“That I can understand,” Dennison said, “but this goes further than that, Mr. Dermott. I want you to trust me. Suppose I ask questions and you tell me if I'm right?” He smiled, then went on, “The man we think is behind this kidnapping is around sixty, tall, heavily built and with a whisky complexion. Right?”
Vic hesitated, shrugged then nodded.
“He has another guy working with him: an Italian; short, fat and swarthy. Right?”
Again Vic nodded.
“There's a girl: dyed blonde, tall, good-looking in a coarse way, around twenty-two or three. Right?”
Again Vic nodded.
“Then there's another of them, but I haven't got him tagged,” Dennison said. “He's the one who interests me.”
Again Vic hesitated, then he said, “He's the girl's twin. He's the one who scares me . . . a vicious, brutal thug. He's the one who hit me. He binds his fist with a bicycle chain.”
“Describe him,” Dennison said.
Vic gave him a description of Riff and when he was finished, Dennison got to his feet.
“You carry on the way you're going now, Mr. Dermott,” he said. “Get the ransom.” He put a card on the bedside table. “That's my telephone number. Memorize it and then destroy the card. When you have the ransom, telephone me. These hoods imagine once they have the ransom, they are in the clear, but they have badly underestimated Van Wylie. As soon as we know your wife and baby and Miss Van Wylie are safe, we're going after them. From now on, three of my best men will be tailing you. If you want help at any time, they'll be right with you. You have nothing to worry about. You have my word we won't make a move until your wife is
safe.”
Vic shrugged helplessly.
“I guess I have to rely on you,” he said, “but please hold off until these thugs have left Wastelands.”
“You have my word,” Dennison said and moved to the door. “There's nothing to worry about. I'm sorry to have walked in like that. Good night, Mr. Dermott,” and he left the room.
Vic lay still, staring bleakly at the opposite wall while he listened to Dennison's heavy tread diminishing down the corridor.
CHAPTER TEN
Cautiously, Zelda lifted her head and looked across the room to where Carrie was sleeping. Light came from the brilliant desert moon, seeping through the slits in the shutters and for some moments Zelda watched Carrie. Then with infinite care, she pushed aside the sheet and sat up. She waited, scarcely breathing, then she swung her feet to the floor.
Silence brooded over the ranch house. Zelda made no further move for some moments. She sat on the edge of the bed, trying to make up her mind whether to take the risk of creeping out of the ranch house and over to the cabin or to return to bed. She didn't know if the fat Italian was awake. She thought it was probable by now he was sleeping, but she couldn't be sure.
She burned for Riff. If she could reach him, she had no doubt that he could get her away from this place. She had to reach him!
She stood up. Motionless, her heart thumping, she stared at Carrie, but as Carrie made no movement, she picked up the shirt and trousers she had left on a chair by the bed. Very cautiously, she slipped into the trousers, dropped her nightdress on the bed, then put on the shirt.
Carrie moved in her sleep and Zelda froze, her heart fluttering. She waited, then as Carrie went on sleeping, Zelda moved silently on bare feet to the door. She eased it open and stepped out into the lobby. There she stood for some moments, listening. Satisfied there was no sound to alarm her, she crept across to the kitchen, eased open the back door and stepped out into the hot moonlit night.
Around the front of the house, Moe had struggled to keep awake, but he wasn't made for the endurance of a sleepless night. He had relaxed in the comfortable bamboo chair, his gun held in his lap, and within an hour he had dozed off.
Now he was sleeping heavily.
Zelda skirted the house, paused long enough to hear Moe's soft snoring, then she ran across the lawn, across the sandy drive to the cabin.
In the cabin, Chita had taken over the bedroom and had shut herself in. She lay restlessly on the bed, half dozing, half awake. In the sitting room, Riff too was dozing. He had spent two long hours watching the ranch house, but as the moon moved and shadows closed in around the house he was unable to see Moe. He now had no idea if Moe was awake or asleep. He hadn't the nerve to go out there. His ear ached. He wasn't chancing a bullet in the leg. Now, stretched out on two chairs, he dozed and thought of his future with Zelda.
A slight sound alerted Chita. She sat up to listen. A door creaked, then she heard soft whispering coming from the sitting room. She got off the bed and moved silently to the door. She listened, her ear pressed against the door panel.
She recognized Zelda's voice. A hot rush of blood went through her. Carefully, slowly and patiently, she eased back the door handle and gently opened the door no more than an inch so she could hear and yet not be seen.
As the front door of the cabin creaked open, Riff started up, but relaxed when he heard Zelda whisper, “It's all right, Riff . . . it's me.”
She came through the darkness of the room and knelt beside him, her arms going around him, her head against his chest.
“I couldn't keep away,” she said, her fingers moving through his close-cut hair, careful to avoid his hurt ear.
“Are you badly hurt?”
“Where is he?” Riff asked, his thick blunt fingers against her back, pulling her to him. “Is he asleep?”
“Yes.” She moaned softly at the hard, brutal touch of his hands. “Oh, Riff! Can't we get away? Can't we go now?”
Riff could see the bright moonlight coming through the shutters. If he went out there now and Moe woke up, Moe could pick him off like a sitting rabbit.
“This Wop can shoot,” he said. “We'll have to wait. There's time. You saw what he did to me.” He was speaking in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
“Where is she?” Zelda whispered, her arms tightening around him.
“In the other room . . . asleep. Keep your voice down. She mustn't hear us.” He got to his feet, pulling her against him. They stood in the darkness, straining against each other.
Chita shut the door and went back to the bed and sat on it, her hands into fists gripped tightly between her knees. She listened to the faint sounds that came through the panels of the door. Finally, as these sounds became more out of control, she got to her feet. She stood hesitating. There was one way to stop this thing going any further: one way to keep her brother for herself. She heard Zelda stifle a cry of pleasure and pain and that decided her. She crossed to the window and opened the shutters. She looked across at the ranch house, then she climbed out of the window and closed the shutters after her.
Moving silently, she slid around the cabin, keeping in the shadows. There was one patch of moonlight between the cabin and the garage. This she ran through and paused in the shadow of the garage door. She looked back and listened. No one shouted: no one moved. Cautiously, she lifted the swing-up door to the garage, moved into the darkness and then shut the door after her. For some moments she groped impatiently for the light switch, found it and turned it down.
She blinked around the garage where the Cadillac and the estate wagon stood, side by side. At the far end of the garage, she found what she was looking for: a long-handled shovel used often enough when the wind caused the sand to form into drifts.
She picked up the shovel, turned off the light, opened the garage door and walked out into the open.
It took her the best part of two hours to find and open Di-Long's grave. Riff had indicated vaguely where he had buried the Vietnamese, and Chita had to make several false starts before she finally located where the body lay under the sand. By then it was some time after two o'clock and the moon had climbed high, shedding its hard light over the ranch house.
Moe continued to snore softly. Carrie was dreaming of Vic. Riff and Zelda, exhausted, lay on the floor, half sleeping, half awake.
A quarter of a mile from the ranch house, Tom Harper with Letts and Brody, lay at the base of the nearest sand dune to the house. Harper had borrowed a periscope from the Frisco Field Agency. This he had erected so that he could watch the ranch house without being seen. Letts and Brody were asleep. Harper had been keeping close watch on the house, but he had failed to see Chita leave the cabin. The periscope wasn't much use in the hours of darkness.
Chita regained the bedroom without being seen or heard.
She lay down on the bed. The hatred for her brother and for Zelda gnawed at her. She listened to the continual whispering that came to her from the other room. The sound was like salt in a wound in her body.
Satiated and now bored with Zelda, Riff finally moved away from her.
“You'd better get back,” he said and sat up. “Come on! Get your hands off me!” Brutally, he shoved her away. “Get moving! It'll be light in an hour.”
Reluctantly, Zelda got to her feet and began to dress.
“Aren't we getting out of here?” she asked. “I thought . . .”
“Keep your voice down!” Riff hissed.
“But aren't we leaving?” she whispered as she pulled up the zip on her trousers.
“Do you want a hole in your skin?” Riff said. He was sick of her now. He had exhausted his lust on her and now he wanted to be rid of her. “That Wop will shoot . . . and he can shoot!”
“But, darling, you're not scared of a fat little man like that?” Zelda said, staring at him.
“Him? Who'd be scared of a punk like him? But I don't go for the gun . . . he can shoot. Look, get the hell out of here!” Riff waved to the door. “I'll fix something! You leave me to handle it . . . go on, beat it!”
No man had ever talked this way to Zelda. She found it exciting.
“You do love me, don't you?” she said and moved towards him.
“Sure, sure, sure.” Riff was nearly frantic with impatience. “Now get going.” He took her by her arm and shoved her to the door, opening it and shoving her roughly out into the twilight of the desert.
Propelled by his violent push, Zelda half ran, half staggered down the wooden slope leading from the cabin. Then she stopped short and stared at the awful thing that lay at her feet. She stared, as Riff was staring, then she put her fingers into her hair and began to scream.
Chita listened to the screams with sadistic relish.
* * *
At the Cambria Hotel, Salinas, Kramer asked the telephone operator to connect him to a Paradise City number. He was calling Phil Baker, the man with whom he played regular golf and who was the only person Kramer could think of right at this minute whom he could rely on as a friend.
Kramer had decided to move into the Cambria Hotel where Vic Dermott was to come later in the day. Kramer was losing his nerve. The fact that Dennison was taking an interest in his affairs upset him. Dennison was the last man Kramer wanted to be poking his nose into what he was doing. Kramer now began to wonder if he shouldn't take what money Dermott had already collected and clear the hell out of the country. By now, Dermott should have a million and a half dollars in cash. Kramer was trying to make up his mind whether to take the money and disappear and leave Zegetti and the Cranes to whistle for their share or go through with the original plan. He felt he just had to talk to Helene before he finally decided.
Baker came on the line. The time was a little after five o'clock in the afternoon.
“Phil . . . this is Jim,” Kramer said. “Something has blown up. Look, I'm relying on you as a friend. I want you to do something for me and I don't want you to ask questions. Will you do it for me?”
Obviously puzzled, Baker asked, “Where have you been? I missed a game because I waited for you.”
“I'm sorry, but I've got into a situation that needs a little handling,” Kramer said impatiently. “Will you do something for me? I want you to do it without a lot of questions.”
“Why, sure, Jim . . . anything.” Baker sounded now a little hurt. “What can I do?”
“Will you go out to my house and tell Helene to go to the club and telephone me at seven o'clock sharp? Will you do that for me?”
“Of course,” Baker said. “But I don't get it. Why don't you . . .?”
“I said no questions!” Kramer barked. “Will you or won't you do this for me?”
“I said I would, didn't I? You want me to see Helene and tell her to go to the club and call you at seven: right?”
“That's it.”
Kramer gave him the telephone number of the hotel.
“When I see you next week, I'll explain, but right now, this is something I don't want to go into. Okay, Phil?”
“Sure . . . I'll get over to your place in half an hour. You leave it to me.” There was a pause, then Baker said, “Jim . . . you're not in any trouble?”
“For God's sake, Phil! Do what I 'm asking you,” Kramer snarled. “I'll tell you about it next time we meet. So long for now,” and he hung up.
He sat, staring blankly out of the window, waiting. It was an interminable wait, but finally a few minutes to seven o'clock, Helene called him.
“Hi, lover,” Kramer said, forcing himself to sound gay. “How are things? Are you all right?”
There was a pause, then Helene said in a voice Kramer scarcely recognized, “Am I all right? How can you say such a thing? What's happening? Jim! What's going on? I have a right to know! Phil came out here . . . he looked at me as if I were some kind of a criminal. What is happening?”
Kramer felt a shooting pain in his left side as he said, “Relax, Helene. I want to talk to you without the Feds listening in. Don't you realize that they have tapped our line?”
“Why should they have tapped our line?” Helene demanded, her voice strident. “Why should they? Have you done something wrong? I don't know what you are talking about!”
Kramer moved restlessly in his chair. This was going to be tricky, he thought angrily. He had never heard Helene talk this way before.
“Skip it, Helene,” he said roughly. “I want to see you. The Feds will be tailing you. You'll have to lose them. You did it in the past: you can do it now. When you have lost them, I want you to come to the Cambria Hotel at Salinas. I'm staying here. Could be you and I are going on a long trip . . . could be, we're going to lose ourselves.”
There was a long silence over the line and Kramer got more irritated.
“Helene!”
“I 'm here. So you are in trouble.” Her voice had a note of despair that sent a chill through Kramer. “With all your money . . . how could you be so stupid?”
“Don't call me stupid!” Kramer exclaimed, outraged that his wife should say such a thing to him. “You don't know the half of it! Solly took all our money! The thieving son-of-a-bitch gambled the lot away . . . four million dollars! He stripped us clean!”
“Solly?” Helene's voice shot up. “Oh, no! Solly wouldn't do that to us? How could he?”
“Well, he did! But I'm getting the money back. Listen, Helene, you come out here and I'll explain everything. For Pete's sake, be careful how you come. You've got to lose whoever is tailing you . . . be sure you do that. Don't lead him to me here . . . do you understand?”
Again there was a long pause and Kramer, his face red, the pain in his side making him sweat, said “Helene! Are you still there?”
“Yes. I was thinking. So we haven't any more money?”
“That's it, but we will have. I'm working on a scheme that'll bring us in as much as we've lost. You come out here and I'll explain what's been happening.”
“No, Jim. I'm sorry, but I'm not coming. I'm getting old now. You're old too, Jim . . . far too old to move back into the rackets again. Come home. We'll work this thing out together. I'm not going to try to dodge Federal Officers at my time of life. Maybe it was fun fifteen years ago, but it won't be fun now. Come home, Jim. We'll work something out together.”
“We haven't any home,” Kramer said furiously. “Don't you lis
ten to what I'm telling you? We are stripped clean! I'm in something that will get us back as we were, but you have to come out here and join up with me. Now come on, but be very careful how you come.”
“I 'm not coming,” Helene said. “Years ago, we went through all this, but I'm not going through it now. I thought and hoped you and I were free of the rackets. I'm not coming. Goodbye, Jim. I'll manage somehow and I hope you will also manage. If you change your mind, if you drop whatever you're doing, then I'll be waiting, but otherwise, Jim, it's goodbye.”
The distinct click over the line as she hung up was like the slamming of a door that had, up to this moment, led into a few years of life that Kramer had enjoyed and had been proud of.
He jiggled the crossbar of the telephone, unable to believe that his wife had really hung up on him. Helene! A second-rate singer he had rescued from a third-rate nightclub . . . to have done such a thing to him! A woman to whom he had given wealth, position and social security! He couldn't believe it! Slowly, he replaced the receiver. He looked around the small, bleak room. He sat there for some time, sweating, a little frightened and in pain.
“Goodbye, Jim,” she had said.
There had been a final, I'm-finished-with-you note in her voice.
Slowly, Kramer got to his feet. He walked with heavy, plodding steps to his suitcase and took from it a bottle of whisky. He went into the bathroom and poured himself a stiff shot. He drank it without water, refilled the glass and then walked slowly back into the bedroom.
Helene! What would she do? There would be no money in the house. He thought of the mink stole he had promised her. What the hell did she imagine she was going to do without him?
The telephone bell rang, startling him so that he slopped whisky on the carpet. He put down the glass and picked up the telephone receiver.
“You asked to be told when Mr. Jack Howard arrived,” the reception clerk said. “He's just booked in: Room 135.”
“Thanks,” Kramer said and hung up. He finished his drink and lit a cigar. Room 135 would be on his floor: down the far end of the corridor. Dermott would have a million and a half in cash. What was he going to do? Kramer asked himself. Gould he really believe that Helene had said goodbye? If she meant it, then why should he stick around here? Why not take what there was of the ransom and get the hell out of here? Why should he bother his head about Moe and the Cranes?
1963 - One Bright Summer Morning Page 15