by Robert Bloch
“This Specs—you’re sure you can trust him?”
“He’s my best friend. That’s why I picked him out. He’s a little guy, kind of quiet. Nobody would ever suspect.”
“But won’t they connect him up with you?”
“Sure. Only I won’t be in the picture, either. I’m going to quit my job now, in advance. By the time we go to work, I’ll be forgotten. My name’ll never appear.” I leaned over and cupped her chin. “You never told anyone about us, did you?”
“Of course not, lover.”
I kissed her. “That’s a good girl. See that you don’t. Because it helps keep you clear, too.”
She frowned. “You know, that’s the one part I can’t understand. I’ll be getting Shirley Mae from school that day. The Warrens will know that. And then I disappear. Won’t the police come looking for me right away?”
“Look, honey, do you think I’d go through with this if I thought you were going to be in a bad spot? That was the first thing I figured out—how to make sure you’d be safe. Don’t worry. A month from today you’ll be the best-looking blonde in Miami Beach!”
“Blonde?”
“Sure. I’ll tell you the whole thing, what you’ve got to do. First of all, how much money you got saved?”
“Nine hundred dollars, like I told you.”
“All right, the day before we pull the job, you go downtown in the afternoon and put five hundred into a Savings and Loan account. I’ll tell you which place to go to, and I want you to ask a lot of questions about how Savings and Loan operates. You know, how much interest you get, stuff like that there.”
“But we could use five hundred—”
“We’ll have money coming out of our ears!” I told her. “This five hundred is your insurance policy. Now shut up and listen!”
“All right, Steve.”
“You deposit five hundred bucks, and make sure you tell the guy your boy friend is coming home from Korea this fall—you want to get married then. See? That’s why I want you to go to a Savings and Loan joint instead of a bank. So you get a chance to talk to someone, and he’ll remember you. Because the cops will investigate everything you’ve done for the past week or so at least. And what will they find? Here’s a girl puts her savings into an account, plans on getting hitched. Doesn’t sound like she’s going to be involved in a kidnapping the very next day, does it?”
“But I’ll have disappeared.”
“That’s right. And they’ll look for you—but not for kidnapping, just for questioning. And they’ll never find you.”
“How’ll you work that?”
“I was coming to it, if you’d only shut up for a while and listen. You take Shirley Mae out of school. Specs is waiting to pick you up, in the alley before the corner. He’ll drive back down the alley, not out on the street. You’ll be at the cottage in half an hour, long before anybody misses you at the house. It’ll take that long for Paul to figure something’s gone wrong. Then, for a day or so, they’ll be trying to locate you.
“The police will come out to the house. They’ll find all your clothes and stuff, still there. Nothing missing. First thing they’ll figure is somebody snatched you both. And the call will go out to locate Mary Adams. Five three, weight one-twenty or whatever, brown hair, brown eyes.
“But don’t worry. There won’t be any such person any more. Instead there’ll be a Mrs. George Henderson, who moved into a cottage out at Long Lake the day before, for a two-week vacation with her husband. Mrs. George Henderson’ll be about five five with high heels on, and she wears sunglasses outdoors and horn-rimmed glasses indoors. And she’ll have blonde hair. She’ll also have entirely different clothes—I’ll buy ’em with the four hundred you got left. Nobody will have seen me, so they won’t look for me. Specs will still be working. Perfect setup.”
“But won’t they get suspicious after a while?”
“Sure. They’ll suspect everybody—but by the time the second day rolls around, the police will get a letter from you. It’s going to tell all about the kidnapping. Three men in a blue Chevvie, looked like Mexicans or Dagos. How they came up alongside you and snatched the kid and drove off. How you were scared when they let you out uptown, heading south. How you were afraid to go back because you knew you’d get mixed up with the cops, get all this publicity, lose your job. So you took a bus there at the uptown terminal and kept going. And now you’ll never come back.”
“But the letter’ll be postmarked—”
“New Orleans, airmail. Haven’t you ever read any of these ads in the back of the magazines? Amaze Your Friends—you send two bits to some guy in New Orleans or California and he re-mails your letter from there, makes whoever gets it think you’ve been travelling. That’s what we’ll do. The letter goes out when we snatch the kid. It gets to New Orleans, is airmailed back. The heat’s off. And when the police get to checking on you and find out about the Savings and Loan and nothing being missing, they’ll believe the pitch. So you’re safe, too.”
“But won’t somebody see Shirley Mae at the cottage? And what about collecting the ransom money? And returning her to the Warrens?”
“They’ll never see the kid at the cottage. First of all, because I’m going to make sure that the one next door to wherever we go isn’t rented. Secondly, because we won’t bring her into the house until after dark.”
I patted her arm. “And about the ransom money, and getting her back home—that’s my department. You don’t think I’m letting you and Specs take all the risk, do you? My job is to get the dough, safely. And return the kid, safely. And I’ve got both those deals figured out just as careful as all the rest. So stop worrying.”
“I just can’t help—”
“Quit talking. You and I got better things to do.” I reached for her. “It’s been a week hasn’t it? A week since you and I—”
After, I said, “That’s only a sample, baby. Wait until I get you all to myself down there on one of those moonlight beaches, with the palm trees and the stars and everything. You can lay out there all night, every night, listening to the waves pound and watch the moon come up over the water.”
“It sounds heavenly.”
“It will be.” I poked her. “Come on, get up. We’re going for a ride.”
“In what?”
“Come and see.”
I took her outside and showed her the car. Women are funny. I guess it was the car that sold her more than anything. She couldn’t get over it.
“We’ll get another one down South, too,” I told her. “A convertible. Just stick with me, kid. We’re going places.”
“Yes, Steve. Yes.”
That’s the kind of talk I wanted to hear from her. And that night I got the same answers from Specs.
I took him out after work and told him the setup. With him I went into details—how I planned on getting the money, how we’d arrange for a getaway after the heat cooled down. None of this moonlight on the beach baloney for Specs. He had to feel sure that he could depend on me, that I knew what I was doing. And most of all, that it was safe.
“But what if they see me driving the car?” he asked. “With the girl in it and the kid?”
“Nobody’ll be looking for you that soon. And I told you, they’ll be down inside the back, nobody’ll spot them. Besides, you’re going back to work at five.”
“That’s going to be awful, keeping on working.”
“It’s the best part of the whole deal, for you,” I said. “Who in hell would ever connect you up with this kidnapping in the first place? You’re doing the same as you always have. Work every night. You won’t even have to come out to the place, except to get your cut of the dough when the time comes. Then, in about a month or so, you feel like quitting, you quit. You can join us down South, someplace. We’ll figure it out. But the whole thing is like taking candy from a baby.”
“How about you? They’ll notice you’re gone from the shop.”
“No they won’t, Specs. Because I’m leaving
tomorrow night, two weeks ahead of time. And I’m not quitting, either. I’m getting fired.”
And that’s the way it happened.
The next night, Tuesday, I stalled around until maybe seven o’clock. I’d been busy most of the afternoon, anyway, locating the people who owned this cottage. I found them, too—rented it for two weeks starting June fifteenth. For my wife and myself, for our vacation. And I found out that the next one down the line wasn’t rented until July first. Plenty of time.
Then I ate and drifted in around seven.
Cutrelli was waiting for me, just like I figured he would be.
“Now what’s the story, Collins? You get another attack of the flu?”
“Well, I wasn’t feeling so hot, tell the truth.”
I stood up close to him, so he could smell the two drinks I’d taken on purpose across the street just before I came in.
“Truth, my foot. You’ve been drinking.”
“Just one, for the cold I got.” I swayed a little.
“Collins, you’re drunk! I’m getting fed up with this stuff. We’re loaded with jobs as it is, and you keep turning up missing.”
“You don’t have to holler at me.”
“Holler at you? I got a good notion to can you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. You might as well check out right now.”
“All right. To hell with you.” I walked away. “But first I got something else to settle.”
I walked back into the shop and he followed me. I went over to Specs. He looked up, because he knew what was coming—I’d coached him in advance.
“Look,” I said. “This sorehead here just gave me my notice. So let’s you and I settle up. Where’s that twenty you borrowed off me two weeks ago?”
“What twenty, Steve?”
“Whaddya mean, what twenty? That twenty bucks I loaned you over at Miller’s Tavern, two weeks ago Saturday.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never borrowed no twenty bucks from you.”
I grabbed him by the collar. “The hell you didn’t! You said you’d pay me back last Thursday. Come on now, I’m leaving. Where is it?”
“Take your hands off me.” I was holding him tight enough so that when he said it, it would sound like he really meant it.
“Let him alone, Collins,” Cutrelli yelled.
“All right, you asked for it!” I batted Specs one across the side of the jaw, hard enough so that he fell back over the bench. The other guys were looking up now, and coming over.
“Hit a guy wearing glasses, will you?” Cutrelli said. He stepped forward and stuck out his left. That was just what I’d been waiting for. I moved to one side, back, then came in. I swung from my hip. My right came up under his jaw and I heard a sound like a bat connecting with a ball for a homer over the fence.
Nobody else tried to stop me. I walked out of there, knowing I’d played it perfect, knowing that each step was taking me closer and closer to the big day.
Chapter Eight
It was Friday, June sixteenth. A nice warm day, the last day of school. Everybody was planning their vacation. I had mine planned, too.
I got up at noon and checked out of the YMCA. That’s where I’d been staying, the YMCA, after I quit my job. I told Mrs. Delehanty I was moving to Oregon. The YMCA was a good place for me to stay, these last days, because I’d been plenty busy getting things set.
There’d been only one meeting, Sunday, with Specs and Mary. The rest of the time I had them call me, afternoons, from a pay phone to the booth across the street from the Y in Walgreen’s.
They were ready now, and I was ready.
I went across to the drug store and had lunch. I carried my suitcase.
At one, Specs drove up in the old heap and picked me up. He took me out to the road near the cottage, backed onto a side road.
I walked down and got the Olds out of the garage. I’d put it there yesterday afternoon, when I moved in—and Specs had waited on the road then, too, to drive me back in his car.
Now I looked the place over once more. It was a perfect setup. These people I’d rented it from, the Racklins, used to live out here themselves, and they had fixed it up real nice. First of all, there was a two-car garage, with a driveway, set in back of the house and on the way down to the lake. Trees all around on both sides—and the next cottage was half a block away, easy.
This cottage was more like a house, really. Big front room, small dining room, good-sized kitchen with a bottle-gas stove and an oil heater in case it got cold. John off the kitchen, too—no running outdoors to a privy. There were two bedrooms off the dining-room. They had a linen closet and plenty of towels, dishes in the pantry and everything. The place was even furnished half-way decent. Radio and a phonograph attachment. I knew, because Mrs. Racklin showed me through the joint and I had to pretend to be interested and ask all kinds of damn fool questions. I told her my wife was working until Friday afternoon, that’s why she couldn’t come out.
Another thing I’d made sure of was that the Racklins weren’t going to be around. They lived in town, and they were driving up north over the weekend.
They gave me the keys Thursday morning, the fifteenth, and when I came out with Specs that afternoon I’d lugged quite a few groceries. There was a store down the line at the crossroads, about a mile and a half away. We’d be eating regular.
Now I took a final inspection tour and I was satisfied. I’d done everything I could think of. Even brought a deck of cards and some magazines out. And there was milk in the icebox for the kid.
Things were okay. I walked back down and took the Olds out, driving to where Specs was parked.
“All set,” I said. “You know what to do.”
“Anybody see you get the car?”
“Hell, no. There’s nobody out there. I told you that.”
“Steve, I’m nervous.” He wasn’t handing me any news bulletin. I could see he was jumpy as a cat on hot bricks.
“Well, don’t be. You do just like you’re told and we’ll have no trouble. You want to go over it again with me once more, just to make sure?”
“All right. We drive back to town. I take route sixteen and you take the county trunk. I park down the alley half a block south of the school, going in from the street side, at three o’clock.”
“Sharp,” I said. “They get out an hour earlier, on account of this is the last day. Make sure you get in there, and keep that motor running.”
“What about cops?”
“I already told you. The cop on that beat goes to the north corner to direct traffic when school lets out. He won’t bother you. And there’s no warehouse outlet or anything in the alley. It’s safe.”
“But just suppose there’s a truck in there or something?”
“Suppose, my hinder,” I said. “There won’t be. You go into the alley. And then what?”
“Then Mary comes along with the kid. I open the door. She pretends she’s scared. Then I say for her to jump in the back seat with the kid or I’ll let her have it. And I point the gun.”
“You don’t point the gun. You just show the gun. Remember, this is all for the kid’s benefit, in case she talks. She’ll say Mary had to get in because you had a gun. But don’t wave it around so’s anyone could see it in case they pass the alley.”
“I get it.”
“And make sure you’ve got your hat on, and your glasses off.”
“That’ll be tough, driving without glasses.”
“It’ll be a lot tougher if you wear them, and they check up on you. Remember, you only got a minute where she’ll see you—and a kid four years old, she won’t be able to identify you very good. If you follow orders.”
“Yeah, Steve. I know.”
“All right, what do you do then?”
“Then I take out the sap and hit Mary.”
I nodded. “And for Christ’s sake, remember you’re only pretending you hit her. It’s for the kid, that’s the reason.”
> “I will, Steve. And then I take this rope and tie the kid’s hands.”
“Like hell you do. First, the blindfold.”
“Oh, sure, the blindfold first. Then I tie her hands and put her down in the back seat next to Mary. And I drive two blocks and turn right in the second alley we come to. That’s where you’re waiting.”
“Right. I switch them to my car there, and you drive away.”
“Suppose somebody sees us there?”
“Nobody will. I tell you, there’s a blank wall on three sides where we’ll be. And this loading platform space isn’t used because the warehouse is closed.” I grinned at him. “Stop worrying, Specs. This is a lot easier than working. But keep going. Then what do you do?”
“You give me the ransom note. And we put in the kid’s handkerchief and hair ribbon, if she’s wearing any.”
“Right. Here’s the note now.”
I showed it to him. Dime-store paper and envelope, special delivery stamp, and this big rubber stamp lettering.
MR AND MRS WARREN
GOT YOUR KID. SHE IS ALL RIGHT. BUT IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE HER ALIVE ANY MORE DONT CALL THE POLICE. GET $200,000 CASH READY IN TENS AND TWENTIES AND DONT MARK THE BILLS EITHER. THEN WAIT FOR A PHONE CALL. WILL TELL YOU WHERE TO BRING THE MONEY BUT NO FUNNY STUFF. OR ELSE YOUR KID WILL GET HURT.
That’s all it said, and I figured it was enough. “You catch on?” I asked. “I don’t say ‘I’ or ‘we’ in the note, so they can’t be sure how many people are mixed up in this. They ought to get this before tonight, and that’ll give them plenty of time to start worrying. By Monday morning, old Raymond E. Warren’ll be out rounding up the cash.”
“You’re sure they won’t go to the police?”
“Of course not.” I wasn’t sure, but I really didn’t give a damn—that was one risk we’d have to take. At the same time, I wanted Specs to figure we were in the bag. “They’ve read about these cases where people go to the police and the kids get killed. They won’t take any chances.”