by Ed McBain
“I want Daddy to tuck me in,” Bobby said.
“Doug? Will you?”
“Sure.” Preoccupied, King walked to the steps and took his son’s hand. “Come on, Bobby.”
“Poor Bobby,” Diane said, when they were out of sight. “He still isn’t quite sure about what happened. He only knows that his friend is gone, and I think he feels responsible somehow. The way I do.”
“You’ve no reason to feel guilty, Diane,” Cameron said. “Once Doug pays the ransom…”
“Yes, I know, but I do feel guilty. I almost feel as if my own son is out there with those men.” She paused. “I’d better show Reynolds this wire.” She paused again. “Detective Meyer, I wonder if you’d come talk to him, fill him in a little on what’s being done. He’s so terribly shaken by all this.”
“Sure,” Meyer said. “Be happy to.” As they walked out of the room, he called over his shoulder, “If that phone rings, yell for me. Don’t answer it.”
“Okay,” Cameron said.
Alone in the living room, Cameron lighted a cigarette and then walked quickly to the steps, looking upstairs. He crossed the room rapidly then, looking over his shoulder toward the kitchen, walked directly to the telephone. He dialed with quick flicks of his forefinger, his eyes never leaving the steps leading to the upstairs wing of the house. Impatiently, he tapped on the telephone table.
“Hello?” he said at last. “May I speak to Mr. Benjamin, please.” He paused. “This is Peter Cameron. Yes, I’ll wait, but please hurry.” He glanced nervously toward the steps. The hand with the cigarette stopped its tapping, moved to his mouth. He sucked in on the cigarette, blew out a steady stream of smoke, looked toward the kitchen again, and was ready to hang up when the voice came onto the line.
“Hello?”
“George?”
“This is George Benjamin.”
“Pete Cameron. I’ve got to make this fast. Do I still get Doug’s job?”
“I offered it, didn’t I? I’ll put it in writing, if you like.”
“I’d like. The Boston thing I called you about earlier—it is a stock deal. Doug’s cornering nineteen per cent of the voting stock.”
“What!”
“And he already owns twenty-eight per cent himself. You underestimated him, George.”
“Twenty-eight…” There was a long silence on the line. “Then how can we vote him out? How the hell can we?”
“You can’t,” Cameron said. “Unless you tell the Old Man that Doug is finagling a deal behind his back. Get the Old Man on your side temporarily. It’s the only way.”
“What good will that do? If Doug’s stock deal goes through, he’ll be sitting with forty-seven per cent of the stuff! Even with the Old Man’s stock, we couldn’t outvote him. Hell, he could get rid of us.”
“If the deal goes through. Have you been listening to the radio?”
“This kidnaping nonsense?” Benjamin said. “What’s that got to do with—”
“It has a lot to do with it.”
“It isn’t even Doug’s son!”
“No, but they’ve asked him for the ransom, anyway. If he pays, his Boston deal goes out the window.”
“Will he pay?”
“No question about it. But in the meantime, I’m trying to find out whom he’s dealing with in Boston. Maybe we can beat him to the punch.”
“You’re all right, Pete,” Benjamin said admiringly.
“I know I am,” Cameron answered. “Do what I advised, George. Get to the Old Man and clasp hands with him. If Doug’s deal folds and you still want him out, you’re going to need a bigger club than you’ve got now.”
“I’ll do that. And I won’t forget this.”
“I’m banking on that. I’ve got to hang up now, George.”
“All right.”
There was a click on the line. Smiling, Cameron replaced the receiver and lighted a fresh cigarette. He was still smiling when the doorbell chimed. He looked up at the steps, shrugged, and went to the door, opening it. A small man wearing a black overcoat and derby stood there. A black umbrella was slung over the man’s arm. There was an air of secrecy about the man, the look of a Scotland Yard operative who had worked on the Jack the Ripper case. The man was easily sixty years old, perhaps older.
“Yes?” Cameron said.
“Mr. King?”
“No. I’m Mr. King’s assistant.”
“I would like to see Mr. King, please. On business.”
“What sort of business?”
“Personal business. You may tell him that Score is here. Adrian Score.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Score. I’ll see if he’s free. Have a seat, won’t you?”
“Thank you,” Score said. He walked into the living room, holding his umbrella clutched in both hands like a timid batter facing a no-hit pitcher. He studied one of the chairs as if he suspected some wild animal had befouled it, and then sat daintily on its edge. Cameron went to the steps and called, “Doug!”
“What is it?”
“A Mr. Score to see you. On business.”
“I don’t know any Mr. Score,” King answered.
“Tell him it’s personal,” Score said over his shoulder.
“Says it’s personal, Doug.”
“Okay, I’ll be right down,” King said.
“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Score,” Cameron said, walking into the living room.
“Thank you, I will. This is a lovely home.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Score repeated.
King came down the steps. “Now what is it, Pete?”
Cameron shrugged. In a whisper, he said, “Says it’s personal. I’d better go get a cup of coffee.” He started toward the kitchen.
“That phone hasn’t rung again, has it?”
“No. Bobby asleep?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Cameron said, and he went out.
“Mr. Score?”
“Mr. King?”
“Yes.” King extended his hand.
Score rose, shook hands briefly, and nodded curtly. “Adrian Score, sir,” he said. “The man who always knows the score, eh?”
“Sit down, Mr. Score,” King said. Score sat. “Now then, what’s on your mind?”
“Business, Mr. King.”
“It’s a little late for a business call, isn’t it?”
“It’s never too late for business, is it, Mr. King?”
“Well, that depends. What sort of business did you have in mind, Mr. Score?”
“Kidnaping, Mr. King.”
The room went dead silent.
“What…what about kidnaping?”
“Do you want your son back, Mr. King?”
“My son wasn’t kidnaped,” King said.
“Ah-ah, Mr. King,” Score said, wagging the umbrella, “let’s be honest with each other, eh? We are both businessmen, are we not? Very well then. You can tell the newspapers what you wish, but you are now dealing with Adrian Score. Honesty, eh? I asked you a question.”
“And I gave you an answer.”
“That’s what I like, Mr. King. Hardheaded business. Who is this Adrian Score, you are undoubtedly asking yourself. Who is this man who comes into my house in the middle of the night and asks me if I want my son back? And you’ve every right to ask that, Mr. King, every right in the world. Sound business tactics.” He paused, nodded, put the umbrella between his legs and said, “Well, I will tell you who Adrian Score is. Adrian Score is the man who’s going to get your son back.”
“You know where the Reynolds boy is?” King asked.
Score chuckled and put a finger alongside his nose. “All right, sir, never argue with a client, that’s Score’s motto. If you prefer, he’s your chauffeur’s son, and a very clever ruse indeed, if I may be permitted to say so. But we both know the truth, don’t we, eh? In any case, you do want the boy back?”
“What do you know about this?”
“Ah-ah,
Mr. King, I asked you a question. Do you want the boy back?”
“Of course we do!”
“Now, now, don’t get excited, Mr. King. Don’t raise your voice. If you want the boy back, Adrian Score is your man.” He paused. “I know who kidnaped the boy, Mr. King.”
Again, the room went silent.
“Who?” King asked.
“That’s the big question, eh? Who? Well, Score’s got the answers, and Score can get the boy back, now what do you think of that, sir? Back home safe and sound, eh? Now how would you like that?”
“I’d like that fine. Who… ?”
“My services are available for the asking, Mr. King. Simply ask, and Score will oblige. Score will put his talents to the task of getting your boy back for you…”
“Well, who… ?”
“… at a nominal fee.”
“I see.”
“Yes, Mr. King. I imagined you would.”
“How much?”
“Can we measure the safety and well-being of a toddler in terms of cold cash, Mr. King?”
“The boy’s father is a chauffeur. The five-hundred-thousand-dollar demand is far beyond his—”
“Mr. King, please, please,” Score said, as if he could not tolerate the lie a moment longer. “Please.” He leaned forward, his hands clasped over the handle of the umbrella. His voice dropped to a whisper. Intently, he said, “I am ready to establish contact with the kidnapers, whose identity is already known to me, sir, and I will ascertain that the boy is alive and well, serving as a liaison between the principals, negotiating for the ransom payment, seeing that every term of the contract is strictly adhered -”
“Goddamnit, how much?”
“Five thousand dollars, Mr. King.”
“In addition to the exorbitant ransom demand?”
“I was thinking I might—But no, that would be far too risky.”
“What?” King asked eagerly.
“Perhaps, were you to deliver the five thousand dollars to me at once, I could get the boy back now. Tonight. Without necessity for further payment.”
“How would you manage that?”
“We are both businessmen, Mr. King,” Score said, smiling. “But does Macy’s tell Gimbels?”
“Who has the boy?”
“Business, business, Mr. King. Cash on the barrelhead in Score’s Store.”
“How do I know you can get him back?”
“You shall have to accept my word for that, Mr. King.”
“In business, Mr. Score, I accept no one’s word.”
“An admirable trait, to be sure. But a good businessman knows when his back is to the wall, Mr. King. And surely you can see I’m a man to trust. You realize the danger of my position, do you not, sir?”
King’s attention was momentarily diverted by Meyer Meyer, who had entered behind Score and stopped in the archway leading from dining room to living room. Score, apparently, had not seen the change of expression on King’s face. Blithely unaware of Meyer’s presence, he continued with his monologue.
“Surely you appreciate the danger of my position, surely you do. If these ruthless men were to suspect that I was planning to get the boy away from them, my life would be placed in instant jeopardy. These men are hardened criminals, sir, cutthroats who would stop at nothing short of—”
“Which men, Score?” Meyer called from the archway.
“Eh?” Score said, and he whirled in his seat to face the archway.
“Which men were you talking about, Score?” Meyer said.
Score studied Meyer painstakingly. “I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure, sir,” he said.
“How’d you sneak past our men at the gate, Score?”
“Perhaps, Mr. King, you would do me the honor of introducing this gentleman. He seems to have made an error in—”
“I’ll introduce myself, Score, even though we’ve already met. Detective Second Grade Meyer Meyer of the Eighty-seventh Squad. Ring a bell?”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Score said.
“I see you’re still disguised as a leech.”
“Eh?”
“This is one of the biggest con men in the business, Mr. King, and he specializes in human grief. If someone’s kid is missing for as long as an hour, you can bet Adrian Score will be on the scene with some scheme for getting the kid back. At a nominal fee, of course.”
“This is absurd, Mr. King. Surely two businessmen should be able to discuss—”
“Get the hell out of here, you rotten louse! Get out before I arrest you as an accessory to a kidnaping!”
“Accessory to a… ?”
“Yes, accessory!” Meyer yelled. “A person who wilfully gives false information concerning a kidnaping while knowing that information to be false!”
“False… false… information?” Score squeaked.
“Get out, Score! I’m warning you!”
“Really, Mr. King. I am a guest in your home, a respected businessma—”
“Move!” Meyer shouted.
Score rose rapidly and handed King a small white rectangle. “My card, sir.” Backing off toward the door, he said, “Call me anytime, sir, anytime at all. The name is Score. Adrian Score.” He opened the front door, shot a hasty glance at Meyer and then shouted, “I can get your boy back!’3 and slammed the door behind him.
“That rotten parasite!” Meyer said.
“He called us both businessmen,” King said. “Why, he was nothing but a crook!”
“One of the worst. Human feelings mean nothing to him. But hang around a while, Mr. King. Score is only the beginning. We’ll be getting a wide range of ransom demands soon. Every filthy crook who’s looking for a soft touch will hop on the bandwagon as soon as he figures a gimmick. The woods’ll be full of kidnapers. We won’t know the real bastards from the fake ones.”
“How do we know we have the real one now?” King asked.
“We don’t. We can only assume we do.” Meyer paused and shook his head. “One thing’s for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“I sure as hell wouldn’t like to be back at the squad answering telephones right now.”
* * * *
“Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Willis?”
“ ‘Allo, you know the kidnap, please?”
“Who is this?” Willis said.
“Who you?” the woman said.
“Detective Willis. Can I help you, lady?”
“My name issa Miz Abruzzi,” the woman said. “I’ma see the li’la boy.”
“The kidnap victim?”
“Yas, yas. He wass inna diner with two men. Both needa shaves, you unnerstan’? He’s a li’la blond boy, no?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Willis paused. “When did you see him, lady?”
“When you tink?”
“Well, I don’t know. You tell me.”
“This morn’.”
“Yeah, well the boy wasn’t missing until this afternoon.”
“I see,” Mrs. Abruzzi said, and then, unperturbed, she said, “I wassa sit in the boot’, an’ these two men they come in wit’ the boy. So right away, I’ma tink this is the li’la boy he was a kidnap. So I watch what they—”
“Yes, Mrs. Abruzzi, thank you very much,” Willis said, and he hung up. Holy God,” he shouted to Arthur Brown, I never saw anything like this in my life. You’d think we were giving away gold dollars to anybody who called Frederick 7-8024.”
“Everybody wants to help,” Brown said. “The trouble is—” The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up quickly. “Eighty-seventh, Detective Brown speaking.”
“I’d like the lieutenant, Detective Brown.”
“He’s not here. Who’s this, please?”
“Where is he?”
“Who’m I talking to?” Brown asked.
“This is Cliff Savage. I’m a reporter. The lieutenant knows me.”
“Well, he’s still not here, Mr. Savage. What can I do for you?”
“On this kidnaping.�
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