The Grab: A Classic Crime Novel

by Gordon Landsborough

  I nodded. “Could be. Or maybe a Bulgarian or from one of the adjacent countries.”

  He smiled. “That,” he said dryly, “won’t help us very much. I want you to give me your description of this girl.”

  I said: “Look, brother, why don’t you go down to Reception and ask that two-timing Benny something about his female guests in this hotel? He should know who’s in the hotel, and he should be able to say who’s missing now.”

  That young officer was watching me all the time I spoke. There was a thoughtful look in his calm, rather humorous-looking brown eyes. Then he said: “I’ve already spoken to the night receptionist.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The man you call Benny says he has been round the hotel and can account for all the female guests.”

  We looked at each other for a few seconds. And then I took a deep breath and I came out heavily with: “Benny’s in on this, whatever it is. He’s a slimy sonavobitch, and money will get him to do anything or say anything.”

  I looked at the police officer to see what he thought about my statement. But he was a police officer, and trained to be diplomatic. He merely nodded, and that could mean anything.

  I was raw inside about Benny’s statement, because it clashed with my own. In fact it made my story sound like the hotted-up imagination of an incipient D.T. And I hadn’t been drinking so far this evening.

  I started in to say: “Look, that girl was wearing pyjamas. Leastways, some of the pyjamas was still on her.” I was thinking of that glimpse of firm, rounded young breasts when the buttons came off her jacket in the struggle. “That girl must have been staying in this hotel to be dragged out in her pyjamas like that.”

  But even as I said that I saw the fallacy of the argument. Or at least I saw a possible explanation of it all, and I reckon that young officer saw it, too, but he didn’t say anything.

  It won’t be the first time that a husband and friends have surprised an unfaithful wife with some ardent lover in an hotel apartment. Maybe this was just such a case. Maybe those big, heavy-muscled men had been dragging home a naughty little wife.

  Maybe.

  But I didn’t think so. It just stuck in my craw, that theory. I mean, when things like that happen they’re not planned to include a cop standing guard to cover the proceedings—and a bribe sufficient to keep a man like Benny lying to the police.

  I didn’t feel she was any erring wife. I felt there was something infinitely more sinister behind this carefully laid scheme to snatch a girl out of her bedroom at night.

  The. young officer was very serious. He said: “The important part of your statement, so far as we are concerned, Mr. Heggy, is that you insist that one of our policemen was complicit in this affair. Now that’s a most serious statement to make.”

  I said: “Serious? Well, brother, I repeat it. There was a cop in on this snatch.”

  I heard the officer murmur: “I believe you, Mr. Heggy. Or at any rate, I believe that someone masqueraded as a policeman to help in this abduction “

  You know, at that I breathed a tremendous sigh of relief. I’d just got around to believing this cop when he said that the Istanbul police had nothing to do with that kidnapping, and now I was mighty glad to realize that this big officer believed my story. I mean, without any other witness, I had to admit that my story sounded thin. Okay, to have it believed, was quite a touch of flattery to the old Joe P. Heggy ego.

  He was looking thoughtfully at his big smooth hands—hands that hadn’t done much manual labour in their time. They were strong and well-cared for. Then his eyes lifted to mine and he said, very thoughtfully: “We don’t allow people to masquerade as police. We’re going to find out who these people are.”

  I said, heartily: “Good for you, brother. And at the same time find that gal.” I was also thinking. “And when you do, introduce me to her.” For she was quite a dish, that jane. And I’d seen more of her than most men, I suppose.

  The big young officer threw back his head and laughed, and for some reason it wasn’t a reassuring sound, though there was plenty of humour in it. So I looked at him, suspiciously, and growled: “Who’s the big laugh for, brother?”

  He was on his feet, pulling on his gloves. He looked at me, his brown eyes twinkling, and he said, so casually: “You’ll find them for us, unless I’m mistaken.”

  I looked at him. And then I went for another Scotch. I said, sourly: “What do you mean?”

  But I thought I knew what he meant, because I figured that he’d got the same sort of mind as I had. In other words, he was figuring that these boys might soon take a crack at me.

  He confirmed my theory by saying: “They seem a desperate lot of people, whoever they are, Mr. Heggy. I mean, there must be something pretty big behind it all for men to do a thing as daring as that—even to posing as a police officer. So, my guess is that when they hear you were a witness to their activities, they might try to eliminate you.” He seemed to pick that word eliminate, carefully, as if he wished to be tactful on an unpleasant subject

  I knocked back that Scotch and then I said: “Let ’em all come, brother. They’ll find Joe P. Heggy waiting.”

  I reckon that alcohol had something to do with my bravado, because I’m telling you I’m a nervous, sensitive man.

  The cop officer went out at that, and I was surprised to see that corridor empty, as if his monkeys had gone off to do some other work. He saw my questioning look, and said with a smile: “They’re checking on the clerk’s statement. They’ll be going to every room and questioning the people there.”

  I thought of B.G., and his palpitations when a Turkish policeman began to question him. It did me good to think of the fat slob palpitating, and I felt pleased for the first time about this affair in consequence.

  The cop went, and I realized that almost for the first time in his life, Joe P. Heggy was a friend of a policeman.

  I went back and finished my dressing. Then B.G. came barging in. He doesn’t knock, ever; he figures a boss has a right to walk in on a man even though he’d gripe if anyone did that to him. So I figured I could tell him what I thought of his manners and I did. And then I thought I’d put a scare on him.

  I said: “B.G., I’m a marked man. If you go with me, you run the risk of stopping a knife or some lead intended for Joe P. Heggy.”

  I watched his big, fat, pancake face while I said this, and I enjoyed the quavering fear that came up from his chicken heart at my statement.

  I said, hopefully: “Of course, you can always go out by yourself.”

  I didn’t like playing Nurse Nelly to this egghead, and I’d been looking for a way of ditching him so that I could enjoy my own company without thinking all the time of his inhibitions.

  But B.G. didn’t take the offer. He was dead scared of going out alone after dark in a foreign city. I reckon he was stuffed even fuller than I was with tales of thuggery in those primitive parts of the world outside law-abiding Detroit. He was torn between the devil and the deep blue sea, but the devil won, as he always does, in the end.

  He said: “I think you’re exaggerating. It doesn’t matter, anyway—you’re coming with me.”

  That was why I had been employed by the old man—to take care of little Benny Gissenheim on his travels abroad.

  It made me sourer than usual, because I was in no mood to enjoy the boss’s company. I wanted to think, and if I couldn’t get a solution to my thoughts, I wanted to get drunk with the boys, and all that was denied me if I was with B.G.

  But—he made out the paychecks. What he said had to be. So we went out together and down the stairs because there was a notice on the elevator: ‘Out of Order’. It was written in three languages to make sure. My guess is that notice went up every time the old man who ran the elevator had a date with one of the chambermaids.

  Down in the foyer Benny got agitated so much that he began to work when he saw me. Anyway he went through the motions of doing a lot of writing in a big ledger. There was a guy sitting on a
bench to one side—a hard bench reserved for visitors calling upon guests at the hotel—probably hard in the hope of making their visits infrequent. He was reading a newspaper, and I remembered thinking at the time that that newspaper must be mighty interesting to keep a man up hear midnight reading it on a hard bench.

  I was going across to make Benny feel really uncomfortable when something timid touched my elbow.

  Something timid said: “He didn’t have any. He says he’s run out.”

  I looked down. There must be something reassuring about the Heggy physiognomy after all for timid dames twice in one evening to pour out their little troubles to me.

  I looked meanly at Benny and said: “You don’t want to believe that guy. Lady, he’s holding out on you, I tell you.”

  That would be just like Benny, I thought. Benny would take it out of a timid dame like this fluttery female just because he lost out in an encounter with Joe P. Heggy.

  She looked wistfully at the pigeon-holes behind Benny’s bowed head where he worked at a table behind the desk. Benny, I knew well enough by this time, was trying hard to avoid the Heggy eye.

  I heard her say: “I would have loved to have seen those mosques in the moonlight.”

  Next second I heard B.G.’s big mouth yapping. He wanted to show off, I suppose, and this timid little dame must have made him feel big and good.

  He said: “That’s no place for a lady after dark. You should keep away from such places because you never know what sort of characters are waiting around for the innocent tourist.”

  That little dame turned on him, all fluttering and pink and her eyes hardly daring to lift to his face. It’s routine No. 1 with most dames, but I reckon that B.G. isn’t worldly wise. She kept saying: “Oh, thank you for warning me. It’s very good of you. I hadn’t realized that it might be dangerous.” And then a lot more eye fluttering and then she said: “That’s the disadvantage of being a frail woman instead of a big strong man.”

  She did everything except say: “...Like you,” but that would have spoilt things—it would have overdone it, if you see what I mean. And I, standing there nodding my head cynically, saw the fish take the bait and the hook and the line and everything.

  It made him feel big and strong and good, and I could see the air go into his chest and fill it out, and I knew he was holding that fat gut of his so that he looked muscular instead of beefy. He was looking at her tolerantly, in a strongman manner, through his impressive-looking American businessman’s glasses, and he was saying: “Perhaps I might find the time to escort you around the mosques, if you’re staying at this hotel.”

  She started fluttering again and thanking him and putting in the odd sentence, which made him feel pleased with himself. I had to hand it to the old gal. She may have been doing it unconsciously, but she had the right line of patter to please B.G.

  I even looked at her suspiciously, because she never struck a false note. And yet she was innocent. She was just a timid middle-aged dear saying the right things because she had been brought up to say them, and she couldn’t think differently.

  I also thought that she looked better than when I’d first seen her. Her face was pinker, and it seemed to give her a little—shall we call it—bloom of youth? And when I looked down her trim, neatly-dressed little figure I thought that maybe the gal wasn’t in too bad shape after all.

  That’s something I’ve noticed before. Every woman has some pretension to beauty. It’s queer, but the first time you see some women you don’t think anything about them at all. Then, when you’ve seen them a few times, you begin to wonder how you missed those little feminine things which make them attractive to we wolves of the world. Some women kind of grow on you. Like oysters and a lot of other things, I suppose.

  I turned. I wanted to speak to Benny. And as I turned I let my eyes trail on the big boob who was my boss.

  He was simpering. You tell me if there’s anything more sickly than the sight of a big fat sham-businessman simpering!

  He was making small play with his glasses. You know what I mean, taking them off and polishing them and then sticking them back on his stubby little wart of a nose. He was still holding his stomach in, and by now it must have been hurting a lot, because there was a lot of stomach and he hadn’t held it in for years.

  Before him, eyes modestly downcast, was that small, rather dainty, rather dowdy piece of goods from England. It was queer to think that that passed-over portion of feminine frumpery could arouse anything in the male breast. Honest to God, not in ten thousand years could she have quickened my pulse by so much as one extra heartbeat.

  And yet in some way she appealed to B.G. I suppose at heart he knew he was a sap and that most men regarded him as such—and most women, too. And I suppose he was wanting a bit of flattery from the other sex, just as we all do. Now he was getting it, and he didn’t seem to see the old-maidishness of his flatterer.

  I let my eyes trail contempt across his face, letting him see my cynical amusement. It made him blush and become indignant, and he switched off that sickening expression of simpering coyness. I never miss a chance to make a boss feel uncomfortable. Why the heck should I do otherwise? Don’t they make me feel uncomfortable all the time?

  I left them. There was a whole lot more important things on my mind than B.G. and the old maid.

  Benny saw me coming and pretended he didn’t. He was making out bills, I suppose, and doing a lot of frowning, as if he was mightily preoccupied.

  I leaned on the reception desk, and never said a word but just stared at him. After a time he had to drop his pose, and then he looked up at me, and with the fear in his brown, shifty eyes, was anger. At that moment I knew that if there was anything mean and nasty that could be done to Joe P. Heggy, Benny would clamour for the job.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SURPRISE!

  I said: “Benny, I want the hotel register.”

  He got up, shuffling some papers angrily between his hands. But he had the sense not to let the anger show too openly on his face. He said, sullenly: “You’re not allowed to see the hotel register.”

  I looked surprised. I even held my hands open appealingly towards him. “You can’t be right, Benny,” I said soothingly. “Every guest must sign the register in this country.”

  He rapped back: “But you’ve already signed it, Mister Heggy.” And I knew he was on the run or he wouldn’t have given me the mister. That boy had lived in God’s Own Country, and he liked to demonstrate his ideas on equality and democracy with his guests. Mister, in fact, was quite an achievement.

  “Maybe I didn’t fill in my particulars exactly,” I said. “Now, Benny, you wouldn’t want me to get into trouble with the police through putting down wrong particulars, would you?”

  He knew I was sassing him. And I knew that he’d love to get me into trouble with the cops. But he didn’t have any real excuse for holding out on me, so, grudgingly, he brought out the dilapidated book which was the hotel register. I took a good five minutes over the job. I checked through every room number allocated to a guest, and in the end I was able to look up at Benny and say: “You’ve only two female guests staying alone in this hotel, haven’t you?”

  I’d worked it out in my mind that the girl who had been snatched must be on her own. Otherwise, if she had a husband, or even a girl friend staying with her, there’d have been a ruckus following the abduction.

  So it seemed to me the thing was to find out how many unaccompanied women there were in this hotel.

  There were two. I looked at the names. The first was Lavinia Dunkley. Nationality, British. Last address, London, England. The other was Marie Konti. Her nationality was given as Turkish.

  I lifted an eyebrow towards Benny. He wasn’t worth more than that. I said: “Lavinia Dunkley?”

  He nodded sourly beyond me, to where B.G. was being made to feel a man by that wisp of neglected womanhood. So that was Lavinia. The name seemed to fit.

  I said: “Marie Konti?”

&
nbsp; This time he was doing things with a very heavy ring on his finger. I always watch a man’s feet and hands when I’m asking questions and I’m going to doubt the answer. When a man—or a woman, for that matter—makes bargains with the truth, they often show it by a little incautious movement of their limbs. You watch out for it, next time you’re suspicious, and see what I mean.

  Benny was fiddling rather quickly with that ring as he answered, and I had a feeling that he didn’t want to discuss Marie Konti. He said: “She’s upstairs.” And then he put acid into his mouth. He said, nastily: “The police have been before you, Big Boy.” That was a return of his old arrogance. Benny was the kind to try to get his own back.

  I wasn’t taking his word for anything, so I made a note of her room number. It was 102 and that was on a floor above my own.

  On an impulse I thought I’d drop in and see Marie Konti. That is, I’d see her if she was there. Because my theory was that Marie Konti might be the girl who had been dragged away in the night by those apes. I had a feeling she wouldn’t be in her room.

  That feeling grew as I mounted the four flights of steps—the elevator man wasn’t around again. I thought maybe I’d better start looking closer at the chambermaids to see what there was in them which put them above duty.

  I came out on to the fourth-floor landing—an impressive balustraded area with a passageway, which led between the closed doors of silent rooms on either side. I walked down the thick Turkish carpet, under soft-glowing lights, which surged in intensity with fluctuations of current from the overburdened Turkish power stations. I came to room 102.

  I knocked. No one came to the door.

  I knew no one would.

  I knocked again, louder. And I was thinking: “So it was Marie Konti who was snatched,” And I was wondering who Marie Konti was and why she had to be snatched.

  And I wondered why it was, even in her terror, she hadn’t dared to scream.

  I lifted my hand a third time to knock, and then the door opened and Marie Konti was standing there before me.