his partner, Spud Savage, for nearly forty years. To him being a Licensed P.I. was a dedicated profession. He hoped by developing his remaining four senses, hearing, feeling, taste, and smell to the highest point of proficiency to prove to the world before he died that a blind man with sufficient intelligence could be just as good, if not a little bit better, than millions of people who had eyes with which to see.
Waiting for Cameron, the Captain had a gratified feeling that maybe after all these years he had at last succeeded. Duncan Maclain was no superman. He had certain peculiar talents that had proved most useful through the years to various law-enforcement agencies, among them the New York Police Department, and on several occasions the F.B.I.
He had known Arnold Cameron for a long time, and worked with him before Cameron became S.A.C. of the New York office. The Captain was the first to admit that neither he, nor any private operator, no matter where he worked, could get to first base without the co-operation of the local police or the F.B.I.
Cameron hadn’t said what this case was about, except that it concerned the kidnapping of Connatser’s six-year-old son. The Captain had heard about Alan Connatser, President and Treasurer of Connatser Products, Inc., the big plant that sprawled over acres on the edge of Long Island City. It was one of those industrial mushrooms that had grown in importance since World War II, mainly through Connatser’s personality and engineering genius. The company did a lot of top security defense work, but the F.B.I, was quite capable of handling any violations of security on their own. Kidnapping, too, for that matter.
Why go on guessing? Speculation was always fruitless and a waste of time. He’d know the details soon enough. Whatever they were he hoped he could help. It was flattering that Arnold Cameron had dealt him in.
At 9:55 Rena, the Captain’s secretary showed the three men in. Maclain shook hands around. Cameron’s grip was friendly as usual. Special Agent Hank Weeks was properly official, neither cold nor warm, with an element of doubt in it as though he didn’t intend to commit himself even on the say-so of the S.A.C. unless he was shown. Maclain suppressed a grin. He was skeptical himself about people who claimed they saw everything—even when they had 20-20 vision.
Alan Connatser wrung the Captain’s hand with a grip that was full of despairing appeal. “Mr. Cameron thinks that you can help us, Captain Maclain. My son’s been gone for a week now—more like a lifetime to Evelyn, my wife, and me. She has collapsed and is under a doctor’s care. It isn’t a question of money—I can pay a million and not be hurt. It’s the life of my boy—our only child and we can never have another.”
A very strong man, Alan Connatser, the Captain judged. Six foot, slow spoken, powerful as flexible steel, and younger than one would imagine. From his voice—not yet forty. And right now he was on the verge of flying into little pieces.
Maclain released himself wordlessly from the clinging grip and went to the bar set in the paneled wall near the diamond-paned doors to the terrace. He sloshed a liberal portion of cognac into a bell goblet and took it to the red leather divan where Connatser had slumped down.
“Slug it!” His face was grave with deep concern. “Your hand is as cold as a frozen fish. It won’t help your boy if you crack up now and have a chill.”
“Thanks. I guess you’re right.” Connatser downed the burning brandy in a gulp. “I’m afraid we’re saddling you with a hopeless task.”
“The world considers blindness hopeless. I haven’t found it so.” The Captain walked to his broad flat-top desk and sat down. “You say your son has been missing for a week?”
“He was kidnapped last Friday, Dec. 13th at ten past three,” Arnold Cameron said. “He’d been to a Christmas party at his school. Miss Murray’s at 66th Street and Fifth Avenue. The Connatsers live in a duplex at 82nd and Fifth—sixteen blocks away. Miss Murray saw Ronnie get into his father’s Chrysler Imperial in front of the school at three-ten. The car was driven by a substitute chauffeur, who called himself Jules Rosine.”
“Rosine stuck up Leon Gerard, who has driven for the family for years, in Gerard’s apartment on East 82nd Street—right across the street from the garage where the Chrysler is kept. That was about eleven the night before. Rosine wore a stocking mask. He forced Leon to telephone at gun-point. Leon talked to Mrs. Murchison, the Connatser’s housekeeper, said he was ill, and would send a reliable man to take his place the next day. Nobody thought it suspicious since it had happened a few times before. Leon is getting along in years and his health isn’t too good.”
Cameron paused. The Captain said, “If you fellows believe his story then I do, too.”
“We don’t believe anything until we’ve convinced ourselves that it’s true,” Cameron went on. “Weeks released Leon in his apartment after the kidnapping was reported to us on the evening of the thirteenth. The poor old guy was trussed up like a turkey with adhesive. Anyhow, nothing has been seen of Ronnie, or this Jules Rosine since ten past three in the afternoon a week ago.”
A hopeless task, Connatser had said! The Captain ran a hand through his dark graying hair. The details of Charles A. Lindbergh, Jr., Bobby Greenlease, Jr., and the tiny month old Peter Weinberger, all coolly murdered by their kidnappers, were much too vivid in his mind not to realize that Connatser’s fears were far from being groundless.
He kept his repellent thoughts to himself and tried to speak reassuringly: “I’ve known Arnold Cameron for many years, Mr. Connatser. Neither he nor the F.B.I. consider this hopeless or he wouldn’t have brought you here to talk with me.” His dark sightless eyes, so perfect that many people thought he could see, turned from Connatser to fix themselves on the S.A.C. “You must have some very good reason for thinking Ronnie is still alive, Arnold.”
“We happen, in this case, to know he was alive on Tuesday or Wednesday, and probably yesterday.”
“What proof?”
“The sound of his voice, Captain, plus an answer to a couple of questions asked by Ronnie’s mother—answers that only Ronnie would know.”
“Then you must have made contact by phone.” The Captain’s expressive eyebrows went up a fraction.
“No. They’re the ones who have been in touch,” Cameron said. “Oneway touch, by Audograph records. Three of them. You’ve told me often that you live in a world of sound. I also know that you’re the best man living on identification of voices. Furthermore, you work with an Audograph all the time and are familiar with its sounds and foibles. Isn’t that true?”
Maclain nodded. “I have one right here in my desk drawer.” He referred to a compact efficient dictating machine used in thousands of business offices. Not more than nine inches square and five inches high, it records dictation on a flexible blue disc, and the dictation can be played back through its built in loud-speaker, or through plugged-in headphones at the flip of a lever.
“Here’s the first of the three. The first word from Ronnie’s captors, for that matter, from Friday to Monday. Let the family suffer. Die a thousand deaths. It softens them up. I could—”
He broke off abruptly, leaned forward and put a brown manila envelope on the Captain’s blotter. It was a standard mailing envelope for the feather light discs. Seven inche
s square. Printed on the front was: GRAY AUDOGRAM FOR—a space for the address—and below that the words PLEASE DO NOT FOLD. The envelopes, like the discs, could be obtained from any Audograph dealer in cities throughout the country.
For an instant the Captain stared at the envelope as though by sheer intentness, he might develop some superhuman power to penetrate its secret.
“That was mailed to Mrs. Connatser at her home,” Cameron explained. “Air mail. It’s postmarked: Miami, Florida, Dec. 15th. That was last Sunday.”
Maclain touched it gingerly with his forefinger. “I know what a working over you must have given these things. I was wondering about handwriting, or typing, on the address.”
“Not this bird, Captain! He hasn’t forgotten that we went through two million specimens of handwriting before we nailed LaMarca as kidnapper of the Weinberger baby. There’s not even typewriting. No return address, of course. Mrs. Connatser’s name and address has been stamped on with one of those kid’s rubber stamps that has separate removable rubber letters. You can buy them in any store or Five-and-Ten.”
The Captain took his Audograph machine from the deep bottom left-hand desk drawer. He put it on the desk, then brought up a hand microphone which he plugged into a six-slotted receptacle on the left hand side of the machine. A switch in the handle of the mike controlled the playing of the record, turning it on when pressed in. For continuous playing, a flick of the thumb could lock the switch.
He took the record from the envelope, felt for the grooved side with his finger-nail, and turning it upward put the record on the machine. Unlike a regular phonograph record, the Audograph recorded from the center to the edge.
The Captain slid it into place, turned on the machine, and pushed a lever over to LISTEN. A red indicator light glowed. When recording, the light showed green. He locked the switch on the hand mike and laid the mike gently on the blotter beside the machine.
Out of nowhere the boyish treble of Ronnie Connatser’s voice began to speak. Maclain reached out and turned the volume higher, as though that might help to bring the six-year-old closer to his home.
“Mommy, Mommy, can you hear me? The man says to tell you that I’m all right and that if I talk in here you can hear me. He says that Daddy can hear me, too, and that if you do what the man says he’ll bring me home. Mommy, please tell Daddy to do what the man says. I’m all right, but I’m scared, Mommy. I don’t want to spend Christmas here. I’m doing just what the man tells me to. Please hurry and do what the man says. I don’t want to spend Christmas here. I don’t like it and the man says he’ll bring me home. So, please hurry.”
Ronnie’s voice quit abruptly. For an endless length of time—actually a few short seconds—the record revolved in mechanical silence. Cameron lit a cigarette. Smoke reached the Captain’s nostrils. Leather squeaked as Connatser moved uneasily on the red divan. A man’s voice took up where the child’s voice had stopped:
“Your son s been kidnapped, but he hasn’t been harmed. It’s to prove that that I’m letting him talk to you. You’ll be better off if you keep the police out of this as well as the F.B.I. Press me too hard and you’ll never hear his voice again, let alone see him. If you follow out instructions to the letter you’ll have him back very shortly. In case you don’t think that’s your son who was speaking, I’m going to offer you further proof. Ask him any two questions you want—questions that only he can answer. Put it in a Personal in the New York Times of Tuesday December the seventeenth. Sign it ‘E.C.’ You’ll be answered by Ronnie on the next record we send to you. That’s all for now. You’ll never see me. Just call me: Junior.”
“Is that all?” The Captain sat up straight in his chair, his face grim. “End of Record One,” Cameron told him.
Maclain swiftly adjusted the disc to play the last few lines a second time. Faintly, but clearly, through the man’s last few words had come the sound of chimes pealing the opening bars of “Silent Night.” Then a singer had begun:
“Silent Night,
Holy Night,
All is—”
The song had ended with the click of the mike as the man said “Junior.”
“The musical interlude,” Cameron said glumly, “is the first song on Side One of Bing Crosby’s Decca Recording DL-8128, entitled ‘Merry Christmas.’ Sales to date about two million. On the last report from our bunion-ridden Agents in Miami, they have found some two hundred radio, record, and music shops, supermarkets, drive-ins, and various other publicity-minded places of business, including second-hand-car lots that have P.A. systems working overtime. They have been deafening the public for a week or more to let them know the time of year. No. 1 on the Hit Parade is Bing’s little dose of Christmas Cheer.” He viciously snubbed out his cigarette.
“We don’t think Ronnie’s in Miami, anyhow. This Jules Rosine—who is trying hard to make us believe that that’s his name by calling himself Junior from the initials J. R. —just doesn’t strike me as the type, Captain, who would mail a letter or anything from a city where he has that boy. As a matter of fact, he jumps around the country like a twelve legged flea. The second record is from Kansas City and the third one is from Cleveland.” The Captain sat pinching his upper lip and saying nothing. Cameron put the second envelope on his desk. “Here’s the one where Ronnie answers his mother’s questions. Mailed Wednesday, December the eighteenth. Airmail from K.C.”
There was a tremor in the Captain’s sensitive fingers as he removed the first record and put the second on.
“Mommy the man says that you and Daddy can hear me if I talk in here, but I don’t see how you can hear me if I can’t see you. He said I was to tell you what picture Ted Schuyler and I were going to see with Mrs. Murchison, and what I call my electric engine that pulls the train, and if I didn’t tell you I wouldn’t get back home. I thought you knew that Ted and I were going to see ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’—except Daddy wanted me to come to the plant to meet him and I drank the Pepsi-Cola the chauffeur got me and got so sleepy. And you know my engine is called the Camel because it has a hump-back in its middle. I know you told me not to repeat things, but the man said unless I told you that and unless Daddy did just what he says, I won’t get home for Christmas. I don’t want to stay here. There’s nobody to play with and I want to come home.”
The man’s voice took it up from there:
“That answers the questions you had in the Times and proves beyond doubt that your son’s alive. Nobody is trying to torture you. You’ll see when we write again that we’re not after money. It’s possible that we have even more of that than you. The next will tell you what we want. We know what you want, but don’t think we’re fooling. Stay away from the police and the F.B.I. and do exactly what I tell you or your precious son is going to die. Cheerio! Junior.”
“Junior seems to have split himself in two,” the Captain said as he took off the record. “The man has become we. Do you think it’s merely a cover-up, Arnold, or is there really someone else involved beside the man?”
“Anywhere from two to two million. They’re after something more precious than money.” He put the third record on the desk. “Listen to this one and you’ll see.”
Agent Hank Weeks said, “I’m betting there’s a woman. Purely because they’ve kept Ronnie harping on the man.”
The Captain nursed his chin for a moment. “I’m inclined to agree.” He put the final record on.
“Do you mind if I have another brandy?” Alan Connatser’s voice was tight and dry.
“Drink it all,” the Captain said. “Ronnie isn’t my son, but nevertheless these records are really getting me.”
Connatser poured his drink and returned to his seat. “They’re somehow worse than ransom notes to Evelyn and me. They’re sadistic. Mean. I find myself wanting to answer Ronnie. Scream at him: ‘Tell me where you are!’ —as though he were hiding away in some ghostly world of his own. It’s unbearable.”
“I’d merely sound inane if I tried to express my sympat
hy.” A sharp cold fury was setting the Captain’s skin to tingling, turning him into a ruthless inhuman machine. His mind was being honed to a razor edge on a whetstone of revenge and implacability. “This is the one from Cleveland?”
“Mailed air mail yesterday. Thursday the nineteenth. It arrived in New York this morning at seven. We have a tag out for them at the Post Office. They notified us right away.”
The Captain flipped the lever to LISTEN and started the disc to play.
“Mommy did you hear what I told you about the picture show? The Seven Dwarfs? And my engine, the Camel, on the electric train? I wish that you and Daddy would come for me, or answer me if you heard me, like the man said. He says he’s telling Daddy exactly what to do right now, and if Daddy does it I’ll come back home. Mommy tell him to hurry, please. Hurry and do it because I miss you so much and I want to see the Macy’s parade and get my presents.”
More unbearable silence then until the man cut in:
“At six-o’clock. P.M. —eighteen hours Service Time—-you and your pilot, Steven Donegan, will take off from the air strip at your plant on Long Island, flying your Cessna Twin. You will file no flight plan with anyone. At your regular cruising speed of two-hundred-and-ten miles per hour, flying at eight thousand feet, you will follow the regular plane route from New York to Philadelphia. From Philadelphia to Baltimore. From Baltimore to Washington. From Washington to Richmond. From Richmond to Wilmington, North Carolina. From Wilmington to Charleston, South Carolina. From Charleston to Savannah, Georgia. From Savannah to Jacksonville, Florida. From Jacksonville to Daytona. From Daytona to Vero Beach, and from Vero Beach to Miami.
Be on the alert. Somewhere between two of the places named you will be contacted by radio. When contact is made, if you broadcast an alarm your son will be killed. Remember we’ll be tuned in on you, too. We want the complete plans of the SF-800T Missile. Those plans consist of forty-four sheets of blueprints that were delivered to you by the Navy a month ago. You are the only one living who has immediate access to them all. Those forty-four blueprints are the price of your son. Particularly the details of the cone.
Thomas Godfrey (Ed) Page 18