Not My Thing

7

At 08.30, Ng Vee drove the stolen car down the steep ramp that led to Lucy Loveheart’s underground garage.

Kling sat by his side. Shannon Jamison’s unconscious body lay on the floor of the rear of the car, covered with a rug.

‘I’ll take a look,’ Kling said as Ng pulled up by the elevator door. He slid out of the car, checked no one was in the garage, then nodded to Ng. He went swiftly to the elevator and pressed the down button.

‘Move fast, kid,’ he said as the elevator door swung open.

Ng opened the rear door of the car, grasped Shannon’s ankles and pulled her out of the car. He caught hold of her, lifted her, his right arm around her limp body, his left hand under her knees.

‘Want help, kid?’ Kling asked.

‘Oh no, sir. No problem.’

Ng carried Shannon to the elevator, entered and leaned against the wall as Kling got in and pressed the up button.

Holding Shannon, feeling her scented hair against his face, feeling her round, firm breast in his right hand, and her soft thighs under his left hand, Ng experienced a sensation he had never known before.

During his teenage life, he never had the money to associate with girls. His mother had warned him girls were always expensive, and to keep away from them. Ng had found this no hardship. There were times when he felt the stirring of sex within him, but because of his way of life and his mother’s repeated warnings, he had crushed down this urge and, up to this moment, women had meant nothing to him.

The sensation he now experienced as he held Shannon’s limp body against him gave him an extraordinary feeling of pleasure. It was during the elevator’s climb to the top floor, without realizing it, Ng fell in love with Shannon Jamison.

Kling was speaking, and Ng had to force himself to concentrate on what his master was saying.

‘Will she be okay, kid?’ Kling was asking. ‘She looks knocked out.’

‘Oh yes, sir,’ Ng said. ‘In less than a couple of hours, she will be fine.’

The elevator door swung open. Kling moved forward, checked there was no one around, then stepped across the corridor and, using the key Lucan had given him, unlocked the door of the Whipping room.

‘Get her in here, kid, and fast.’

Holding Shannon closely against him, Ng carried her through the open doorway and into the big, luxuriously furnished bedroom. He crossed to the bed and laid her gently down. He stood back, feeling his heart thumping.

‘Okay, kid,’ Kling said. ‘You stay with her. I’ll get rid of the car. Take a look around. When she comes to the surface, tell her she’s been kidnapped and she has nothing to worry about. I don’t want her to start flipping her lid. Get the photo?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I got Lucky to stock the refrigerator,’ Kling went on. ‘She’ll be here for at least a week. Look after her, kid. Lucky also bought clothes for her. They’re in the closet. She’s to have the VIP treatment. Jamison might be tricky, and I don’t want her complaining if we release her.’

Ng stared at him.

‘But you will release her?’

‘It depends on Jamison. Don’t worry your head about that. You can leave all that to me.’ He handed the key of the apartment to Ng. ‘Lock her in when you leave, and come back to the motel dinner-time.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Okay. I’ll get rid of the car. Take a taxi back to the motel. Look after her, kid. No rough stuff for the moment.’

‘No, sir,’ Ng said huskily.

‘You’re great, kid. I’m relying on you,’ and Kling left the apartment.

When the door closed behind him, Ng turned and regarded Shannon as she lay on the bed. She was wearing a white, simply cut dress and it had rucked up, revealing her long legs and shapely thighs.

Ng moved forward and gently adjusted the skirt of the dress. He stood for some minutes looking down at her. What a beautiful woman! he thought, and again this sensation of sex and love moved through him. He felt he could stand there and look at her forever, but he made an effort and turned away. He went into the tiny kitchen and inspected the refrigerator which was packed with Quick frozen meals. He grimaced. Dreary food, he thought. He found a coffee percolator and two sacks of ground coffee. He inspected the bathroom and found towels and soap.

Then he returned to the bedroom and sat down in a lounging-chair, close to the bed. He watched Shannon, and waited, with oriental patience, for her to recover consciousness and as he watched her, his love for her grew.

He thought of Kling. He had asked Kling if he would release this unconscious woman.

It depends on Jamison. Don’t worry your head about that. You can leave all that to me.

He thought of what Kling had done for him and his mother. He had long ago realized that Kling’s way of life was influenced and directed by and for money.

Ng drew in a deep breath. Money? What was money?

All his life up to now, money had meant nothing to him except to buy food. Yet money seemed everything to Kling.

Ng moved restlessly.

Would Kling be so money crazy that he would kill this beautiful woman if her husband wouldn’t give him the money he was asking for?

Would he? Could he?

Ng again looked at Shannon. She now appeared to be sleeping.

He got to his feet and, for the first time in his life, he did something that set the blood moving through him and his heart pounding.

He gently lifted her hand and kissed it.

As Kling drove up to his motel cabin, Lucan came rushing out of his cabin. He caught hold of Kling’s arm as Kling got out of his car.

‘What happened?’ he demanded. There was sweat on his face and his eyes looked wild.

Kling regarded him with contempt.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, relax!’ he said. ‘It went as planned: as smooth as silk. She is now safely in the knocking-shop, and the kid is looking after her.’

Lucan moaned with relief.

‘I’ve been waiting and flipping my lid,’ he said. ‘Anything could have gone wrong!’

‘Not with me handling it,’ Kling said. ‘I’ll see Jamison tonight, and get the money out of him.’

‘Suppose he won’t pay?’

Kling gave a sneering laugh.

‘He will. I have him over a barrel. Take it easy, Lucky. I’m taking a swim.’

Lucan began to unwind.

‘You really mean this is going to work? I’ll get half a million?’

‘That’s it, Lucky. It’s really going to work.’

‘Have you fixed this Swiss account for me?’

Kling gave Lucan his evil smile.

‘I can’t do anything like that until Jamison pays up. Take it easy. I’ll fix it.’ Then shoving by Lucan, he went into his cabin and slammed the door.

Lucan returned to his own cabin.

A half a million dollars! he thought. Could he trust Kling? Once the money was in Switzerland, he would pack up and leave America. He would settle probably in Monte Carlo. He paced the room, thinking. God! How he wished he could go now!

He paused by the window to watch Kling, wearing swim-shorts, running down to the sea: his tall, lean body moving with perfect rhythm.

The time was nearly 09.00. Lucan went into the kitchenette and heated up coffee. Kling had said he wouldn’t be seeing Jamison until tonight. As he sipped the coffee, he thought of the long hours ahead. Kling seemed so sure he could handle Jamison. Could he? Jamison was a tough, ruthless sonofabitch!

Then he became aware that someone was knocking on his cabin door. Frowning, he put down his coffee-cup, went to the door and opened it. He was shocked to find himself facing the fat, balding Sydney Drysdale of The Paradise City Herald. The last person he wanted to see!

‘Hi, Lucky,’ Drysdale said with his fat, oily smile. ‘I was passing so I thought I would look in.’

‘Sorry, Syd,’ Lucan said, his voice shaking. ‘I – I’ve got a date. Some other time, huh?’

‘Who was that tall, lean tough you were talking to?’

Lucan felt sweat start out on his face.

‘Oh, that guy? I don’t even know his name. He lives down the way.’

‘Is that right?’ Drysdale was watching Lucan sweat. ‘Tell me, Lucky, how did you make out with Mrs Sherman Jamison?’

If Drysdale had punched him in the face, Lucan’s reaction couldn’t be more evident. He started back, his face turning a waxy white.

‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ he gasped. ‘See you sometime, Syd,’ and he tried to close the door, but Drysdale’s enormous bulk held the door open.

‘Oh, come on, Lucky,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep it under the wraps. Have you screwed her yet?’

‘Get out!’ Lucan screamed hysterically. ‘Get out!’

Drysdale smiled.

‘A little disturbed, Lucky. Unlike you. See you,’ and he moved back allowing Lucan to slam the door.

Heavily, Drysdale plodded back to his car. He settled himself, lit a cigarette and did some thinking.

Something was cooking, he told himself. Years of experience to smell out scandal sent red lights flashing in his shrewd, cunning brain.

Why was this stupid gigolo in such a panic? Why had he reacted so violently when Shannon Jamison’s name was mentioned? Who was this tough-looking man Lucan had been talking with?

Loose threads, but Drysdale was an expert at knitting loose threads together.

He started his car and drove back to his office.

Jamison arrived at his villa in Paradise City at 17.45. He had been met at the airport by Conklin. Jamison, his face hard and set, got into the Rolls and snapped to Conklin to get him home fast. He wasn’t talking to a bird-brain like Conklin.

Smyth was waiting in the lobby and, with a jerk of his head, Jamison indicated he was to follow him into the study.

Jamison sat behind his desk while Smyth, looking old and pale, stood before him.

‘Give me this kidnap note!’ Jamison barked.

‘It is on your desk, sir.’

Jamison looked around, found a scrap of paper, studied it, then pushed it aside.

‘You have followed my instructions? You have said and done nothing?’

‘Yes, sir. I have said nothing about this terrible kidnapping,’ Smyth said, his voice trembling. ‘I have had six telephone calls from Mrs Jamison’s friends. They were all asking if she was going to the concert tonight. I told them she had migraine, and couldn’t be disturbed.’

Jamison nodded.

‘That was efficient of you, Smyth.’

‘Thank you, sir, but Mrs Clayton has been twice on the telephone. She wanted to come here, but I managed to persuade her that Mrs Jamison didn’t want to be disturbed.’

Jamison scowled.

Meg Clayton, Shannon’s best friend! Always a bloody nuisance!

‘These kidnappers could be amateurs, Smyth,’ he said. ‘They could panic and murder Mrs Jamison. They say their ransom demand will be made at eight o’clock tonight. In the meantime, I will handle any telephone calls for Mrs Jamison, and there is to be no leak about this damnable situation. Understand?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Can Conklin be relied to keep his mouth shut?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. Leave me!’

‘Sir, I am very sorry about this. You can rely on me…’ Smyth began, but Jamison waved him away with a savage gesture of impatience.

When Smyth had left the room, Jamison sat at his desk for the next twenty minutes, staring into space, his mind active. He kept thinking of Tarnia. Not for a moment did he think of his wife. He couldn’t be bothered about her. She had been kidnapped. Well, people, these days, did get kidnapped. Even if he had to pay and pay, he must be rid of her.

The soft buzz of his telephone bell on his desk disrupted his thoughts.

He lifted the receiver.

‘Yes?’ he snapped.

‘Sherry? This is Meg.’ A woman’s voice.

Jesus! Jamison thought. This bloody woman again!

Softening his voice, he said, ‘How are you, Meg?’

‘What’s this about Shannon suffering from migraine? She’s never had migraine before. What is this, Sherry? Shannon is the guest of honour at the Mozart recital tonight.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Jamison said, who didn’t. ‘I’m sorry, Meg. She won’t be able to attend. I am worried. The doctor has given her a sedation, and right now she is asleep. She developed this blinding headache while I was in New York. The doctor assures me she will be all right in a few days.’

‘Is that Doctor Macklin?’

Knowing that Macklin was Meg Clayton’s doctor, he avoided the trap.

‘No. I had my own specialist to take care of her. I’m sorry, Meg, but I am desperately busy. As soon as Shannon feels well enough, she will call you. My best to you and Jay,’ and he hung up.

By tonight, the news that Shannon wasn’t well would be all over the goddamn musical circles of the city, he thought. He had forgotten that Shannon was not only popular, but a talented cellist.

For the next quarter of an hour, his telephone rang with people asking after Shannon. He dealt with them politely and curtly, asking them to let Shannon rest.

He kept looking at his watch. In another half hour, Kling would contact him, and he would know the conditions of the ransom. Once he knew that, he would put the plan he had in his mind into action to defeat Kling.

Getting to his feet, he walked from his study, through the big living-room and out onto the terrace to stare at the rising moon and to feel the hot breeze against his sweating face. He drew in several deep breaths, then, seeing Smyth hovering uneasily, he said, ‘Get me a double Scotch and lots of ice.’

Returning to his study, he sat at his desk. He looked at the desk clock. The time now was 19.35. Soon, Kling would be telephoning him, and he would know what ransom he would be demanding.

Smyth entered and placed the Scotch that Jamison had ordered on the desk.

‘You will be needing dinner, sir,’ he said. ‘What may I prepare for you?’

‘Oh, sandwiches!’ Jamison snapped. ‘But later!’

‘Very good, sir,’ and Smyth, looking sorrowful, withdrew.

Then the telephone bell began its soft buzzing. Jamison stiffened. Was this Kling? Or was it one of Shannon’s goddamn friends? He lifted the receiver and barked, ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Jamison?’ A man’s voice.

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘Chief of Police Terrell.’

Jamison felt his heart skip a beat. At some boring shindig, thrown by the Mayor, he had met Terrell and had been impressed by the man’s quiet power and authority.

He forced himself to relax.

‘Hello there, Terrell. Long time no see. Look, I am busy. Something I can do for you?’

‘Mr Jamison, I understand that your wife was kidnapped early this morning,’ Terrell said.

Blood rushed to Jamison’s head. He felt a sharp pain stab him in his chest. For a long moment, he sat motionless, feeling short of breath, then he made an effort and controlled his heavy breathing.

‘How do you know that?’ he demanded.

‘An eye-witness to the kidnapping, Mr Jamison. I am sorry about this,’ Terrell said, his voice quiet. ‘I want you to know we will do everything possible to be of help.’

Jamison flew into a panicky rage.

‘You don’t do a goddamn thing!’ he shouted. ‘Understand? Keep out of this. I am handling it! If you so much as fuck up this situation, I’ll make you sorry! Understand?’

‘I understand, Mr Jamison,’ Terrell replied. ‘You have the usual ransom note, saying that if you contact the police Mrs Jamison will be killed. Am I right?’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Jamison snarled. ‘So keep out of this! When I get my wife back, you can move in, but not before!’ and he slammed down the receiver.

‘Very convincing, Mr Jamison,’ Kling said as he appeared out of the shadows of the terrace. ‘I liked that.’ He moved into the light thrown by the desk lamp. ‘I’m a little before my time, but I didn’t want to keep you waiting.’

Jamison leaned back, glaring at Kling.

‘How did the cops know we had kidnapped your wife?’ Kling asked, settling himself in an armchair near Jamison’s desk.

‘An eye-witness,’ Jamison rasped. ‘And you call yourself a professional!’

Kling shrugged.

‘An eye-witness or two or even three can always be fixed. Nothing to worry about, Mr Jamison. Once, when I was knocking off a fink who was causing trouble, there were five eye-witnesses.’ He released a barking laugh. ‘They never testified. Don’t worry about eye-witnesses.’

Jamison regarded this tall, lean, grey-haired man with revulsion.

‘You have gypped me, damn you!’ he exclaimed.

‘No… no. Don’t get the script wrong. I had second thoughts. Now, the original plan I put before you was for me to throw a bomb that would wipe out this Irish fink, your wife, the priest and a number of oldies.’ Kling shook his head. ‘That’s correct, isn’t it? You agreed that that was the perfect way to get rid of your wife. Right?’

‘It was your suggestion, and I agreed to it,’ Jamison said, biting off each word. ‘You now say you have had second thoughts. What thoughts?’

Kling relaxed back in his chair.

‘You mightn’t think it, Mr Jamison, but I am not so tough as you. I thought about knocking off thirty or so old finks just to kill your wife, and I told myself it was like killing a gnat with a sledgehammer. You get the drift of my thoughts, Mr Jamison?’

Jamison remained still and tense at his desk. He said nothing.

‘The more I thought about it, the less I liked it,’ Kling went on, after a pause. ‘But I had agreed to do the job for you. So I thought up this kidnapping caper. It will be safe: no problems for you. I went into action and your wife is safely hidden away. As soon as you pay the ransom, her body will be found in the trunk of a stolen car. It’ll be a guaranteed job. There’ll be no blow-back. You will tell the cops you paid the ransom to a masked man who told you you’d find your wife in the Casino car park, safe and sound, in the trunk of a stolen car. The cops and you will find the car and find the dead body of your wife. Get the photo, Mr Jamison?’ Kling lit a cigarette. ‘It’s a nice, safe idea. To put the icing on the cake, the ransom money will be found in the car. Two hundred thousand dollars, Mr Jamison. The cops will think it was a piker’s kidnapping. The guy lost his head, killed your wife, left the ransom which might be traced and took off. Like it?’

Seething with rage, Jamison kept control of himself.

‘What’s the real ransom to be?’ he snarled.

Kling nodded his approval.

‘That’s what I like about you, Mr Jamison. You get at once to the basic facts.’

‘What’s the ransom to be?’ Jamison repeated, clenching his fists.

‘You are a very rich man, Mr Jamison, and yet you are a piker. You come to me and offered me three hundred thousand to murder your wife. That was a stupid offer. Had you offered me a million, I just might have thrown a bomb. I don’t say I would have, but for a million I could have been tempted. But no, you are such a piker, you offer peanuts. So, Mr Jamison, the ransom will be five million dollars to be paid into my Swiss account.’

Jamison reared back, staring at Kling.

‘Five million dollars! You must be out of your mind!’

‘What’s five million dollars to you, Mr Jamison? That’s the deal. A nice, safe, well organized job, and you’ll be rid of your wife for good.’

Jamison sat still for several seconds while his mind went into action, then, satisfied with his thinking, he leaned forward, pointing his finger at Kling.

‘So you think you’ve been smart!’ he rasped. ‘Now, I’ll tell you something. You won’t get a dollar out of me, and I’ll tell you for why. In this ransom note you left, you say that unless the ransom is paid, my wife will be killed. Don’t you see, you stupid hunkhead, that’s what I want! I want her dead! What are you going to do with her? You’ll get no money from me! So you’re landed with her! Now, get out!’

Kling burst out laughing. The sound of his laughter was so genuinely amused that Jamison felt a chill run down his back. ‘You heard what I said!’ he shouted. ‘Get out!’

‘Mr Jamison, it beats me how guys like you make so much money. I guess you must be dealing with prize suckers,’ Kling said. He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Tell me something, Mr Jamison, do you admire the Japanese technology?’

Jamison stared at him.

‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! I told you to get out!’

‘The Japs are great people,’ Kling said. ‘At one time, they were imitators, but not now. They are ahead of the world in electronics. Listen to this.’ He put his hand inside his jacket, then Jamison’s voice came clearly into the room.

In this ransom note you left, you say that unless the ransom is paid, my wife will be killed. Don’t you see, you stupid hunkhead, that’s what I want.

Kling’s fingers moved and the voice stopped.

‘Marvellous, don’t you think, Mr Jamison? Electronics. New inventions. I always carry this little gimmick around with me. When we had our interesting talk about the bomb, I had it working. I have a good tape of our conversation.’

Jamison sat motionless, stunned, then he thought of the .38 revolver he kept in his top drawer of his desk. In frustrated fury and alarm, his hand moved to the drawer.

‘No, Mr Jamison. Don’t try that,’ Kling said gently. ‘Look!’

As Jamison stared at him, an ugly-looking Beretta appeared as if by magic in Kling’s hand.

‘Before you even touch your gun, Mr Jamison, you’re dead,’ Kling said. ‘Now, relax. Put your hands on your desk.’ As Jamison obeyed, Kling returned the gun to its holster. ‘Okay, now we can talk. You are way out of the big league, Mr Jamison. Okay, you are great when dealing with prize suckers, but not with professionals like me. Let’s take a long look at the setup. I have promised to get rid of your wife. I’ll do that, because in my racket when a killer fails it gets known, and that’s bad for my business, so I get rid of your wife. In return, you pay into my Swiss bank five million dollars. I know to a piker like, you, Mr Jamison, parting with money like that hurts. Now, if I were dealing with prize suckers as you do, I’d think this bastard was bluffing. If he gives his tapes to the cops, he would be in the same shit as I would be, so he’d be bluffing.’ Kling smiled evilly. ‘That would be wrong thinking, Mr Jamison. Let me spell it out. If you don’t pay five million dollars into my Swiss bank, I am going to the DA and tell him a story. My story will be you hired me to murder your wife and offered to pay me three hundred thousand dollars. Now, I tell the DA that money means something to me, so I conned you. I’ll tell the DA I had no intention of murdering your wife, but every intention to get your money. So the DA listens to the tapes. When he knows who you are, he will fall over himself to nail you. When you are as big as you are, you have many enemies, Mr Jamison. You have a wolf-pack behind you, waiting to pull you down. Then the press get hold of it, and they’ll crucify you. Here is one of the richest men in this country, planning to get rid of his wife by murder! Man! Won’t the press have a ball! So what happens? You’ll be arrested and thrown into the slammer. Then, because you have lots of clout and money, you hire the best attorneys who will work like crazy to get you off the hook. But Mr Jamison, I will be willing to testify against you. When a jury hears me, you don’t have a hope to beat the rap. Right. Now, first the Judge will consider me. I will have admitted to kidnapping your wife, but have returned her safe and sound. So he’ll send me away for a couple of years. Then he’ll take a long look at you. You will go away for at least fifteen years, Mr Jamison, and you will be ruined. Right. Now when I get sentenced, my Mafia friends will appeal and get my case – not yours – before a Mafia judge who will shake his head, fine me two thousand dollars, and I’m free again, but not you. This is the result of being a professional. Get the photo?’

For some minutes, Jamison sat still, knowing he had been completely outsmarted, then with a shrug he said, ‘You don’t expect me to raise five million dollars at once, do you?’

‘I’ll give you ten days from tomorrow,’ Kling said, getting to his feet. ‘If I don’t hear from my Swiss bank by the eighteenth of this month, then I go visit the DA.’

‘You’ll get the money,’ Jamison grated. ‘In return, I will be rid of my wife?’

‘Of course. That’s no problem. Pay up, and I guarantee you’ll be rid of her.’

With an airy wave of his hand, Kling walked out onto the terrace and disappeared into the darkness.

The Good Eatery restaurant offered the best value for money in the city.

With glistening eyes, Frederick Whitelaw surveyed the mountain of spaghetti, smothered in tomato and onion sauce, that had been set before him. He smiled contentedly as he fingered Chief of Police Terrell’s ten-dollar bill. He had ordered chicken drumsticks in a curry sauce to follow.

As he began to attack the spaghetti, the restaurant door opened and Sydney Drysdale wandered in. He had completed his column, and had decided to have a light snack before returning home to watch a TV programme that interested him, and then go out again for his usual three course dinner.

He looked around hopefully to see if there was anyone interesting in the restaurant from whom he could get an item of news for his next day’s column. He spotted Frederick Whitelaw, cramming his mouth with spaghetti.

This lad, Drysdale reminded himself, was the son of one of the influential men in the city. Even kids get to hear things, so he waddled over to the fat boy’s table.

‘Hello, Freddy,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘That looks good.’

‘It is good,’ the fat boy mumbled, and forked more spaghetti into his eager mouth.

‘Don’t you usually eat at home, Freddy?’ Drysdale asked casually. ‘Are you celebrating or something?’

‘I sure am.’ The fat boy smirked. ‘The Chief of Police gave me ten bucks so I thought I’d give me a decent meal instead of the junk my mum gives me.’

Drysdale became immediately alert.

‘Is that right? Now why did the Chief of Police give you ten bucks?’

‘That’s a secret, Mr Drysdale.’ The fat boy looked sly. ‘I had some information, and he parted with the money.’

‘He’s a nice, kind man,’ Drysdale said, his smile oily. ‘But ten dollars isn’t a fortune. I also buy secrets, Freddy. Do you want to do a deal?’

The fat boy finished his spaghetti and sat back with a calculating expression on his face.

‘That depends, Mr Drysdale,’ he said after a moment of thought. ‘I could sell you my secret for three hundred dollars.’

‘Like father, like son,’ Drydale sighed. ‘This must be a big secret.’

‘It sure is. It’s the biggest and the most sensational secret you’ve ever heard.’

At this moment an elderly waitress arrived and took Drysdale’s order for grilled sardines on toast. She removed the fat boy’s plate and slapped down the chicken drumsticks, the curry sauce and a pile of French fried.

‘You have a healthy appetite,’ Drysdale said wistfully. ‘It’s great to be young. I’d go to one hundred bucks, but I would want to know what the secret is about.’

‘Three hundred, Mr Drysdale,’ the fat boy said firmly as he piled the French fried onto his plate. ‘I’ll tell you this. It is to do with Mr Sherman Jamison.’

Drysdale reacted as if he had been stung by a wasp.

‘Mr Jamison?’

‘That’s right.’ The fat boy cut off a bit of chicken, smothered it in curry sauce and conveyed it to his mouth. He nodded his approval. ‘This is good.’

‘What about Mr Jamison?’ Drysdale asked, trying to sound casual.

‘Well, not exactly him, but Mrs Jamison.’

‘You went to the Chief of Police and told him about this, Freddy?’

‘That’s right. I felt I should. I was reporting a major crime.’

Drysdale began to breathe heavily.

‘What major crime?’

The fat boy attacked the pile of French fried.

‘It’s a secret. The Chief told me to keep my mouth shut, but for three hundred dollars my mouth need not remain shut.’

Drysdale didn’t hesitate. After all, this wasn’t his money. His editor expected him to spend money to get news. He took out his wallet and produced three one-hundred-dollar bills which he folded.

‘So, Freddy, tell me the secret.’

The fat boy eyed the money, then attacked another drumstick.

‘Not until I have the money in my pocket,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘My old man told me always to get the money first. My old man is smart.’

‘Look, Freddy, if you’re conning me…’

‘Aw, forget it! I’ll tell you something, Mr Drysdale. I’m fat and look stupid, but I ain’t! I could get a thousand dollars just by getting on the phone and talking to the Washington Post, but I don’t want to be bothered. Do you want to do a deal?’

Drysdale pushed the folded bills across the table. The fat boy snapped them up and stowed them away in his pocket.

‘What about Mrs Jamison?’ Drysdale demanded.

‘Let me finish this first. My old man says it’s rude to talk with one’s mouth full,’ the fat boy said as he began to gnaw at the chicken leg. ‘This is good.’

Drysdale contained his impatience with an effort, but he felt his blood pressure rising. He sat back, trying to keep calm.

Finally the boy finished his meal and released a sigh of content.

‘Man! That was good!’ he exclaimed.

The waitress arrived bringing a plate containing six grilled sardines on two rounds of toast and slapped the plate before Drysdale.

‘Is that all you’re going to eat?’ the fat boy asked.

‘Never mind, Freddy, tell me the secret,’ Drysdale snarled.

The fat boy leaned forward and, in a whisper, told Drysdale what he had told Chief of Police Terrell.

For a brief moment, Drysdale went into shock. The wife of Sherman Jamison kidnapped! This was the biggest news, the biggest scoop that had ever dropped into his lap! This kid made sense, but he must check out his story. Before going into action, he must talk to Terrell!

Shoving back his chair, Drysdale blundered to his feet. He paused only long enough to pay for his untouched meal, then scrambled into his car and headed for Police headquarters.

The fat boy shrugged. Then he regarded the sardines. Pity to waste food, he thought. Pushing aside his empty plate, he reached forward to pick up the plate of sardines and began to eat contentedly.

This had been a rewarding evening, he thought.

Chief of Police Terrell replaced the telephone receiver and looked first at Beigler, then at Lepski. He grimaced.

‘Mr Jamison confirms that his wife has been kidnapped,’ he said, ‘and in very forceful language told me to keep out of it. He’s had the usual threat not to contact the police.’

‘Did he say how much the ransom is to be?’ Beigler asked.

‘No. Naturally, he wants his wife back alive, and a man of his wealth wouldn’t give a damn how much he has to pay.’ Terrell thought for a long moment. ‘Jamison carries a lot of clout. I think it would be unwise for us to start anything, but we must alert the FBI.’ He looked at Beigler. ‘Will you contact Howard Jackson and put him in the photo? Tell him we’re doing nothing for the moment, but will want his help once Mrs Jamison is returned safely.’

Beigler nodded, got to his feet and hurried from Terrell’s office to his own desk.

‘Okay, Tom,’ Terrell said. ‘You may as well get off home. I don’t think anything will develop for tonight.’

‘You staying, Chief?’ Lepski asked.

‘I guess so.’

‘Right. I’ll stick around also.’

Lepski left the office and sat at his desk. He remembered Carroll. Snatching up the telephone, he asked Charlie Tanner how Carroll had reacted.

Tanner gave a whimpering moan.

‘I swear to God, Tom, I’m never going to relay messages for you again! I’m still trying to recover.’

‘Thanks, Charlie,’ Lepski said with a crafty grin. ‘You’re a real pal,’ and he hung up.

Ten minutes later, the telephone bell sounded on Terrell’s desk.

‘Charlie here, Chief,’ Tanner said. ‘I have Syd Drysdale asking for you.’

Terrell grimaced. He knew Drysdale only too well.

‘What’s he want?’

‘To see you, Chief. He says it’s an emergency.’

Terrell stiffened. Was it possible that Drysdale had got wind of the kidnapping?

‘Okay, send him up.’

Breathing heavily, Drysdale came into Terrell’s office.

‘Stairs don’t agree with me,’ he gasped. ‘I guess I eat too much.’ He slumped into a chair by Terrell’s desk. ‘How are you, Chief? You are working late.’

Terrell regarded him, his face expressionless.

‘I’ve got a work load. What is it, Syd?’

‘I understand that Mrs Sherman Jamison was kidnapped this morning,’ Drysdale said with his oily smile.

So that fat little creep had shot off his mouth! Terrell thought. He knew it would be a waste of time to fence with a man of Drysdale’s experience.

‘That’s correct, Syd. Jamison has had a ransom note. The usual death threat if he contacts the police. He has told me in no uncertain terms to keep out of it. So I will ask you also to keep out of it.’

Drysdale nodded.

‘Yeah. Jamison carries too much clout. I don’t want to drop in the shit with him. When this breaks, Chief, I want your promise that I get the exclusive scoop. I also want to be kept au fait with how you are handling it. I take it Jackson of the FBI will be brought into this when Mrs Jamison is returned.’

‘Of course. Now, Syd, I can’t make any promises,’ Terrell said. ‘As soon as the news breaks, the press of the world will jump on the band-wagon.’

Drysdale scratched his fat nose.

‘I’ll give you a quid pro quo. You hold off the wolf-pack until I file my story, and I’ll give you a lead to who the kidnapper is.’

Terrell stared at him.

‘You know who the kidnapper is?’

‘I don’t know, but I can make a very close and sound guess. I just want your promise to get me the exclusive. After all, what have you got to work on? Suppose Jamison pays the ransom? Suppose he gets his wife back? The kidnapper will vanish. You have no lead to him, but I am pretty sure I have.’

Terrell hesitated. No threats of withholding evidence would bother Drysdale.

‘Okay, Syd, you get your exclusive. Who do you think pulled the kidnapping?’

‘Word of honour?’ Drysdale asked, his little eyes probing.

‘You’ll get your exclusive. Now tell me!’

Drysdale beamed. He leaned forward and said quietly, ‘I’m willing to bet my Sunday lunch that the man who fixed the kidnapping is Lucky Lucan.’