Not My Thing

6

When Jamison had left Kling, he drove up to the highway and headed towards the city. The heavy traffic irritated him. He wanted a long pause to think, so, at the next layby, he pulled in and cut the car engine. He leaned back in the car and lit a cigarette.

A shrapnel bomb!

This man Kling was a true professional! Who would have thought of such a perfect solution but a true professional?

He nodded to himself. An ingenious idea! No one would suspect him. At that early hour of 08.30, when the service would be over, there would be few, if anyone, passing the church. Kling was a professional. He was sure either to disguise himself or to make certain not to be seen when he threw the bomb.

Not for one moment did Jamison consider those people who would be wiped out as they stood in the church doorway, shaking hands and listening to the priest’s blessing.

He thought about Kling. That lean, evil face! Jamison was sure that, given the money, Kling would rid him of Shannon.

On Friday morning, he would be free! He would telephone Tarnia in Rome and gently break the news that Shannon was no more. He would tell her of what a terrible shock it had been to him that this brutal assassination had happened, involving Shannon.

Thinking, looking back, he now regretted not calling in a professional killer long before this. Next month, he would be fifty years of age, which was not the best time in a man’s life to raise a family, but, he thought, better late than never.

Friday!

He then thought he would be faced with forty-eight hours before Kling went into action.

The thought of spending these long, tense hours under the same roof as Shannon, knowing she would be dead on Friday, became unthinkable.

No!

He decided he would fly to NYC on the excuse of urgent business. That was the solution, he told himself. He would be in his New York office when the bomb exploded. He would rush back to Paradise City, but during the inevitable delay the police would have cleared up the remains. He hoped he wouldn’t have to identify Shannon, shattered by shrapnel. He would return as the stricken husband.

He looked at his watch. The time was just after 13.00. There was a flight from Miami to New York at 15.30. He set the car in motion and drove fast to his villa.

As he pulled up, he saw Conklin dusting the Rolls.

‘You are to drive me to the airport in half an hour,’ he barked. ‘Then return this car to the Hertz people.’

As he entered the lobby of the villa, he found Smyth waiting.

‘Pack me a bag: no tuxedo,’ he snapped. ‘I am leaving for New York. I will be away until Friday afternoon,’ and he walked into his study.

‘Perhaps lunch, sir?’ Smyth asked.

‘Nothing! I am leaving for New York in half an hour!’ and Jamison slammed the door.

There happened to be some unimportant business that he could discuss with his directors. It would provide an excuse to break his vacation. He got the files from his drawer and put them in his briefcase. His mind was now only on Tarnia, far away in Rome. The mother of his future son! He longed to telephone her, to tell her, that by Friday he would be free to marry her, but he knew this would be too dangerous. He must contain his impatience. When Shannon was dead… then was the time!

A tap on the door made him look up, scowling. Then Shannon entered the room and closed the door behind her.

The last person he wanted to see! Staring at her, he had to admit she was beautiful, and he felt an odd sick qualm run through him to think this beautiful woman, by Friday morning, would be blown to pieces.

‘Ah, Shannon…’ he said, forcing a smile.

‘I want to talk to you,’ she said. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

He lifted his hands in a gesture of bogus despair.

‘I’m afraid so. I have this merger coming up, and I am leaving for New York immediately.’ He was irritated to hear how husky his voice sounded. ‘I’m sorry, Shannon. I have a lot on my mind.’

‘I too have a lot on my mind,’ Shannon said quietly. She didn’t come further into the room, but stood, looking directly at him. ‘I want to discuss it with you. I have decided we can’t go on living like this. I want a legal separation.’

He regarded her, his eyes cold. A separation? Well, yes, they would be separated forever on Friday morning, but not the way she was thinking.

By Friday, this wife of his, asking for a legal separation, would be dead!

‘I must go,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘We will discuss this Friday night. I’ll keep Friday night clear. Let’s have dinner together here, and we’ll talk about the future. You will want to know how you stand if you leave me, won’t you?’

She studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment and Jamison was dismayed how his heart fluttered and his hands turned clammy.

He was thinking: there will be no dinner and no discussion. By Friday morning, you will have no future to discuss with me.

‘Very well, Sherman, then Friday night,’ she said. ‘I won’t keep you,’ and, turning, she left the room.

Jamison took out his handkerchief and wiped his damp hands.

Smyth tapped and entered.

‘The Rolls is waiting, sir. I have your bag.’

Jamison found he had to make an effort to get to his feet. He found he lurched slightly as he walked by Smyth. He hoped he wasn’t going to have further trouble with his heart condition which his doctors had assured him was only due to overwork. This last and forever meeting with Shannon, knowing she would be dead very soon, appeared to have made a bigger impact on his ruthless nerves than he had bargained for.

He paused in the doorway, stiffened his shoulders, then walked steadily down the marble steps to the waiting Rolls.

Lucan found Kling lounging in the sun outside his cabin. The time was 18.00.

Kling raised his hand as Lucan, smiling, sank down on a lounging-chair by his side.

‘Did you fix it, Lucky?’ Kling asked.

Lucan had been given Jamison’s five thousand dollars, plus another five thousand dollars, supplied by Kling, to pay Lucy Loveheart’s deposit. He had seen her, handed over the money, and had been given the key to the Whipping room.

‘No problems, Ernie.’ Lucan handed the key to Kling. ‘That’s it. I’ve done my stint. It’s now up to you. You have the room for two weeks. When will you pay her?’

‘Don’t worry your head about that,’ Kling said. ‘I’ll fix it.’ He smiled. ‘I’m a great little fixer.’

Lucan became alarmed.

‘Ernie, for God’s sake, don’t try to double-cross Lucy. She’s tougher than teak and she draws big clout in this city. You’re not planning…?’

‘Oh, relax, Lucky. She’ll get her money.’

‘How about my money?’ Lucan demanded, sitting forward. ‘Have you fixed my Swiss account?’

Kling flicked ash off his cigarette.

‘We haven’t got the ransom yet, have we?’

‘But you’ll fix it?’

‘Sure. Just relax. You’re almost within reach of a half a million,’ Kling said. ‘That should give you sweet dreams.’

‘Almost?’ Lucan’s voice shot up. ‘What do you mean? Our arrangement was as soon as I found you a safe-house, I’d get the money. What’s this ‘almost’ thing?’

‘Look, Lucky, I have first to case the joint.’ Kling regarded the key Lucan had given him. ‘I’ll have an unconscious woman on my hands. I have to get her up to this room, and it’s got to be done fast and smooth.’ He got to his feet. ‘So you and I will go take a look at the setup. I want to know the lay-out.’

‘There’s no problem,’ Lucan said, beginning to sweat. ‘There’s an underground garage. You drive in. You’ll see an elevator on your left. You go up to the top floor. You have the key. No one will see you. That’s it, Ernie.’

‘Sounds great,’ Kling said. ‘Okay, let’s take a long look, huh?’

An hour later, Kling, who had surveyed the scene and was satisfied, patted Lucan on his shoulder.

‘Okay, Lucky. You’ve done a good job. Now, you stick around. I may need you. Just stay within reaching call,’ and he walked into his cabin, firmly closing the door.

Ng was waiting. He came into the living-room.

‘I have prepared curried prawns and a mixed salad for dinner, sir,’ Ng said. ‘Would that please you?’

‘Great.’ Kling sank into one of the lounging-chairs. ‘Give me a drink.’

When Ng had given him a Scotch, Kling regarded him.

‘Are you any good at lifting a car, kid?’

‘You mean steal a car, sir?’

‘Yeah.’

Ng nodded.

‘No problem, sir.’

‘Right. Tomorrow morning at six, I want you to get a car and bring it here. Take it from some over-night car park. Together, we’ll handle this kidnap job. It’ll be dead easy. The woman goes to church at seven thirty. The plan is to stop her as she leaves.’ Kling sipped his drink. ‘I want you to cope with her. I want her unconscious. Can you fix that, kid?’

Ng nodded.

‘Yes, sir. No problem, sir.’

Kling laughed.

‘There are times, kid, when you kill me. Nothing’s anything of a problem to you, is it?’

Ng stared at him, his eyes bewildered.

‘Should it, sir?’

‘Okay.’ Kling shrugged. ‘Suppose we eat? Smells fine.’

Five minutes later, the killer and his slave were eating a big dish of curried prawns with rice, fried bananas and red peppers.

‘Kid, you certainly know how to cook!’ Kling said as he shovelled food into his mouth.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘How would you like to own half a million dollars?’ Kling asked abruptly.

Ng paused, his loaded fork hovering before his mouth while he stared at Kling.

‘A half a million dollars? Who wants all that money?’

Kling ate some more, then said, ‘Money buys a hell of a lot of fun, kid. With half a million tucked up your jersey, you could live well, you wouldn’t have to slave for me, you could have girls, you could have a ball.’

Ng made a little grimace.

‘I wouldn’t like that, sir. If you are offering me all this money, I thank you, but I don’t need it. I want to be with you. I don’t need money.’

What a character! Kling thought.

‘How about your mother, kid?’

‘Perhaps if you would let me have no more than three thousand dollars, I could make her more comfortable, but no more.’ Ng ran his fingers through his thick, black hair. ‘My mother is difficult, sir. She thinks I am a houseboy, working for you.’ He looked up and stared earnestly at Kling. ‘And that’s what I am. I want her to be sure of that, sir. I can tell her you won a big bet and insisted on giving me three thousand dollars, so I give it to her. That she would accept. She is difficult.’

Kling shrugged, then pushed away his chair.

‘Okay, kid. That was a great meal. Tomorrow at six o’clock, I want a car here. We’ll drive to Jamison’s villa and pick up the woman. Got it?’

‘Of course, sir,’ Ng said, and began to clear the dishes while Kling wandered over to the TV set and turned it on.

Arriving at the La Guardia airport, Jamison took a taxi to the Waldorf-Astoria hotel where he was received with bows and smiles.

On the flight up, he had decided not to return to his NYC apartment, although there would be servants there to look after him. The apartment would hold too many lingering memories of Shannon who had made it one of the most luxurious, comfortable homes he had ever lived in.

It was too late now to go to the office. He would go there in the morning for a brief visit before returning to Paradise City.

Sitting in the comfortable living-room of the hotel suite, he sipped a vodka martini which the waiter had served. His mind shifted to Tarnia. He had an irresistible urge to talk to her. Glancing at his watch, he calculated it would be 01.00 in Rome. She would be in bed, but, he was sure, glad to hear his voice.

Picking up the telephone receiver, he told the operator to connect him with Miss Tarnia Lawrence at the Excelsior Hotel, Rome.

A twenty-minute wait tore at his nerves. Finally, the operator told him that Miss Lawrence had checked out that morning and had left no forwarding address.

Jamison felt a spasm of frustrated rage as he slammed down the receiver.

What was happening? Where had Tarnia gone? Then he remembered that this bloody couturier had told her he would lend her an apartment. She must have moved there!

He finished the martini and poured himself another from the big cocktail shaker. He looked at his watch again. The time was 19.00. In less than fourteen hours, Shannon would be dead and he would be free!

Then he remembered that as soon as the bomb had exploded, the police, Smyth, his friends, would want to contact him. It would take a little time before the news hit the headlines of the newspapers.

He snatched up the telephone receiver and told the operator to connect him with his villa in Paradise City. After some minutes’ delay, he heard Smyth’s voice: ‘This is Mr Jamison’s residence.’

‘Any messages for me?’ Jamison barked.

‘No, sir.’

‘I am staying at the Waldorf-Astoria for the night,’ Jamison said. ‘I will be returning on the four o’clock flight. Tell Conklin to meet me at the airport.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘We will be dining in, Smyth. Prepare a decent dinner. Is Mrs Jamison there?’

‘No, sir. Mrs Jamison left half an hour ago. I believe she is attending a concert.’

Thank God for that! Jamison thought. To have to talk to Shannon would, he felt, be too much for his jumping nerves.

‘If anything important turns up, you can reach me at the hotel until 09.30. Then at my office.’

‘I understand, sir.’

Jamison hung up.

That takes care of that! he thought. Now what was he going to do? He thought of those bleak hours ahead of him. The club? The thought of talking to his various friends with this thing hanging over him was impossible. A movie? A woman? Impossible!

If he could only talk to Tarnia, he felt sure he would be able to relax. Tomorrow, he must find out the telephone number where she was staying.

Getting to his feet, he began to pace around the room. Tomorrow at eight thirty! Another twelve hours!

He remembered he hadn’t had lunch and although not feeling hungry, he rang room service and ordered a plate of chicken sandwiches and another shaker of martinis. He continued to pace, thinking of Tarnia until the waiter brought the sandwiches and shaker. He poured himself another drink and ate two of the sandwiches. As he continued to pace up and down, a thought dropped into his mind that made him pause.

Just suppose Tarnia changed her mind about giving up her career and marrying him. Just suppose this couturier had persuaded her to remain in Rome. The thought brought him out in a clammy sweat. He remembered Tarnia’s lack of enthusiasm when he had said, as soon as the divorce went through, she would become his wife. Had he imagined this? No! This was dangerous and stupid thinking! He was sure she loved him, sure that she wanted to give him children.

If I’m going to spend the night in this state, I’ll go out of my mind, he told himself.

Sleeping-pills!

That was the answer! Oblivion until the morning when Smyth or the police would tell him Shannon was no more and he was free.

Forcing his mind to remain blank, he undressed, took a hot shower, then four sleeping-pills which he always travelled with. His usual dose was one pill, but he wanted to be sure that he would sleep through the night. Getting into bed, he turned off the light.

In the dark, his mind came alive again. Suppose the temptation of continuing her brilliant career would prove too much for Tarnia. He was so much older than she was. Suppose she met a man of her own age, and he interested her, sharing the same talents. Suppose… suppose…

The sleeping-pills took charge of him and he drifted off into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

The persistent ring of the telephone bell by his bedside brought him awake. For a few seconds, he didn’t know where he was, then his razor-sharp mind clicked into action. He looked at the bedside clock. The time was 08.55.

This was it! Here was the news that he was longing to hear! Shannon was dead and he was free!

He threw off the bedclothes, swung his feet to the floor and snatched up the receiver.

The hotel operator said, ‘Your butler, Mr Jamison, is asking to speak to you. I hope I didn’t disturb you.’

God! The way these creeps sucked up when you had money! Jamison thought, then snapped, ‘Put him through!’

There was a click, then Smyth said, ‘Mr Jamison?’

‘Yes… yes! What is it?’

‘Mr Jamison, I have very bad news for you,’ Smyth said, and Jamison could hear Smyth’s voice was shaking.

‘What is it?’ he barked, thinking, so at last I am free to marry Tarnia!

‘I fear Mrs Jamison has been kidnapped,’ Smyth said. ‘It would certainly appear so.’

Jamison’s heart skipped a beat, then began to pound. Kidnapped! What was this old fool drivelling about? Maybe he was trying to break the news that Shannon had been blown to pieces by a bomb.

‘Kidnapped?’ he shouted. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Perhaps, sir, I should tell you what has happened.’

‘For Christ’s sake, tell me!’

‘Well, sir, Mrs Jamison left here for church at her usual time. Conklin observed her driving down the drive until he lost sight of her at the bend. At eight thirty, he walked down the drive and found Mrs Jamison’s car parked in the middle of the drive, near the gates which were closed, but Mrs Jamison was not in the car. Conklin telephoned me from the lodge and I immediately joined him. I found a piece of paper under one of the windshield-wipers.’

‘Get on with it!’ Jamison snarled.

‘On this paper, sir, was a typewritten message. I have it here,’ Smyth said, huskily.

‘Get on with it, for Christ’s sake!’

‘Yes, sir. The message reads, ‘Jamison, your wife has been kidnapped. If you want to see her alive, don’t alert the police nor do anything smart until you hear from us at eight o’clock tonight’. That’s all, sir.’

In his long life, Jamison had faced many tricky situations. His mind, trained over the years, was geared to cope with emergencies.

‘Right, Smyth!’ he snapped. ‘Do nothing! Understand? Move the car back to the garage and wait for my arrival.’ He had so often travelled to and fro from Miami to New York he knew the flight schedules by heart. ‘I will catch the eleven-thirty flight. Tell Conklin to meet me at the airport,’ and he hung up.

It would be a race to catch that flight. Without bothering to shave or shower, Jamison scrambled into his clothes, refusing to think what had happened. It wasn’t until he was seated in the aircraft, taking off for Miami, that he surveyed the situation.

A gyp!

He realized he had been double-crossed. His fists clenched. This is what comes, he thought, of dealing with a Mafia crook! Kidnapped! So now the price would be enormous. Well, he thought, I have all the money in the world, and I will pay, so long as I am certain that I will be free of Shannon. Any money paid out would be worth my being free!

The air hostess brought him a flacon of coffee. While he was drinking the coffee, his hard, ruthless face creased into an unpleasant smile.

Jamison, he told himself, you have been out-smarted. You stupidly led with your chin, and you’ve taken a sock, but not a knock-out sock.

He remembered a cliché so often used by his father: He who laughs last laughs best. Okay, Mr Kling, he thought. I’ll fix you, and I’ll fix that stinking creep, Lucan. First, I must examine the scene. I am not Sherman Jamison for nothing!

Then he thought of Tarnia. There would be no telephone call to her to tell her he was free. His mind shifted to the note that Kling had left in the car: If you want to see her back alive, don’t alert the police. The last thing he wanted was to see Shannon alive. All the same, he must keep the police out of this. First, he must know what ransom Kling would be demanding. He thought of Smyth and Conklin. He would have to convince them that he knew what he was doing. They were stupid, but devoted to Shannon, but he felt certain he could overawe them.

He poured himself another cup of coffee and relaxed back in his seat, his mind busy, as the plane winged him back to Miami.

Lepski sat at his desk, his eyes clock watching. In another ten minutes he would sign off and go home. He had promised Carroll to take her to a movie and then out to dinner. Why women wanted to be taken to some stinking movie and then eat out when it was much more comfortable sitting at home defeated Lepski, but that’s the way women are made, he told himself.

He was thumbing through a book of comics, having had a dull, uneventful day, when his telephone bell rang.

Reluctantly, Lepski lifted the receiver.

‘Charlie here,’ a voice told him. ‘I’ve a kid who wants to see the best detective on the force, so I thought of you.’ Charlie Tanner was the desk sergeant whose job was to sort out the goats from the sheep, and also supply Beigler with coffee. ‘Do you want to see him?’

Lepski looked at his watch. The time was now close on his checking-out time: 18.00.

‘What’s he want?’

‘He says he has an important statement to make, but he won’t talk to anyone but the best detective on the force.’ There was a suppressed gurgling sound as Charlie Tanner smothered a laugh. ‘Do I send him up?’

‘What are you sniggering about, Charlie?’ Lepski snarled. ‘If this kid wants to talk to the best detective on the force, then goddamn send him up,’ and Lepski slammed down the receiver.

The boy who walked up to Lepski’s desk was around ten years of age, remarkably fat, well dressed with a moon-shaped face, ornamented by big glasses.

‘You Mr Lepski?’ he demanded, his voice surprisingly confident.

‘That’s me,’ Lepski said, pushing his hat to the back of his head. He always made a habit of wearing his hat when at his desk. He imagined it gave him a tough, movie-like appearance.

‘The fink downstairs said you were the best detective on the force. Right?’ the fat boy said.

Lepski smirked.

‘That’s a fact, sonny. So what?’

‘I want to make a statement about a serious crime.’

‘Is that right? Now look, sonny, I’m busy. What do you call a serious crime?’

‘Kidnapping,’ the fat boy said.

Lepski gaped at him.

‘Kidnapping? What are you talking about?’

‘That’s a serious crime, isn’t it?’

‘Sure. Kidnapping, huh?’ Lepski lifted his hat, scratched his head and replaced his hat. ‘Now listen, sonny, if you’re wasting my time, I could make it rough for you. Are you serious or are you trying to be smart?’

The fat boy regarded Lepski with bored eyes.

‘Do you want my statement or don’t you? I have to get home for dinner. If I’m late, my father moans. If there’s one thing I hate more than another it’s when my father moans.’

‘Okay. Sit down and tell me,’ Lepski said, pushing his hat further back. ‘Who was kidnapped, when and where?’

The fat boy looked around, pulled up a chair, settled his bulk on it and rested his chubby hands on his still more chubby thighs.

‘To save time, shouldn’t you get out a form, know who I am, where I live, and then take my statement?’

Lepski made a noise like a buzz-saw hitting a knot of wood.

‘My father makes noises like that,’ the fat boy said. ‘He has digestive problems.’

‘Yeah.’ Lepski produced a pad from his desk drawer. ‘Okay, sonny. What’s your name?’

‘Frederick Whitelaw, and I would be glad if you didn’t call me ‘Sonny’. My friends call me Fat-ma, but you’re not a friend.’

Lepski began to drum on his desk.

‘That’s right, Freddy Whitelaw, huh?’

‘Yes. My father is Hubert Whitelaw who owns the Whitelaw chain of self-service stores,’ the fat boy said complacently.

Lepski became attentive. Hubert Whitelaw was one of the more important citizens of Paradise City.

‘Yeah,’ he said, and wrote on his pad. ‘You live at Villa Verbena, on Ocean road… right?’

‘That’s where I live.’

Lepski wrote the address down.

‘Okay. What’s this about kidnapping.’

The fat boy stuck his forefinger up his right nostril, moved it around, but found nothing to interest him.

‘I am a bird-watcher, Mr Lepski.’

Lepski leered.

‘I’d have thought you were a bit young to start that.’

The fat boy sighed.

‘Feathered birds, Mr Lepski. The ones that fly. Not those who would interest you.’

A real smart little alec, Lepski thought, drumming his fingers on his desk.

‘So you’re a bird-watcher, huh?’

‘Yes. Every morning at seven, I climb a tree in our garden. I’ve built a hide up there, and I watch birds. I see all kinds of birds: mocking-birds, cardinals, painted buntings…’

‘Okay, okay,’ Lepski interrupted. ‘I have the photo. What’s this about kidnapping?’

‘This morning, at a few minutes to eight o’clock, I was in my hide and saw Mrs Sherman Jamison kidnapped.’

Lepski reacted as if he had been goosed by a red-hot iron.

‘Mrs Sherman Jamison?’ he bawled, half starting out of his chair.

The fat boy nodded complacently.

‘That’s right. They live across the road. Snobs. I’ve no time for them. They’re too rich.’

‘You saw Mrs Jamison kidnapped at eight o’clock this morning?’ Lepski said, speaking slowly and distinctly.

‘That’s correct.’

‘How do you know she was kidnapped? Now listen, Freddy, if this is your idea of a joke, you’ll be sorry.’

The fat boy stuck his forefinger up his left nostril and still found nothing to interest him.

‘I can’t do more than tell you, can I?’

Lepski’s mind began to race. Sherman Jamison’s wife kidnapped! Jesus! This would set Paradise City right back on its rich heels!

‘Okay, Freddy. So what happened?’

‘I was in my hide. Looking across the road, I saw a car pull up right outside the Jamisons’ gates. A man got out and lifted the hood as if the car had broken down. This interested me, so I watched.’ The fat boy regarded Lepski. ‘Are you getting all this down?’

‘Not yet,’ Lepski said, controlling his temper. ‘Keep going.’

The fat boy shrugged.

‘Okay. So I saw Mrs Jamison drive down to the gates. She always goes to church at this time. Because this other car was blocking the gates, she got out of her car and walked to the driver to ask him, I guess, to move his car out of the way. While they were talking, a little guy came out of the stalled car and caught Mrs Jamison around the throat. She collapsed. This little guy carried her to the stalled car, threw her in the back, and the two of them raced off. It took less than half a minute.’

‘Right,’ Lepski said. ‘The time, according to you, was before eight in the morning. Now here you are reporting this incident at 18.00. Ten hours after this happened.’

The fat boy nodded.

‘Yes. I was sitting for an important exam. I couldn’t get to you before. I spent all day in the exam room, then I had to walk to you.’

Lepski suppressed a snort.

‘Okay, Freddy. Exams are more important to you than a kidnapping, huh?’

‘They sure are. I have to look to my future.’

‘I get the point. So you saw two men kidnap Mrs Jamison. Tell me about these men.’

‘I was in my hide. It wasn’t easy to see much of them. It happened fast. One of them was tall and thin. The other was small and thin. Both were wearing big sun-hats so I couldn’t see their faces. I was looking down on them, but I did get the number of their car.’

‘That was smart of you,’ Lepski said. ‘What’s the number?’

‘PC 766880.’

‘Hold it a minute.’ Lepski snatched up the telephone. ‘Charlie?’

‘Who else?’ Tanner growled.

‘Trace car number PC 766880 fast!’

‘That number rings a bell. Hang on.’

Lepski drummed on his desk while he waited, then Tanner said, ‘That car was reported stolen early this morning.’

‘Who owns it?’

‘The Reverend Owen.’

‘Car been found?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Okay, Charlie, put out an emergency alert. We want this car found, and when it’s found it’s to be impounded for fingerprints. It could be a kidnap car. Okay?’

‘So at last we’re in business,’ Tanner said. ‘Leave it to me,’ and he hung up.

The fat boy was listening to all this and he nodded his approval.

‘You sure are the best detective on the force,’ he said. ‘Can I go now? I’ll be late for dinner.’

‘You’ll have to stay a while, Freddy. Do you want to call your parents?’

‘I guess I’d better.’

‘Okay. Now, listen, Freddy, if this is a kidnap job, don’t say a thing. Understand? Tell your dad you have met friends and you won’t be home.’

The fat boy frowned.

‘How about my dinner? I’m hungry.’

‘I’ll fix that,’ Lepski said, containing his impatience. ‘How about a nice juicy cheeseburger? I’ll tell someone to bring it to you.’

‘I’d rather have a double hamburger and plenty of onions.’

Lepski felt his blood pressure rise. He snatched up the telephone receiver.

‘Charlie! Send up a double hamburger with lots of onions and, for God’s sake, don’t make a thing of it!’ and he slammed down the receiver.

While the fat boy telephoned his home and explained he wouldn’t be back for dinner, Lepski listened, ready to snatch the receiver from him if he said the wrong thing, but the fat boy’s performance was convincing. As he hung up, he said, a little sadly, ‘My ma doesn’t really care. My pa cares less.’

‘That’s the way the cookie crumbles, Freddy,’ Lepski said, suddenly sorry for this fat boy. ‘Now, let’s get down to business.’

Lepski listened to the boy’s description of the two kidnappers: one wearing a white suit, the other wearing a T-shirt and dark-green slacks. More than that he couldn’t say.

Mrs Sherman Jamison, the wife of the richest and most powerful man in the city, kidnapped! The FBI would have to be notified, but first Chief of Police Terrell who was probably in his garden, tending his roses. Then Beigler must be notified. He regarded the fat boy uneasily. If this kid was conning him! But he didn’t think so.

‘Look, Freddy, you are quite sure all this is the truth?’

‘I’m telling you,’ the fat boy said impatiently. ‘You don’t have to believe me. Where’s this hamburger? I’m hungry.’

Lepski drew in a deep breath and picked up the telephone receiver. In minutes, he was reporting to Terrell.

‘I’ll be right down,’ Terrell said. ‘Keep the boy with you,’ and he hung up.

A patrolman came into the Detectives’ room, carrying a plastic sack.

‘Someone here wants a hamburger with onions?’ he asked, an injured look on his face.

‘Give it to him!’ Lepski snarled, waving to the fat boy. ‘And take that stupid look off your stupid face!’

The patrolman dropped the sack onto the fat boy’s lap and beat a hurried retreat.

Lepski telephoned Beigler, knowing he was probably drinking coffee and watching the games on the television.

The news Lepski told him made Beigler grunt with dismay.

‘I’ll be right down. The Chief know?’

‘He’s on his way,’ Lepski said, and hung up.

The fat boy was beginning to munch one of the hamburgers.

Lepski suddenly remembered that Carroll would be waiting for him to take her to a movie and then to dinner. He looked at his watch, then released a moan. Snatching up the telephone receiver, he called Charlie Tanner.

‘Charlie! Call Carroll and tell her I have an emergency and won’t be able to take her out tonight. Call her right away!’

‘Not me!’ Tanner said. He knew only too well of Carroll’s explosive temper. ‘I want to keep my right ear-drum intact. You call her.’

‘You heard what I said!’ Lepski yelled. ‘Call her or I’ll tear your liver out!’ and he slammed down the receiver.

The fat boy, his mouth full, nodded his approval.

‘You are sure the best detective on the force, Mr Lepski,’ he mumbled. ‘Boy! That’s telling him!’

Ten minutes later, Chief of Police Fred Terrell, a big, burly man with sandy hair, strode into the Detectives’ room. He took the fat boy into his office and listened to the account of the kidnapping, making occasional notes.

‘That’s fine, Freddy,’ he said, when he was satisfied the fat boy had nothing further to tell him. ‘You have been most helpful. I am now relying on you not to say anything about this to anyone. It is vitally important when dealing with kidnappers to keep them guessing.’

‘Mr Lepski told me that,’ the fat boy said. ‘Okay.’

‘Thank you. Would you like to be driven home in a patrol car?’

The fat boy shook his head.

‘No, thanks. My folks don’t expect me back so I guess I’ll go skating.’

‘Good idea.’ Terrell, who had a soft spot for children, not having any of his own, took out his wallet and produced a ten-dollar bill. ‘Suppose you have a feed before you go skating?’

‘Sure will,’ the fat boy said, his eyes glistening. ‘Thanks.’

When he had gone, Terrell called in Lepski and Beigler.

‘Looks as if we have a kidnapping in our laps,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the kid was speaking the truth. It’s now close on eleven hours since Mrs Jamison was snatched. The chances are Jamison has already received a ransom note. The fact he hasn’t reported to us indicates there was a threat not to contact us. That doesn’t mean we do nothing. The first move is to contact Jamison and get his reactions.’

Terrell reached for the telephone and asked the operator to connect him with the Jamisons’ residence.