A Gross Carriage of Justice

Chapter 5

Had the designers of Heathrow Airport given sufficient thought to the possible use of their premises for the purposes of kidnaping, it is probable they would have been a bit more generous in directing both incoming victim and potential sequesterer to the same exit to make contact. As it was, the customs area discharged arriving passengers into a vast arena filled with screaming relatives, small children entangled in luggage carts, porters taking the incorrect baggage of the wrong parties to erroneous taxi-ranks, and with an overabundance of access openings. Harold Nishbagel, cruising slowly past the multiple doorways of the vast building, with constant streams of impatient humanity fighting their way past each other, was beginning to feel the first touches of panic as he realized the excellent possibility of missing his party. While not a person of outstanding imagination, Harold was still capable of easily picturing Clarence’s reaction should he fail to appear at the farm with the fat man in attendance. It was not a scene he cared to dwell upon.

He was about to tread heavily on the accelerator and attempt to speed around the building for another pass at the seemingly endless crowded exits, when he saw to his vast relief a mustard-colored balloon-sized figure emerge from a doorway not too distant, taking with it in the process several small bodies intent upon entering, and make its way to the stop for city-bound buses. Without any overwhelming regard for intervening traffic, Harold aimed at the curb and sped for it, arriving just as the white-haired, blue-eyed gentleman was straightening up from setting down his single bag. Harold leaned over, swinging open the door on the passenger side of the car, then opening his own door and climbing down. The wildly honking horns occasioned by his rather abrupt passage across the busy thoroughfare prevented him from being heard at first, but once the exigencies of vehicular movement cleared the disgruntled motorists from the scene, he came through loud and clear.

“Hey! You there! You — fat man!” he called out, not wishing to be misunderstood. His brilliant plastic smile robbed the unconventional greeting of any offense. “I’m supposed to be pickin’ you up. Hop in.”

He opened the car’s trunk and tossed Carruthers’ bag inside, while Billy-Boy stared, surprised. A large hand next propelled the rotund, mustard-colored man around the car and managed to wedge him into the front seat before he could quite recover himself. When he did so he found his massive driver had squeezed himself into the other side of the small vehicle and was releasing the hand brake preparatory to launching them once again into the traffic pattern, if pattern properly describes the anarchy that appeared to prevail in the road.

From another exit, Sir Percival Pugh watched and frowned. The reason for the separation of the three friends had now become clear. Someone, undoubtedly unaware of the financial disaster that had overtaken the three old men, and probably relying solely on the information gained from that Sunday supplement in color, had come to the conclusion that kidnaping one of the three old men, in this case Carruthers, would be an easy road to riches.

Well, on their own heads be it, Sir Percival thought uncharitably of the kidnapers; whoever they are they’ll be sadder and wiser men before they’re through. And he raised his hand for a taxi.

In the small car, Carruthers was frowning at the driver.

“I beg your pardon,” he said politely, “but I do believe you’ve made a mistake. Normal enough, of course. I realize I probably look like every other old, fat man with blue eyes and white hair, wearing a mustard-colored suit, but I’m afraid it’s a mistake none the less. You see, I wasn’t expecting to be picked up.”

“No mistake, pops,” Harold said cheerfully, and cut between a lorry loaded with concrete building blocks and a bus filled with Welsh footballers, all singing at the tops of their voices. From the little glimpse Harold had of them through the open windows of the bus, he could scarcely credit their vocal efforts; when he had played right tackle for Sing Sing, nobody sang after the mauling it appeared the bus passengers had taken. Crazy! Harold thought, and shook his head. England! He shrugged and brought his attention back to his passenger. “No mistake at all, pops,” he said. “You’re William Carruthers, ain’t you?” He did not give Carruthers a chance to deny it. “I seen your picture in the paper.”

“That’s quite correct,” Billy-Boy said, mystified by the affair. “Now, to complete this informative exchange of relative trivia, just who are you?”

“Me? My name’s Harold Nishbagel, but you can call me Hal. Most people call me Hal,” he added darkly, “on account of I tell them to. I like it better than Harold.” He started to extend a hamlike hand across the car toward Carruthers to be shaken, but thought better of it as a tow truck dragging a crippled charabanc almost collided with them; with more luck than skill Harold swung the wheel and managed to avoid disaster. In Chicago, when he had lived and worked there, he had been trusted with many demanding tasks, but driving the getaway car had never been one of them.

Carruthers swallowed. “I say,” he said tentatively, watching the scenery swirl about him as Harold straightened the wheels, “you haven’t driven much in England, have you?”

“A guy would have to be crazy,” Harold said fervently, and narrowly missed a double-decker whose driver was apparently more interested in the décolletage of a female passenger seen through his rear-view mirror than he was in the traffic. “They drive backward!”

“And you are an American.” It was a statement, not a question.

Harold beamed. He hadn’t known it showed. “Yeah!”

“Well,” Carruthers said, wriggling in the tight seat in a vain effort to find a more comfortable position, “now that these niggling but undoubtedly vital facts are out of the way, could I inquire as to who requested you to pick me up? And precisely why? And, of course, to complete the catechism, the ultimate destination of our little outing as well as the estimated time of arrival?”

A single question was Harold’s absolute limit; three or four at a time were far beyond his ability to cope. Billy-Boy saw the wrinkles beginning to form on Harold’s brow, like hairline cracks forecasting the collapse of a concrete dam. He properly interpreted them and took pity on his large companion.

“Let’s take them one at a time,” he said gently, removing his gaze, not reluctantly, from the roadway unfolding before them, and turning instead to consider his driver. “First of all, to be succinct, what is this all about?”

Harold, at least, knew the answer to that one. “Television,” he said promptly.

“Ah? We’re on television?” Carruthers looked around; as he had suspected, they were not.

“Naw. They’re goin’ to interview you.”

“Ah!” It didn’t make much more sense, but at least it was intelligible and at this point every little bit helped. “And just who is going to so honor me?”

“All I know is television,” Harold said, not about to be caught out so easily.

“Sorry,” Carruthers said contritely. “Let us go on. I shall attempt another tack. Why are these so-discerning folks going to interview just me? What about my two friends?”

Harold knew the answer to this question, as well. He felt sure that Clarence would have been proud of the manner in which he was acquitting himself.

“Your friends are goin’ to meet you later,” he said in his gravel voice, and tried to remember what else Clarence had said. “Oh! Yeah. At your club. Somethin’ about writin’.”

It had long since occurred to Billy-Boy Carruthers that there was something odd, to say the very least, about the entire affair. While he knew relatively little about the operation of television studios, he was sure they were sufficiently sound financially to be able to afford better transportation for potential interviewees than the small, uncomfortable car in which he found himself. He also seemed to recall a recent article in the Times regarding the difficulty of foreigners obtaining work permits with the high unemployment, and it appeared doubtful to him that the hulk beside him could pass the liberal reading and spelling requirements, let alone the driving test. Nor did he think for a moment — as Timothy Briggs might have done — that they were merely in a segment of “Candid Camera”; for one thing the car was too small for people, let alone auxiliary photographic equipment, and if they were being filmed from another car it would have to be with telescopic sights, for by this time they were far from the airport and practically alone on the road.

Still, there had to be some real purpose in his having been selected and picked up at the airport. It was not impossible that there were two William Carrutherses in the world, but the giant beside him had seemed to recognize him, as well as know his name, and the giant had also stated that his two friends were to meet him at the club and had also known that the club had something to do with writin’. No, it appeared he was the William Carruthers referred to in the index, and the burning question was, why? Billy-Boy Carruthers had always been curious by nature, and the present problem intrigued him. Besides, as he had been thinking on the plane, life had promised to be dull, and this strange encounter — even should it eventually prove to be nothing more than a matter of mistaken identity, or a weird desire on someone’s part to collect fat men named William Carruthers — should still provide conversational manna with his friends in the barren wilderness of the dull days ahead. He glanced from the car window and found confirmation of his growing suspicion that all was not as it should be.

“I say,” he said a bit apologetically, “we’re heading away from the city.”

Harold had been prepared for this for some time and was proud to have thought of a good answer without Clarence’s help.

“Short cut,” he said succinctly.

“Obviously,” Carruthers said, agreeing. “But where to?”

Harold swallowed. “Television—” he began, and then fell silent.

Carruthers frowned. It was highly dubious that there were any television studios on the road they were taking, much before Birmingham, if there. No, the television studio and the purported interview were tales, nothing more, and he was not unhappy about it. The bright lights would have made him blink for hours, and besides he suffered terribly from stage fright. But, then, what other reason could there possibly be for being here in this car with a driver whose conversation seemed to be largely limited to the word “television”? A possible — although highly improbable — explanation came to him. He looked at Harold speculatively.

“I say!” he said. “You wouldn’t be kidnaping me, would you?”

Harold looked at him, startled, almost losing control of the car.

“You wasn’t supposed to know about that until I got you at the farm!” He glanced swiftly at the road and then back again to the portly man beside him. “Don’t go tellin’ Clare that I said anythin’, because I didn’t! You guessed it yourself!”

“Clare?”

“Clarence.”

“And just who is this Clarence?” Carruthers asked, always liking to keep track of the cast of characters.

“My partner. Well, he’s really the boss,” Harold admitted. Another thought came to the large man as he reviewed the damage done by Carruthers’ lucky guess. “You ain’t goin’ to make a fuss, are you?”

“Fuss?” The question was patently puzzling. “Why should I make a fuss? And, to be truthful, being wedged in like this, exactly how would I go about making a fuss?”

“Good!” Harold said, greatly relieved. He would not have wanted to use muscle on the old man. Carruthers looked just as Harold had always hoped his father might have looked, rather than the front-view, side-view, post-office portrait his mother had kept on her dresser and which was as close as he had ever come to knowing his sire.

Kidnaped! Carruthers mused. In a way it was flattering. Not very many people his age had ever had the distinction of being kidnaped, and certainly very few people — if any at all — had been kidnaped who were in his financial straits. Then, like the thorough chap he always tried to be, he stopped to consider the other side of the coin. He eyed Harold with a touch of apprehension. The man was certainly large and rough-looking, and the denouement in some of the kidnapings he had read about had not always been sweetness and light.

“I say,” he asked with a combination of curiosity and apprehension, “you wouldn’t really harm me, would you?”

“Once your pals chip in, you’ll be free as air, pops,” Harold said positively. “What the hell — pardon me — but you and that midget Briggs did it for that Simpson guy, didn’t you? I read all about it in the papers. So why shouldn’t they do it for you?”

“Well, for one reason—” Billy-Boy began, and then realized that this was probably not the best time for financial confessions. “I gather,” he said, changing the subject, returning to one more important in his mind, “that in that case I’m to be kept in reasonably fit condition?”

“Fit?” Harold asked, puzzled.

“I mean, you could scarcely expect my friends to pay for a dead man, could you? Not very much, at least.”

“Dead? Who said anything about dead?” Harold asked, shocked. He knew, of course, that some unscrupulous snatchers polished off their victims even after being paid off, but he hoped that he himself was above such treachery, and particularly in the case of a sweet old man like the man beside him. “Don’t worry your head about a thing, pops,” he said reassuringly. “Not a thing.”

As if to prove there was nothing to worry about in a mere case of kidnaping, Harold swung the wheel of the car, sending them from the highway into the lane leading to the farm barn, cutting ahead of a speeding cab-and-trailer, narrowly missing two bicyclists as he bumped over the curb, barely skirting two trees, and coming to a halt with the front wheels inches from the edge of a deep, water-filled ditch. He squeezed himself from the car and went around to open the other door for his guest.

“Made it!” he said triumphantly. “Well, here you are, pops, your home away from home for a couple of days.” Suddenly he remembered something. “Hey! I forgot to blindfold you! Clare will have a fit! You wasn’t supposed to see where you was at!”

Carruthers gazed about with a faint air of distaste. “I can understand why,” he said, and then put himself in the large man’s shoes. “However, I promise not to say anything if you don’t.”

“Hey, pops, that’s swell of you,” Harold said, beaming. Then his face fell. “I hate to do this to you, especially after you been so nice, but when we get inside, I got to handcuff you to a chair, or a bed, or somethin’.” He frowned, remembering. “Only I ain’t got no handcuffs, so it’ll have to be a rope, if I can find any...”

“To prevent my escape, I imagine.” Carruthers sighed. “It’s a shame, though. I really hate being immobilized in any fashion, you know. A minor form of claustrophobia, you see; I even wear my clothing rather loose.” He thought a moment. “Suppose I were to give you my word of honor that I would not attempt to get away?”

“Yeah,” Harold said thoughtfully. “I guess that ought to fix it. Your word ought to be good.” He smiled, pleased with the solution. “You and me, we’re goin’ to get along fine, pops...”

“Bloody idiot!” Briggs said, fuming. He and Simpson were riding the bus into the city, their luggage on an empty seat before them. Simpson was fingering the stub of his Corona-Corona, unwilling to light it and taste the fine taste for what he knew would be the last time. Briggs raved on. “Maniac! Imbecile! Going through our bags like that! And then making us undress!”

“Tim—”

“And, especially, pouring out those bottles of brandy and champagne just to make sure there was nothing else in them! We’ll sue! Oh, we’ll sue! We’ll make sure that Griddesby—”

“Griggsby. Tim — listen—”

“Whatever! We’ll make him sorry he was ever born! And—”

“Tim, listen—” Simpson said sadly.

But Timothy Briggs, once started on a crusade, was not easily put off. Fortunately, the two men were on the open upper deck of a two-decker, so that the breeze carried away a good bit of the vituperation.

“And that Grimsby saying that the A.C. of Scotland Yard had given him the tip himself! And then when he finally gets this Winterblast on the blower, the man never heard of you or me or even of this Grumley! I wouldn’t be surprised if he never even heard of Heathrow Airport! Oh, they haven’t heard the last of this, believe me!”

“Tim—”

“And get that long look off your face!” Briggs went on fiercely, studying Simpson critically. “I said we’ll sue and we will. We’ll get back the cost of every bottle, at today’s market for the top brands, believe me! Plus damages. God knows how many years went off my life when I watched that — that — whatever his name is — pour our brandy down the sink! We’ll collect, don’t worry, every penny, so don’t look so God-’elp-us! The world hasn’t come to an end!”

“Tim,” Simpson said dolefully, “for us, maybe it has.” He held out the newspaper story folded to the story of their financial disaster. Simpson had held the bad news back during their session with James J. Griggsby, feeling that Briggs had enough to cope with at that moment without adding to his grief. But Briggs could not be kept in the dark forever.

“What’s this?” Briggs asked suspiciously, and took the paper. His eyes took in the head of the story and then skipped quickly to the body. When he finally looked up from the article, he did not — as Simpson had feared he might — try to take out his frustration by attempting to rip one of the bus seats out by its roots. Instead the usually pugnacious Briggs looked slightly dazed. “We’re broke!”

“It looks that way,” Simpson said sadly.

“No more brandy—”

“No.”

“No more champagne—”

“No.”

“Back to beer—”

“No. I mean, yes.”

“Back to cucumber sandwiches—”

“Yes.”

“Back to watercress salads—”

“Yes.”

“No more Corona-Corona cigars for you—”

“Yes. I mean, no.” Simpson contemplated the stub of his last Corona-Corona and then with a sigh tucked it back into his pocket. He tried to smile, to put the best face possible on it. “Still, we had a few good months of it, didn’t we, Tim?”

“Blaggedy blam the bloggelly blodgedy few good months!” Briggs said brutally, and suddenly thought of something else. “Does Billy-Boy know, do you suppose?”

“He gave me the paper.”

“Oh—”

The totality of the tragedy weighed so heavily upon them that it was only by accident that Simpson looked up in time to see they were almost at Swan’s Park and their destination. He tapped Briggs on the shoulder and the two climbed down from the bus, carrying their bags, and made their way slowly to their club. Here they left their luggage in the care of the hall porter and walked into the lounge, expecting to see Carruthers, but their niche in the northeast corner was deserted, and from the lack of even a beer mug on the side table it was evident their friend had not yet made his appearance.

“Strange—” Simpson said, and frowned down at his shorter companion.

“Maybe he didn’t feel like drinking beer,” Briggs said bitterly. “Maybe he just went home.”

“I’ll just give him a buzz,” Simpson said, and disappeared in the direction of the telephones. When he came back his long face was even longer. “His landlady said he hasn’t shown up.”

“Odd,” Briggs said, and suddenly looked worried. “You don’t suppose—?”

“What?”

“Well,” Briggs said slowly, “if Billy-Boy knows the bad news, who can tell how it might strike him? And you know the bus from the airport comes fairly close to the river in a few places—”

“No!” Simpson looked horrified at the suggestion. “Billy-Boy? Never! No,” he said bravely, “something’s come up, is all. We’ll hear from him, you’ll see. All we can do is wait,” and he led the way to their alcove to begin the vigil with beer and biscuits and the remains of his last Corona-Corona. But they both knew the northeast corner of the lounge would seem awfully empty until Billy-Boy Carruthers once more joined them.