Snatch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “I do. Mind you, it’s only my sister’s old age I’m thinkin’ of, seein’ Frankie here doesn’t work much since fallin’ off that roof while doin’ a job for his Uncle Guido. A moonlit night it was, too. Tell me, Frankie, did the moonlight get in your eyes?”

  “Will’um, be kind,” admonished his sister. “A terrible thing. Spendin’ your life in a wheelchair just because a shingle gave way.” Will’um pinned her with a caustic look. “Of course,” she admitted, “the shingle was five stories up on a dark night.”

  Sitting back in his chair, legs crossed, arms folded across his chest, Will’um waited for the silence indicating complete attention. “It occurs to me,” said Will’um, rolling the only R he had to roll, “‘The Lord Is an Orphan’ and all that… well, it occurs to me that that article in the newspaper we all enjoyed readin’ so much… well, you might say it was tinged with the brush of sentimentality. Wouldn’t you say it was a wee bit sentimental, Marie?”

  “I wept when I read it, Will’um.”

  “I’m sure,” rolled Will’um, “many another woman at her kitchen sink readin’ this morning’s Star felt the same as you did, and wanted to rush out into the streets of New York and clasp the wee, homeless boy to her bosom.”

  “You think so, Will’um?”

  “You’re not an unusual gel, Marie, except you married a man who thought he had the wings of an angel right up to the moment he found himself in midflight.”

  “Go on, Will’um, and stop teasin’ my husband.”

  “Now, who was this man at the Star who wrote this piece?”

  Marie dashed to the sink counter.

  “Thadeus Lowry, the name is.”

  She brought the smelly newspaper back to the table.

  Will’um bent his head to confirm the byline. “Ah, yes. Thadeus Lowry. I think somethin’ can be worked out, Marie, considerin’ the power of the press, and this man’s excitin’ literary ability.”

  Will’um stood up and adjusted the flap of his coat over his holster.

  “I don’t know what you’re thinkin’, Will’um,” said Marie.

  “If I told you,” said Will’um, “Frankie here might insist on helpin’ me, and we’d never come to know if the plan might have worked on its own merits.”

  “He’s not thinkin’ anythin’,” scoffed Frankie. “He’s eaten, and now he’s leavin’ so he won’t have to help wash the dishes.”

  “You’re good to help us, Will’um,” Marie said. “What with your career and all.”

  “Blood is thicker than water,” said Will’um. “Thicker than whiskey, too, although I don’t know how I’d ever find that out, havin’ supper at your table.”

  15

  The Power of the Press

  “My God, Frankie! Look what I’ve got!” Next morning Marie Savallo stood in the door of the apartment, hat and coat on, eyes big with alarm. Her purse dangled from one forearm. Together, her arms clutched a newspaper to her bosom.

  “You go out for a job and kidnap a kid!” shouted Frankie from his wheelchair by the window. “Today you go out to get a job and come back right away with a newspaper!”

  Such was the conversation which awakened Robby Burnes next morning. The night before, having eaten more than he ever had in his life, his head lolled, his eyelids had lowered while he was still at the table thinking about getting up and making good his intention to escape. He had felt strong arms putting him into the cot; warm fingers undressing him.

  “Look at this, will you?”

  Marie put the newspaper on the kitchen table. Frankie wheeled over to it. Instantly his lips began to move as he read.

  Robby jumped naked out of bed and looked for his clothes. Between the other side of the stove and the apartment’s back wall, cater-corner from wall to wall, ran a short clothes line. Hanging from the line, looking as dejected as only wet laundry hung inside to dry can, were his shirt, his underwear, his stockings. Now, Robby saw, he was a prisoner of wet. His shorts and his blazer were over the back of a kitchen chair. He put those on.

  On one leg Robby stood behind Frankie’s wheelchair and looked at the newspaper.

  EXTRA

  ORPHANED DUKE KIDNAPPED

  BY THADEUS LOWRY

  The same photograph of Robby sitting on his suitcase was on the front page. The caption read: Save the life of this child!

  A sub-headline read: STAR COLLECTS THE RANSOM. YOU, TOO, CAN GIVE.

  In the silence of Frankie’s and Marie’s reading, Robby also read:

  Little Robby Burnes, the 10-year-old Duke of Pladroman, who arrived on these shores a scant two days ago, has been kidnapped.

  The New York Star has set up a special fund—The Robby Burnes Ransom Fund—in hopes of fulfilling the ransom demands of those holding the child in captivity.

  The Lord is an orphan.

  After the special bylined report by this correspondent appearing in yesterday’s New York Star, regaling the harrowing and horrendous adventures which have befallen the 10-year-old scion of one of England’s most noble families in escaping war-torn England, more misfortune has befallen the blond, blue-eyed, 10-year-old-boy who yesterday captured the hearts of all New York.

  And all New York—every New Yorker, every reader of The New York Star, every American—you, dear reader—are asked to contribute to the poor little Duke’s return to safekeeping.

  RANSOM

  The kidnappers telephoned your New York Star correspondent last night and demanded ransom of $100,000 to be raised by public subscription and paid at once—or else.

  The voice on the other end of the telephone wire was cold and menacing—surely that of a man who has lived a degenerate, degraded life far outside the law. There was no doubt on the part of your New York Star correspondent that the caller would stop at nothing to attain his ends, however foul these ends are.

  Immediately, The New York Star presses were stopped. The front page was ordered remade.

  What matters the tides of battles, the oratory of heads of states, when the specter hovers over the city of a little lost boy, cowering in some cold corner, starved and beaten, a knife at his throat?

  FATE

  Is this American?

  Can not even one small boy find peace and security, warmth and love, for one day on these shores that have hosted millions of the poor and needy of other lands, without being confronted by fear and violence, his life imperiled anew?

  What are those abroad who send their children to us for safekeeping during these dire days to think?

  “I can take anything,” the 10-year-old boy had said the day before, in speaking of his recent past, both parents having been murdered by a Nazi bomb, his school friends lost, a harrowing escape across the cold, storm-tossed North Atlantic dodging torpedoes.

  The 10-year-old boy did not know what fate, what new horrors awaited him on these shores he had approached so trustingly.

  SPIRIT

  Yesterday morning, Robby Burnes (as the 10-year-old Duke of Pladroman democratically calls himself), up from a bed soft but new to him, comforted by the family of your New York Star correspondent, who had guaranteed his safekeeping in the United States to the government of Great Britain, full of specially ordered kippered herring, muffins and weak tea—his favorite breakfast—set off for his first day of school in the new land.

  As he started bravely down the street, he turned back and waved gaily, full of confidence, at the loving, proud couple in the door seeing him off.

  The night before, over a special family celebration dinner of roast duck and sausage and plum pudding with his loving guardians, he insisted that next day he would seek out the school himself, settle himself in, and make his own way, in the true American spirit.

  But little Robby Burnes never reached the local public school.

  MUM

  No word was heard of him until the cold, menacing voice of the kidnapper telephoned your correspondent at The New York Star last night.

  One hundred thousand dollars in exchange fo
r the freedom—almost certainly, the very life—of a 10-year-old orphan.

  The publisher and editorial staff of The New York Star reached the decision without hesitation to set up a special fund for the return of Robby Burnes. Our prestige abroad, as a responsible people full of heart, is at stake.

  Would you have the free world think of America as a place where a child, sent for safekeeping, disappears within 24 hours?

  Robby’s mum, the late Duchess of Pladroman, was known as one of England’s most charitable ladies. She would rush to benefit any worthy cause, especially any cause concerning the welfare and safety of children.

  Consider what your own freedom is worth. Of more importance to you, we are sure, consider what the safety and freedom of your own child is worth.

  Send whatever you can afford—a dollar, five dollars or more—to The Robby Burnes Ransom Fund, care of this correspondent, The New York Star, to help regain the freedom, save the life of this child!

  “‘A little lost boy, cowering in some cold corner, starved and beaten, a knife at his throat’!” expostulated Marie Savallo. “My God, Frankie, this is terrible. I’ll go find Will’um at once.”

  No matter how many times Robby tested his clothes during the day, they remained wet. He did not fancy making his escape into a New York winter without stockings, shirt or underwear. Although aware of his duty as an Englishman, Robby was also aware that he ought not to turn out improperly attired.

  At the kitchen table he helped Frankie Savallo with the picture puzzle, which was not at all easy. As the picture developed, Robby discovered it was of the Sahara Desert, which has no landmarks. Fitting pictures of sand which were as big as the top of his finger to other pictures of sand, with neither color nor shape to distinguish piece from piece, soon became one of the more arduous tasks of his life.

  Midafternoon, Marie appeared in the door again. This time her arms were stuffed with newspapers.

  “Oh, Frankie!” she wailed. “I couldn’t find Will’um at all!”

  Robby helped her spread the newspapers on the kitchen table. Under the newspapers pieces of the puzzle separated.

  HAVE YOU SEEN ROBBY BURNES? shrieked The New York Star. There, on the front page, was the same picture of Robby, disembodied. Only his head remained, staring at the reader with such pathos that even Robby himself felt a tinge of sympathy.

  EXCLUSIVE

  $10,000 TOWARDS $100,000 RAISED

  STAR PUBLISHER DONATES $5,000

  BY THADEUS LOWRY

  Someone has seen Robby Burnes—of that New York Police are certain.

  A 10-year-old boy cannot disappear off the streets of New York in broad daylight without someone seeing him.

  Have you seen Robby Burnes?

  Already, after the report by this correspondent in this morning’s Star, $10,000 has been pledged to The Robby Burnes Ransom Fund.

  The first $5,000 was donated by the publisher of The New York Star.

  By decision of the publisher of the New York Star, after consultation with New York City Police and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, this amount—$10,000—will be given to anyone coming forward with information leading to the rescue of Robby Burnes and the arrest and conviction of his kidnappers.

  UNIFORM

  A ransom of $100,000, to be raised from the public, the readers of The New York Star, has been demanded by the kidnappers for the safe return of Robby Burnes.

  Certainly those involved in his kidnapping—those who know where Robby Burnes is—have seen him.

  Distinctive in appearance, the 10-year-old Robert Duke of Pladroman, who arrived, an orphan, after harrowing adventures from war-torn Europe Wednesday, when last seen was still wearing his English school uniform—a blue cap, blue overcoat, blue kneesocks, blue shorts and jacket, white shirt and striped tie.

  Emblazoned on both his cap and jacket pocket is the Wolsley School emblem—a stag sharpening his antlers against an oak tree…

  The report then went on to recap Thadeus Lowry’s Thursday morning story of Robby’s arrival and Friday morning’s story of his kidnapping, plus instructions to the reader how to subscribe to the Robby Burnes Ransom Fund.

  All the other Friday afternoon newspapers which Marie Savallo had brought home clutched to her breast in a jumble reported the juiciest elements of the story which had appeared that morning in “another New York newspaper.” At least two of the newspapers announced they were cooperating with “another New York newspaper” to help raise the ransom. Contributions could be sent directly to them.

  Robby was reported as ten years old in all the newspapers, which pleased him but made him doubt the accuracy of journalism.

  “They’ve got ten thousand dollars already, Frankie,” Marie said, “between breakfast and lunch!”

  “And look what they’re doin’ with it!” shouted Frankie. “The first money they’ve got they’re out lookin’ for us with it! They’ve put bloodhounds on us!”

  “A fearful lot of money,” said Marie with awe. “Ten thousand dollars. Perhaps we should accept it as a reward, Frankie?”

  “Read what it says, Marie! You need a conviction to get a reward! That means somebody has to become a convict. Who are you gonna convict? Frankie Savallo?”

  “No, no, darlin’. I wouldn’t think of it.”

  Frankie had wheeled to the windows overlooking the alley at the back of the apartment. He pulled down the green shades. “Lissen, Marie. You sure nobody saw you with the kid?”

  “I can’t be sure, darlin’, but I was circumspect in me comin’. But wasn’t it yourself who shouted ‘Kidnap!’ for all the world to hear the first hour we were at home?”

  “I never said a word out loud, Marie. I swear to God!”

  “‘Swear to God!’ You swore so the whole street could hear you, let alone saints Mary and Margaret takin’ their well-earned rest.”

  “You’ve done a terrible thing, Marie!” Frankie shook his head violently. “Terrible!”

  “I may have done, at that,” admitted Marie. “But, Frankie, how are we goin’ to get the ransom, if it all keeps goin’ to reward money?”

  The Savallos remained quietly at home that evening. Frankie played with the radio dial. Each time a news broadcast began he changed the dial to a station offering a comedy or music program. Wordlessly Marie cleaned the one-room apartment as might a woman expecting a great many guests, a wedding or a funeral—or as might a woman expecting to leave the apartment for a prolonged period of time.

  During the evening there came a knock on the door. “Hoosh, Frankie!” hushed Marie. Frankie snapped the radio off. Marie stood still, listening. The knock was repeated. Marie put her index finger to her lips. Shortly they heard steps retreat down the corridor. Only after a restless fifteen minutes did Frankie click on the radio again.

  Trying not to be noticed, Robby tested his clothes hanging on the line time and again. He decided that whatever Marie had done in washing them had made them permanently wet. After a supper of potatoes and bread in warm milk—“Eat up,” Frankie said grimly to Robby. “At least she can’t say it’s Italian”—Robby crawled into the cot to keep warm and, while his clothes tried their best to dry, fell asleep.

  EXCLUSIVE

  Robby’s picture stared out from all of the Saturday newspapers, except The New York Times, and they all repeated, with imaginative variations of their own, except The New York Times, the legend of Robby Burnes as first written by Thadeus Lowry.

  Marie’s slinking in and out of the one-room apartment, her coat collar up, her eyes sliding left and right, buying all the editions of all the New York newspapers, clutching to her breast all these pictures of Robby looking pathetic might have indicated her uncommon interest in the crime to a casual observer. Such a casual observer, if pragmatic, might then have called the cops. But, as Robby had already discovered, people in this large city were not apt to be casual observers. For the most part, he had reasoned, they were too wary of being observed themselves.

  Again The Ne
w York Star led the press and ran the EXCLUSIVE banner line.

  NEW THREAT TO ROBBY’S LIFE

  $27,242 RAISED SO FAR

  YOUR HELP NEEDED

  POLICE PERPLEXED

  BY THADEUS LOWRY

  Again last night your correspondent for the New York Star was confronted by the icy, menacing voice of the kidnapper of 10-year-old Robby Burnes.

  He called, he said, regarding a report by this correspondent in last night’s Star. Your correspondent reported in last night’s Star that the first $10,000 raised for the release of Robby Burnes would be used as a reward for anyone coming forward with information leading to the discovery and return of Robby Burnes and the arrest and conviction of his kidnappers.

  The first $5,000 was donated to The Robby Burnes Ransom Fund by the publisher of The New York Star.

  The cold, metallic voice said that if any of the ransom money were used as a reward, or even as an offer of a reward for information leading to the capture and conviction of the kidnappers, “the kid won’t live to say his prayers on Sunday.”

  Efforts to trace the telephone call were frustrated by electronic failure. Telephone executives said the trace only led back to a police station monitoring the call.

  The publisher of The New York Star, in conjunction with the New York Police, instantly withdrew the offer of a reward.

  GOOD JOB

  New York City Police are perplexed by the disappearance of the 10-year-old Duke of Pladroman.

  “This is a real professional job,” said Police Captain Walter Reagan, in charge of the case. “These kidnappers knew what they were doing.”

  Repeating “it was a real clean job,” Captain Reagan speculated yesterday that an extensive, well-trained gang of professional criminals had this kidnapping planned long before previously thought possible.

  Conjecture is that while Robby Burnes was waving goodbye to his loving guardians Thursday morning on his way to school, a net had already been prepared by this unknown professional gang of kidnappers.

  “It was neat work,” said Captain Reagan. “I take my hat off to them.”

  RIVETER

  So far, $27,242 has been raised toward the $100,000 ransom demanded for little Robby Burnes.