Again the silence came, but this time it did not last.
‘Very well’, the voice said. ‘Destler will know what he must bring with him.’
‘Yes’, Destler said, speaking past Palmer.
‘You will get this one chance. You will be watched and we will know if you try to trick us.’
‘We won’t’, Palmer said. ‘What do we do when we get to Miami?’
‘You will find out when you get there.’
The connection broke to punctuate the sentence, and when Palmer hung up he realized that his heart was pounding and the palms of his hands were wet. He let his breath out and eyed Destler with relief and satisfaction.
‘You had no right to do that ‘, the little man said brokenly. ‘Suppose they had—’
‘I know it’, Palmer said, a little amazed at his own audacity, a little scared now when he considered the possible consequences. ‘But it worked’, he said, his confidence rising. ‘So let’s get going. Do you want to take a bag?’
‘I’m already packed.’
Destler started for his room and as he disappeared Palmer picked up the telephone and dialled the Bulletin’s number. He said what he had to say to the managing editor, and Kelly gave him no argument. He asked how much cash Palmer had and he said about thirty dollars.
‘I’ll see what’s in the cash box,’ Kelly said, ‘and send an office boy over to the airport. You can charge your airline tickets to us—we’ll phone New York and get you on that South-eastern plane—and when you get to Miami we can wire you more dough if you need it.’
‘Tell Mr. Austin’, Palmer said. ‘He’ll know what to do about the F.B.I.’
‘Right … Keep in touch, kid.’
Such unquestioning co-operation acted as a quick and welcome stimulant to Palmer’s spirit after the days of inaction and uncertainty, and when a second telephone call assured him of two seats on a New York plane which left in fifty minutes he knew he was in business at last.
Destler appeared as he hung up, lugging a bulging and ancient Gladstone bag that looked heavy. Three minutes later Palmer had his own overnight case packed and they went out to his car. It was then that he remembered the blanks and seal. When he asked about them, Destler said he had left the parcel with a bell captain in a downtown hotel to be checked in the baggage-room.
Twelve minutes brought them to the proper hotel and Palmer kept the motor running while Destler retrieved the package. From that moment on he never let go of it.
South-eastern Airlines’ New York-Miami flight was on time coming into International Airport, and when Palmer and Destler walked into the terminal building with fifty odd other passengers Palmer began to understand why that particular flight had been selected for their trip.
Normally humming with activity, not only on the field but in the terminal, the waiting-rooms were almost deserted at four-thirty in the morning. Most of the concessions were closed. Some of the airline counters were deserted, and as they stood there once their bags had been reclaimed, Palmer realized how easy it would be for anyone watching the arrival of that flight to know exactly what any particular person or persons did.
There were no crowds to hide in. Every movement, every gesture could be observed. It gave him a funny feeling of insecurity as his fellow passengers drifted through the doorways on the street side, where the cab-starter was at work. As they became more and more isolated, the room quieted, and now Destler tugged at his sleeve.
‘What do we do now?’ he said in a small and frightened voice.
Palmer had been thinking the same thing, and now, with the question forcing the issue, he understood that it was up to him to carry the ball.
‘They’ll have to get in touch with us’, he said. ‘There has to be some message … Wait a minute’, he said as his glance touched the lighted counter with the South-eastern Airlines insignia behind it.
A uniformed clerk looked up from his work when Palmer asked if any message had come in for a Mr. Destler or Mr. Palmer.
‘Yes’, the clerk said. ‘Mr. Destler?’
Destler had tagged along behind Palmer and now he spoke up and reached for the envelope the clerk extended. It was a plain envelope with only the name printed in pencil across it, and Destler tore it open with trembling fingers.
The message inside, also printed in pencil, was almost as brief. It said: Room reserved Hotel Walter.
They stood a moment looking at each other while Destler stuffed the envelope in his pocket. Then, simultaneously, they reached for their bags and headed for the entrance. When the starter saw them he whistled up a cab.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE HOTEL WALTER was a five-storey, second-class hotel not far from the Biscayne Boulevard, and the sky was getting grey around the edges when they walked across the deserted lobby and roused a sleepy-eyed room clerk. He confirmed the reservation and offered registration cards. When these were duly signed he gave them the room key and another envelope similar to the one they had picked up at the airport.
This time the message was a little longer, but the printing was the same: Stay in room. Have meals sent up. No outside calls until we get in touch with you.
The room assigned them was large and twin-bedded, and overlooked the street from the fourth floor. Destler arranged his bag at the foot of his bed, but did not open it. Because the room seemed warm Palmer stripped to his shorts and flopped down on the bed.
‘So far so good’, he said.
‘Yes’, Destler said.
That was the end of the conversation, for reaction had begun its work and there was no further need for pretence. Each had begun to feel the strain of the flight and the pressure of circumstances, just as each seemed to understand that there was nothing he could do but wait.
Palmer had no intention of trying to sleep. The trouble was, he didn’t realize how weary he had become. He closed his eyes to rest them, and when he opened them again the sun was streaming into the room and Destler was leaning over him, a hand on his shoulder.
‘I thought I’d better wake you’, he said. ‘I’m ordering some breakfast’
Palmer felt drugged and listless as he sat up and yawned. He said he wasn’t hungry, but he knew he needed something, so he asked for grapefruit, muffins, and coffee.
‘And a morning paper’, he said.
He felt a lot better after his shower, and by the time breakfast was served he was hungrier than he had thought and looked with some envy at Destler’s scrambled eggs and bacon. When he had dressed he sat down in the corner with the paper; he was still there when the telephone rang shortly after noon.
As before, Destler reached the instrument first and Palmer had to huddle close to overhear what was said.
‘You have the seal and blanks?’ the now familiar voice asked. ‘Then stay where you are. If you use the telephone to call outside, we will know it. If you attempt to—’
‘I’m not going to attempt anything’, Destler cut in with surprising vehemence. ‘How is my niece?’
‘She is all right.’
‘Prove it. Let me hear her say so.’
‘Very well.’ There was a pause and then Palmer heard the faint but welcome sound of the girl’s voice. ‘Uncle John?’
‘Janet.’ Destler’s shoulders stiffened and his hand began to tremble. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes’, she said, and if she was afraid, her voice did not show it. ‘I’m filthy, but I’m all right.’
‘They didn’t hurt you?’
‘No.’
There was an instant of silence, as though she had been cut off, and then Henkel said:
‘We will call you again.’
‘When?’
‘Sometime before midnight. Have the package ready—and no tricks. We will tell you then where to meet us.’
With that the line went dead and as Palmer let his breath out slowly he heard the instrument clatter when Destler tried to cradle it.
‘She’s all right’, the little man said in a voice that had
a hushed and almost reverent connotation.
‘Sure’, Palmer said past a sudden thickness in his throat. He put his hand on the thin shoulder, feeling now an odd affection for Destler as he understood how very gallantly he had fought to counteract the ever present fear and uncertainty that had been tormenting him. ‘Sure, she’s all right. And before midnight she’ll be with you.’
He went back to the corner chair and his newspaper, but for the time being he could not concentrate on the printed words. He was not too aware of Destler’s movements until he saw the man unlock the Gladstone bag and remove the brown-paper parcel he had put there earlier. Covertly then, Palmer saw him straighten, the parcel in one hand and something in the other that was small enough to remain hidden in the clenched fingers. With that he went into the bathroom, and when the door closed there came the sound of the lock clicking into place.
Palmer lowered the paper and lit a cigarette, thinking hard about that parcel and its potentialities, and then trying not to. Finally he rose and went to one of the windows. A gap through the buildings nearer the waterfront revealed the sunlit blue waters of Biscayne Bay and the white wake of a speedboat which had just passed. Beyond, the tower of a luxury hotel reared skyward from the beach, and he remembered how he had come down here during one spring vacation while he was in college. He had looked forward to a second trip someday, and now—
He turned away with a smothered oath and went back to his chair and presently he began to wonder about Destler. What the devil could he be doing? How long had he been locked in there anyway?
Palmer was never quite sure about that, but he knew it was after three when the little man came out with the parcel and put it back in the bag. Without a word he sat down in the other easy chair, folded his hands across his stomach, and closed his eyes.
Palmer continued to read the paper and then re-read what he had already read and failed to comprehend the first time. He saw Destler move over to the window and stare out, leaning stiff-armed on widespread hands. Ten minutes of this and he came back to the chair.
Unable to sit still any longer, Palmer stood up and moved over to the door, hesitated, opened it.
‘Where’re you going?’ Destler said in quick alarm.
‘To look around.’
‘They said to stay here. If you go downstairs—’
‘I’m not going downstairs.’
Palmer stepped quickly into the hall and eased the door behind him, standing a moment in the quiet corridor before he started towards the lone window at the rear. He had no specific plan in mind. There was no way of telling what might happen later in the day, but the impulse to know more about the layout of the floor was on him now and he kept going, marking the exits.
On the left a steel door led to the stairs, and he opened this and stood on this landing looking up and down the enclosed shaft. Beyond this toward the rear were the two lifts, and when he opened the window at the end of the hall he saw that it gave on a fire escape leading down into an alley. Retracing his steps, he came to a similar window at the front of the building, and when he opened this he glanced down at the other windows and saw that the one on the second floor directly below him was adjacent to the squarish, flat-topped metal marquee over the entrance. Beyond this traffic moved in the one-way street, and presently he drew back and closed the window.
In the room once more, Destler glanced at him questioningly but said nothing, so he sat down to pick up the paper again. There was a lot more silence as the afternoon waned, and then, just before five, the agonizing quiet was shattered, not by the telephone, but by a knock on the door.
The unexpectedness of the sound so startled Palmer that he sat right where he was for a second or so, and by that time Destler, moving with the speed of a jack-in-a-box, was across the room and tugging at the door. As it opened he stiffened where he was and then, as Palmer came out of his chair, began to move backward.
‘Janet’, he said, his voice a whisper. ‘Janet.’
Henkel came first, a gun in his hand.
‘Easy, please’, he said. ‘Stay back and no noise.’
Palmer saw her then. She stood tall and unafraid, the strain showing through the tired paleness of her face but her chin up as she entered with the dark, durable figure of Muller at her side, one powerful hand gripping her arm.
‘Hello, Uncle John’, she said. ‘Hi, Larry.’
Once again Palmer had trouble swallowing and he tried not to think of the days she had spent with these two, apparently in the same grey dress, which was badly wrinkled and no longer neat. But there must have been lipstick and powder in the handbag she still carried, for her mouth was defiantly red and there was no shine on her face.
Muller closed the door and continued to stand there holding the girl. Henkel advanced.
‘Where are they?’ he demanded.
‘I’ll get them.’
Destler went to his knees beside his bag and took out the parcel. He placed it on the small table between the windows and began to undo it.
Muller looked over at Palmer, his grin coldly malicious as he jabbed his finger at the air. ‘You,’ he said, ‘stay where you are. We have trouble with you before.’
Palmer made no reply because there was nothing he could say. He put a smile on for the girl and, though he had never felt less like it, winked one eye. The effect of that effort was startling and delightful to see. For now her mouth curved at one corner and she said: ‘I’m glad they let you come, Larry. I—I was worried about—’ She glanced at her uncle and let the sentence dangle, though the meaning was clear.
‘Yeah’, Palmer said huskily, and gave his attention to Destler as he pushed aside the brown paper and offered Henkel a thin sheaf of sheets that looked to be roughly nine inches by twelve.
Henkel accepted them with his free hand and suddenly his bespectacled gaze was hard and suspicious.
‘These have been wet’, he said harshly.
From where he stood Palmer could see that the natural smoothness of the sheets bore a slightly mottled appearance. The very thought of anything happening to spoil things now scared him, and he held his breath until Destler replied.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but a long time ago. I did it purposely to all the blanks because I thought it made them look more authentic’
Henkel rubbed his thumb across the surface. Finally he nodded his acceptance. ‘The seal’, he said.
‘Right here.’
Destler fumbled at a small leather case and removed a metal seal somewhat similar to that used by a notary public. ‘Here it is’, he said. ‘I will show you.’
He put the case back of him on the table and took the blank Henkel still held. There was a red circle imprinted in the lower right-hand corner of this and now Destler inserted it and squeezed the lever-like handles hard.
‘See?’ he said eagerly. ‘Just like the real thing.’
He returned the blank. While Henkel inspected it, he turned to the table to get the case, and in his hurry to insert the seal he dropped it. Pouncing on it, his back turned, he worked with fumbling fingers, coming erect now as he began to thrust the seal into the case.
‘There’, he said.
‘Good.’ Henkel nodded. ‘Now make the package again like it was.’
He waited while Destler refolded the brown paper, and as Palmer watched the operation the thought came to him again of what incalculable harm such things could do in the hands of men like Henkel and Muller. Anger and bitterness mingled quickly with a feeling of helplessness when he glanced again at the girl standing so quietly with Muller’s hand still on her arm, because he knew they must not take chances with her life.
Henkel backed away, the gun still levelled. Muller opened the door.
‘You will stay in this room,’ Henkel said, ‘until you hear from the girl. Attempt to telephone downstairs or follow us and—’
‘Hear from her?’ Destler said. ‘Why can’t she stay? You promised to—’
Henkel cut him off. ‘You have no worry i
f you do your part. We have no interest in her now. She is only a bother to us. We take her for our protection. If there is no trouble’—he hesitated as Muller and the girl disappeared from view—‘we will release her within a half-hour. My advice is to stay here until she calls you.’
The door slammed as he finished the sentence, and suddenly Palmer was moving, two strides taking him to the door, palming the knob and silently easing it open a crack. Behind him Destler mouthed some protest and in the hall a lift door clanged open. As it started to swing shut he dashed toward the steel door and the enclosed stairway.
Common sense had no part in what he did then. Somewhere in his mind was the thought that as a hostage Janet Evans had served her purpose and was of no further use to Henkel and Muller. Logic suggested that she would be released, as they had promised, but such promptings of the brain did nothing at all to counteract the emotional drive that kept him moving.
He went down the tightly wound staircase in long leaps, grabbing the rail to maintain his balance, counting the flights, knowing he could not reach the lobby before the lift did, not wanting to reach the lobby, knowing only that he had to stop the two men if he could.
He was not considering the odds now, for to him there were no odds. Only Henkel. Henkel had the gun. This alone seemed important as he broke out of the stairway into the second-floor hall and swung toward the window overlooking the marquee.
Seconds later he was through the opening. Moving swiftly but with care, he crossed to the front edge of the marquee, the tin roof crackling beneath his weight. And now he knelt, peering over the low metal front piece which bore the hotel sign.
He saw them then, directly beneath and so close he could almost touch them, the bulky figure of Muller leading the way towards the first cab in the taxi stand, starting to open the door for the girl, followed now by Henkel, holding the package in one hand, the other on the gun in his pocket.
Palmer, crouched now on the parapet-like perimeter of the marquee, poised himself for the drop to the sidewalk. As he measured the distance he glanced up and it was then that time stood still, the scene that unfolded like a slow-motion fantasy viewed through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars, though each detail was clear-cut and distinct.
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