101 Mystery Stories

81 Ransom Demand Jeffrey M. Wallmann

Frances Bartlett sat in her husband’s easy chair, her big hands clasped loosely in her lap, a plumpish aubum-haired woman in her late thirties, wearing a quilted robe over her pink nightgown. She was watching the Today show on television after having packed the children off to school, but this particular morning she wasn’t relaxing as she usually did. She was worried.

She wanted to know what had happened to Paul.

Her husband was supposed to have been home sometime after 2 A.M. last night, after his flight from Chicago landed. Frances had awakened at three-thirty from the instinct bred of ten years’ marriage to a sales manager, and had tossed and fretted in the dark for an hour before calling the airlines. A clerk at the check-in counter told her the plane had arrived on time, but that she’d have to wait until the business office opened to learn if her husband’s name was on the passenger manifest or if he had transferred flights. Sorry. Touched slightly by hysteria, Frances had phoned long distance to the hotel at which Paul had been staying; he had checked out the previous evening without leaving any messages. Sorry’...

She hadn’t been able to sleep the rest of the night.

At least there hadn’t been a crash, she told herself as she sat watching the television. She’d have heard about it if there had been, and surely she’d have been notified if there’d been an accident or Paul had gotten sick and was in a hospital. It was probably nothing, a mix-up of some kind. But it wasn’t like Paul not to let her know. Where was he? Oh God. where was Paul?

She glanced at her wrist-watch. Another hour and she’d phone the airlines office, and if they couldn’t help her, she’d wait until the next flight from Chicago, and if he wasn’t on that, she’d... Frances shivered, not wanting to think about what she would have to do then. The police, Paul’s boss, the publicity and questions and embarrassment; the prospect seemed too dreadful for words.

A commercial began, and she went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. She was stirring it absently when the phone rang. She set the cup down and hurriedly picked up the receiver of the extension phone near her.

“H-Hello?”

“Mrs. Bartlett? Mrs. Paul Bartlett?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“We have your husband, Mrs. Bartlett.”

“What?” she said blankly. “What?”

“We have your husband,” the voice repeated.

“What? You have Paul? How?”

“This is a ransom demand. Now do you understand?”

“Oh, my God...!” Frances sucked in her breath, trying to steady herself with her free hand. She knocked over the cup, coffee spilling across the counter; she never noticed it. “Paul, is he all right?”

“He’s fine. He’ll stay that way only if you do what I tell you.”

“Let me speak to him. Please, let me—”

“No. Listen to me, Mrs. Bartlett, and listen closely.” The man’s voice was low and flat. “We want ten thousand dollars in unmarked bills, nothing over a twenty. Is that clear?”

“Yes, but I don’t have—”

“Hock your jewels if you have to, but get ten thousand together by noon if you want to see your husband alive again. Take the money in a lunch pail — the old kind with the round top — to McKinley Park. You know where that is?”

“Downtown,” she answered quickly. “It’s downtown.”

“Right. There’s a statue of McKinley in the middle of it. At exactly twelve-thirty, walk along the north path and put the pail beside the third bench from the statue. Got that? Third bench, north side.”

“I... I’m afraid I don’t know which is north.”

“The side facing Woolworth’s. Then keep on going and don’t look back.”

“I won’t. Twelve-fifteen, third bench, facing Woolworth’s,” she recited numbly. “When do I... I see Paul?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“That long? Can’t you...?”

“Don’t call the police, Mrs. Bartlett. We’ll be watching you, and if you try to double-cross us, you’ll never get another chance.”

“I understand. But can’t you let him go sooner? Please, can’t you?” And then she realized that she was talking into a dead receiver; the man had hung up. She stood holding the phone for another moment, still stunned, and then slowly replaced it with mechanical deliberation.

“No,” she cried out to her still, empty house. “No!”

Frances had been unable to sit still since she’d returned from McKinley Park. Now, with school over and her children playing in the yard, she paced aimlessly through the house, the phone serving as the base of her wanderings. She would walk to the living-room window and move the drapes aside to peer out; then let them drop to pace through the hall and up the stairs, gazing abstractedly into her bedroom, hers and Paul’s; down to smoke a cigarette and drink a cup of coffee, only to leave it half finished; return once more to stare at the phone, occasionally touching its bright plastic.

She knew she would carry this day alive and painfully fresh in her mind for a long time. She wouldn’t forget her initial panic, when she’d almost called the police, followed by her longer, cold dread of the chance she’d be taking if she did. She wouldn’t forget how frantic she’d been at the bank, closing out the accounts and cashing most of their bonds, or how acutely she’d had to control herself when she’d left the pail and simply kept on walking. Or now, despairing, hoping she’d done right and praying Paul would be released unharmed. She kept asking herself why? They weren’t rich or famous — only an average, middle-class family like millions of others. Why had they been picked?

The phone rang again. She ran to it, clutching it.

“Hello? Hello?”

“Honey?”

“Paul!” Tears of relief welled, blurring her vision. “Oh, Paul, are you all right?”

“A little tired, but otherwise I’m okay. What’s the matter?”

“Where are you?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Philadelphia?”

“Sure. The meeting just broke up; it lasted longer than I thought.”

“Meeting?” Frances felt dazed and bewildered. “Paul, I... I don’t understand. What meeting?”

“This new accounts thing that came up at the last minute. I tried calling you last night to tell you I had to go, but the line was always busy, as usual. Didn’t you get my wire?”

“No, I didn’t. You mean you’re all right?”

“I told you, I’m okay. Just what’s going on, anyway?”

“You mean... you weren’t kidnaped?”

“Kidnaped!” Her husband laughed. “What makes you think I was kidnaped, for God’s sake?”

Frances thought about the phone call and the ransom demand — then she thought about the ten thousand dollars and she fainted.

Lew Sieberts lounged in his swivel chair, tapping his thick fingers on the battered oak desk, impatient for his shift to be over. He was still amazed how smoothly the job had gone, and every once in a while he’d have to look in the third drawer of his desk just to be sure the pailful of money he’d picked up on his lunch hour wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Man, if he had to get fired, this was the kind of severance pay to leave with; the job was proving to be the best he’d ever had, even if the shortest. He’d stick around to pocket his regular severance tomorrow morning, but then he was getting out of town before that Bartlett guy returned. To New York City, maybe — it had the action, and he could get so lost there he’d never be caught. Yeah, New York sounded real good...

The teletype across the room began to chatter. When its bell ran, Sieberts went over to it and tore off the flimsy. It read:

Sieberts sat down again, studying the message. It was very similar to the wire Bartlett had sent yesterday. He leaned back until he could see out of the dusty window of the telegraph office and smiled faintly, wondering if he could pull the same trick twice in a row. Well, twenty grand was twice as much as he had now...

He swiveled around and picked up the phone, dialing the number printed on the telegram. The line buzzed and then a woman’s voice answered.

“Mrs. Wilson? Mrs. Peter Wilson?” he said to her. “We have your husband...”