But Not For Me

by Jack Kline

  “Good,” I said. “You got a plan?”

  “Perhaps. Depends on how you’re willing to help.”

  “Look, Hannerty, I agreed to take this job, and I don’t welsh. Deal me in. What’s your play?”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  That came out of left field. “Maybe.” And it was true. Either I did or Colleen was stringing me along. “Why you asking at a time like this?”

  “They say they’re watching Mr. Holloway’s home,” Hannerty said. “I want to get you here without them seeing and without Mr. Holloway knowing.”

  “What’s that got to do with my girlfriend?”

  Hannerty told me. As he explained his plan, my appreciation grew for what a formidable foe the Brits must have had during the Irish fight for independence. If things worked like they should, his plan would get us to wherever the switch would be. Then—as I’d always thought—we would have to rely on brains and instinct.

  After hanging up I dialed Jill’s apartment. She answered on the seventh ring. She sounded breathless and put out.

  “Jill, it’s Phil.”

  “Yeah? What do you want?”

  “Something big has come up. I need your help.”

  “I hope you don’t need it before I put away the groceries.”

  “I’ll wait.” Her receiver whacked hard on a counter or table.

  I waited. And waited. At one point I wondered if she had cornered the market on Post Toasties.

  “Okay, what?”

  “I need you to be my girlfriend for the afternoon.”

  “You need what?”

  I told her Hannerty’s plan to get me back to the Holloway place unseen by anyone, including Holloway. The Cates mansion on Fifty-Fourth backed up to the Holloway estate. The Cateses were visiting family in Winnetka and returning around midnight on the Chicago Limited. Martin Collins, their butler, watched the house while they were gone. Collins and Hannerty both grew up in County Donegal and were pals here in the States.

  “So, Jill, I need you to come and pick me up at the office. Take me to the Cates place. We go to the door arm-in-arm like old family friends. Collins lets us in, you eat tea and crumpets, while me and Hannerty go rescue the kid. Okay?”

  “What’s a crumpet?”

  I knew she wasn’t serious. I could see it in her face, even from four miles away. “It’s like a biscuit, only for rich people. Okay? The kid’s life might be on the line.”

  “Why my car? Why not yours?”

  “Mine’s dead.”

  She let out one single, squealed “Ha!” And then she followed with, “I knew that wreck wouldn’t make it through the winter. But I figured it’d at least make it to winter.”

  “It’s not like that. My car was murdered last night. And they tried to murder Rusty and me. Rusty’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh, my God! How? Is he, is he okay?”

  “Surgeon says Rusty’s probably going to be okay.”

  “Surgeon? I’m on my way.”

  “Jill?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The Cateses are loaded. Wear something nice.”

  The connection severed without a reply.

  On the way up Ward Parkway, I filled Jill in on the details. I could see her whole body relax when I convinced her Rusty was going to be okay. She looked gorgeous worried, and she looked beautiful relieved. I was hard to pull my eyes away from her as she drove. But I needed to keep watch for suspicious cars tailing us. Her flivver looked a little out of place in that neighborhood, but not all fat cats associated exclusively with other fat cats. At the Cates’ I told Jill to pull into the circle drive like we owned the place. We parked right in front of the main door. As I grabbed the door handle, Jill slugged me in the upper arm.

  “What’s the deal! You tell me to get all dressed up and you’re wearing that?”

  The “that” was my second nicest suit but obscured by my “work” trench coat and fedora. Both needed a visit to the cleaners. The fedora was tipped up and resting on the back of my head to spare the lumps and bruises.

  “Sorry, Jill, it was all I had at the office and there wasn’t time to go home.”

  Climbing out of her Ford, I pulled my hat down low and adjusted the brim. She came around and put her arm in mine, not as a lover would, but more like a sadistic jailer. I felt it plenty in the ribs but kept my trap shut. I may have winced, however, because as we walked up the steps, she lightened up. I exercised the knocker three times.

  While we waited, a black Chrysler turned off the parkway and came up the street slowly our way. Too slowly to suit me. I grabbed Jill by the arms and pulled her toward me.

  “Kiss me, Jill, quick.” But I didn’t wait for my words to register. I laid one on her, only I kept an eye on the Chrysler. She struggled at first, and I just went through the motions. The car drove on and the kiss ended more friendly than the way it began. She looked puzzled. Kind of like how I felt.

  “The car, Jill, the one that just went by, we had to make the happy couple thing look good.” That’s when she slapped me. Hard.

  “Now we can be a couple that’s fighting,” she said, standing with her arms crossed, looking out at the street.

  I knocked again. A few seconds later Collins opened the door.

  “Mr. Morris?”

  I nodded.

  “Won’t you come in?”

  Inside, I offered my hand. “This is my friend, Jill Freely.”

  We shook hands. “Martin Collins. It’s a pleasure. Miss Freely, Mr. Morris, won’t you please follow me?”

  He led us into the Cates library—nice, but not Holloway nice. Collins had placed a spread of food on the maple library table. There were roast beef and cheddar sandwiches, and biscuit things with butter and what looked like orange marmalade. Collins had placed cups and glasses, a pitcher of cold tea, and pot of hot coffee. My stomach growled a greeting to the chow.

  “Help yourselves,” Collins said. “But Mr. Morris, we must leave momentarily. Conor wants you in place in the carriage house by one-thirty.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Collins,” I said with my mouth full of beef and cheddar and the remnants of the sandwich waving in my hand. “I missed lunch, and call me Phil.”

  “His stomach always thinks it misses meals,” Jill said, as she examined the biscuits.

  Collins watched her eyeing the biscuit. “Those are crumpets, Miss Freely,” Collins said. “Mrs. Cates’ family hails from London.”

  Jill and I looked at each other with crumpet-eating grins on our faces.

  I’d finished my sandwich and downed a half cup of coffee when Collins said it was time to go.

  “Miss Freely, I’ll only be a few minutes showing Phil the way to the Holloway carriage house. Please make yourself comfortable.”

  “It should take Hannerty and me a few hours, Jill,” I said. “The kidnappers might even want to wait until dark to make the swap. That’s how I’d do it anyway.” I grabbed another sandwich and followed Martin Collins out the back door.

  The Cates’ back lawn looked like some garden spot they’d feature in the Saturday Evening Post. Rows of blooming chrysanthemums guarded our walk to the back gate. Very classy. The gate had a simple latch mechanism, no locks. The two families must get along well.

  Collins opened the gate and led me through a maze of juniper and pine on the Holloway side. The carriage house stood about two hundred feet from the main house. Collins felt along the top of the side entrance door frame, found a key, and opened the door.

  “This is as far as I go,” he said. “Mr. Hannerty will arrive as soon as the kidnappers contact the Holloways. He said that you gentlemen will be using the Cadillac.”

  I thanked Collins and asked him to tell Jill not to worry if it gets late. Collins said that he would keep her safe and allay her concerns. He really did use that word—allay. Though I’ve read it, I’d never heard it spoken before.

  The carriage house looked spotless. It had indoor plumbing, of which I took full advantag
e. It housed Cadillac and Buick sedans and a 1932 LaSalle roadster. There was one empty spot which I assumed was for the Duesenberg.

  I checked out the Cadillac, especially its trunk and the lock mechanism because that was to be my accommodation. I sat in the front passenger seat, pulled out my Police Positive .38 and inspected it. Not that it needed inspecting, but more like a reassuring routine. As a ball player, before each pitch, I tugged at my pants, adjusted the brim of my hat, tightened my grip on the bat and tapped it three times on home plate. Reassurance.

  With the .38, I opened the cylinder, removed all six slugs, checked the barrel, each cylinder, tested the hammer and the trigger mechanisms, and then replaced each slug after inspecting it. I patted my left vest pocket and felt the comfort of six spare slugs.

  I took Dad’s watch from my right vest pocket. Almost 2:30. I left the car door open and took a few laps around the place. I wanted a drink. Just one, one to calm my nerves, to steady my hands and my resolve. I settled for three Lucky Strikes, each lit from the remains of its predecessor.

  A telephone rang from the small office in the back corner. Me and my third Lucky Strike went to check it out. I figured it must be the kidnappers and I better not touch it. It kept ringing and I kept not picking it up until it went silent.

  No more than a minute later it rang again, but only once. Ten seconds later, one ring. When it rang for the fourth time I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear, but said nothing.

  “Phil?” The voice had a comforting Irish lilt.

  “Hannerty?”

  “I forgot to tell you that we have a private line to the carriage house.”

  “Will wonders never cease? So that’s what rich folks spend their dough on.”

  “We haven’t heard anything yet. I wanted to make sure you had arrived safely. No one saw you arrive at the Cateses?”

  “A car drove by a little slow, but not too suspiciously.” I thought of the kiss. A guy could get used to kissing Jill.

  “Good. You fixed okay for firearms?”

  “I’ve got my .38 revolver and some spare shells.” I touched my vest pocket. Reassurance.

  “Could you use a spare, Phil? You never know when taking the time to reload can get a lad killed.”

  Good idea. Why hadn’t I brought the snub nose? “Sure, if you’re offering.”

  “I’ll see what I can obtain. Otherwise, there’s nothing to do but wait.” Hannerty paused. “There may be no time to telephone you after the kidnappers contact us, or Mr. Holloway might be too near. I’ll be walking out the front door with suitcases just in case they are watching the house. I’ll try to make some noise as I walk down the drive.”

  “Got it.”

  “And don’t try to use the phone. It only rings the house.”

  “It ain’t this ol’ cowboy’s first rodeo, Hannerty.”

  “Just covering everything.” He hung up.

  About an hour later, and still no word from the house, I stepped outside for a smoke. I left the door ajar so I could hear the telephone if it rang. The day was cool but nice. And whatever breeze there might have been was blunted by trees and shrubs. From my spot against the carriage house wall, I could only see a tiny bit of the house, a couple of windows on a corner of the second floor.

  As I gazed up, someone looked down at me through one of the windows—Colleen. Instinctively I recoiled back through the doorway and shut the door. She wasn’t supposed to be there.

  What kind of con were they running on me?

  I began to pace, beating a path around the three cars. I should have been glad Colleen wasn’t in a jam. Instead, I felt illogically angry.

  Was Hannerty in on it? He had to be.

  I still stewed and steamed and stomped around the garage when I heard a quiet knock. The side door opened part way and Colleen poked her head in. Only it wasn’t Colleen. It was, but it wasn’t. She was too old.

  “Mrs. Holloway?”

  She stepped inside. “Mr. Morris.”

  She was comely and elegant, the perfect antecedent of her daughter. Colleen would look like that when she reached fifty. Stately. Mrs. Holloway approached me, clutching a small purse. She offered her hand. The urge to take it, bow, and gently kiss it was strong. Instead, I shook hands. Her hand was cool and soft.

  “Mr. Hannerty has informed me of all of your troubles and sorrow trying to find my boy. I’m sorry about your friend in the hospital. And I am so sorry for the loss of your dog.” She looked the part too, ready to cry.

  “As a girl, I had a dog I loved very much. Whenever I think of Tippy, I can taste the grief that I felt, and still feel, when she died.” Her eyes glistened, deciding whether to drip tears down her cheeks or stay put. She had Colleen’s eyes, eyes that compromised between green and blue.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Holloway.” That was all I could think of to say.

  “No, no, dear boy. Tippy died a long time ago. Those memories are dear to me. I carry them now with fondness. Feeling the joy and the pain of the days with Tippy reminds me that I am fully alive. They remind me what is precious and what is not. Tom Junior is precious to me, not the money or this house. I’m glad to have a person like you aiding us.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Holloway. I will do everything possible to see your son safely returned to you.” I didn’t say I’d risk my life. That would have made me seem egotistical. She seemed like a smart dame. She knew.

  “Was that you in the window a few minutes ago?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I thought it was Colleen. She bears a striking resemblance to you, and I see now where she got her beauty.”

  She looked down at the floor and blushed a bit. “Colleen has told me about you, Mr. Morris. You are even more handsome than she described.”

  Enough of the mutual admiration. “Do you know where your daughter is now?”

  Her brows wrinkled. “No. She has been gone a lot since her brother disappeared. She says she’s been looking for him. Colleen says she’s been helping you.” She looked me in the eyes. “Should I be worried about her, too?”

  “Nah.” The evidence mounted that I was lying there, but no sense in burdening her with more worry.

  Relief softened her face. Wrinkles disappeared. “Thank God.” She opened her purse and carefully slipped out a pistol. She held it out to me as though it were a dead mouse. “This is for you from Mr. Hannerty.”

  She extended her arm and I took the mouse off her hands.

  “Mr. Hannerty says that it’s a 1903 Model Colt, thirty-two caliber with an eight round clip,” she said by rote. “Oh, yes.” She reached in her purse. “And here is a second clip. Mr. Hannerty says that the Colt is small enough to fit in your pocket.” It was. “But it still packs a punch.”

  It did. Rusty had one.

  I slipped the weapon and clip into the pocket of my suit coat. “Tell Hannerty this’ll work perfect. Does your husband know what’s going on out here?”

  She looked toward the house as if she could see through walls. “Heavens no! Thomas would have a fit. And I must get back.”

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Holloway.” I touched the brim of my hat.

  “And you, Mr. Morris. I hope next time we meet I will have both of my children present to thank you.” With that, she left, quietly closing the door.

  It was nearly five and my stomach roared. I had a theory. When a guy expends adrenaline, either in the heat of action or in the anticipation of it, hunger results. Or maybe it was only this guy that got ravenous. Whatever the reason, I was hungry enough to eat a whitewall tire. But I didn’t think Holloway would approve.

  Pacing only increased my hunger. But sitting in the passenger seat of the Cadillac, listening to my belly squeak and rumble was even worse. I took apart Hannerty’s Colt, inspected it, and reassembled it, ignoring my stomach’s protestations. The Colt was back in my pocket and I paced the same route around the cars when once again someone knocked on the door.

  It opened thre
e inches. “It’s okay, Mr. Morris. It’s me, Collins.”

  I let him know I wasn’t going to blast him and the door opened the rest of the way. Collins had a thermos and a sack of what I hoped was food.

  “It was dark enough I thought it safe to send Miss Freely home,” Collins said. “I watched her drive onto the parkway. No one followed her.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Collins. Is that food?”

  “Yes, indeed. The rest of the sandwiches and crumpets. I thought you might be hungry.”

  “You must read minds.”

  “And I brought some fresh percolated coffee, as well.”

  “You’re a peach, Mr. Collins.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He was already backing out the door. “Good luck tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  Alone again. But alone with food wasn’t half bad.

  My watch showed 7:50 when the phone rang. It was Hannerty.

  “We’re on. Mr. Holloway just left the room to get the money. I’ll be out shortly.” He hung up.

  Less than five minutes later, Hannerty walked in with two suitcases. “We must get to this address near the stockyards by eight-thirty.”

  My watch showed three minutes after eight. “That’s not much time.”

  “Did you check the trunk?”

  “Yeah, and the lock. It looks like I can remove two screws and open it from the inside.”

  “Exactly.” Hannerty produced a screwdriver and a flashlight from his overcoat. He opened the trunk and placed them inside. “They told me to drive to that address, park under the streetlight, and wait for further instructions.”

  “We better get going.” I climbed into the trunk. “Oh yeah, and thanks for the Colt.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m shutting the lid now.”

  Once the lid had closed I turned the flashlight on and off to make sure it worked. As I shut it off, I heard something heavy banging on the lock and felt the car shudder. Shit.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked.