by Ed McBain
And to top it all off, this looked like a bona fide kidnaping. Even if Carella were not the father of a pair of twins which his wife Teddy had delivered to him this past summer, even if he were not experiencing the first joys of fatherhood, a kidnaping was a damn frightening thing and he wanted no part of it.
Unfortunately, he had no choice.
He sat in the King living room, intimidated, troubled, and he asked his questions while Meyer Meyer looked through the window facing the River Harb, his back to the room.
“Let me get this straight, Mr. King,” he said. “The boy who was kidnapped is not your son, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“But the ransom demand was made to you, is that also right?”
“Yes.”
“Then, when the demand was made, the kidnaper thought he was in possession of your son.”
“It would seem so, yes.”
“Were there any further calls?”
“No.”
“Then he may still believe he has your son?”
“I don’t know what he believes,” King said angrily. “Is there really any necessity for all these questions? I am not the boy’s father, and I—”
“No, but you’re the one who spoke to the kidnaper.”
“That’s true.”
“And he asked for five hundred thousand dollars, is that right, Mr. King?”
“Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Caretta, that’s right.”
“Carella.”
“I’m sorry. Carella.”
“This was a man? The person who called.”
“It was a man.”
“When he spoke to you, did he say ‘I have your son’ or ‘We have your son’? Would you remember?”
“I don’t remember. And I don’t see why it’s important. Somebody has Reynolds’ boy, and all this damn semantic—”
“That’s exactly it, Mr. King,” Carella said. “Somebody has the boy, and we’d like to find out who that somebody is. You see, we have to find out if we’re to get the boy back safely. Now that’s pretty important to us. Getting the boy back safely, I mean. I’m sure it’s just as important to you.”
“Of course it is,” King snapped. “Why don’t you call in the F.B.I., for God’s sake? You people aren’t equipped to deal with something like this! A boy is kidnaped and…”
“Seven days have to elapse before the F.B.I, can enter the case,” Carella said. “We’ll notify them at once, of course, but they can’t step in before then. In the meantime, we’ll do our best to—”
“Why can’t they come in sooner? I thought kidnaping was a Federal offense. Instead of a bunch of local Keystone cops, we could—”
“It’s a Federal offense because after seven days have elapsed they can automatically assume a state line has been crossed. Up until that time, it remains in the jurisdiction of the state in which the crime was committed. And in this state, in this city, the local precinct handles the crime. That goes for kidnaping, assault, murder, or what have you.”
“Am I to understand then,” King said, that we’re going to treat a kidnaping, where a boy’s life is in danger, the same way we’d treat a… a… a fifty-cent item stolen from Woolworth’s?”
“Not exactly, Mr. King. We’ve already phoned back to the squad. Lieutenant Byrnes himself is on the way over. As soon as we know a little bit more about—”
“Excuse me, Steve,” Meyer said. “If we’re gonna get a teletype out, I’d better get a description from the boy’s father.”
“Yeah,” Carella said. “Where is Mr. Reynolds, Mr. King?”
“In his apartment. Over the garage. He’s taking this pretty badly.”
“Want me to handle it, Meyer?”
“No, no, that’s all right.” Meyer glanced significantly at King. “You seem to have your hands full right here. Where’s the garage, Mr. King?”
“On the side of the house. You can’t miss it.”
“I’ll be there if you need me, Steve.”
“Okay,” Carella answered. He turned his attention back to King as Meyer went out of the house. “Did you notice anything peculiar about this man’s voice, Mr. King? A lisp, a noticeable accent, a dialect, or…”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Caretta,” King said, “but I refuse to play this little game any longer. I honestly don’t see what—”
“It’s Carella, and what little game were you referring to, Mr. King?”
“This cops-and-robbers nonsense. Now what the hell difference could it possibly make whether or not the man lisped or spoke in beautifully cultured English or babbled like a moron? How is that going to get Jeff Reynolds back to his father?”
Carella did not raise his eyes from his notebook. He kept staring at the page upon which he’d been writing, and he kept telling himself it would not seem fitting for a police officer to get up and punch Mr. Douglas King in the mouth. Softly, evenly, he said, “What do you do for a living, Mr. King?”
“I run a shoe factory,” King said. “Is this another one of your very pertinent questions?”
“Yes, Mr. King. It is one of my very pertinent questions. I don’t know a thing about shoes, Mr. King, except I have to wear them so I won’t get tacks in my feet. I wouldn’t dream of going into your factory and telling your employees how to nail a shoe or glue a heel or sew whatever it is they sew.”
“I get your message,” King said dryly.
“You only get part of it, Mr. King. You only get the part that’s warning you…”
“Warning me!”
“… warning you to cut out what might be misinterpreted as resisting an officer or impeding the progress of an investigation. That’s the part you get, and now I’m going to tell you the other part, and I hope both parts penetrate, Mr. King, because I’m here to do a job and intend to do it with or without your help. I’m assuming you know how to run a shoe factory or you wouldn’t be living here in Smoke Rise with a chauffeur whose son can be mistaken for yours in a kidnaping. Okay. You have no reason to assume I’m a good cop or a bad cop or even an indifferent cop. Most of all, you have no reason to assume I’m a silly cop.”
“I never—”
“To clear up any doubts which may be lingering in your mind, Mr. King, I’ll tell you now flatly and immodestly that I am a good cop, I am a damn good cop. I know my job, and I do it well, and any questions I ask you are not asked because I’m auditioning for Dragnet. They’re all asked with a reason and a purpose, and you’ll make things a hell of a lot easier if you answer them without offering any of your opinions on how the investigation should be conducted. Do you think we understand each other, Mr. King?”
“I think we understand each other, Mr. Caretta.”
“My name is Carella,” Carella said flatly. “Did the man who called you have any accent?”
* * * *
Reynolds sat on the edge of the bed, weeping unashamedly, shaking his head over and over again. Meyer watched him, and he bit his lower lip, and he wanted to put his arm around the man’s shoulders, comfort him, tell him that everything would be all right. He could not do this because he knew how unpredictable all kidnapings were, the boy could be killed before the kidnapers had carried him five miles from the house. And this particular kidnaping had the added danger of error attached to it. How would the louses react when they discovered they had the wrong boy? And so he could not reassure Reynolds, he could only ask the questions he knew by rote, and he could only hope they did not sound absurd to the man who was torn by grief.
“What is the boy’s full name, Mr. Reynolds?
“Jeffry. Jeffry.”
“Is that G-e-o-f or J-e-f-f… ?”
“What? Oh. J-e-f-f-r-y. Jeffry.”
“Any middle name?”
“No. None.”
“How old is he, Mr. Reynolds?”
“Eight.”
“Birth date?”
“September ninth.”
“Then he was just eight is that right?”
“Yes. Just eight.�
��
“How tall is he, Mr. Reynolds?”
“I …” Reynolds paused. “I don’t know. I never… I don’t know. Who ever measures children? Who ever expects something like this to…”
“Well, approximately, Mr. Reynolds? Three feet? Four feet?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Well, average height for that age is somewhere between four and four and a half feet. He’s about average height, isn’t he, Mr. Reynolds?”
“Yes. Or maybe a little taller. He’s a handsome boy. Tall for his age.”
“How much does he weigh, Mr. Reynolds?”
“I don’t know.”
Meyer sighed. “What about his build? Stout? Medium? Slim?”
“Slender. Not too stout, and not too thin. Just… well built for a boy his age.”
‘‘His complexion, Mr. Reynolds? Florid, sallow, pale?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, is he a dark kid?”
“No, no. He has blond hair. Very fair skin. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, thank you. Fair,” Meyer said, and he made a note. “Hair blond.” He paused. “Color of his eyes, Mr. Reynolds?”
“Will you get him back?” Reynolds asked suddenly.
Meyer stopped writing. “We’re going to try,” he said. “We’re going to try our damnedest, Mr. Reynolds.”
* * * *
The description of the boy was phoned in to the 87th and then transmitted to Headquarters, and the teletype alarm went out to fourteen states. The teletype read:
KIDNAP VICTIM JEFFRY REYNOLDS AGE EIGHT HEIGHT APPROX FIFTY-TWO INCHES WEIGHT APPROX SIXTY POUNDS XXXXXXXX HAIR BLOND EYES BLUE STRAWBERRY BIRTHMARK RIGHT BUTTOCK XXXXXXXX SCAR LEFT ARM CHILDHOOD INJURY FRACTURE XXXXX FATHER’S NAME CHARLES REYNOLDS XXXX MOTHER DECEASED XXXXXX ANSWERS TO NAME JEFF XXXXXX WEARING BRIGHT RED SWEATER BLUE DUNGAREE TROUSERS WHITE SOX SNEAKERS XXXXX NO HAT XXXXX NO GLOVES XXXXX NO JEWELRY XXXXX MAY BE CARRYING TOY RIFLE XXXXX MAY BE IN COMPANY OF MALE XXXXX LAST SEEN VICINITY SMOKE RISE ISOLA SEVENTEEN HUNDRED THIRTY HOURS STD TIME XXXXX STAND BY FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTION ROAD BLOCK COOPERATION XXXXX CONTACT HQ COMMAND ISOLA ALL INFO ETC XXXXXXXXXX
The message rolled out of teletype machines in police precincts, state trooper command posts, dinky shacks housing local one-horse police forces, anywhere in the surrounding fourteen states where the law enforcement agencies owned and used a teletype machine. It rolled out on a long white sheet with all the monotony of a foreign newspaper. The message immediately following it on the tape read:
REPORTED STOLEN XXX 1949 FORD SEDAN XXXXX EIGHT CYLS XXXX GRAY XXXXX ID NUMBER 598L 02303 LICENSE PLATE RN 6120 XXXXXX PARKED SUPERMKT PETER SCHWED DRIVE AND LANSING LANE EIGHT HUNDRED HOURS THIS MORNING XXXX CONTACT ONE-OH-TWO PCT RIVERHEAD XXXXX
* * * *
The gray Ford pulled into the rutted driveway and bounced along the road which had once belonged to a Sands Spit potato farmer. The road, the land, the farmhouse itself had been sold a long time ago to a man who had purchased the property in the hope that the development boom would reach this isolated neck of the city’s suburb. The development boom had come nowhere near reaching the erstwhile potato farm. The speculator, in fact, dropped dead before his dream was realized, and the farm and its adjacent lands, cropless now, run-down, slowly succumbing to the overwhelming encroachment of nature, were handled by a real-estate agent who managed the property for the speculator’s daughter, a drunken hag of forty-seven who lived in the city and slept with sailors of all ages. The agent considered it quite a coup when he managed to rent the old farmhouse for a month in the middle of October. Suckers weren’t that plentiful in the fall of the year. In the summertime, he could tell prospective tenants that the farm was near the beaches—which it wasn’t, being in the center of Sands Spit and nowhere near either of the peninsula’s two shores—and possibly inveigle a city dweller or two into occupying the decrepit wreck for a while. But as soon as Labor Day rolled around, the agent’s hopes vanished. The drunken daughter of the speculator would have to find other means of buying her whisky and her sailors. There would be no income from the sagging farmhouse until summer once more returned to Sands Spit. His delight at renting the hulk in the middle of October knew no bounds. Nor did he ever once realize the careful planning that had preceded the rental. He was not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. Cash was paid on the line. He asked no questions, and expected no answers. Besides, the tenants seemed like a nice young couple. If they wanted to freeze their behinds off in the middle of nowhere, that was their business. His business, like that of the landholders of old, was simply to collect the tithes, man, simply to collect the tithes.
The Ford’s headlights probed the blackness of the road, swept the gray farmhouse, the beam swinging around as the car took the curve and then came to a full-braked halt. The engine died. The lights went out. The door on the driver’s side opened and a young man in his late twenties stepped into the darkness and ran toward the front door. He knocked gently, three times, and then waited.
“Eddie?” a woman’s voice asked.
“It’s me, Kathy. Open up.”
The door opened wide. Light splashed onto the frozen earth. The girl looked out into the yard.
“Sy?” she said.
“In the car. He’ll be here. Ain’t you gonna kiss me?”
“Oh, Eddie, Eddie,” she said, and she threw herself into his arms. She was a woman no older than twenty-four, nor was she a woman who could conceivably be called a “girl” of twenty-four. For whereas there was a delicate loveliness to her face, the beauty had been overlaid with a veneer of hardness, the look of shellac worn thin, marred by years of use and misuse. Kathy Folsom was a woman of twenty-four and perhaps, perhaps she had even been a woman of twelve at one time. She wore a straight black skirt and a blue sweater, the sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Her hair was obviously bleached, showing dark at the roots and at the part, but on Kathy it somehow did not appear cheap, it only seemed untended, uncared for. She held her husband to her with a desperation that had been mounting ever since he had left the farmhouse that afternoon. She kissed him longingly, her arms wrapped around his waist, and then she drew away from him and stared up into his face, and she smiled with a tenderness that was embarrassing even to herself, and then, to cover her embarrassment, she touched his cheek quickly and said, “Eddie, Eddie,” and then, sharply, “Are you all right? Did everything go all right?”
Everything went fine,” Eddie said. How about here? Any trouble?”
“No, none. I was sitting on pins and needles. I kept thinking, This is the last one; please, God, don’t let anything go wrong.”
“Well, everything went just the way we figured it.” He paused. “You got a cigarette, honey?”
“In my bag. On the chair there.” He crossed to the chair quickly and rummaged in her purse. She watched him as he lighted the cigarette, a tall good-looking man wearing dark slacks and sports jacket, a white shirt open at the throat, a maroon sweater over the shirt.
“I was listening to the radio,” Kathy said. “I thought they might mention something. I mean, after all, a bank and all.” She paused. “It went all right, didn’t it? There was no trouble?”
“No trouble.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Only, Kathy, you see… well… we didn’t exactly…”
She kissed him again, swiftly, as if unable to keep her lips from his a moment longer. “You’re back,” she whispered. “That’s all that matters.”
“In here, kid,” the voice said, and there was a push in the voice and a physical push in the hands of the man owning the voice. Jeff Reynolds stumbled into the room, and the man behind him chuckled and then slammed the door behind him, and then said, “Ah, home again! How do you like it, kid? It ain’t much, but it reeks, don’t it?” He chuckled again. His laugh seemed to match his appearance. He was forty-two years old, nattily dressed in a dark suit, though badly in need of a shave. There was a curious air about him, the air of a man who is e
njoying himself at the firm’s annual picnic.
“Where’s my gun?” Jeff said, and Kathy turned at the sound of his voice and then looked at him in bewilderment. He did not seem at all frightened, a little wide-eyed perhaps, slightly upset by the strange surroundings, but otherwise content.
“The boy wants his gun,” Sy said, smiling. “Where’s the gun we promised him?”
Kathy kept staring at Jeff. “Who… who the hell… ?” she started, and Sy’s grin expanded into a chuckle and then a gust of exuberant laughter.