Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 40, No. 4, April 1977

Ransom by Michael J. Hanson

The kidnappers were caught, their victim rescued — but what became of the ransom money? a $30,000 conundrum!

The Caldwell kidnapping was solved. It was a simple enough case, as kidnappings go. A couple of bunglers from the Midwest passing through town decided to kidnap a Tucson woman to get her husband to finance their trip to California. The Chief of the Tucson Police Department and the Sheriff of Pima County worked hand in glove and, with an assist from the FBI fingerprint division, the two badmen were turned over to the Federal Attorney in Phoenix. What the courts would do with them was a different matter; the police had done their work.

The kidnappers hadn’t made much preparation for the job. They drove around till they came to a neighborhood with expensive homes and grabbed the first woman they saw that morning — Mrs. Harold Caldwell out walking her chihuahua in the desert near her home. They drove her to a motel at the other end of town, found out her name, terrorized her into writing a note to her husband and went about collecting the ransom. One stood guard over Mrs. Caldwell while the other took off in the car.

He drove to the Caldwell house and deposited the note in the mailbox. He then drove to a phone booth outside a MacDonald’s fourteen blocks away and called Mr. Caldwell, getting him out of bed. He told him to look in his mailbox and hung up. He then drove thirty blocks to another booth and called Mr. Caldwell again. He told him to stay near the phone and wait for instructions. He warned him not to call the police if he wanted to see his wife alive.

When the kidnapper called the third time three Tucson officers were listening in on the call, one on the extension and two on special taps that had been installed on the Caldwell line. Experienced Mountain Bell operators were alerted to help the police trace calls into the home. This call was specific.

“Get thirty thousand together in tens and twenties — no fives and no fifties. Get back to the phone and wait. Don’t get any ideas about calling the police.”

He hung up and three cops exhaled noisily. They were letting out the breath they had been holding during the phone conversation. They were also expressing their relief that the kidnapper didn’t know the police had been called in.

Detective Lieutenant Koertz radioed police communications center on his portable radio. At the same time he was barking over the phone to the operator who was tracing the call, and he was questioning Mr. Caldwell. “Where’d the call come from? What do you mean, you haven’t traced it yet?... Put me through to the dispatcher of mobile units... Where do you bank, Mr. Caldwell?... What do you mean, a public phone at the airport? I’ve got to know which one. Okay, I got it.

“Now get me the Sheriff’s office... Clear the air. I’ve got to get a message out to all mobile units... What’s that, Mr. Caldwell? Downtown Bank? All right... Get the nearest officer to Downtown Bank and tell him to requisition all the paper cutters and all the help he can get and start chopping out pieces of paper the size of a dollar. I want two thousand of them right away. And I don’t want the public to see it...

“This is Lieutenant Koertz of Tucson Police Department. Get your nearest man to the last phone booth on Concourse B at the airport fight away. I know I can’t order Sheriffs deputies anywhere but do it anyway. It’s an emergency. If there’s anyone talking on the phone, hold him. And get your fingerprint crew there right away... Mr. Caldwell, get over to the bank and put anything on a piece of paper and sign your name. They’ll be waiting for you and they’ll give you the Monopoly stuff. Move!... Get your guy there now. The sheriff will back me up. Call the chief deputy right after you dispatch the car... Caldwell! Get right back. We can’t answer the phone for you.”

Mr. Caldwell left for the bank while Lieutenant Koertz, now talking to the chief deputy of the sheriff’s department, was coordinating the efforts, of his men with those of the county deputies.

Patrolman Hector Mendoza, assigned to the traffic detail, was the officer closest to the bank when the call came in. He was fairly new to the force, but not too many years before he had been a tough kid from South Tucson. He wasn’t one to stand on ceremony. Six feet tall and 190 pounds, Officer Mendoza ordinarily presented an imposing appearance; in uniform, his impact was formidable. He wore his hat low, and the visor obscured his gentle blue eyes.

He strode into the office of the bank vice president, who was talking on the telephone. The vice president said, “Yes?” and Officer Mendoza motioned him to conclude his phone conversation. Then he said, “This is a police matter and it concerns your bank. Get every papercutter you have into this office and someone to operate each one. Also get a lot of paper — phone books! I’ll explain as we go along.”

By the time Mr. Caldwell got to the bank, two thousand dollar-size pieces of paper were stacked and waiting for him. He left, however, with $30,000 in genuine U.S. currency. “If you can get back my Bernice safe and sound and catch these criminals too, Lieutenant, more power to you,” he explained. “But if they somehow elude you and find this fake Monopoly money, they might kill her. And that’s a chance I’m not going to take.”

The fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh phone calls from the kidnapper came in, each giving Mr. Caldwell a small portion of the instructions he was to follow in order to free his wife. Each call was traced and each telephone instrument at the various public telephone booths was dusted, and fingerprints were lifted. The kidnapper, secure in not being apprehended at the phone, did not worry about leaving fingerprints. Following a few minutes behind him were members of the Sheriff’s fingerprint crew. With enough samples, they got off a set to Washington by wire photo and received, an identification within a short time. The kidnappers really didn’t have a chance.

Mr. Caldwell put. the money into a cheap overnight bag and, accompanied by Lieutenant Koertz, who sat slouched low in the front seat, dropped it at a destination named by the kidnapper in his last call.

Good police work had identified a kidnapper as one of the two men who rented a room near the interstate highway. Within twenty-four hours after the abduction, Mrs. Caldwell was free and the kidnappers were in custody.

The Caldwell kidnapping was solved, but another and in some ways more vexing problem faced law enforcement authorities in the Tucson area. The $30,000 in ransom money had disappeared.

Shortly after the kidnappers were arrested, two detectives assigned to the Tucson Felony Squad were sent to retrieve the bag Mr. Caldwell had put in the trash can in the teachers’ parking lot at Mansfield Junior High School. The bag felt suspiciously light, so the officers dropped it back in and dragged the whole trash can back to police headquarters.

There, Lieutenant Koertz accused them of stupidity above and beyond the call of duty. He zipped open the bag, turned it upside down and shook it, then turned it inside out. After he upended the trash can, scattering its contents all over his office floor, he ordered six uniformed patrolmen to scour the school area and look for the $30,000.

The disappearance of the money rocked the city. The city’s two newspapers kept the story on page one for a week and made it the subject of several editorials. The morning paper, taking its usual approach, blasted police corruption. It rehashed every bribery and brutality story it had printed in the last thirty years and dwelt at length on a Missouri kidnapping that resulted in the murder of the victim, the execution of the criminals and suspicion that the police stole the ransom money, which was never recovered.

Officers Orozco and Salmi were tried and convicted in the morning press, and the city council had no choice but to relieve them from duty prending a full background investigation. They were guilty until proven innocent.

The afternoon paper had another view of the matter. Obviously there were three men in on the kidnapping. One who kept Mrs. Caldwell under guard in the motel room. Another who drove around town making calls to the victim’s husband. And a third, stationed somewhere within full view of the trash can, who emptied the bag within minutes after it had been dropped off.

The police had not been corrupt: they just hadn’t done their job very well and a kidnapper had escaped with $30,000 of a good citizen’s money. Perhaps it was time to get a new chief of police. Both papers tried to enlist Mr. Caldwell’s support for their points of view, but his only statement, although it undoubtedly endeared him to Mrs. Caldwell, didn’t do anything for them — “If it had been, thirty million, it still would have been worth it to have Bernice back. I don’t care who has the money.”

The kidnappers had a difficult line to walk. On the one hand, they insisted on their innocence. On the other, they tried to support the morning paper’s charge by supplying details that only the kidnappers could know. Their anti-police instincts were at war with their instincts for self-survival. The public defender assigned to their case warned them that the missing money would weigh against them. The prosecutor put it to them bluntly. “Return the money and I won’t press for more than ten years — keep it and I’ll pile charge on charge so you won’t get out in a thousand years with good behavior.”

A contributor to the letters to the editor column had still a third explanation.

Hector Mendoza’s wife read him Morris Schechtman’s letter as he was finishing his second cup of coffee for the morning. “There you have it,” she said cheerfully. “The cops took the money. The kidnappers took the money. Or someone out of the blue took the money. There is no other possibility.”

Hector Mendoza said nothing.

Mrs. Mendoza continued. “Seriously, honey, you worked on the case. You got the fake money ready. You know a lot of things that weren’t in the papers. What do you think happened to the money?” Mrs. Mendoza’s bright black eyes shone and her pretty round face glowed with animation and excitement.

Hector Mendoza said, “Nu, mein Schatz, I know only this. Of all the people on the police force, I’m one of the few who can’t be suspected. I sat holding a bank vice president’s hand until after they found the money gone. The lieutenant told me to sit still until he called me and the vice president, I guess, thought that included him, too.”

“Well, I don’t think for a minute any policeman took the money,” she said. “A guy stumbling onto the money is hard to swallow. I think the kidnappers somehow got the money. There is no other possibility, as the man said.”

“There’s always another possibility,” Hector Mendoza said.

“Not in this case.”

“In every case,” he said. He kissed her and left for his duty station.

Hector Mendoza, like the other police officers who had been involved with the Caldwell case, had been removed from regular assignment. His new duty station was Central Headquarters, where he waited around in detectives’ hall with other officers in the same situation. They discussed the Caldwell case until they were sick of it and then lapsed into silence. Each felt that bringing up any other subject made him look less dedicated, so it was talk about the case or shut up. The chief of Tucson’s police called them in one by one to question them. At four forty-five Hector Mendoza went home.

Mrs. Mendoza was reading a book when he came in. They kissed and Hector Mendoza said, “What are you reading?”

“Treffpunkt Las Vegas,” she said. “By Erle Stanley Gardner.”

“What’s it called on this side of the Atlantic?” ‘

“Las Vegas Rendezvouz, I guess. Did you ever read it?”

“No, but I think I saw it on TV. What’s for dinner?”

“I haven’t decided. But I won’t start it for another hour. What would you like?”

“I don’t care. Have we got any beer?”

“You drank the last can last night.”

“I’m going to go out and get some.”

“Come right back. I got some ideas about how the kidnappers took the money, and I want to tell you while they’re fresh in my mind.”

Hector Mendoza walked the two blocks to the Ace High Bar, grumbling. He loved his wife, but sometimes she really bugged him. She had a thing about detective stories. She read one or two mystery novels a month and subscribed to Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine. In Germany, where they met, it amused him.

She knew a good deal about U.S. cities from reading Rex Stout, Brett Halliday, Erle Stanley Gardner and others, and her gangster slang was quite good. She read the books in. French, German or English — whichever language they were available in and, when she found one she really liked, she read it in all three languages. On many of their dates he took her to see detective movies, and on their honeymoon in London they saw Agatha Cristie’s Mousetrap twice.

When his enlistment was up, they settled in Tucson, where he had spent most of his life. He had planned to return to his old job working for his father, who was a construction contractor, but she talked him into taking the civil service patrolman’s test. He passed the test and got the job, and in her mind he was on the first step of a career ladder that led to the ultimate job. His next step would be police sergeant, after that detective, then head of detectives, then chief of police. Finally could come the job — private detective!

Mendoza didn’t mind discussing detective stories with her. He read many of them to please her although he preferred non-fiction about the Southwest. He didn’t mind discussing police work with her, cluing her in on the workings of a metropolitan police force. But when she started talking about his work in terms of a detective story, then he minded it.

“Detective fiction,” he once told her, “has as much to do with law enforcement as Zane Grey has to do with what really happened here in the Southwest!”

At the Ace High, a friend was having a draft beer. Mendoza joined him in a beer, then in a few games of eight-ball. When he returned with a six pack, dinner was almost ready. Mrs. Mendoza was angry. “Er kommt gelaufen, geritten!”

“Aw, Helma, knock it off. You I sometimes run into an old buddy at the Ace High. Besides, supper isn’t ready yet.”

Helma Mendoza said nothing.

“Well, I’m going to have a beer. Do you want one?”

Helma said nothing.

“What’s on TV?”

Nothing.

“Okay, then. How did the kidnappers take the money?” Hector Mendoza decided to open lines of communication.

“Well, the kidnapper who was to pick up the ransom had a package addressed to himself in care of General Delivery in some town where he planned to be. He took the money out of the bag, put it in the package and dropped it in a mailbox. There’s one a block away from the school. I called the post office today.” Helma’s eyes were shining, and her face was flushed.

Mendoza decided to humor her. “How could he get it wrapped so fast? And get it weighed? And get the right postage on it? You know we nailed them both at the motel a short time after Koertz and Mr. Caldwell dropped the money off. And he had to drive all the way to the motel.”

“Let’s take them one at a time, Hector,” Helma said, beaming. “He had the package completely wrapped except for one end. As soon as he had the money, he put it in and sealed the end with a big piece of masking tape. How did he know how big the package would be? He did what you and the bank clerks did. He cut pieces of paper up, put them together and got a package to fit them.

“How did he know how much the package would weigh? Do you know that ink blotter we once got from the bank — the one that told you your height or weight in dollar bills? He looked on a chart like it and got the right weight. Then he found the correct postage — any almanac would tell you that. He bought the stamps a day, a week, a month before. He was ready.

“When he told Caldwell to get the money together he insisted on tens and twenties. He had it figured. The size and weight even determined the amount of the ransom. Otherwise, why didn’t he ask for more? Ask yourself why the amount was thirty thousand.” Helma rested her case.

“I can’t really argue with your details,” Hector said hoping for a truce and also getting hungry. “As you’ve described it, a guy could mail thirty thousand in a minute or so. But look at the other side of it. We’ve got them. Whatever happened to the money doesn’t change that. We’ve got fingerprints on the ransom note, on the telephones, on the Caldwell mailbox. We’ve got an eyewitness identification — Mrs. Caldwell. We’ve even got voiceprints.”

“Voiceprints aren’t admissible evidence,” Helma said.

“I know that,” Hector said. “But with everything else, they convince the Federal Attorney he’s got the right men. He doesn’t need the money to get a conviction. Knowing he’s got the right men, he’s going to push as hard as he can. Returning the money could only help the kidnappers get a lighter sentence. And they wouldn’t have to incriminate themselves. Any one of the reporters would be glad to bring in the money for the headlines — and claim the right to protect his sources. No, Honey, the kidnappers didn’t get the money.”

“Then you’re saying the police took the money — or some creepy peeping Tom!”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied

“There’s no other possibility.”

“Not necessarily.”

“That’s what you said this morning.”

“That’s what I’m saying tonight.”

“Then what are the other possibilities?”

“That’s for you to come up with, sweetheart.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because, as a reader of detective stories, you know all the weird solutions to all the baffling problems. I’m just a patrolman, grade one. I don’t believe the kidnappers got the money. The only cops who could have taken the money are the obvious suspects. I know them well enough to know they aren’t that stupid. An unknown person coming on the money? Well, I just can’t accept that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know— But somehow it doesn’t fit.”

“Is that all?”

“No, I’ve got two other things to say. Let’s eat — and let’s talk about something else!”

They ate. The meal was wiener schnitzel with spaghetti. On a breadboard were diagonal slices of french bread. In the center of the able was a bottle of cheap but good chianti. A vinegar and oil salad had preceded everything. Hector ate with gusto. He couldn’t have had a better meal at Maxim’s and he told Helma so. She thanked him and she knew he was right.

The next day in detectives’ hall Hector Mendoza was discussing the case with Detective Lindblade. Helma’s question came to his mind and before he could check it, it came out of his lips. “Why was the amount 30,000?”

“Well,” Lindblade said, “I guess the kidnappers must have thought that anybody who could afford a one hundred thousand dollar house must have at least thirty thousand in the bank.”

“Did he have thirty thousand dollars in the bank?”

“Why ask me? You were the one at the bank.”

“I didn’t care what he had. If he had only ten cents, I still would have got the fake stuff ready.”

“Well, there you are. It didn’t make any difference.”

“You’re right,” Hector said. “Then Helma’s question again came out of his mouth. But why thirty thousand?”

“What?”

“Why not twenty-five? Or forty? Or fifty?”

“You got some kind of theory, Mendoza?” the detective said.

“No, I was just curious.”

“The chief said he wanted us to think about the case and tell him any ideas we had, even if they’re out in left field. If you think there’s something funny about thirty thousand, tell him.”

“I will,” Hector Mendoza spoke thoughtfully.

And he did. “There was exactly thirty thousand, forty-three dollars and forty-one cents in the Caldwell account,” the chief said. “The kidnappers planned to clean them out.”

The chief lit a cigarette. “You’re the first officer to ask any questions about the amount,” he said. “Do you have some reason?”

“No, I was just curious.”

“Good! Keep being curious. That’s the only way we’re going to solve this case.”

“How,” Hector Mendoza asked, “did the kidnappers know they had that amount?”

The question coincided with the ringing of the chiefs phone. The chief talked for a long while to someone. While he talked Hector answered his own question. The kidnappers had asked for more but Caldwell told him he only had thirty thousand during the first of second phone call — before the police arrived.

When the chief was through on the phone he said, “You were saying something when the phone rang. What was it?”

“Oh, nothing, sir.”

“It wasn’t nothing. What was it?”

“Oh, just that it was a good thing he had the money.”

“Why?”

“Well, he got back his wife — and we got the kidnappers.”

“We didn’t need the money to get them. The paper you got together at the bank was all we needed. By the way, that was good work — what you did at the bank. If the kidnappers had been watching the bank — we know they weren’t — they still would not have known.” The chief lit another cigarette.

“Thank you, sir.”

“But did I answer your question about the ransom money? That phone call distracted me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re not holding anything back, are you?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Good! Keep thinking about the case. If there’s anything else about it that seems funny to you — no matter how wild it is — let’s talk about it. No conventional explanations seem to work.”

“Right, sir.” Hector Mendoza left the office of the Tucson Chief of Police.

He sat around detectives’ hall till noon, then went to lunch. On his way out Detective Lindblade invited him to lunch at the Downtown Deli. Hector said, “Thanks, but I’m supposed to meet a buddy.”

Hector wasn’t going to meet a buddy. He just wanted to get off by himself and think. He drove to South Tucson, to Mi Nidito’s, and ordered a hamburger and a glass of Coors. He was almost finished when the vice-president of Downtown Bank walked up to his table with three associates and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“How are you?” the vice-president said. “Men, I want you to meet Officer Mendoza. He’s the one I told you about who helped me get that fake money together so we could catch those kidnappers.”

Hector stood up and shook hands and forgot every name as soon as he heard it.

The vice-president and his associates sat down at Hector’s table. They ordered the Mexican specialties the restaurant was renowned for. They talked about the kidnapping, especially about the vice-president’s role in solving it. Hector listened politely, contributing occasionally to the conversation when it seemed necessary. He ordered his coffee, thinking he would have heard no more about the kidnapping if he had gone with Lindblade to the Deli and he would have saved on gas, too.

The vice-president was expounding on his role in the case when Hector, almost choking on his coffee, said, “What?”

The vice-president’s face wore the same expression it had when Hector had barged into his office on the day of the kidnapping. His only response was, “What?”

“What did you just say about the Caldwell account?” Hector asked.

“Why, I was just telling the guys about what a chance I took when I gave Mr. Caldwell the money.” The vice-president looked hurt as if Hector were in some way detracting from his glory.

“How were you taking a chance?”

“Well, if Mrs. Caldwell hadn’t signed the withdrawal slip later, the bank — that is, I — would have been in trouble.”

“Why?”

“Because the account was in her name only,” the vice-president said. He looked at his associates for some kind of support. One nodded. The other grinned foolishly. The third took a piece from the huge tostado that sat in the middle of the table.

Hector stood up. “Gentlemen,” he said, “It’s been a pleasure.” He shook the vice-president’s hand. He shook the hand of each associate, asking and remembering each name. In twenty minutes he was back in detectives’ hall.

He read every report on the Caldwell case. He went to the headquarters law library and read everything he could find on police searches and warrants for search. At four forty-five he went home.

After supper, Helma and Hector went to the movies. They saw Cabaret. They had a snack at Helsing’s and went home. Over a bottle of wine Helma expounded on how the film reflected pre-war Germany, according to what Helma’s mother had told her, and how it didn’t reflect pre-war Germany, according to what Helma’s mother had told her.

Hector tried unsuccessfully to lead the conversation around to the Caldwell kidnapping, but Helma wasn’t interested. The music was great and so was the cinematography. But did every nightclub in Germany before the war have to be something out of The Blue Angel? And couldn’t the film have been more conclusive? Hector gave up on the Caldwell case. Later they went to bed.

The next day, Saturday, Hector got up before Helma and drove to a hardware store on Sixth Avenue. He bought a BB gun.

The clerk said, “Will that be all?”

“No,” Hector said, “I’ll need some BB’s.”

“How many?”

“Oh, five should do it.” The clerk left and returned with five tubes of BB’s. He put the tubes on the counter.

“What’s this?” Hector said.

“Your BB’s.”

“I’m not trying to buy out the store. I just need five BB’s.”

“We only sell them by the tube,” the clerk said. “But there’s a hundred to the tube. And they’re only ten cents a tube.”

Hector took one tube and the BB gun and drove home. Next door, Norbert Hernandez was playing in front of his house.

“Hey, Norbert, ask your mother if you can go shoot some BB’s with me.”

Norbert ran to the back of his house and returned, saying, “She said okay.”

Hector and Norbert drove to the northern foothills section of the city and then up an arroyo that separated two rows of houses.

Hector put a rusty can on the bank of the arroyo, cocked the gun and handed it to Norbert. “See if you can hit it,” he said.

Norbert shot and missed. Hector cocked the gun and said, “Try again.”

Norbert shot and missed and put a BB through the window of a garage.

“Oh-oh!” Hector said. “I think we may have broken a window.” Hector went to the window and peered in, said, “We’ve broken it all right. I’d better see if we’ve done any other damage.” Hector entered the garage through an unlocked door. In a few minutes he came out.

“Well, we’ve done enough shooting, Norbert,” he said. “I think we had better make a phone call.” Hector put a dime in the pay telephone in front of a Circle K store and talked for a long time.

Twenty-five minutes later, two patrol cars pulled up in front of the house with the garage with the BB hole in its window and another patrol car parked in back of it. An unmarked car, carrying the county attorney and the chief of police, also arrived. The chief of police rang the bell. When the door was opened he handed a man in pajamas a search warrant and nodded. A uniformed policeman went to the garage and returned with an overnight bag containing $30,000. The man in the pajamas left in one of the police cars.

Things didn’t quiet down at the Mendoza house until midnight. Hector and Norbert drove home from the northern foothills. Hector made Norbert a gift of the BB gun and went into his own house. The phone was ringing. It was the chief of police. Hector was to get down to police headquarters immediately. Helma got up.

“Who was it?” she asked.

“Oh, I got to go to Headquarters,” he said.

“Why? You’re not supposed to be on duty this Saturday.”

“I know, but they think they’ve got the person who took the Caldwell ransom money.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Caldwell.”

“Why would he take his own money?”

“I can’t tell you now. I got to get into uniform. Would you run a cloth over my service shoes? I didn’t get a chance to shine them.”

The phone ran again and Helma answered it. “It’s Mrs. Hernandez. She wants to know if you gave a BB gun to Norbert.”

“Tell her I did,” Hector shouted from the bathroom.

“How could you when you don’t have one?”

“Just tell her I did. I’ll explain later.”

Helma hung up and the phone rang again. “It’s for you, Hector. I think it’s the chief.”

Hector talked briefly on the phone, then started to get out of his uniform.

“What’s the matter?” Helma asked.

“Nothing. He’s just coming down here instead of me going there.”

“Will you tell me what’s going on, or do you want me to scream?”

“Well...”

The doorbell rang. It was Norbert Hernandez. He handed Helma the BB gun and said, “Here! My mom doesn’t want me to have it. She said I’m too young for one.”

Helma shut the door and said, “Hector, what is going on?”

The phone rang.

So it went on. The chief of police arrived in an official car. He talked with Hector for a while and then the county attorney arrived in another official car. Neighbors, curious about the visitors to the Mendoza home, called Hector’s parents. The senior Hector Mendozas paid a visit. Then Mrs. Hernandez came over to explain why she didn’t want Norbert to have a BB gun although no explanation was really necessary.

Officers Orozco and Salmi came with heartfelt thanks and a huge bottle of good champaign. Helma put the champaign in the refrigerator and answered the phone. Reporters had got wind of the story, and Hector gave them the standard working-cop’s referral to the department’s information director. Hector’s brother and sister-in-law came over with their kids.

Later, the Mayor paid a visit and talked in general terms about extraordinary merit promotions. Two council members of the opposition party came later and told Hector he was going to be promoted to sergeant Monday, that it was supposed to be a surprise and that since that windbag of a mayor spoiled it, he might as well know the opposition party made the motion. Detective Koertz paid a visit, along with Detective Lindblade and a lot of other well-wishers from the department.

Around midnight they shut off all the lights in the house except a small one in the kitchen, and Hector and Helma sat down at the table and popped open the bottle of champagne.

“I’ve heard every word that was said in this house today,” Helma said. “But I still don’t know why Mr. Caldwell took the money.”

“Mein Kind, there are things in this world that are no dreamed of in your detective stories,” Hector said in mock pompous tones.

“Hector, I’ll break this bottle over your head!”

“Okay, okay. Mrs. Caldwell had all the money in the family. Mr. Caldwell married a rich but suspicious widow. Under the community property laws of Arizona, a person keeps control over all the property he — in this case she — brings into a marriage. Mrs. Caldwell kept tight control over the pile she inherited from her first husband, and this bugged Caldwell.”

“But what has this to do with the kidnapping? We know he had nothing to do with the kidnappers.”

“Right. If there hadn’t been a kidnapping, he might have spent the rest of his life crabbing — to himself — about his cheapskate wife. Or he might have left her. But out of the blue, his wife is kidnapped. If this happened in one of your detective stories, you would say the plot was improbable and not a very good story.”

“Don’t get snotty, Hector.”

“Okay, Out of the blue, his wife gets kidnapped. And what does he do? He calls the police.”

“But Hector, that’s what you want people to do. Isn’t it?”

“Of course we do. But Caldwell did it for the wrong reason — he wanted his wife to get killed. He called us so fast it’s a wonder the kidnappers didn’t get a busy signal when they called him the second time. After we got in on the case, there wasn’t much he could do except hope the kidnappers would find out.”

“That lousy!” Helma uttered a two syllable German word that is a word-for-word translation of a common English term of contempt.

“Right you are,” Hector agreed. “If Mrs. Caldwell had been killed, he would have got everything. And as a kind of additional insurance he insisted on real money at the bank instead of fake stuff. If Mrs. Caldwell got free, he’d at least have the thirty thousand.”

“That lousy!”

“Helma, you’re repeating yourself,” Hector said.

“I don’t care,” she said. Indignation was radiating from her. “So he somehow got the money but of the bag?” Helma’s curiosity overcame her indignation. “How?”

“He just happened to have two identical overnight bags.” Hector’s “happened” captured the precise tone of voice of someone summarizing — and making fun of — a cheap detective movie. Helma ignored his sarcasm and Hector continued. “He put the bag of money under his car seat. At the drop, he pulled out the empty bag he’d put there before.”

“And what did he hope to get out of the schmutzerei?”

“Well, he would have thirty thousand to finance his escape from Mrs. Caldwell or to spend on the sly if he stayed with her. Or — what the hell do I know what a guy who’d married a woman for her money would do with thirty thousand?”

“You’d probably come up with some idea if it were you,” she said. “But what made you suspect him in the first place?”

“You. When you said there were only three possibilities — a crooked cop, a third kidnapper or an insomniac Tucsonian — you made me kind of angry, Helma. You made the case sound like a whodunit. Like something contrived by a writer. I decided to look for another explanation because I don’t think life’s a whodunit. Mr. Caldwell was one of a lot of possibilities.”

“And once you started with him, you kept after him until you got the evidence.”

“Helma, cops don’t keep after people.”

“Well, what did you do?”

“I just kept an open mind. And things that didn’t fit into other explanations made sense if you suspected Mr. Caldwell.”

“Such as?”

“He called the police right after his wife was kidnapped. We want people to do that. But most people don’t. He insisted on real money instead of the stuff I had made up at the bank. If we had nabbed one kidnapper at the drop and the other one found out, it would have been as bad for Mrs. Caldwell as if the money were fake. He told the newspapers he didn’t care who had the money as long as his wife was safe. Most people would be pretty mad about losing thirty thousand. He just didn’t act like a guy on the level.”

“But it was the bank vice-president who clinched it. When he told you the money in the bank was in Mrs. Caldwell’s name.”

“Well, yes and no.”

“What do you mean ‘Yes and, no’?”

“I mean yes — I did what I did today because of what he told me. I mean no — I would have done it anyway, but not for a few days. Not till I was a little more sure of myself.”

“Honey, you knew about it yesterday. That was when you met the bank vice-president at Mi Nidito’s. Why didn’t you tell me? Or were you under some kind of police oath of secrecy?”

“Liebling, I tried. But you were more interested in Liza Minelli. Remember?”

“Let’s finish the champagne and go to bed.”

They did.