Another Man's Poison

by J F Straker

  ‘I didn’t sleep much either,’ she said. ‘I was awake at six, so I thought I’d come early, just in case. Did you ring the police?’

  ‘I rang Martin. He was here till three, but there was nothing he could do.’ He told her about the inquiries they had made. ‘I suppose you’ve eaten?’

  ‘Yes. Now, have your breakfast and I’ll run your bath.’

  His first reaction at sight of the food had been to ask her to leave the coffee and take the rest away. But it had been a kindly thought on her part, and because he did not want to disappoint her he made a start on the toast; then, surprised to find that he was hungry, he finished the rest of the meal. Shaved and bathed and dressed, he took the tray down to the kitchen, where Polly was talking to Mrs Huntsman. Mrs Huntsman, whose husband Arthur managed the farm at the end of the lane, came in daily to do the housework and help Karen prepare the lunch. Although without training and with little experience, Karen had developed into an excellent cook, and on the evenings they dined at home she liked to prepare the meal herself. On party occasions Mrs Huntsman, and if necessary her daughter Edith, came in to lend a hand.

  Polly gave him a warning shake of the head, indicating that she had not mentioned Karen’s disappearance to the woman. ‘But we’ll have to tell her sooner or later, won’t we?’ she said, following him into the study.

  ‘Tell her what? Damn it, Polly, we don’t know ourselves!’ He looked at the pile of correspondence on his desk. ‘Have you been through that lot?’

  ‘Briefly. Nothing about Karen, of course. If she’s really been kidnapped they’ll use the phone.’ She watched him anxiously. ‘Are you going to ring Martin?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Robin said. ‘He can’t —’

  He broke off at the sound of the front door bell: two sharp tugs on the wrought-iron pull. He was into the hall before Polly caught his arm.

  ‘Wait!’ she said. ‘Let me. It won’t be them.’

  ‘But it might be news. She might have had an accident.’

  ‘It might be anyone,’ she said. ‘I’ll go, Robin. You don’t want to get involved with random callers. Leave them to me. I’ll get rid of them.’

  But she didn’t. The caller was Simon Mallett and, to Polly, Simon was definitely not someone to get rid of.

  Three

  To her friends Polly was wont to refer cryptically to Simon Mallett as ‘B-fy’: big, blond and beautiful. Which he was. Tall and muscular and with an erect stance, his torso tapered from broad shoulders to a slim waist. His hair, cut short but naturally curly, was almost pure gold in colour; his eyes were blue beneath long lashes, his skin had somehow escaped the imperfections common to youth. Aware of his good looks without being vain, he made the most of them; his hands were always well manicured, his clothes well tailored, his shoes expensive and highly polished. Courteous and polite in manner, his voice had a warm timbre that managed to suggest affection, admiration or respect according to whom he happened to be speaking. Yet he was no cissy. He played golf to a handicap of ten, had boxed for his school and was a useful tennis player; and he had a passion for fast cars, which he handled well. Educated at Uppingham, followed by a year hitch-hiking around the world, he had chosen to join the family leather-goods business as a salesman rather than go up to Oxford as his father had suggested. He made a good salesman. Dealing largely with women buyers, his looks and his manner could hardly fail.

  Robin considered him too good to be true and probably something of a poseur, while at the same time admitting to a grudging respect; he might be a pretty-boy, but there was no doubting his masculinity. Karen found him attractive and enjoyed his company, flattered by his undisguised admiration. Polly’s emotions were less clear-cut. Despite the fact that he was two years younger than herself and that she was generally attracted to older men, she was fascinated by his good looks. Once or twice she had even gone so far as to hint, perhaps more broadly than modesty permitted, that she would not be averse to spending an evening with him. So far, however, he had ignored the hints. ‘He simply doesn’t notice me when you’re around,’ she had complained to Karen. ‘Other men find me attractive; why doesn’t he? ‘Well, you can’t win them all,’ Karen had said. ‘I know,’ Polly had said. ‘It’s just that I’d like to win this one. Not for keeps, mind you. But I’d love a trial run.’

  She felt that way now as he stood in the doorway smiling down at her, his hair burnished by the morning sun. ‘I see Karen got back all right,’ he said, indicating the Porsche. ‘I bet Mr Granger was relieved. He sounded terribly worried on the phone last night.’

  ‘He was,’ she said. Should she correct his misapprehension?

  ‘Do you think I might see her?’ He held up a parcel wrapped in tissue paper. ‘I know it’s on the early side, but I’d like to give her this.’

  She had promised Robin to get rid of anyone unconnected with Karen’s disappearance. But then she hadn’t expected to see Simon. And he wasn’t entirely unconnected, was he, since he had seen the Porsche leave? Robin might even want to talk to him. He might even decide that Simon should be told the truth.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

  She led him through to the study. Shoulders hunched, Robin stood staring at the telephone, willing it to ring. He frowned when he saw Simon.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Granger,’ Simon said. Polly guessed he had seen the frown, for he sounded almost humble. ‘Actually it was Karen I wanted to see. But if it’s not convenient —’

  ‘I’m afraid it isn’t,’ Robin said. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Oh, no! It can wait.’ Simon hesitated. ‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Robin said, avoiding a direct answer.

  ‘Well, after last night — I mean, it was pretty late when you rang — and you were obviously very worried or you wouldn’t have considered ringing the police. So —’

  ‘I didn’t ring the police. It wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘Oh, good!’ Simon waited, expecting further enlightenment. None came, and politeness forbade that he should ask. ‘You must have been relieved.’

  ‘Yes.’ Robin picked up a letter from the pile on the desk and slit open the envelope. ‘I don’t want to rush you, Simon, but, as you can see, we’ve a lot of correspondence to deal with. So if there’s nothing else —’

  ‘Of course,’ Simon said.

  As he turned to leave Polly patted the parcel, now tucked under an arm. ‘How about this?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t you going to leave it? What is it, anyway?’ Inquisitive as always, she pinched it. ‘Feels like a handbag. Is it?’

  ‘Yes. I — she left it in my car yesterday afternoon, after I’d taken her shopping.’

  Polly saw him to the door. When she returned she was carrying the parcel. ‘I almost had to wrestle him for it,’ she said. ‘I think he wanted to return it himself. Make it an excuse to see her.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Robin said. ‘He doesn’t need an excuse.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Idly she turned the parcel over in her hands. ‘Was it wise to lie to him, Robin? I know Martin said to keep it tight but — well, Simon’s all right. He wouldn’t talk, no matter what.’

  ‘Maybe. But until we know what’s happened I’m telling no one. And I didn’t lie, I prevaricated.’ He dropped the unread letter on the desk. ‘You’re quite sure there’s nothing here?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ She held up the parcel. ‘Do you think we should open this?’

  ‘If you like,’ he said, completely indifferent.

  Polly reached for scissors and cut the string. ‘It’s just that I can’t imagine how Karen came to leave it in Simon’s car,’ she said, unfolding the layers of tissue paper. ‘I know I wouldn’t. It’s so — wow! Look at that!’

  Robin looked. The handbag was of soft brown leather, exquisitely tooled, with a gold clasp. ‘What about it?’ he asked.

  It’s super!’ She held the bag at arm’s length, admiring it. ‘Did you give it her?’

  ‘Not as I rem
ember.’

  ‘It must have cost the earth.’ She undid the clasp. ‘Goodness! There’s nothing in it! It’s completely empty!’

  ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Polly!’

  ‘But where are all her things, Robin? Money — lipstick — hanky — what’s happened to them? Why would she have a completely empty handbag? Or did Simon —? No, of course he wouldn’t. So what —’

  ‘Stop it!’ Robin snatched the handbag and threw it into a chair. ‘Empty or full, what the hell does it matter?’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s after ten, damn it! What’s keeping the bastards?’

  Polly sighed. He was right, of course. To her the empty handbag was an object of immense, almost unbridled curiosity, but to him it didn’t matter. To Robin, nothing and no one mattered now except Karen. And as time passed he would become increasingly distraught. So it was up to her to try and keep him sane, not drive him crazy by nattering on about the bag.

  ‘Be patient, Robin,’ she pleaded. ‘If Karen really has been kidnapped — and we don’t know for sure, do we, you said so yourself — it could be hours before we hear. And tearing yourself apart won’t hasten it. Look! Why don’t we go through this correspondence? I know it won’t be easy to concentrate, but at least it will keep us occupied.’

  He shook his head. Not for one instant could anything take his mind off the agony of waiting, and certainly nothing as trivial as fan mail and begging letters and bills. All his thoughts were of Karen. Where were they holding her, how were they treating her? She would be desperately afraid. Aware of the depth of his love for her, she would not doubt that no matter how large the ransom demanded he would manage somehow to raise it. But she would know too, as he knew, that payment would not automatically ensure her safety.

  ‘It’s no use, Polly,’ he said. ‘I —’

  The telephone rang. Although it was for this they were waiting, both were startled by the sound. Then Robin leaned across the desk and grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Yes?’ he snapped.

  ‘Granger?’ Unexpectedly, it was a woman’s voice. ‘Robin Granger?’

  ‘Yes, yes!’

  ‘Listen and don’t interrupt. We’ve got your wife. If you want her back it’ll cost you two hundred and fifty grand. Have it ready before three-thirty this afternoon, in fives, tens and twenties. Used notes, mind you, and unmarked. And no filth, or the deal’s off. We’ll be in touch.’

  The line went dead. Robin replaced the receiver and looked at Polly. ‘They’ve got her,’ he said hoarsely. ‘She’s been kidnapped.’

  ‘Oh, Robin! I’m so sorry.’ It sounded banal. But kidnapping did not fit easily into her safe little world and she found difficulty in accepting it. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘They didn’t say, damn them! Rang off before I could ask.’

  ‘Well, at least we know. I suppose that’s something. How much do they want?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand. And by this afternoon.’

  She pursed her lips in a soundless whistle. ‘So soon? Can you manage it?’

  ‘I’ll manage it.’ His hand was shaking as he dialled the police station. ‘Damn! It’s engaged.’

  ‘Did he say what time this afternoon?’ Polly asked.

  ‘Just to have it ready by three-thirty.’

  He dialled again. ‘And it was a woman, not a man.’

  The ringing ceased. Forestalling the inquiry, Robin said quickly, ‘May I speak to Detective Sergeant Beck, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. He’s not in the building right now. Can I help?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Can you contact him? It’s extremely urgent.’

  ‘Well, he may ring in. I’ll pass a message if he does. What name is it, please?’

  ‘Granger. Robin Granger.’

  ‘Robin Granger the writer?’

  ‘Yes. Look, I —’

  ‘I’m a fan of yours, Mr Granger. Read all your books.’

  ‘Thank you, officer.’ Robin tried not to sound impatient. ‘But will you please try and get a message to Mr Beck? Tell him I am going to my bank — Lloyds, in Cook Street — and that when I have finished my business there I will be in the saloon bar of the Running Hound. Tell him I’ll wait for him there until midday. After that he’ll find me at home. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. And please see that he gets the message as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Mr Granger.’

  ‘Now I’m off to the bank,’ Robin said, replacing the receiver. A need for action had relieved some of the tension, and his voice was brisk. ‘If Martin rings, tell him what you heard me tell the police. If it’s the kidnappers, tell them I’m collecting the money. Anyone else, and I’m out and you can’t contact me. Okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And good luck.’

  The bank manager was sympathetic and cautiously helpful. The money was no problem, he said, but was Robin quite sure that he wanted to hand it over without advising the police? I am advising them, Robin said. Are they monitoring the payment? the manager asked. No, Robin said, they are not. Once he had his wife back they could take what steps they liked. Until then he was allowing no interference.

  He sat in the pub with the money-laden suitcase on the floor beside him, his gaze wandering between the door and the clock. Martin joined him shortly before midday and, after learning of the kidnappers’ demands, followed him back to the Hall in his Humber. ‘The station has your number,’ he told Robin. ‘Unless something really big crops up I’m seeing this out with you.’

  Now they were back to waiting, although, with the probability that by evening it would all be over, the waiting was less tense. Conversation during lunch was desultory, for to both Robin and Polly it seemed that there was little more to say. Martin, however, had questions. Had the kidnapper’s call been made from a private phone or a call-box? A call-box, Robin said, he had heard the pips. Any background noises? Robin thought not; certainly nothing distinctive. And the woman’s voice — anything distinctive about that? There had been an intonation that could have been Welsh, Robin said, but not to bank on it. ‘She gave the message as if she were reading it,’ he added.

  ‘Which she probably was.’ Martin frowned. ‘Did you take the call in the study? Or was it on the house phone?’

  ‘The study.’

  ‘Which means they’ll use it when they ring again. A pity. On the house phone I could have monitored the call from the bedroom.’ Martin took an apple from the fruit bowl and started to peel it. Only he had done any sort of justice to Mrs Huntsman’s steak and kidney and mushroom pie. ‘You know, I’ve never understood why you had two separate lines installed. Unnecessary, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. One for business and one for social calls.’ In Polly’s presence Robin could not explain that the reason had gone deeper than that. The telephones had been installed prior to her employment, and without knowledge of how inquisitive a person she might turn out to be he had preferred not to give her the opportunity to eavesdrop on his or Karen’s private calls. ‘It also counts against tax.’

  After lunch they returned to the study, a large book-lined room at the rear of the house overlooking a wide expanse of lawn and the swimming-pool beyond. A swivel armchair stood behind each of the two desks; there were further armchairs for visitors, and the usual office machinery and storage furniture. A colour television set stood in one corner, a drinks cabinet in another. The room was comfortably warm and luxuriously carpeted, its businesslike air tempered by freshly cut flowers delivered twice weekly by a local florist.

  Robin sat behind his desk, swivelling the chair and toying with an antique glass paperweight, listening to the others’ conversation but saying little. Then a remark by Martin made him sit up. Dropping the paperweight, he said sternly, ‘None of that, Martin. I’ll not have you double-crossing me.’

  ‘Double-crossing you?’ Martin looked his bewilderment. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I won’t have this turned
into a police exercise. There’ll be no cars trailing me when I hand over the money, no one hiding in the boot. Nothing like that. We’re playing this strictly their way. No deviations. Okay?’

  Martin shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You realise the risk?’

  ‘Of course. But it’s less my way than yours. Must be.’

  Martin did not try to persuade him further.

  As the afternoon wore on Robin became increasingly restless. Take it easy, Martin said; they won’t make a move until nightfall. Stretch your legs in an armchair; hopefully, you might even snooze. So might I; neither of us got much sleep last night. Or how about a whisky? Robin accepted a whisky but did not move away from the desk. His face lined with anxiety, he sat staring through the uncurtained windows at the slowly gathering dusk. Occasionally the telephone rang, and he would snatch up the receiver and listen and then hand it to Polly with a sad shake of the head. Night had fallen when the call for which they were waiting finally came. Without preamble, a high-pitched male voice said brusquely, ‘Got the money, Granger?’

  ‘Yes,’ Robin said, his heart starting to thump.

  ‘Good. Do you know the telephone kiosk at the end of Knott’s Lane?’

  ‘I can find it. I know Knott’s Lane.’

  ‘Then listen. Instruct someone you can trust to be at the kiosk with the money by nine o’clock. There he will be given fresh instructions over the telephone. When we have the money and are satisfied that our instructions have been obeyed exactly, we will ring you at the Hall to tell you where to collect your wife. Understood?’

  ‘Yes,’ Robin said. ‘Please! Let me talk to her.’

  ‘Sorry,’ the voice said. ‘She’s not with me.’

  ‘But is she all right?’

  ‘She will be if you collect her promptly. Don’t hang about or she might freeze to death. It’s cold out, and she’s not wearing much.’

  The line went dead. ‘It’s a favourite method,’ Martin said, when Robin had repeated the instructions. ‘They switch you from one kiosk to another until they reckon it’s safe for the drop to be made.’