by Ed McBain
“Yes?”
“Is it true that the kidnapers have asked King for the ransom? Even though they know they’ve got the wrong boy?”
“I don’t know what’s going on out there, Mr. Savage. I’m sorry.”
“Well, look, how can I find out?”
“Call me back later.”
“Where’s the lieutenant? At the King house?”
“I wouldn’t call there, Mr. Savage. They probably want to keep those lines free for possible contact from the—”
“The public has a right to know what’s going on!” Savage said.
“Listen, you want to argue with me?”
“No, but…”
“Then don’t. I feel like I’ve been working in the telephone room of the Automobile Club on the night a truck spilled a full load of tacks all over the highway. I’m getting a cauliflower ear from this goddamn phone, Mr. Savage, and you sure as hell aren’t helping it any.”
“Do you have the number out at the King house?”
“No.”
“I can find it, you know.”
“You may find trouble, too, Mr. Savage. I’d keep off that phone if I were you. You may find yourself impeding the progress of an investigation.”
“Thanks, Brown. I’ll do you a favor someday.”
“I can hardly wait,” Brown said, and he hung up. “The son of a bitch,” Brown said. “Wasn’t he involved that time Reardon and Foster were killed? And Bush? Didn’t he almost get Steve’s wife in hot water?”
“Almost ain’t the word,” Willis said. “If he ever sets foot in this squadroom, the lieutenant’ll drown him in the water cooler. Where’s Miscolo? I want some coffee. Miscolo? Hey, Miscolo!”
“Yo?” a voice from the clerical office shouted.
“Make some joe.”
“What the hell you think this is?” Miscolo called. “Howard Johnson’s?”
“The coffee here is better,” Willis said flatteringly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Miscolo mumbled, but they could hear him opening the file drawer to take out the can of coffee.
The telephone on Willis’ desk rang.
“Come on,” he said to the phone, “cut it out, willya?”
The phone kept ringing.
“Stop, stop, stop ringing.”
The phone shrieked into the room.
“All right, all right, all right,” he said, lifting the receiver. “Eighty-seventh Squad, Willis. What? You saw the boy?… Yes, he’s a blond boy… Yes, he’s about eight… Yes, he was wearing a red sweater… Yes, sir. Yes, that certainly does sound like him… Yes, sir, where did you see him, sir?… Where, sir?… In a movie, sir? Which movie, sir?… I see. And he was sitting in the audience, is that right?… He wasn’t? Well, then…” Willis paused, and an amazed look crossed his face. “He was in the picture?” he said. “You mean he was acting in the picture. On the screen? Mister, you mean this kid you saw—In the picture? Oh, mister, please, I got enough headaches.” He hung up abruptly. “He calls me about a movie star. Says it’s a remarkable coincidence. For the love of—”
The phone rang again.
“I’m gonna get a record made,” Willis said. “It’s gonna say, ‘Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Willis. You saw the kid, right? Where? When? Thank you.’ Save my voice for the opera.” He picked up the receiver. “Eighty-seventh Squad, Willis… Yes, ma’am, this is the Detective Division… Yes, ma’am, we are handling the Jeff Reynolds kidnaping… Yes, ma’am, we…”
The phone on Brown’s desk rang.
“Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Brown speaking…”
“Eighty-seventh Squad, Di Maeo…”
“Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Willis…”
“Eighty-seventh Squad, Hernandez…”
“Eighty-seventh Precinct, Sergeant Murchison…”
“Eighty-seventh Precinct, Captain Frick…”
“Headquarters, Lieutenant Vinnick…”
“Arson Squad, Detective Hopkins…”
“You saw the boy, sir?”
“The boy was with three men, ma’am?”
‘You saw the boy…”
“When, sir?”
“What street was that, sir?”
“Where, sir?”
“Where, ma’am?”
Where?
Where?
Where?
* * * *
Lieutenant Byrnes walked into the Douglas King living room and blew on his hands.
“Hello, Steve,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“All right, sir,” Carella answered. “Mr. King, this is Lieutenant Byrnes.”
“How do you do, sir?” Byrnes said, and he took King’s hand.
“How does it look, Lieutenant?” King asked.
“So-so. Has the Auto Squad delivered that list yet, Steve?”
“No.”
“Damnit. I understand they’re asking you for the money, Mr. King. That’s a tough break.” He sighed. “But maybe we’ve got something good outside.”
“What happened, Pete?”
“We’re getting a good cast of a tire track and—“
“Will that help at all?” King said.
“It usually does. Tire patterns are pretty easy to run down. Headquarters has an up-to-date file on tire patterns, and once we get a good casting, half the battle is won. It’s been our experience that a car will usually carry the same make of tire on all four wheels—especially a new car. And, as funny as this may sound at first, when a tire wears out, the owner will usually replace it with a tire of the same make. So we can generally figure the make of car from the tire pattern. In this case, we think we’ve got something else to go on, too.”
“What’s that?” King asked.
“There are two boulders on the ground near where we found the tire track. The guy driving that car was probably in a big hurry. He sideswiped one of the boulders. We got ourselves a pretty decent paint scraping from the rock. Kronig’s already on the way to the lab with it. With a little luck, we may be able to come up with both the year and the make of the car. With a little luck. That’s why I’m anxious to get that stolen-car list.”
“I see,” King said.
“I don’t suppose Mr. Reynolds is around, is he? I’d like to keep him abreast of what we’re doing. The worst part of any kidnaping case is that the parents never feel we’re doing enough.”
“He’s in the kitchen, Pete,” Carella said. “Want me to get him for you?”
“No, I’ll go out to him in a few minutes.”
The doorbell chimed. Carella went to the door and threw it open. A uniformed policeman stood there. “I want Detective Carella,” he said.
“That’s me.”
“You called the Auto Squad a little while ago?”
“Yes.”
“They sent me up with this.” He extended a manila envelope. “A stolen-car list.”
“Thanks,” Carella said.
“What’s the latest on the kid?” the patrolman asked.
“Nothing new, so far,” Carella said.
“Yeah.” The patrolman shook his head. “Well, there’s the list.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay.”
Carella closed the door behind him.
“Let me see that, Steve,” Byrnes said. He opened the manila envelope and studied the typewritten sheet. “Not too bad. Couple of dozen cars, all told. Let’s hope the lab boys turn up something that matches something on this list.”
“And where will that put you, Lieutenant?” King asked.
“Huh?”
“Suppose you know the car they used was a stolen one? How will that help you in finding the boy?”
“It’ll give us something to look for. We’ve got roadblocks hemming in this whole city, Mr. King. It would help if we knew the shape and size and color of the needle, don’t you think?”
“If they were smart enough to use a stolen car, they were probably smart enough to get rid of it immediately.”
“Unles
s they have further use for it,” Byrnes said.
“In which case they probably repainted it.”
“Unless there wasn’t time. A homemade paint job is a pretty conspicuous thing, Mr. King. The last thing these kidnapers want is to be conspicuous.”
“I see,” King said.
“I know it sounds slim, Mr. King, but we haven’t got a hell of a lot to work with here, and every little bit counts. Once the money is delivered, we’ll have ransom bills to look for. And when we get the boy back, perhaps he’ll be able to tell us something about his abductors. Unless we reach them before that.”
“Or unless the boy is dead already,” King said flatly.
“Yes. Unless he’s dead. There wouldn’t be any sense continuing then, would there?”
“None at all,” King answered.
“I want to talk to you about the ransom, Mr. King. We can’t mark the money, and there probably won’t even be time to record all the serial numbers. They particularly specified no consecutive serial numbers, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but…”
“Only to make the recording job more difficult. But we will be able to record some of those numbers, and even a partial list is a good thing to have. Those men will have to spend that money someday.” He paused. “You haven’t called the bank yet, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Good. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to them when you do. To tell them just what would be most helpful to us. If the F.B.I, comes in on this, they’ll need—”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you, Lieutenant Byrnes,” King said.
Byrnes looked at him in puzzlement. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You don’t want me to talk to your bank?”
“No, Lieutenant, that’s not it. I won’t be talking to the bank, either.”
“Wh—”
“I’m not going to pay the ransom, Lieutenant.”
“You’re…” The room went silent. Byrnes looked at Carella. “Well, of course… Well, that’s entirely up to you. No one can force you to.”
“What are you saying, Mr. King?” Carella said, frowning. “You—you have to pay that ransom! That boy—”
“Knock it off, Steve,” Byrnes said.
“But he has to! That kid hasn’t got a chance unless he—”
“I don’t have to do anything!” King said tightly. “Let’s get this straight, gentlemen. I’m telling it to you, and I’ll tell it to the kidnapers if they call again, and I’ll tell it to anyone who cares to listen. I am not paying the ransom.” He paused. “I am not paying the ransom.”
* * * *
8
There was only one light burning in the parlor of the Sands Spit farmhouse, a standing floor lamp that stood close to the open sofa bed, casting a circle of light on the exposed wooden flooring. Jeff Reynolds was asleep in the center of the bed. He turned and mumbled, and the blanket fell free of his shoulder. Kathy Folsom went to the bed and covered him again. Eddie Folsom lighted a cigarette and shook out the match.
“He asleep?”
“Yes.”
In the bathroom, Sy Barnard was singing at the top of his lungs. His shirt, tie, and gun holster were draped over the back of one of the parlor chairs. The police radio, part of the complicated equipment which stood against the wall, monotonously bleated its calls.
“… proceed to intersection of Cambria and Newbridge. We want a block there to cover the whole intersection. You’ll have 311 to assist. You got that, 307?”
“We got it.”
“Car 311, Car 311, proceed to intersection of Cambria and Newbridge to assist 307 in road block.”
“This is 311, okay. Any make on the car yet?”
“Nothing, 311.”
“Right.”
“Sy!” Eddie called. “Hey, Sy, you hear this?”
Sy, his face half covered with lather, came out of the bathroom. He was wearing only his undershirt. His arms and shoulders were covered with thick matted hair. “What’s the matter?” he said.
“They got road blocks springing up like mushrooms. How we gonna use the car?”
“What’re you getting excited about? So they got roadblocks. So who cares?”
“You don’t understand, Sy. They’re stopping every car on the road. We have to use that car in the morning. How’re we gonna…?”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I’ll be driving, right? Alone, right? In a lousy old Ford that don’t attract any attention. So let’s say they stop me. So I’m a guy on his way to work. I’ve got a driver’s license, and I’ll show it to them if they ask for it. So? Do they know I’m driving a stolen car? How can they know that? We changed the plates, didn’t we? So nobody’s got nothing on me. So why the hell are you worried about their stupid roadblocks?”
“What about after we get the money?” Eddie said. “How we gonna leave here? They’ll still be watching.”
“And we’ll still have nothing to worry about, because we won’t have the kid with us. It’ll be a guy, his wife and their brother-in-law. There’s nothing to worry about. Let me finish shaving, will you? I feel like a Grade-A bum.” He went into the bathroom. Kathy waited until the door closed behind him.
“Eddie… after he gets the money, What’ll happen to the boy?”
“We’ll leave him right here. We’ll call King to let him know where the kid is.”
Kathy nodded. “That would be taking a… big chance, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Eddie, let’s get out of here. Let’s get out now, before it’s too late!”
“Aw, honey, please will you cut it out?”
“Car 234, are you still at the tunnel entrance?”
“This is 234. That’s where we are, Handsome.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Listen to them,” Kathy said.
“Sy says we got nothing to worry about. We’ve got to trust him in this, Kathy. He knows what he’s doing.” Eddie walked to the ash tray and squashed out his cigarette. “Sy never gave me a bum steer all the time I knew him. He’s all right, Kathy.”
“Yes, he’s fine,” she answered sarcastically.
“Well, he is. He taught me a lot.”
“Yes, he certainly taught you a lot.”
“Well, damnit, he did!” Eddie paused. “He didn’t have to hook up with somebody like me. Sy is big-time.”
“Big-time!” Kathy said. “He’s a hoodlum!”
“Aw, don’t say that about him. He got a few bad breaks, that’s all. But he’s okay. Listen, you think it was easy to plan something like this? You know how many things that poor guy has on his mind?”
“He’s got only one thing on his mind, Eddie.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“He wants to kill that boy.”
“Aw, come on, willya? Wants to kill the boy! Sy’s got a cool business head. He ain’t yearning to get involved in a murder rap. All he wants out of this is his share of the loot.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you want?”
“The same thing. Two hundred and fifty thousand bucks.”
“And how far will you go to get it?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Eddie said. He went to the dresser, picked up the cigarette pack, dug into it, and crumpled it when he realized it was empty.
“How bad do you want that money, Eddie?”
“Very bad. You got a cigarette?”
Kathy opened her purse and looked into it. “No, I haven’t,” she said. She snapped the bag shut. “Eddie, when we were kids, we used to play a game. It was called ‘Suppose?’ and we used to say, ‘Suppose somebody offered you a million dollars, what would you do for it? Would you cut off a toe for it? Would you give one of your eyes? Would you spit on the cross?’ Things like that. It was funny to hear the answers. All the kids had a different price for that million dollars.”
“What are you driving at?�
�� Eddie said. “Sy! Hey, Sy!”