Ransom

by Jon Cleary

  He’s a worried husband but he hasn’t forgotten how to be

  a cop, Cartwright thought. He turned again to Michael Forte, who looked just as worried but less decisive than the Australian. Is he the sort of man who’d panic when the chips were down? He’d make a hell of a President if he is. But then how many Presidents have been faced with a personal dilemma like this? A real dilemma, as the voting machine that went by the name of Burgmann had said.

  “I think we may need the newspapers, sir. If Commissioner Hungerford agrees, I think you should make a statement.”

  “What do I do? Just issue a statement or call the reporters in here?”

  “If I can make a suggestion, Mr Mayor, I think you should have ‘em in here, right in here.” Burgmann, Malone was beginning to realize, was an important man in this room; he showed some deference to Michael Forte himself, but none at all to the other men, least of all to Malone. “Some of these guys have been very much against us the past coupla months - they oughta be given the chance to see how you’re suffering in this dilemma.”

  “Joe, I don’t want to have to answer a lot of questions - ” “Okay, no questions. Just a statement. Where’s some paper?”

  Malone felt his anger rising again; he wanted to smash his fist into the face of the campaign manager. But Burgmann was a man whose job didn’t allow him to consider what other people thought of him: his sole concern was to promote his candidate. He scribbled in a large hand on two sheets of paper, never stopping to grope for a word, then handed the statement to Michael Forte. “Okay?”

  But without waiting for any assent from the Mayor, he had already moved to the door, opened it and told the secretary outside to bring in the newspapermen. They came trooping in, five reporters and two photographers, all of them with that mixture of boredom and alertness that Malone had seen on the faces of newspapermen back home who had to cover

  the same beat day after day. They seemed to suggest that news was no more than a necessary evil, that they felt the world would be better off if its ignorance was not reduced by anything they might write.

  “Gentlemen, I have some bad news - bad, that is, for Inspector Malone and myself- ” Michael Forte introduced Malone, then baldly and without emotion read out the statement.

  Shock replaced the boredom on the newspapermen’s faces; but they were all veterans and they soon recovered. Shock was grist to their mill and they reacted as Malone had expected them to. As they moved in on the Mayor, Malone wanted to turn away, get out of this room before his disgust, anger and frustration made him erupt.

  “Where’d it happen, Mr Mayor? What time?”

  “That ransom, Mr Mayor - how does that tie in with your concept of law and order?”

  Michael Forte’s jaw tightened, but all he said was, “No questions. Not at this stage.”

  “It’s been a terrible shock to the Mayor,” said Burgmann. “Come on, boys. We’ll fill you in later - “

  “How do you feel about the ransom demand, Inspector?” Everyone in the room looked at Malone as one of the reporters put the question. “As a cop, you must be concerned for law and order.”

  Malone felt the floor suddenly rumble beneath him. He looked down in puzzlement, then Michael Forte said, “It’s just a subway train, Inspector. City Hall isn’t going to fall down.”

  Malone looked up, staring hard at the Mayor. He didn’t know whether any of the newspapermen read the message in the words, but he quite clearly understood what Michael Forte meant. Tell the truth if you like, Malone, we don’t need you. But you sure as hell need us.

  “I’m a stranger in this city,” said Malone. “I have to take the advice of Mayor Forte.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the relief on the faces

  of Burgmann and Manny Pearl; but he was still looking at Michael Forte. For a moment the Mayor all at once seemed another man; the dark eyes softened and Malone suddenly realized that Forte was not solely and unalterably a political animal. For the first time the two men looked at each other with the recognition that no one else here could feel the pain and worry that was common to them both.

  “Commissioner Hungerford has every available man in the Police Department already at work,” Burgmann was saying to the reporters, “aided, of course, by the FBI - “

  But not aided by me, the one law and order officer in this room who has the most to lose. Again the explosive anger brought on by frustration simmered in Malone. He could not be expected to sit on his arse while other cops worked on this -his case. He had to do something to get Lisa back - but what?

  “That’s Alexander Hamilton up there,” said Michael Forte, nodding up at the portrait hanging above the mantelpiece. “Have you heard of him?”

  “Vaguely.” Malone munched on his roast beef sandwich, looking up without interest at the painting. Hamilton stood with one hand on hip, the other held out in front of him, palm upwards. Was he putting a point or asking for a payoff? But Malone kept his cynicism to himself; his sudden sourness with America wasn’t going to be any help in the situation in which he found himself. “He was something to do with the American Revolution, wasn’t he?”

  Forte put down his half-eaten sandwich and pushed it away from him: he had no taste and no hunger, like a man who had gone beyond the recovery point in starvation. His only sustenance was words, to keep him from thinking of the worst. “We Americans assume that everyone knows our national heroes.”

  “Australians don’t go in for national heroes, not political ones. Bushrangers and jockeys stand the best chance.”

  “Bushrangers?”

  “Old-time outlaws. Ned Kelly was the best known. I’ve had crims I’ve arrested bless themselves and say prayers to him.”

  Forte wasn’t sure if the Australian was putting him on; he had a laconic dryness to him that could have been poker-faced humour or morose hostility. Forte nodded back at the painting. “That was painted posthumously - Old Alex finished up the loser in a duel with another of our heroes, Aaron Burr. Or maybe neither of them was a hero, except to their campaign managers. You have no time for Joe Burgmann, have you?”

  The abruptness of the question caught Malone off guard; he took delaying refuge behind his coffee cup. Unexpectedly Forte, when the meeting had been breaking up, had invited him to stay behind and share a sandwiches-and-coffee lunch; and Malone, intrigued now by this man with whom he had to share a common anguish, had accepted. He had not expected to be called upon to answer leading questions such as this one.

  “In these circumstances, no,” he said at last.

  Forte stared down at the red carpet beneath his feet. He and Malone were sitting on chairs at one side of the room, a low table between them and a television set against the wall opposite them. On the table, beside the tray of sandwiches and coffee, were copies of the morning papers and the first edition of the afternoon Post. He smiled up at himself from each of the front pages: yesterday’s man. The photograph that would be in the later editions of the Post and in the Times and News tomorrow morning would be of a worried, more honest man.

  “You have to try to understand him, Inspector. I don’t think Joe is without feelings - he has a wife and kids and I’m sure he loves them. But all his life he’s been in politics - he

  began when he was still in high school, running messages for a ward boss. He sees everything in terms of votes.”

  “I wouldn’t want to understand him,” said Malone stubbornly, “if that’s the way he is.”

  Forte sighed, then looked up. “What’s your wife like? You didn’t tell the reporters much. How long have you been married?”

  “Eight weeks.”

  “Then you’re still getting to know her, aren’t you? I’ve been married eighteen years - I have two kids, a boy sixteen and a girl fourteen. I don’t know which is worse - to lose someone you’ve become accustomed to or someone you’re still finding out about.”

  “You think we’re going to lose them?” Malone had put down his own sandwich and now put down h
is coffee.

  “Jesus, I don’t know!” Forte put his hand over his eyes and for a moment Malone thought the other man was going to weep.

  Then there was a tap on the door and Manny Pearl came in. He was a sad-eyed little man who seemed to wear his smile as a badge of rank: it was his job to keep his boss happy. Malone was not quite sure what Pearl’s official title was, but it was obvious that he had Forte’s trust. He waited patiently and without embarrassment till the Mayor had recovered his composure, then he said, “The news is already on TV and radio. Just flashes, nothing more. All the networks have been on to me asking if you’d do a spot for their main news shows tonight, but I took it upon myself to say No. Okay?”

  Forte nodded, then looked at Malone. “You don’t want to be bothered by them, do you?”

  “No. I don’t think they’re interested in me, anyway.” Then he stopped.

  “I’m not offended, Inspector. If anyone has the right to be offended, it’s you.” Again there was the glance of recognition between them, then Forte looked back at Pearl. “What else is happening, Manny?”

  “I’ve taken some phone calls for you. A few people, some organizations. Gerry Farrelly called with a message from the Knights of Columbus. He read it out as if he was saving the price of a telegram. We shall pray for you today and vote for you tomorrow. I thanked him on both counts.”

  “I’m a lapsed atheist,” Forte told Malone; for the first time he showed a trace of humour. “You might say I’ve been reconverted by three million Catholic voters - they got me back into the Church quicker than the Vatican ever could. With a name like Malone, are you a Catholic?”

  “My Old Lady says I am. Until I married, when she still did my ironing for me, she used to damp my shirts with holy water.” But Malone grinned this time and Forte learned a little more about the man opposite him: at least he seemed to have a sense of humour. “I don’t know that she pressed much faith back into me. Except in the last hour and a half I’ve noticed I’ve been doing some praying.”

  “Me too.” As if to relieve the slight embarrassment of his confession, Forte looked up at Pearl and smiled. “Manny is trying to get me on the side of Judaism, too.”

  “Over a million voters in New York alone,” said Pearl, but he couldn’t manage a smile and he gave up. “Sorry. It’s not funny, is it? Jokes aren’t gonna help.”

  Malone wondered if Lisa, wherever she was, was finding anything funny. He tried to remember how she had looked when she had gone out of the hotel: he could not remember what she had been wearing, but yes, she had been smiling, but it had been with love not humour. Abruptly he said, “Christ, do we have to sit here and do nothingV

  “What can we do?” But Forte got up and illustrated his own frustration by moving restlessly about the room. “I have to stay here for that next phone call. Did you cancel all my appointments for this afternoon, Manny?”

  “Not all.” All his life Manny Pearl had had an adjustable focus on the world: sometimes you took the long view, but you also played every moment as it came. Nothing was ever gained by cancelling appointments well in advance that

  could be cancelled at the last moment. “I’ve cancelled everything up till four o’clock. At four you are supposed to shake hands with the United Nations delegation that is looking over City Hall - “

  “Jesus, do I have to do that?”

  “It seemed to me the least demanding of your appointments. It will show you are carrying on with your job.”

  “Always the goddam image! You disappoint me sometimes, Manny.”

  “I’m sure I do,” said Pearl, unruffled; and went on, “At four-thirty you were supposed to start touring the campaign offices, thanking your workers for what they’ve done for you. I’ll just send out a message to each of the ward captains in your name. I hate to say it, but we can’t postpone the election tomorrow.”

  “I could withdraw my name - ” But the threat was halfhearted and Forte knew it. So, too, did Malone and Manny Pearl.

  “What’s the point, Mike?” Pearl suddenly stepped out of the role of personal assistant, became a friend, looked twice as worried. “Sylvia could be back with you this evening-and your wife, too, Inspector -” Pearl was not being diplomatically polite when he glanced at Malone; his sad eyes were too full of honest sympathy. “I think we have to be optimistic - “

  Sharp at three o’clock the phone rang. By then Sam Forte, Hungerford and Cartwright had returned. They came in individually, with the air of men come back to hear a doctor’s diagnosis that they feared. Michael Forte took the phone.

  “Who are you? It was a woman who called this morning.”

  “We’re partners - don’t worry which one of us makes the calls, Mr Forte.” There was a chuckle at the other end of the line, almost a giggle. The woman this morning had been soft-voiced, almost polite; but this man’s voice had a ragged edge to it and Forte heard danger. “The message is the same, you hear? We want those five guys outa The Tombs soon’s

  you like to let ‘em go. You made up your mind what you gonna do?”

  “I can’t release them at once - there’s a legal procedure we have to go through.” Hungerford, listening on an extension, gestured to him to keep talking. In the outer office police technicians were taping the conversation and trying to trace the call. Forte tried to keep talking, to keep the kidnapper on the line: “You gave us till nine o’clock tomorrow morning. How is my wife - can I speak to her?”

  “No, man, you can’t.” There was a note of grating satisfaction in the man’s voice. He’s already chewing on small triumphs, Forte thought: how is he going to celebrate if this thing goes through to the climax he wants? The question, unanswerable, had its own terror. “Is that guy Malone there with you? Let me talk to him.”

  Forte motioned to the Australian, handed him the phone.

  “Malone here.”

  “Your wife says you’re a cop. Right? I’d sooner deal with someone else, but this time I’m not gonna hold it against you. You’re just lucky, man, you ain’t American - but pigs are the same all over. Listen - you tell the Mayor he’s not gonna see his wife again and you’re not gonna see yours, unless he lets those guys outa The Tombs. Right? That’s all for now. There’ll be just one more call from us.”

  “What time? Where - here?”

  There was a chuckle, a gritty sound Malone did not like. “We’ll find you. Nobody’s gonna be more available than you and the Mayor. You just expect to hear from us. And pass on that message to the Mayor. We don’t want to hurt your missus, but we got her and she’s in the same boat now as Mrs Forte. It could get awful rough for her.”

  Chapter Three

  The room was small but comfortably furnished; Lisa knew, from what Scobie had told her, that prison cells were a good deal less comfortable than this. Yet this was her and Sylvia Forte’s cell. There was a white carpet square on the polished floorboards, two Colonial-style single beds, a chest of drawers and a dressing-table in the same style, a built-in wardrobe with louvred doors, two easy chairs with blue denim covers and an electric convector heater that stood against one wall. It was a room that Lisa guessed was similar to thousands of others all over America. Except for two things: the window was boarded up from the inside and three pictures had been removed from the walls, leaving oblong shapes that were slightly cleaner than the rest of the white wallpaper.

  “We’re in a cottage of some sort, I think,” said Sylvia Forte. “I used to have a room very much like this in a house we had on Fishers Island.”

  “I wonder why the pictures were taken off the walls?” “I don’t know. Unless they were pictures that would have identified those two outside.”

  They had been in the room an hour and they had become accustomed to their surroundings. At first, recovering from delayed shock at what had happened to them, they had hardly spoken. After their initial words to each other in the back of the delivery truck, they had fallen silent as they had slowly begun to appreciate the frightening potential of their predi
cament. Their growing apprehension had not been slowed by the sullenness of the girl in the back of the truck with them. As she had stared at them it seemed to Lisa that behind and below the dark glasses the girl’s face had hardened into a mask that showed no hint of mercy for them.

  After three-quarters of an hour’s travelling the truck had slowed, turned and pulled up. Lisa and Sylvia heard the driver get down, then a few moments later he came back, got into the truck and drove it into a garage or large shed. Lisa had found herself listening for sounds of identification that she had never taken notice of before: the amplification of the noise of the engine as the truck drove up a narrow driveway between two houses, the opening and then the shutting of garage doors, the sudden silence in the garage as the engine was shut off, and then the shouts of children somewhere outside.

  The back doors of the truck were opened and Abel, smiling widely, looked in at Carole. “So far so good. You make the phone call, while I look after these two.”

  Carole got out of the truck, stumbling a little as she stretched her cramped legs. Abel steadied her, looking at her solicitously. “Careful.”

  “I’m all right.” She kissed his cheek, put her gun back in her handbag and slipped cautiously out of a side door of the two-car garage. As Abel had said, so far so good. But the real reward was going to be from now on.

  Abel gestured to Sylvia Forte and Lisa. They got out of the truck, both of them stumbling a little as Carole had done; but Abel made no attempt to steady them, just pushed them up against the side of the second delivery truck, a black one, parked in the garage. He wanted to spit on the two women, to humble and degrade them, but he feared that might only provoke an argument with Carole. And that he could not bear.

  He opened the back doors of the black truck, took out two white hoods. “Join the Ku Klux Klan.”