King's Ransom

by Ed McBain

“Yeah?”

  “You got any cigarettes?”

  Sy poked his head around the door. “What?”

  “You got any cigarettes?”

  “In my jacket. You mind if I finish shaving?” He went back into the bathroom.

  Eddie crossed to the jacket and went through the pockets. “None here!” he said disgustedly. “Sy, you ain’t got any.”

  “There’s a carton in the car!” Sy yelled. “Stop bothering me.”

  “Where?”

  “In the glove compartment. Man, will you let me shave in peace?”

  Eddie started for the front door.

  “What’s your price, Eddie?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Kathy.”

  “Do you give an arm—but not an eye? Do you take part in a kidnaping—but stop at murder?”

  The room was silent.

  “What do your kid games have to do with real life?” Eddie asked at last.

  “Sy is planning to kill that boy,” Kathy said.

  “You’re nuts.”

  “It’s part of his scheme, Eddie. He can’t chance leaving the boy alive to identify him.” She paused. “And I have to know where you stand.”

  Eddie sighed. “Where I stand, huh? Can’t you just leave me alone?”

  “No, Eddie. I have to know.”

  “All right. All right, look. You were a kid, and you played your kid games and… and I was a kid, too, all right? Okay, and when I was a kid, I didn’t have nothing. You know, Kathy? Nothing. Nothing. I … I … you say Mexico… you want to go to Mexico. Well, I want to go there, too. I really want to go there and… and I want to have a lot of money and I want waiters to treat me nice… and I want to have something. Not always nothing, all the time. I… I don’t want to be dirt anymore, okay?”

  “Okay. But—”

  “So, honey, don’t ask me where I stand. Don’t harp on me. I don’t want to start wondering about what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. This is the only way, believe me.” He paused, and when he went on there was a peculiar distress in his voice. “This is the only way I know.”

  “But it’s not,” Kathy said firmly. “Eddie, we could leave now. Sy’s in the other room. If we hurried… Eddie, we could get out of here, and drop the boy someplace, and be free. Do you think the cops would care? If the boy is returned safely before any money changes hands, do you really think they’ll try too hard to find us? We could get to Mexico. And we’d be together, without having to run all the time.”

  “I… I don’t know. I need a cigarette.”

  “Eddie, tell me.”

  “Kathy, leave me alone!” he shouted. He paused. “I’m getting out of here.”

  “Down to the car for those cigarettes and… and then I’m going to take a walk.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “I don’t want any company. Leave me alone!” he said, and he opened the door.

  “You still haven’t told me where you stand, Eddie. I have to know…”

  The door slammed on her words. She stood despondently in the center of the room, listening to his footsteps retreating on the gravel outside. She walked to the door and locked it, and she leaned against it and sighed heavily, and suddenly Sy began singing in the bathroom again. She walked to the window and peered around the edge of the shade, stood there thoughtfully for a moment, turned to lean against the wall, facing the bathroom, studying the closed bathroom door, and then the boy asleep on the bed. When she made her decision, it showed in her face, and it showed in the sudden stiffening of her body. She took one last look at the closed bathroom door and then moved swiftly and purposefully to the sofa bed.

  Seizing Jeffs shoulder, she whispered, “Jeff! Wake up, Jeff!”

  Jeff popped upright in the bed almost instantly. “What is it?” he said. “What? What?”

  “Shhh,” she warned. She waited, watching the bathroom. “Be quiet and do what I tell you to do.” She paused again. “I’m taking you out of here.”

  “You’re taking me home?” Jeff asked exuberantly.

  “Shhh! For God’s sake, keep your voice down.” She looked at the bathroom door and then the front door. Sy’s voice was raised in song. There was no sound coming from the front yard. “I can’t take you home,” Kathy said, “but I can take you out of here. I’ll leave you off somewhere. Someone will find you. You’ll get home. But you have to help me, and we have to move quickly and quietly. Do you understand?”

  Whispering now, Jeff said, “Yes. Are they… are they going to kill me?”

  “I don’t know. But we’re not going to give them the chance.”

  “Is Eddie your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s not so hot,” Jeff said.

  “He’s my—”

  “But he doesn’t seem as if he would hurt me,” Jeff nodded hastily.

  The singing in the bathroom stopped abruptly. Kathy glanced at the closed door sharply. The sound of running water seeped into the silent room.

  “You’re pretty,” Jeff said.

  “Thank you. Where’s your coat?”

  “I don’t have a coat. Only Bobby’s sweater.”

  “You’ll need it. It’s very cold out there. Where is it?”

  “On the chair there.”

  Kathy walked swiftly and silently to the chair. She took the sweater and began pulling it over his head.

  “We’ll go straight to the road,” she said. “When we reach the road, we’re going to start running, do you understand?”

  “I’m a good runner,” Jeff said.

  “All right then, come on.” Quickly she put on her coat and took his hand. Together, they tiptoed to the front door. Kathy unlocked it, turning the lock with all the caution of a safecracker. The tumblers clicked, and she hesitated. Then, slowly, cautiously, she opened the door a crack. The squeak sounded like a gunshot in the silent room. She peeked into the yard and then held out her hand to Jeff again. “Come.”

  “Wait!” he said, and he pulled away from her suddenly and darted back into the room.

  “What…?”

  “My gun!” he said, rushing to the table where the empty shotgun rested. “He gave it to me, didn’t he?”

  “Yes—hurry,” she whispered impatiently.

  Jeff seized the shotgun by the barrel, swinging it around as it slid off the table, starting to run for the front door simultaneously. The stock of the gun clung to the table, hit an ash tray as Jeff pulled on the barrel. And then the ash tray moved to the edge, caught by the gun’s stock, rushing, tilting, sliding over the edge of the table and dropping leadenly to the floor. The crash filled the room. Scattered pieces of glass ricocheted like fragments of a hand grenade. At the door,

  Kathy almost screamed. She brought her hand to her mouth and bit the knuckles. Jeff froze.

  “Do you think…?”

  “Shhh!” Kathy said.

  Silently, they waited. The door to the bathroom remained closed. Quickly, Kathy opened the front door again and peeked out.

  “All right, let’s go,” she said, and the bathroom door opened. She did not see the door opening. Looking into the yard, her hand extended behind her, waiting for Jeff, she did not know that Sy had entered the room, stopping in the bathroom doorway, his hands on his hips, instant recognition on his face.

  “Hurry, hurry,” she said to Jeff, and she beckoned with her hand and then, when she realized he was not coming to her, turned from the door, starting to say, “Jeff, will you please—” and then spotting Sy, and going pale all at once.

  “Well, well,” Sy said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I was taking the boy out,” Kathy said.

  “Oh, was you now?” His eyes flicked the room. “Where’s Eddie?”

  “He went for a walk.”

  Sy went quickly to the front door, locking it. “Is that two-bit punk planning a doublecross?”

  “No. He didn’t know anything about this. He went to the car for cigarettes.”

  “S
o you figured this was as good a time as any to blow the coop, huh? Boy, leave it to a dame. Lots of curves, and they’re always ready to throw one of them at you. Take off your coat!”

  Kathy hesitated.

  “Take it off before I rip it off!” Sy shouted.

  She took off the coat and tossed it onto the bed.

  “The kid, too. He won’t need that sweater. He ain’t going anyplace.” Kathy went to Jeff and helped him to take off the sweater. “Real buddy-buddy, ain’t you? A real nice team, you and the kid.” Sy reached into his pocket and when his hand came into view again a closed switch knife was on the palm. He pressed a stud in the knife’s handle, and the blade flashed into view. Slowly, he walked to where Kathy and the boy stood near the open bed.

  “Listen to me, you little bitch,” he said. You try anything like this again, and you’re gonna need plastic surgery, you understand? No matter what your darling Eddie says. And I’ll personally rip this little bastard’s heart out! Now you just remember that! You just remember!”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Sy,” she said.

  “No, huh?” He lifted the knife so that the blade was close to her throat now. “You better even watch the way you talk to me from now on, honey. You better be real sweet to me, and maybe I’ll forget what you just tried to pull. Real sweet to me from now on.”

  With the blade at her throat, Sy moved his free hand down the length of Kathy’s arm, caressing her. She pulled away from him quickly. The doorknob rattled, and Kathy moved toward it.

  “Hey, open up,” Eddie called from outside.

  Sy gestured at the door with his head. He pressed the blade of the knife shut and returned the knife to his pocket. Kathy unlocked the door. Eddie came into the room.

  “You got your cigarettes, I see,” Sy said, smiling.

  “Yeah.” Eddie dragged deeply on the butt. “Gee, it’s nice out. Cold, but real clear. Full of stars.”

  “That means a good day tomorrow,” Sy said. “Even the weather’s with us. There ain’t nothing going to foul up this job.” His eye caught Kathy’s. “Nothing,” he repeated.

  “How come the kid’s up?” Eddie asked.

  “The little bastard can’t sleep. He’s worried about what’s gonna happen to him tomorrow.”

  “You think it’ll go all right, Sy?”

  “It can’t miss,” Sy said. He turned to Kathy again. “You hear that, Kathy? It can’t miss. It’s gonna work, and nothing’s gonna stop it. We’re all gonna be rich. I’ll never ride another goddamn subway as long as I live. I’ll wear silk underwear. You know there are guys who wear silk underwear? Me! I’m gonna be one of them.” He nodded vigorously. “Tell her about it, Eddie. Tell her how we worked it out. Your wife here thinks we’re playing games.”

  “Look, let’s just do it,” Eddie said. ‘‘What do we have to talk about it for?”

  “I want her to know because it’s beautiful, that’s why. What the hell’s the matter with you? Are you ashamed of it? It’s a goddamn good plan.”

  “Yeah, I know, but…”

  “We’re gonna call King in the morning, and give him instructions about the drop, and there won’t be a cop in this city who can stop us, or who can even find us!” Sy paused. “How does that sound to you, Kathy?”

  “It sounds very smart,” Kathy said tonelessly.

  “Yeah, very smart. Damn smart! Not even King is gonna know where the hell to drop that loot, so he couldn’t tell the cops even if he wanted to. All he’s gonna know is that we’re waiting for it. But he won’t know where.” He saw the puzzlement on Kathy’s face. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. And it’ll work. All because of Eddie’s monster there.” He pointed to the radio equipment against the wall. “Why do you think we knocked ourselves out on these radio store jobs? To give Eddie something to play with?”

  “I thought you needed a radio for listening to police calls,” Kathy said, more puzzled now.

  “A setup like this? For police calls? You know what those two tin cans are over there? Oscillators. And the big thing behind them? A transmitter. Am I right, Eddie?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. You see, Kathy, what we’re gonna do—”

  “What we’re gonna do,” Sy said, “is surprise the pants off King and the cops both. Once King gets started, there ain’t gonna be a soul in the world but him who knows what to do. Not the cops, not nobody. Nobody but King and us. Once he leaves the house with that money in his hands—”

  “If he leaves the house,” Kathy said, “If he pays the ransom.”

  “I’ll let you in on a secret, sweetheart,” Sy said. “He better leave the house, and he better pay the ransom.” His hand darted into his pocket, and the switch knife appeared again. The stud made no sound when he pressed it. The blade snicked open with a slight whisper. Sy looked at Jeff, who stood by the bed, terror wide in his eyes now.

  “He just better pay the ransom,” Sy said softly.

  * * * *

  9

  The man in charge of the police laboratory was Lieutenant Sam Grossman.

  The lab to the casual observer was a sterile place of long white counters and tall green cabinets. The counters were washed with fluorescent light and ultraviolet light, and the cabinets were full of laundry marks and pistols and cartridges and tire patterns and analytical charts and pieces of glass and grass and morass and anything and everything which could be used for comparison purposes against a suspect item. There were a good many suspect items which came into the lab every hour of every day. The items ranged from a headlight glass found on a highway after a hit-and-run to a bloody hand wrapped in last Sunday’s real-estate section of The New York Times. It was not always pleasant to deal with the packages that were dropped at the lab’s doorstep like orphans on a snowy Christmas Eve. There were times when the work assumed ghoulish proportions, and many a man with a weak stomach had instantly applied for transfer to the city’s Bureau of Criminal Identification, or perhaps the morgue at one of the local hospitals. It was one thing, you see, to deal with violent and sudden deaths in an active, participating way. It was another to reduce death to a scientific formula, to deal with severed limbs and errant sperm cells, hair-encrusted blunt weapons, cartridges flattened by impact with bone. The imagination soared when confronted with the grisly inarticulate by-products of murder or manslaughter. A long blond hair tangled into the sharp cutting edge of an ax shrieked more loudly than the corpse of the woman lying on a slab at the morgue. Understatement, a subtle weapon of novelists since the beginning of literature, became a daily working grindstone against which the lab technicians blunted their emotions. Sam Grossman, an emotional man by trade, ran the lab with the uncompromising discipline of an African missionary. The lab, Grossman knew, could very often shorten the work of the men out there in the field. The lab could bring criminals to justice. And if he could help to do this, Grossman felt his life was not being wasted. Sometimes his job was extremely difficult. Sometimes, as was the case with the casting Kronig brought back, Grossman’s job was exceptionally easy. He simply went to his files and came up with the right tire pattern in less than five minutes. The record card looked like this:

  The name of the tire, then, was Tirubam, and it was manufactured by the Rubber Tire Corporation of America, whose offices in this city were located at 1719 Carter Avenue in Isola. The tire had been standard equipment in 1948 on products of the General Motors Corporation. In 1949 and 1950, the Ford Motor Company had used it on its entire line. In 1954, Chrysler Motors had equipped its automobiles with this tire. The field seemed a rather large one from which to choose.

  The size of the tire, however, was determined from the cast to be 670 x 15. This was a break which automatically eliminated any automobile manufactured before 1949, since the wheel rim had been sixteen inches in diameter up to that time and the change-over for the entire industry had come in 1949. The size of the tire, too, eliminated any of the larger cars which both Ford and Chrysler produced in the respective years they’d used the tires. The
1949 Mercury, for example, carried a 710 x 15 tire. The 1949 Lincoln carried an 820 x 15. The field had been narrowed to the smallest cars produced by either of the companies in the suspect years.

  The paint scraping cleared up any doubt. By the time Grossman’s boys had put the sample through a spectographic examination and had made a microscope diagnosis and a microchemical examination, they knew exactly the nature of the beast with which they were dealing. They simply took the results of their tests and compared these with facts already compiled, listed, and waiting in their files. Their record cards told them: