King's Ransom

7

When Lieutenant Peter Byrnes left the squadroom of the 87th Precinct, the telephones were jangling as if the place were an illegal racing room taking bets before the Kentucky Derby. He walked down the corridor to the end of the hall and then down the steps leading to the muster room. He nodded at Sergeant Dave Murchison, who sat behind the high desk, and then went out into the street, where a squad car and a driver were waiting for him. It was damn cold outside. Byrnes wrapped his muffler about his throat and pulled his fedora down more tightly on his head, as if this would serve as a buffer against the cold blasts which drove across Grover Park to lash the grimy stone front of the precinct building. The patrolman got out of the car, ran to the sidewalk and opened the door for Byrnes. Byrnes nodded, slid onto the seat and thrust his hands into his coat pockets. He was a man built with all the compactness of a traveling iron, hard as steel, capable of giving off tremendous heat in the press of any situation, adaptable to the myriad currents that moved in the precinct under his command.

“Where to, sir?” the patrolman asked, getting in behind the wheel.

“Smoke Rise,” Byrnes said. “The kidnaping.”

The kidnaping. Even the word rankled Byrnes. He had a grown son of his own, and he knew the torments and thrills of raising a child, and he did not hold with that part of the penal law which specified “Provided, however, that the jury upon returning a verdict of guilty against a person upon whom the death penalty would otherwise be imposed, may recommend imprisonment of the convicted person, in lieu of death.” Nor did he hold with the further wording of Section 1250, to wit: “Provided, further, that notwithstanding the foregoing provisions of this section with respect to punishment by death, if the kidnaped person be released and returned alive prior to the opening of the trial, the death penalty shall not apply nor be imposed…”

Damnit, either there was a death penalty or there wasn’t. A kidnaper was the lowest form of animal life, even lower than a narcotics peddler—and Byrnes had particular reason to despise any and all pushers. And if anything was going to stop the crime of stealing another man’s child, the death penalty was that deterrent. Kidnaping, by its very nature, was usually a premeditated crime. Careful planning went into the actual snatch, careful psychological manipulation went into the demands made of the parents, the slow torture of uncertainty. Byrnes would rather have seen all murderers get off with prison sentences. For whereas the thin line of premeditation separated many second-degree homicides from first-degree homicides, there was very rarely a kidnaping case in which the entire filthy crime was not thoroughly and fastidiously premeditated.

“Anywhere along here, sir?” the patrolman asked.

“What’s that up ahead?” Byrnes asked.

“Looks like a light, sir.”

“Pull up over there.”

“Yes, sir.”

The patrolman eased the car to a stop. Byrnes got out and walked to where Hawes and Kronig were squatted close to the ground.

“Cotton,” Byrnes said. “Kronig. How are you?”

“Fine, Lieutenant,” Hawes said.

“Making a cast,” Kronig said. “Looks like it’s gonna be a good one.”

“Good. Those bastards call again?”

“Not that I know of, Pete,” Hawes said. “I’ve been outside quite a while.”

“Where are the rest of the men?”

“Carella and Parker are up at the house. I think Meyer broke for dinner.”

“Okay,” Byrnes said. “I put in a call to the Chief of Detectives, and he may be out.”

“May?” Kronig said, surprised.

“He’s up to his ears in this income tax thing that broke yesterday. He’s been waiting for a long time to clap that hoodlum behind bars.”

“Still, a kidnaping…” Kronig began.

“The trouble with most crimes,” Byrnes said, “is that they don’t respect any other crimes. Nothing gets priority. In any case, if the Chief shows up, I’ll be—” and he stopped talking.

A figure was coming up the road. In the darkness, the men saw only a hulking shape against the sky. Byrnes’s hand slipped inside the flap of his coat. Nearly all of the detectives on the 87th—with the exception of a few who were left-handed and a few who were stubborn—wore their holsters clipped to the left side of their belts during the winter months. This eliminated the necessity of delay in unbuttoning a coat, and whereas a cross-body draw was slower than a straight one, there were very rarely any wild-West theatrics which necessitated a split-second edge. On the other hand, a cop could be dead in the time it took him to unbutton his coat far enough to reach his gun. The figure came closer as Byrnes’s hand tightened on the butt of the .38.

“That you, Loot?” a voice called into the darkness.

Byrnes recognized the voice as Parker’s. His hand relaxed. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Nothing. Carella was just asking a while ago whether you got here or not. How’s the squad? I’ll bet things are jumping.”

“They’re jumping, all right.” Byrnes turned his attention back to Kronig, and then his eyes scanned the ground, coming to rest on two large boulders near the edge of the cut-off. He walked to the rocks, knelt by them and then said, “Can you bring that light here a minute, Cotton?”

“What is it, Lieutenant?”

“Unless I’m mistaken…”

The light swung over to illuminate the boulders.

* * * *

In the living room, the telephone rang.

“I’ll get it,” King said, moving toward the phone.

“Wait a minute!” Carella shouted. He picked up the headphones attached to the wiretap equipment and then turned to Cameron. “Mr. Cameron, get on the trunk line. If this is the kidnaper, tell them to start tracing immediately. Okay, Mr. King. Answer it.”

King picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“King?”

Carella nodded at Cameron. Instantly, Cameron picked up the receiver of the trunk line telephone.

“This is Mr. King,” King said.

Into his phone, Cameron said, “Hello? We’ve got him on the phone now. Get started.”

“All right, King, listen. We don’t care whose kid this is, you got that? We heard the radio, and we don’t care. He’s still alive and well, and we still want that money. You get it by tomorrow morning or the kid won’t see the sun go down.”

“You want… ?” King started, and there was a sharp click on the line.

Carella ripped off the earphones. “Forget it, he’s gone. Damnit, I was afraid this would happen.” He went to the phone and began dialing.

“What happened?” Cameron asked, hanging up his phone.

Diane, puzzled, looked at her husband. “Is… is Jeff all right?”

“Yes. Yes, he’s fine,” King said.

“Hello, Dave,” Carella said, “this is Steve. Can you get me the lieutenant right away?”

“You’re sure he’s all right?” Diane asked, staring at King.

“Yes, damnit, he’s fine!”

“I’ll tell Reynolds,” she said, and she started for the kitchen.

“Diane!”

“Yes?”

“They… they want me to pay the ransom. They know they’ve got Jeff, but they still want me to pay. They want me to…”

“We’ll do whatever they say,” Diane said. “Thank God Jeffs all right.” And she left the room. King stared after her, a frown on his forehead.

“What?” Carella said into the phone. “Well, how long ago did he leave, Dave? I see. Then he should be here by now. I’ll check outside. How’s it going back there? Murder, huh? Okay, thanks, Dave.” He hung up. “I’m going outside, see if I can scare up the lieutenant. If that phone rings, don’t answer it,” Carella said. He took his coat from the hall closet. “Detective Meyer should be back soon. Do whatever he says.”

“About this new demand,” King said. “I think—”

“I want to talk to the lieutenant first,” Carella said, and he rushed out of the house.

“That guy knew we’d try to trace the call,” Cameron said. “That’s why he got off the line so fast.”

“Yes,” King said. The frown on his face had given way to a slightly dazed expression now. “Yes.”

“That means we’re dealing with professionals. But why would pros pull a thing like this, asking you to pay?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Hell, if you pay them—why, your Boston deal’ll go right out the window, won’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it will.”

The doorbell chimed. King started for the door, but it opened before he reached it.

“Hi, Mr. King,” Meyer said. “Boy, it’s turned cold out there.” He took off his hat and coat and hung them in the closet.

“Detective Carella went outside to find the lieutenant,” King said. “He said—”

“I know. I ran into him on the way in. What was all the excitement about?”

“The kidnapers just called again,” King said.

“Yeah?”

“They want me to pay the ransom.”

“What do you mean? Do they know they got the wrong kid?”

“Yes.”

“And they still…?”

“Yes.”

“First time I ever heard of a dodge like that,” Meyer said, shaking his head. “This just about beats it all. This means that any crook can go out and steal any kid in the world, and then send a ransom demand to the richest guy he can think of.” He shook his head again. “Screwy, all right. But nobody says kidnapers have to be normal, huh?” He shook his head again. “Meshugah. Plain meshugah.”

“What are our chances of getting him back, Detective Meyer?”

“That’s hard to say, Mr. King. We don’t get kidnapings every day of the week, you know. What I mean is, it’s a little hard to come up with actual statistics. I can tell you that the Department is working like crazy on it. Even the Sands Spit cops and the cops in the adjoining states are going on a round-the-clock schedule.”

“What about the F.B.I.?” Cameron asked.

“They don’t come in till a week’s gone by,” Meyer said. “I think Carella explained that to you, Mr. King.”

“Yes.”

“But we’ve got them on standby.”

“Would you say the boy’s chances are good?”

“I don’t know,” Meyer said. “He may be dead already, for all we know.”

“We can’t assume that,” Cameron said quickly. “There’d be no sense paying the ransom if we assumed the boy was dead.”

“Mr. Cameron, they may have killed him five minutes after they picked him up,” Meyer said. “It’s been done before. Figure it out for yourself. The safest kidnap victim, from the standpoint of the criminals, is a dead one. We may deliver the ransom and then find the boy in a ditch someplace.”

“In your opinion,” King said slowly, “would paying the ransom help the boy at all?”

“If he’s alive, it certainly would. If he’s dead, nothing’s going to help him. But the ransom bills might help in eventually catching the kidnaper.”

“I see.”

Diane came in from the kitchen. “Doug…” she started, and the doorbell chimed. “I’ll get it,” she said changing her course.

Urgently, Cameron said, “Doug, the boy’s still alive. And your money will keep him that way, remember that!”

Diane closed the door and then came into the living room. “A telegram, Doug,” she said. “Addressed to us.”

“You’d better let me take that,” Meyer said, “before anyone else handles it.” He spread a handkerchief over his hand and took the telegram. “Got a letter opener, Mr. King?”

“Yes. On the dropleaf desk there.”

Meyer went to the desk. Pinning the telegram with his handkerchief, he slit the envelope, extricated the handkerchief, draped it over his hand again and, with all the dexterity of a puppeteer, reached into the envelope for the message. Still using the handkerchief, he unfolded it, read it, and then put the handkerchief back into his pocket. “It’s okay, Mr. King. You can have it.”

He handed the message to King. Diane walked over to him, and together they read the wire:

PLEASE ACCEPT DEEPEST SYMPATHY YOUR MISFORTUNE. WE WILL ADD $1000 CASH TO RANSOM IF KIDNAPERS WILL AGREE TO RETURN BOY AT ONCE. WIRE US 27-145 HALSEY AVENUE, CALM’S POINT.

MR. AND MRS. THEODORE SCHAEFFER

“What is it, Doug?” Cameron asked, and King handed him the wire.

“Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Schaeffer,” King said. “Nobody I know.” He paused. “But why send it to us? Our son wasn’t kidnaped.”

“Half the people out there probably still think it was Bobby,” Cameron said, putting the wire down on the desk.

“Let me have that,” Diane said. “I think Reynolds would like to see it. He… he expected them to turn Jeff loose and now… he’s… he’s just sitting at the kitchen table in a kind of shock. Let me show it to him. It’s such a wonderful, human offer.”

King picked up the wire and handed it to his wife.

“And then I’ll send a return wire,” Diane said, “thanking them for their concern.” She started out of the room, the telegram in her hand. She stopped and turned to face King. “Doug, have you called the bank yet?” she asked.

“No, not yet.”

“Don’t you think…?”

“Mommy?”

Diane turned toward the steps. Bobby King, wearing pajamas and robe, stood on the landing.

“What is it, darling?”

“Why is there a policeman outside my room?” Bobby asked.

“Just to make sure that everything is all right,” Diane said.

“Because of what happened to Jeff?”

“Yes, Bobby.”

“Daddy, are you getting Jeff back?”

“What? I’m sorry, son, I didn’t hear…”

“He’s my best friend. You are getting him back, aren’t you?”

“Your daddy’s taking care of everything,” Diane said. “Now come, I’ll put you back to bed.”

“I want Daddy to tuck me in,” Bobby said.

“Doug? Will you?”

“Sure.” Preoccupied, King walked to the steps and took his son’s hand. “Come on, Bobby.”

“Poor Bobby,” Diane said, when they were out of sight. “He still isn’t quite sure about what happened. He only knows that his friend is gone, and I think he feels responsible somehow. The way I do.”

“You’ve no reason to feel guilty, Diane,” Cameron said. “Once Doug pays the ransom…”

“Yes, I know, but I do feel guilty. I almost feel as if my own son is out there with those men.” She paused. “I’d better show Reynolds this wire.” She paused again. “Detective Meyer, I wonder if you’d come talk to him, fill him in a little on what’s being done. He’s so terribly shaken by all this.”

“Sure,” Meyer said. “Be happy to.” As they walked out of the room, he called over his shoulder, “If that phone rings, yell for me. Don’t answer it.”

“Okay,” Cameron said.

Alone in the living room, Cameron lighted a cigarette and then walked quickly to the steps, looking upstairs. He crossed the room rapidly then, looking over his shoulder toward the kitchen, walked directly to the telephone. He dialed with quick flicks of his forefinger, his eyes never leaving the steps leading to the upstairs wing of the house. Impatiently, he tapped on the telephone table.

“Hello?” he said at last. “May I speak to Mr. Benjamin, please.” He paused. “This is Peter Cameron. Yes, I’ll wait, but please hurry.” He glanced nervously toward the steps. The hand with the cigarette stopped its tapping, moved to his mouth. He sucked in on the cigarette, blew out a steady stream of smoke, looked toward the kitchen again, and was ready to hang up when the voice came onto the line.

“Hello?”

“George?”

“This is George Benjamin.”

“Pete Cameron. I’ve got to make this fast. Do I still get Doug’s job?”

“I offered it, didn’t I? I’ll put it in writing, if you like.”

“I’d like. The Boston thing I called you about earlier—it is a stock deal. Doug’s cornering nineteen per cent of the voting stock.”

“What!”

“And he already owns twenty-eight per cent himself. You underestimated him, George.”

“Twenty-eight…” There was a long silence on the line. “Then how can we vote him out? How the hell can we?”

“You can’t,” Cameron said. “Unless you tell the Old Man that Doug is finagling a deal behind his back. Get the Old Man on your side temporarily. It’s the only way.”

“What good will that do? If Doug’s stock deal goes through, he’ll be sitting with forty-seven per cent of the stuff! Even with the Old Man’s stock, we couldn’t outvote him. Hell, he could get rid of us.”

“If the deal goes through. Have you been listening to the radio?”

“This kidnaping nonsense?” Benjamin said. “What’s that got to do with—”

“It has a lot to do with it.”

“It isn’t even Doug’s son!”

“No, but they’ve asked him for the ransom, anyway. If he pays, his Boston deal goes out the window.”

“Will he pay?”

“No question about it. But in the meantime, I’m trying to find out whom he’s dealing with in Boston. Maybe we can beat him to the punch.”

“You’re all right, Pete,” Benjamin said admiringly.

“I know I am,” Cameron answered. “Do what I advised, George. Get to the Old Man and clasp hands with him. If Doug’s deal folds and you still want him out, you’re going to need a bigger club than you’ve got now.”

“I’ll do that. And I won’t forget this.”

“I’m banking on that. I’ve got to hang up now, George.”

“All right.”

There was a click on the line. Smiling, Cameron replaced the receiver and lighted a fresh cigarette. He was still smiling when the doorbell chimed. He looked up at the steps, shrugged, and went to the door, opening it. A small man wearing a black overcoat and derby stood there. A black umbrella was slung over the man’s arm. There was an air of secrecy about the man, the look of a Scotland Yard operative who had worked on the Jack the Ripper case. The man was easily sixty years old, perhaps older.

“Yes?” Cameron said.

“Mr. King?”

“No. I’m Mr. King’s assistant.”

“I would like to see Mr. King, please. On business.”

“What sort of business?”

“Personal business. You may tell him that Score is here. Adrian Score.”

“Just a moment, Mr. Score. I’ll see if he’s free. Have a seat, won’t you?”

“Thank you,” Score said. He walked into the living room, holding his umbrella clutched in both hands like a timid batter facing a no-hit pitcher. He studied one of the chairs as if he suspected some wild animal had befouled it, and then sat daintily on its edge. Cameron went to the steps and called, “Doug!”

“What is it?”

“A Mr. Score to see you. On business.”

“I don’t know any Mr. Score,” King answered.

“Tell him it’s personal,” Score said over his shoulder.

“Says it’s personal, Doug.”

“Okay, I’ll be right down,” King said.

“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Score,” Cameron said, walking into the living room.

“Thank you, I will. This is a lovely home.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Score repeated.

King came down the steps. “Now what is it, Pete?”

Cameron shrugged. In a whisper, he said, “Says it’s personal. I’d better go get a cup of coffee.” He started toward the kitchen.

“That phone hasn’t rung again, has it?”

“No. Bobby asleep?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Cameron said, and he went out.

“Mr. Score?”

“Mr. King?”

“Yes.” King extended his hand.

Score rose, shook hands briefly, and nodded curtly. “Adrian Score, sir,” he said. “The man who always knows the score, eh?”

“Sit down, Mr. Score,” King said. Score sat. “Now then, what’s on your mind?”

“Business, Mr. King.”

“It’s a little late for a business call, isn’t it?”

“It’s never too late for business, is it, Mr. King?”

“Well, that depends. What sort of business did you have in mind, Mr. Score?”

“Kidnaping, Mr. King.”

The room went dead silent.

“What…what about kidnaping?”

“Do you want your son back, Mr. King?”

“My son wasn’t kidnaped,” King said.

“Ah-ah, Mr. King,” Score said, wagging the umbrella, “let’s be honest with each other, eh? We are both businessmen, are we not? Very well then. You can tell the newspapers what you wish, but you are now dealing with Adrian Score. Honesty, eh? I asked you a question.”

“And I gave you an answer.”

“That’s what I like, Mr. King. Hardheaded business. Who is this Adrian Score, you are undoubtedly asking yourself. Who is this man who comes into my house in the middle of the night and asks me if I want my son back? And you’ve every right to ask that, Mr. King, every right in the world. Sound business tactics.” He paused, nodded, put the umbrella between his legs and said, “Well, I will tell you who Adrian Score is. Adrian Score is the man who’s going to get your son back.”

“You know where the Reynolds boy is?” King asked.

Score chuckled and put a finger alongside his nose. “All right, sir, never argue with a client, that’s Score’s motto. If you prefer, he’s your chauffeur’s son, and a very clever ruse indeed, if I may be permitted to say so. But we both know the truth, don’t we, eh? In any case, you do want the boy back?”

“What do you know about this?”

“Ah-ah, Mr. King, I asked you a question. Do you want the boy back?”

“Of course we do!”

“Now, now, don’t get excited, Mr. King. Don’t raise your voice. If you want the boy back, Adrian Score is your man.” He paused. “I know who kidnaped the boy, Mr. King.”

Again, the room went silent.

“Who?” King asked.

“That’s the big question, eh? Who? Well, Score’s got the answers, and Score can get the boy back, now what do you think of that, sir? Back home safe and sound, eh? Now how would you like that?”

“I’d like that fine. Who… ?”

“My services are available for the asking, Mr. King. Simply ask, and Score will oblige. Score will put his talents to the task of getting your boy back for you…”

“Well, who… ?”

“… at a nominal fee.”

“I see.”

“Yes, Mr. King. I imagined you would.”

“How much?”

“Can we measure the safety and well-being of a toddler in terms of cold cash, Mr. King?”

“The boy’s father is a chauffeur. The five-hundred-thousand-dollar demand is far beyond his—”

“Mr. King, please, please,” Score said, as if he could not tolerate the lie a moment longer. “Please.” He leaned forward, his hands clasped over the handle of the umbrella. His voice dropped to a whisper. Intently, he said, “I am ready to establish contact with the kidnapers, whose identity is already known to me, sir, and I will ascertain that the boy is alive and well, serving as a liaison between the principals, negotiating for the ransom payment, seeing that every term of the contract is strictly adhered -”

“Goddamnit, how much?”

“Five thousand dollars, Mr. King.”

“In addition to the exorbitant ransom demand?”

“I was thinking I might—But no, that would be far too risky.”

“What?” King asked eagerly.

“Perhaps, were you to deliver the five thousand dollars to me at once, I could get the boy back now. Tonight. Without necessity for further payment.”

“How would you manage that?”

“We are both businessmen, Mr. King,” Score said, smiling. “But does Macy’s tell Gimbels?”

“Who has the boy?”

“Business, business, Mr. King. Cash on the barrelhead in Score’s Store.”

“How do I know you can get him back?”

“You shall have to accept my word for that, Mr. King.”

“In business, Mr. Score, I accept no one’s word.”

“An admirable trait, to be sure. But a good businessman knows when his back is to the wall, Mr. King. And surely you can see I’m a man to trust. You realize the danger of my position, do you not, sir?”

King’s attention was momentarily diverted by Meyer Meyer, who had entered behind Score and stopped in the archway leading from dining room to living room. Score, apparently, had not seen the change of expression on King’s face. Blithely unaware of Meyer’s presence, he continued with his monologue.

“Surely you appreciate the danger of my position, surely you do. If these ruthless men were to suspect that I was planning to get the boy away from them, my life would be placed in instant jeopardy. These men are hardened criminals, sir, cutthroats who would stop at nothing short of—”

“Which men, Score?” Meyer called from the archway.

“Eh?” Score said, and he whirled in his seat to face the archway.

“Which men were you talking about, Score?” Meyer said.

Score studied Meyer painstakingly. “I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure, sir,” he said.

“How’d you sneak past our men at the gate, Score?”

“Perhaps, Mr. King, you would do me the honor of introducing this gentleman. He seems to have made an error in—”

“I’ll introduce myself, Score, even though we’ve already met. Detective Second Grade Meyer Meyer of the Eighty-seventh Squad. Ring a bell?”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Score said.

“I see you’re still disguised as a leech.”

“Eh?”

“This is one of the biggest con men in the business, Mr. King, and he specializes in human grief. If someone’s kid is missing for as long as an hour, you can bet Adrian Score will be on the scene with some scheme for getting the kid back. At a nominal fee, of course.”

“This is absurd, Mr. King. Surely two businessmen should be able to discuss—”

“Get the hell out of here, you rotten louse! Get out before I arrest you as an accessory to a kidnaping!”

“Accessory to a… ?”

“Yes, accessory!” Meyer yelled. “A person who wilfully gives false information concerning a kidnaping while knowing that information to be false!”

“False… false… information?” Score squeaked.

“Get out, Score! I’m warning you!”

“Really, Mr. King. I am a guest in your home, a respected businessma—”

“Move!” Meyer shouted.

Score rose rapidly and handed King a small white rectangle. “My card, sir.” Backing off toward the door, he said, “Call me anytime, sir, anytime at all. The name is Score. Adrian Score.” He opened the front door, shot a hasty glance at Meyer and then shouted, “I can get your boy back!’³ and slammed the door behind him.

“That rotten parasite!” Meyer said.

“He called us both businessmen,” King said. “Why, he was nothing but a crook!”

“One of the worst. Human feelings mean nothing to him. But hang around a while, Mr. King. Score is only the beginning. We’ll be getting a wide range of ransom demands soon. Every filthy crook who’s looking for a soft touch will hop on the bandwagon as soon as he figures a gimmick. The woods’ll be full of kidnapers. We won’t know the real bastards from the fake ones.”

“How do we know we have the real one now?” King asked.

“We don’t. We can only assume we do.” Meyer paused and shook his head. “One thing’s for sure.”

“What’s that?”

“I sure as hell wouldn’t like to be back at the squad answering telephones right now.”

* * * *

“Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Willis?”

“ ‘Allo, you know the kidnap, please?”

“Who is this?” Willis said.

“Who you?” the woman said.

“Detective Willis. Can I help you, lady?”

“My name issa Miz Abruzzi,” the woman said. “I’ma see the li’la boy.”

“The kidnap victim?”

“Yas, yas. He wass inna diner with two men. Both needa shaves, you unnerstan’? He’s a li’la blond boy, no?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Willis paused. “When did you see him, lady?”

“When you tink?”

“Well, I don’t know. You tell me.”

“This morn’.”

“Yeah, well the boy wasn’t missing until this afternoon.”

“I see,” Mrs. Abruzzi said, and then, unperturbed, she said, “I wassa sit in the boot’, an’ these two men they come in wit’ the boy. So right away, I’ma tink this is the li’la boy he was a kidnap. So I watch what they—”

“Yes, Mrs. Abruzzi, thank you very much,” Willis said, and he hung up. Holy God,” he shouted to Arthur Brown, I never saw anything like this in my life. You’d think we were giving away gold dollars to anybody who called Frederick 7-8024.”

“Everybody wants to help,” Brown said. “The trouble is—” The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up quickly. “Eighty-seventh, Detective Brown speaking.”

“I’d like the lieutenant, Detective Brown.”

“He’s not here. Who’s this, please?”

“Where is he?”

“Who’m I talking to?” Brown asked.

“This is Cliff Savage. I’m a reporter. The lieutenant knows me.”

“Well, he’s still not here, Mr. Savage. What can I do for you?”

“On this kidnaping.”

“Yes?”

“Is it true that the kidnapers have asked King for the ransom? Even though they know they’ve got the wrong boy?”

“I don’t know what’s going on out there, Mr. Savage. I’m sorry.”

“Well, look, how can I find out?”

“Call me back later.”

“Where’s the lieutenant? At the King house?”

“I wouldn’t call there, Mr. Savage. They probably want to keep those lines free for possible contact from the—”

“The public has a right to know what’s going on!” Savage said.

“Listen, you want to argue with me?”

“No, but…”

“Then don’t. I feel like I’ve been working in the telephone room of the Automobile Club on the night a truck spilled a full load of tacks all over the highway. I’m getting a cauliflower ear from this goddamn phone, Mr. Savage, and you sure as hell aren’t helping it any.”

“Do you have the number out at the King house?”

“No.”

“I can find it, you know.”

“You may find trouble, too, Mr. Savage. I’d keep off that phone if I were you. You may find yourself impeding the progress of an investigation.”

“Thanks, Brown. I’ll do you a favor someday.”

“I can hardly wait,” Brown said, and he hung up. “The son of a bitch,” Brown said. “Wasn’t he involved that time Reardon and Foster were killed? And Bush? Didn’t he almost get Steve’s wife in hot water?”

“Almost ain’t the word,” Willis said. “If he ever sets foot in this squadroom, the lieutenant’ll drown him in the water cooler. Where’s Miscolo? I want some coffee. Miscolo? Hey, Miscolo!”

“Yo?” a voice from the clerical office shouted.

“Make some joe.”

“What the hell you think this is?” Miscolo called. “Howard Johnson’s?”

“The coffee here is better,” Willis said flatteringly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Miscolo mumbled, but they could hear him opening the file drawer to take out the can of coffee.

The telephone on Willis’ desk rang.

“Come on,” he said to the phone, “cut it out, willya?”

The phone kept ringing.

“Stop, stop, stop ringing.”

The phone shrieked into the room.

“All right, all right, all right,” he said, lifting the receiver. “Eighty-seventh Squad, Willis. What? You saw the boy?… Yes, he’s a blond boy… Yes, he’s about eight… Yes, he was wearing a red sweater… Yes, sir. Yes, that certainly does sound like him… Yes, sir, where did you see him, sir?… Where, sir?… In a movie, sir? Which movie, sir?… I see. And he was sitting in the audience, is that right?… He wasn’t? Well, then…” Willis paused, and an amazed look crossed his face. “He was in the picture?” he said. “You mean he was acting in the picture. On the screen? Mister, you mean this kid you saw—In the picture? Oh, mister, please, I got enough headaches.” He hung up abruptly. “He calls me about a movie star. Says it’s a remarkable coincidence. For the love of—”

The phone rang again.

“I’m gonna get a record made,” Willis said. “It’s gonna say, ‘Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Willis. You saw the kid, right? Where? When? Thank you.’ Save my voice for the opera.” He picked up the receiver. “Eighty-seventh Squad, Willis… Yes, ma’am, this is the Detective Division… Yes, ma’am, we are handling the Jeff Reynolds kidnaping… Yes, ma’am, we…”

The phone on Brown’s desk rang.

“Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Brown speaking…”

“Eighty-seventh Squad, Di Maeo…”

“Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Willis…”

“Eighty-seventh Squad, Hernandez…”

“Eighty-seventh Precinct, Sergeant Murchison…”

“Eighty-seventh Precinct, Captain Frick…”

“Headquarters, Lieutenant Vinnick…”

“Arson Squad, Detective Hopkins…”

“You saw the boy, sir?”

“The boy was with three men, ma’am?”

‘You saw the boy…”

“When, sir?”

“What street was that, sir?”

“Where, sir?”

“Where, ma’am?”

Where?

Where?

Where?

* * * *

Lieutenant Byrnes walked into the Douglas King living room and blew on his hands.

“Hello, Steve,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“All right, sir,” Carella answered. “Mr. King, this is Lieutenant Byrnes.”

“How do you do, sir?” Byrnes said, and he took King’s hand.

“How does it look, Lieutenant?” King asked.

“So-so. Has the Auto Squad delivered that list yet, Steve?”

“No.”

“Damnit. I understand they’re asking you for the money, Mr. King. That’s a tough break.” He sighed. “But maybe we’ve got something good outside.”

“What happened, Pete?”

“We’re getting a good cast of a tire track and—“

“Will that help at all?” King said.

“It usually does. Tire patterns are pretty easy to run down. Headquarters has an up-to-date file on tire patterns, and once we get a good casting, half the battle is won. It’s been our experience that a car will usually carry the same make of tire on all four wheels—especially a new car. And, as funny as this may sound at first, when a tire wears out, the owner will usually replace it with a tire of the same make. So we can generally figure the make of car from the tire pattern. In this case, we think we’ve got something else to go on, too.”

“What’s that?” King asked.

“There are two boulders on the ground near where we found the tire track. The guy driving that car was probably in a big hurry. He sideswiped one of the boulders. We got ourselves a pretty decent paint scraping from the rock. Kronig’s already on the way to the lab with it. With a little luck, we may be able to come up with both the year and the make of the car. With a little luck. That’s why I’m anxious to get that stolen-car list.”

“I see,” King said.

“I don’t suppose Mr. Reynolds is around, is he? I’d like to keep him abreast of what we’re doing. The worst part of any kidnaping case is that the parents never feel we’re doing enough.”

“He’s in the kitchen, Pete,” Carella said. “Want me to get him for you?”

“No, I’ll go out to him in a few minutes.”

The doorbell chimed. Carella went to the door and threw it open. A uniformed policeman stood there. “I want Detective Carella,” he said.

“That’s me.”

“You called the Auto Squad a little while ago?”

“Yes.”

“They sent me up with this.” He extended a manila envelope. “A stolen-car list.”

“Thanks,” Carella said.

“What’s the latest on the kid?” the patrolman asked.

“Nothing new, so far,” Carella said.

“Yeah.” The patrolman shook his head. “Well, there’s the list.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay.”

Carella closed the door behind him.

“Let me see that, Steve,” Byrnes said. He opened the manila envelope and studied the typewritten sheet. “Not too bad. Couple of dozen cars, all told. Let’s hope the lab boys turn up something that matches something on this list.”

“And where will that put you, Lieutenant?” King asked.

“Huh?”

“Suppose you know the car they used was a stolen one? How will that help you in finding the boy?”

“It’ll give us something to look for. We’ve got roadblocks hemming in this whole city, Mr. King. It would help if we knew the shape and size and color of the needle, don’t you think?”

“If they were smart enough to use a stolen car, they were probably smart enough to get rid of it immediately.”

“Unless they have further use for it,” Byrnes said.

“In which case they probably repainted it.”

“Unless there wasn’t time. A homemade paint job is a pretty conspicuous thing, Mr. King. The last thing these kidnapers want is to be conspicuous.”

“I see,” King said.

“I know it sounds slim, Mr. King, but we haven’t got a hell of a lot to work with here, and every little bit counts. Once the money is delivered, we’ll have ransom bills to look for. And when we get the boy back, perhaps he’ll be able to tell us something about his abductors. Unless we reach them before that.”

“Or unless the boy is dead already,” King said flatly.

“Yes. Unless he’s dead. There wouldn’t be any sense continuing then, would there?”

“None at all,” King answered.

“I want to talk to you about the ransom, Mr. King. We can’t mark the money, and there probably won’t even be time to record all the serial numbers. They particularly specified no consecutive serial numbers, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but…”

“Only to make the recording job more difficult. But we will be able to record some of those numbers, and even a partial list is a good thing to have. Those men will have to spend that money someday.” He paused. “You haven’t called the bank yet, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Good. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to them when you do. To tell them just what would be most helpful to us. If the F.B.I, comes in on this, they’ll need—”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you, Lieutenant Byrnes,” King said.

Byrnes looked at him in puzzlement. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You don’t want me to talk to your bank?”

“No, Lieutenant, that’s not it. I won’t be talking to the bank, either.”

“Wh—”

“I’m not going to pay the ransom, Lieutenant.”

“You’re…” The room went silent. Byrnes looked at Carella. “Well, of course… Well, that’s entirely up to you. No one can force you to.”

“What are you saying, Mr. King?” Carella said, frowning. “You—you have to pay that ransom! That boy—”

“Knock it off, Steve,” Byrnes said.

“But he has to! That kid hasn’t got a chance unless he—”

“I don’t have to do anything!” King said tightly. “Let’s get this straight, gentlemen. I’m telling it to you, and I’ll tell it to the kidnapers if they call again, and I’ll tell it to anyone who cares to listen. I am not paying the ransom.” He paused. “I am not paying the ransom.”

* * * *