Manhunt. Volume 3, Number 2, February, 1955

Self-Defense by Harold Q. Masur

Richardson was a powerful man, Scott Jordan knew. And Jordan found out that powerful men scare just as easily as anybody else...

George Richardson was no assembly line product. He had a long straight body, compelling eyes, a precise mouth, a crisp voice, and the confident assurance of wealth. His hair was silver-grey, though he couldn’t have been more than forty-five years of age. He wore his clothes like a college boy and carried himself like a Senator.

He had emerged from his private office to give me a personal convoy. His handshake was quick, firm, and nervous. “Mr. Jordan,” he said. “Glad you came. I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted to see you.”

I nodded. I was not only wondering, I was damned curious, because the outfit that usually handled his law business was a firm of attorneys five names long, with two whole floors in a Wall Street skyscraper. Compared to them, my operation was peanuts.

“Sit down, Mr. Jordan.”

I sat in a wide leather chair and took in the surroundings. His office was paneled in Phillipine mahagony, with an original Gaugin on the wall and a priceless Sarouk on the floor. Anyone who thought the layout a little too fancy for a crass business enterprise would be right. George Richardson was not in business. His ancestors had saved him the bother. He maintained this office for the sole purpose of keeping an eye on his investments.

He planted his feet in front of me and I could see that he was under pressure. “Are you free to handle something for me, Jordan?” His voice was tight and so were his jaws.

“Why me?” I asked. “Why not your own lawyers?”

He shook his head impatiently. “Because they’re specialists; corporation law, probate, contracts. This is way out of their league.”

I sat back. “Tell me about it.”

“Here. Read this. It’s self-explanatory.”

He handed me a piece of paper. I unfolded it and read the message. The writer had used a pencil, printing in block letters.

I looked up at George Richardson. He was biting the bottom corner of his lip. “Andy is the son of your second wife?”

“Yes. I adopted him legally when I married Irene.”

“How old is he?”

“Four.”

“Where did you find this note?”

“In the morning mail.”

“May I see the envelope?”

He found it in the center drawer of his desk. The address was printed in pencil, same as the letter. It carried yesterday’s postmark and had been mailed somewhere in the Grand Central area. I wondered about the postmark. It was a new switch — since Andy was, apparently, still safe.

“What am I supposed to do, Jordan?”

“You’re supposed to notify the FBI.”

“I know... I know...” He was rubbing the creases in his forehead. “Can we afford to risk it? A boy’s life is at stake.”

I had no words for a moment, thinking it over. I didn’t like the responsibility of making a decision. Kidnappers are mean, vindictive, and inhuman. When a life is gone, nobody can bring it back. Resurrection is only a word in the Bible, unrecognized by the medical profession. George Richardson was watching me anxiously.

“Suppose we wait for the telephone call,” I said. “We can make our decision then.”

He nodded quickly. “I hope you don’t think I did wrong. I became a little panicky when I received the letter this morning and I gave into my first impulse. I went to the bank.”

“For the money?”

“Yes. I withdrew it in small denominations. Mixed serial numbers.”

“Where is it?”

He pointed to a bulging briefcase leaning against a corner of his desk.

“May I see it?”

“Certainly.”

One glance was enough. All that currency, neatly arranged and squared away, gave me an odd sensation. Pieces of engraved paper, that’s all, but what they represented was something else, a catalytic agent for most of the crimes committed on God’s green footstool.

I put it down. “I’m a lawyer, Mr. Richardson, not a private detective. Why did you pick on me?”

“Because of the way you handled the divorce for my first wife.” He managed a smile, half bitter, half wry. “Five hundred dollars a week alimony. That’s quite a bite, counselor. My own lawyers couldn’t cope with you. All right. I paid but I checked. I know your background, the kind of work you do. You have a talent for situations of this kind. I need your help.”

It sounded logical enough. I had nicked him plenty for Lydia, the beautiful, restless, petulant creature he had plucked out of the Copa line and married. Why he married her, I don’t know. She must have played her cards right. Probably it was the only way he could get her. The episode was brief but tempestuous, lasting six months. I got her the divorce and five hundred a week. Enough to maintain a penthouse, a convertible, and a boy friend.

The boy friend was Neil Corbin, a far more suitable mate. Lydia was out with him the night she died. Corbin had just brought her home after an extensive tour of the bistros along Fifty-second Street. He let her out at the front door and drove her car to the basement garage. Once upstairs, Lydia apparently went out to the terrace and lost her balance. It was fourteen stories down to the rear courtyard, paved in concrete. It seems she had misgauged her alcoholic capacity. The medical examiner found enough bourbon in her brain to float a ferry-boat.

The cops raked Neil Corbin over the coals. He had a very shady record and no visible means of support, except Lydia. But he stuck to his story. He didn’t know about the accident until after he reached the apartment.

It was water under the bridge now, almost a year old.

George Richardson broke into my thoughts. “Will you handle the money part of it for me, Jordan?”

“If you like. But I’m against paying off on the basis of threats alone. Make it that easy and he’s liable to try again, on you or someone else.”

“I can’t help it.” His jaw was out, bulldog stubborn. “I’ll worry about that when it happens. Right now, Andy’s safety comes first.”

“Have you thought of sending him away?”

“What good would it do? His home is here. I can’t keep him away forever.”

“Have you spoken to your wife about this?”

He gave me a startled look. “Of course not. She’d go to pieces.” He searched my face anxiously. “Do you think I should?”

“Let’s see what happens. In the meantime I’ve got some work to do. I’ll be at my office. Phone me as soon as you get your call. If it—”

He jumped as the phone rang. He was staring at it with his jaw loose. A muscle twitched under his left eye.

“It’s only three o’clock,” I said. “Answer it.”

He unbent an elbow at the handset and got it to his ear. There was an obstruction in his throat and he cleared it out before saying, “Hello.”

I could hear the diaphragm rattling in the receiver. The unintelligible words were squeak-edged and feverish, like a wire recorder running backwards at high speed. The blood dropped out of George Richardson’s face and he spoke in a hoarse, urgent voice.

“Listen, Irene. Do as I say. Sit tight. Don’t call a soul. Say nothing. I’ll be right home. Understand? Sit tight.”

He hung up slowly, automatically, and lifted his eyes. They were stunned.

I said sharply, “What is it?”

His fist landed hard on the desk. “They’ve done it. They’ve taken Andy.”

“How?”

“Nursery school.” He swallowed painfully. “They claim I phoned and said I was sending my car and chauffeur. I haven’t got a chauffeur. The man picked him up an hour ago. When my wife got there, Andy was gone.” He surged upright. “I must go to her.”

“It’s time for the FBI,” I said.

“No.” His voice was flat and emphatic. “I’ll pay first. We’ll call the FBI after Andy comes home.”

“It’s your decision,” I said. “Only make sure you’re at the telephone by six o’clock. Which nursery school did Andy attend?”

He told me the name and gave me the address. He had a tight grip on the briefcase and was buttoning his coat when I left.

A spinster named Matilda Kane was the school supervisor. There was nothing wrong with her that twenty-five pounds, properly distributed, and the companionship of an enthusiastic male couldn’t cure. Irene Richardson had instructed her to say nothing about the incident, so she phoned the Richardson apartment for a green light before talking. Then she looked at me, her eyes gravely troubled, waiting.

“Did you see the man who called for Andy?”

“Yes. He wore a thin black mustache, horn-rimmed glasses, and a chauffeur’s cap.”

“And the car he was driving?”

“A Chrysler convertible, light green, the same car Mrs. Richardson usually drove. He must have stolen it.”

“Could you identify the man if you saw him again?”

“Yes, I — think so.”

“How about Andy? He must have known his father didn’t have a chauffeur. Wasn’t he reluctant to go along?”

“Andy is a very trusting child.”

“Intelligent?”

“No more so than other four-year-olds.”

I started to leave. “Thank you, Miss Kane.”

“Will you let me know what happens as soon as possible?”

“Of course. But don’t blame yourself for lack of omniscience. You had no way of knowing.”

She shook her head, looking helpless. “I had spoken to Mr. Richardson several times on the phone. The kidnapper must have been someone who knew him well. He did a wonderful job of imitating Mr. Richardson’s voice.”

“The whole operation was neatly planned.”

But was it? Was it really planned as neatly as it looked? There seemed to be a flaw in the caper, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The letter I’d read kept bothering me.

I scouted the neighborhood, trying to find someone who might have seen a light green Chrysler convertible, chauffeur-driven. But cars are a familiar commodity and it had gone unnoticed.

Shortly after six, I phoned George Richardson and got through to him at once. He sounded grim. “I had my call, Jordan. The kidnapper demands action. Holding Andy is too much of a problem. He wants the money tonight.”

“What are your instructions?”

“He told me to walk slowly through Riverside Park at three A.M., carrying the money in a paper parcel. I’m to use the outer path between 72nd and 86th Street. His accomplice has the area under surveillance now, watching for anything suspicious. He’ll keep his eye on me all the time. If nobody is staked out along the route, if I’m not being followed, if no cars are around, he’ll make contact. If anything goes haywire, his partner will take care of Andy and blow. If the plan runs smoothly, we can expect Andy to be released within the hour somewhere in Manhattan.” He paused while static crackled over the wire. “Well, Jordan, what do you think?”

“I think you’d better follow instructions to the letter.”

“Of course.” There was no doubt in his mind that it was the only course.

“In the meantime,” I told him, “I suggest that you stay at your apartment and wait for my call.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. There isn’t anything we can do, except sit tight and see what happens.”

“I agree. Andy’s safety is paramount.”

“How is your wife?”

“Frightened. She wants me to thank you for any help you may render.”

“I’ll do my best.”

After we broke the connection, I decided to go home. The next shift might run till dawn or later and I needed rest. I wanted to feel fresh and alert. But closing my eyes failed to erase the picture from my brain. The picture of a four-year-old boy, violently snatched out of safe and familiar surroundings, petrified with fear, held by ruthless men.

They must have evaluated risks and consequences. The enormity of their crime was clear to them. Could they really be trusted to return Andy safe? Andy, an intelligent lad who might some day be in a position to identify them. How simple it would be to eliminate this danger! How easy to wipe away their tracks by killing the boy!

I sat up and abandoned the sofa. I walked stiff-legged around the apartment, feeling impotent, angry with frustration. I thought of the FBI. They had the men, the facilities, the organization. I almost reached for the telephone, but swallowed the impulse, because the scales here were too delicately balanced. We were dealing with jittery and desperate men, their nerves honed to a fine edge, and a single misstep might tip the weights. Kidnapping, a Federal offense, is punishable by death. They had nothing more to lose. Anything might blow the cork, cause them to dump the boy and haul freight.

It was shortly after midnight when I presented myself at the Richardson apartment, on Beekman Place overlooking the East River. I found Irene Richardson to be a tall slender patrician woman with anguished eyes in a drawn face lacking color, fighting to keep herself under control. The muscles in her neck were pulled taut, like the strings of a badly tuned cello. She leaned heavily on her husband’s arm, not trusting her own voice. Then it came, in a broken appeal, pleading for help and assurance.

“Do you think Andy is safe?”

I caught a warning glint from the man at her side. An hysterical woman on our hands at this time would be a needless handicap.

“Yes,” I said.

“He must be so terribly frightened.”

“Children are very resilient, Mrs. Richardson. He’ll forget all this fast enough once he’s home safe.”

She closed her eyes as if in prayer. “Dear Lord, I hope so.”

She permitted her husband to lead her out of the room. He reappeared a moment later, his jaw set. “All right, Jordan,” he rumbled. “Let’s go.”

I shook my head. “It’s too early. If your apartment is being watched, it may make them suspicious.”

He nodded and began wearing out the rug, pacing restlessly, champing at the bit, a man driven to the limits of his endurance. He paused at a mirror-covered bar, poured a stiff brandy, and tossed it off, not offering me any. Because of the strain he was under, I forgave his lapse of manners. I would have refused anyway, since alcohol and emergencies don’t mix well.

A pack of cigarettes later, I glanced at my strap watch and said, “It’s almost time. I don’t think we should be seen leaving together. I’ll go out first. Follow me in about twenty minutes.”

“Where will you be?”

“At the midway mark. I’ll take up a position at West End and 79th, the northeast corner. Don’t come near me until it’s all over. Got that straight?”

“Yes.”

I said, “Good luck,” and left him chewing the inside of his cheek.

At three A.M., in that neighborhood, the streets were deserted. Overhead, the moon hung like an open porthole in the sky. Against it, the solid mass of buildings was a black silhouette, stretching endlessly. Each intersection was an island bathed in lemon-yellow light, with colored overtones from the traffic signals. An occasional car hissed past, tires humming.

A forgotten cigarette smoked itself between my lips. The luminous hands on my watch continued their slow arc. It was four A.M. and no sign yet of George Richardson.

I pictured him walking slowly and painfully along the outer path of Riverside Park, eyes piercing the darkness, nerves attuned to any interruption, while a boy’s life hung in the balance.

A car roared through the night. Twin headlamps came hurtling up the street. Tires screamed as the brakes were suddenly clamped near where I stood and a taxi ground to a jolting halt in front of me. The door opened and George Richardson beckoned.

I climbed in and settled beside him. He was wound up tighter than a dollar watch.

“Where to, Mac?” the driver said.

“Head downtown.” Richardson’s fingers curled around my arm. His eyes were burning and he spoke in a hoarse, barely controlled whisper. “The man came. He picked me up near 81st Street.”

“Was he alone?”

“I think so, yes. He pulled alongside in a car and called my name. I went over and he said, ‘Give me the package.’ I handed it to him and he stepped on the gas.” The fingers tightened on my sleeve, nails digging in. “I got his license number, Jordan. 6Y 46–07. Can you find out who he is?”

“Yes, when the license bureau opens, providing the car isn’t stolen.”

“We must get Andy back first.”

“That goes without saying.”

“What do we do now?”

“We wait and see if they keep their promise.”

He shook his head. “On the telephone, the man said they’d let Andy go somewhere in Manhattan. How do we know where to find him?”

“We don’t. Most probably some cop will pick the boy up and call your apartment.”

“Then let’s go back.” He leaned forward and gave the driver his address.

Irene Richardson was waiting for us. She got the answer from her husband’s eyes, took a shuddering breath, and went to prepare a pot of coffee. We commenced the vigil in silence. George sat with his eyes straight ahead, fixed and unblinking. The woman kept working her fingers together, jumping nervously at every sound, watching the telephone, as if willing it to ring.

By five-thirty the clutch was slipping. Suddenly she broke training and was on her feet, chin out of control. “I... I can’t stand it... Why don’t they call? Where is he? Oh, Andy... Andy—”

Her husband got her down on the sofa again, stroking her hands.

I said, “These things take time, Mrs. Richardson.”

But the delay bothered me. I didn’t like it. There was no reason for it, unless the kidnappers had decided on a double-cross. The same thought must have entered Richardson’s mind, for he threw me an angry look, bleak and cold.

Another hour and dawn crept through the window in a soiled gray smudge. Traffic noises began rumbling in the street below. The woman had her face in her hands now, sobbing quietly, shoulders convulsed.

At nine-thirty I went to the telephone and put a call through to a man I knew in the license bureau. I gave him the number and waited while he checked. He got the information and I thanked him.

George Richardson was beside me, gripping my sleeve. “Well?”

“A man named Steve Ballou owns the car. He lives on the west side, near Tenth Avenue. I don’t know whether the car was stolen or not.”

“Can you find out?”

“Yes.” I dialed Homicide West and got through to Detective-Lieutenant John Nola.

“Well, counselor,” he said, genuinely pleased. “A pleasure. Haven’t heard from you in several months. What cooks on the legal front?”

“The usual,” I said. “Will you do me a favor, John?”

“What?”

“I’d like to know if a certain car was stolen.”

“That’s not my department, but I’ll find out for you. Give me the registration number.”

“6Y 46–07.”

It didn’t take long and a moment later his voice was back in my ear. “Got it, counselor. No larceny reported.”

“One thing more, Lieutenant. Will you have someone check the files on a character named Steve Ballou? I’d like to know if he has a record.”

“Can do. Will call you back.”

George Richardson literally bit his fingernails in the interim. When the phone rang, he grasped the handset and said hoarsely, “Yes?” His face fell and he handed me the instrument.

It was Nola. “Here it is, Scott. Steve Ballou, four times arrested, one conviction, served a term at Sing Sing, released three years ago.”

“Known associates?” I asked.

“Seems to be a lone operator. His cellmate up the river was Neil Corbin. They roomed together for a brief time after Corbin was paroled. And that’s about it.”

“Thank you, John.”

“Good luck, counselor.” He broke the connection.

George Richardson said, “Did he — what is it, man? For heaven’s sake, what’s wrong?”

“A lead,” I said. “Ballou and Neil Corbin are friends.”

“Corbin?” His gaping eyes were bright with conjecture.

“Your first wife’s boy friend. The man who brought her home the night she was killed.”

“He took Andy?”

“One of them did.”

A nerve bulged and twitched in his temple. He swung decisively on his heel and stalked from the room. He came back jamming a loaded clip into the heel of an automatic. He handled it well, with a neat economy of motion.

“Took this from a dead German colonel,” he said. “Know how to use it, too.”

“Oh, no,” his wife wailed, “please, George...”

He ignored her. “All right, Jordan, let’s roll.”

“We ought to have some help on this.”

“No time for explanations. Let’s go.”

I followed him down and we took a cab to Ballou’s address. It was an ancient brownstone in a seedy neighborhood. Ballou’s apartment was on the third floor.

“All right,” George said, “here’s the program.” His voice was incisive, no longer irresolute, and I sensed a subtle change in our relationship. He was leading now, the bloodhound on a scent. “You stand back and to one side, Jordan. I’ll ring the bell. If he turns the latch, hit the door hard. We’ll take these goons by surprise.”

I nodded and we went up. There was a tiny peephole in Ballou’s door. I had a feeling the place was deserted, but I braced myself nevertheless. Richardson stood close and rang the bell. There was a long pause. No sound from within, no sound at all.

His finger depressed the button again. Then I heard the latch slide back. The door started to open and I hit it hard. I caught it squarely with my shoulder, almost tearing the hinges off. It struck the man behind it, slamming him back. He caught his balance with a frantic shuffle, eyes staring wildly in his head and I recognized him then, Neil Corbin. His angular face was white and desperate. Panic flooded his eyes.

I saw his hand flash under his lapel and heard Richardson’s shout, “Duck, Jordan, duck!”

But I wasn’t fast enough and the gun jumped into Corbin’s hand. It was a Smith & Wesson, caliber .38, and the gaping barrel looked like an open doorway to hell. I threw myself flat as it thundered and my ears were ringing instantly from the concussion.

I heard a nasty slap that wrung a bleat of pain from Richardson’s throat, and Neil Corbin ducked out of the foyer into the living room.

I grabbed the automatic and snaked along the floor to the archway. Neil Corbin had taken to his heels and was racing toward the kitchen. I went after him and when I got there his head was out of the window and he was pulling his leg through to the fire escape.

“Corbin!” I yelled. “Hold it!”

He swiveled and pumped out two blind shots. The slugs bit viciously into the plaster behind me. I saw the searing venom in his eyes as he sighted more carefully and heard Richardson shout behind me. I turned to see him point the gun at Corbin. The shot caught Corbin in the chest and he tumbled over backward, legs flying awkwardly.

I knew he was finished and I didn’t bother with him. I went back through the living room and found another door and opened it. A small boy was on the bed, trussed hand and foot, a strip of adhesive tape covering his mouth. From the numb, inanimate look in his eyes I knew that he’d been drugged. I untied him and gently removed the tape from his lips.

George Richardson staggered into the room behind me. His gun was in his hand. “Andy!” he said. “Andy, boy!”

We caught hell, both of us, from the Police Department and from the FBI. Lieutenant Nola, especially, went after my hide. It took all morning and most of the afternoon to get the story told and everything cleaned up. George Richardson’s wound was not serious and he was able to navigate under his own power.

When he finally had me alone, the Lieutenant said dourly, “We bust cops from the force for going it alone. You know better than that, Scott. And another thing, you and Richardson left Neil Corbin out on that fire escape wedged between a couple of rungs. Innocent pedestrians can get hurt that way. Don’t ever do it again.”

“How about Steve Ballou?” I said. “Any chance of nailing him?”

“Ballou is out of it. He had permission from his parole officer to leave the state. He works for a plumbing outfit and he’s in Ohio, driving around to see their midwest accounts. Corbin worked this out alone. He must have gotten a lot of information from Lydia Richardson before she was killed.”

“That ties it up then.”

“Just about, except for two items; a Sullivan Law violation against Mr. Richardson for possession of that Mauser automatic he used — although I doubt if the D.A. will press the charge.”

“And the second item?”

“The money. One hundred grand. Corbin hid it somewhere. We took the place apart and couldn’t find it.”

“That’s something to look for. Maybe Richardson can still use my services.”

“Yeah.” Nola shuffled some papers on his desk. “Sorry, lad. Reports to make out. Keep your nose clean.”

My muscles ached with exhaustion. I was saturated with weariness, but I walked anyway, because the past twenty-four hours kept whirling through my brain in brief kaleidoscopic flashes.

The ransom money kept hounding me. And then, quite suddenly, I had a pretty good idea where it was, and I stopped off at a drug store and patronized the phone booth, and put a call through to George Richardson’s apartment. His wife answered, sounding exultant, and she thanked me effusively. Her husband was at his office, working late.

I quit the store and flagged a cab.

A light was burning behind the frosted glass door of Richardson’s office. He glanced up as I entered and flashed me a gleaming white smile, extending his left hand because his right arm was in a sling. This time he remembered his manners and offered me a drink.

I took it, since I did not expect to get any fee for handling the case.

“You did a fine job of work, Jordan. Fine. I’m delighted.”

“How’s Andy?”

“Coming along fine. He was under drugs most of the time and hardly remembers a thing.” Richardson opened a desk drawer and pulled out a check book. He flipped it open and uncapped a fountain pen. “I’d like to show my appreciation, Jordan, by doubling your usual fee.”

“The case isn’t closed yet. I’d like to find the ransom money first.”

“But where can you look?”

“Right here,” I said. “Somewhere in this office.”

The smile slid off his face and he sat up sharply, staring at me with a queer puckered look in his eyes. “I... what do you mean?”

“I mean that you never gave it to Corbin, that he never appeared at the park, that the package you carried last night was a phoney stuffed with worthless paper which you tossed into the bushes somewhere.”

“You must be crazy!”

“Yeah. Like a fox. That whole kidnapping was a sham, conceived and staged by you, a dodge, dust in the eyes, to conceal your true motive.”

“Which was?”

“To murder Neil Corbin. To kill him in front of a witness, apparently in self-defense.”

He bent forward stiffly, the muscles in his face rigid. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Then let me spell it out. Neil Corbin was blackmailing you. He probably saw you leaving your first wife’s apartment the night she was killed and he guessed that she hadn’t fallen, that you must have pushed her. He may even have found some evidence to prove it, something you struck her over the head with, bearing your fingerprints, which he hid. He never told the cops, oh, no, not Corbin, there’d be no profit in that. But he told you. He told you and made it pay off.”

A strained laugh, short and mirthless. “I don’t understand. Why would I kill Lydia?”

“Because of five hundred dollars a week alimony. Twenty-six grand a year. Add it up over a ten year period. Over a quarter of a million. She had no intention of marrying Corbin and relinquishing her income. There was no way of getting off the nut. You’d have to pay and pay and pay. So you decided to have it out with Lydia and waited at her apartment that night. Maybe you tried to make a cash settlement and she laughed in your face. Maybe you lost your head and struck her with a bookend and then had to cover up by dropping her over the ledge.

“You gained nothing, however, because Corbin saw you as he left the garage, and you started paying again. Then you had a bright idea. You dreamed up a scheme. You offered Corbin a lump sum, and probably told him you’d have to get the money from your wife, and that the only way to work it would be through her son Andy. You said you would lend him your car and call the school. You promised to get the money and deliver it to him and bring Andy back. You told him no one else would be involved, the cops would not be notified. And he believed you because you were personally involved.

“You wrote the ransom note yourself, mailed it yourself, and called me in. You arranged for us to find Corbin with the boy and you shot him when we broke into the apartment. There was a peephole in the door and he would have opened it for no one but you. He was expecting you to bring him the money.”

Beads of moisture had formed along Richardson’s upper lip. “Guesswork,” he said hoarsely. “All guesswork; you said so yourself.”

“Up to that point, yes,” I said. “But the rest of it we can prove.”

The inner edges of his eyebrows drew together questioningly. “How?”

“You gave me the license number of Ballou’s car. But that car is somewhere in Ohio with its owner and couldn’t possibly be in New York. The woman at Andy’s school thought she recognized your voice. She certainly did, because it actually was your voice. And no professional kidnapper would have written a letter first and then taken the boy. But it made no difference to you because you were in control of the situation at all times. You had no intention of calling the FBI or letting anyone else interfere.”

“Look, Jordan. If I wanted to kill Neil Corbin, why didn’t I just do it when nobody was around?”

“Because you didn’t want to start a homicide investigation. You were afraid the police would find his bank deposits and start looking for their source. They might tie him up to you through Lydia. His deposits would coincide with your withdrawals. No, sir, it was better this way. Involve him in a kidnapping and shoot him in cold blood. You’d be a hero.”

Richardson’s tongue coiled slowly over his lips. “It’s a flimsy case. They can’t convict me.”

“Not so flimsy,” I said. “There’s plenty of corroboration, especially when they find the ransom money hidden right here in your office.”

He swallowed hugely and his eyes kindled with desperate hope. He was grasping at straws. “Corbin is dead. Nobody can place me near Lydia’s apartment the night she fell.” But he didn’t believe it himself. I waited, watching.

I don’t know what he was trying to prove, but suddenly he snatched a letter opener off his desk, and lunged at me. I had to twist him plenty before he subsided.

The way he looked now, I wasn’t sure he’d ever live long enough for the State of New York to strap him down and deliver the proper voltage.

I figured he was due for a heart attack any minute, maybe before the boys arrived.