Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 5, No. 3, August 1959

The Familiar Face by C. V. Tench

Set a thief to catch a thief — or someone worse!

It happened fast. The door of the station wagon was jerked open and a man’s voice said, “Excuse me.” Edith Miller leaned forward. The man in the roadway gave her a violent shove. He moved in beside her, the door slammed and the car got under way again. As the revolver muzzle pressed into her knee, Edith heard the man say, “Scream and you lose a leg.”

At eight o’clock that night Reynolds made the phone call. His face was deadpan.

“Is that you, Miller? Okay, we’ve got news for you.” He grabbed Edith Miller’s arm and twisted it.

There was pain in her voice as she said into the mouthpiece, “I’m all right so far, dear. But you’d better obey their instructions. They’ll kill me if you don’t.”

“Watch her, Red.” Reynolds pushed her away. Into the phone he said, “Just because your wife has been snatched doesn’t mean you won’t be seeing her again. All you have to do is play along with us.”

“What do you want?” came Harold Miller’s unsteady voice.

“A hundred grand. We know you’ve got it. Are three cars and a swimming pool worth more to you than your wife?”

“Why you dir—”

“Don’t say it.” Reynolds gestured to Red Conlon to bring Edith within reach. He grabbed and twisted her arm. Edith cried out in pain.

“That was your wife again,” Reynolds said into the phone. “I must warn you that what you just heard could only be the beginning. Well — do we talk business?”

When the call was finished Reynolds said to Mrs. Miller, “He needs three days to raise the money. For your sake, I hope he gets it.”

Looking him full in the eyes, Edith said, “You’ll get the money. My husband knows how to make money fairly fast.”

On the evening of the second day Red Conlon reported back to Reynolds.

“No sign of a set-up, chief. Only routine callers. He hasn’t left the house.” He grinned at Edith. “The guy must be soft over you, baby. The light didn’t go out in his room all night.”

“All right. Enough of that.” Reynolds eyed Conlon searchingly. “There’s something else on your mind. What is it?”

Conlon scratched his head. “Somehow I feel I’ve seen this Miller character before. You know, a long time ago, before we planned this snatch.”

“Maybe,” Reynolds said. “But why should we let that worry us?”

The third evening Reynolds made the phone call. “Got the dough, Miller?” To Conlon he whispered, “Bring her close.”

Edith said into the phone, “Yes, honey, I’m fine. So far they haven’t touched me. If you pay up I don’t think they will.”

Pushing her away, Reynolds said into the phone, “Miller, put the money in a paper package. At ten o’clock start north on route fifteen. Go twenty miles straight north. Then you’ll come to a town called Creston. Turn right on the dirt road that’s just on the other side. Drive for six miles, then stop. And don’t forget, Miller — any tricks and you’ll see your wife, all right. But she won’t look pretty and she won’t be breathing.”

The car purred softly along in the driving rain. Harold Miller glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 10.20. Creston should be coming into view at any moment now.

Five minutes later, on the outskirts of the town, he stopped for a moment to check the mileage on the speedometer. Turning on to the lonely and untravelled dirt road he drove for exactly six miles, then parked at the edge of the road as he had been instructed to do.

He made certain the package of money was on the seat beside him. After three nights without sleep his eyes burned and ached intolerably.

Now headlights were coming up behind him. The station wagon passed him and continued on for twenty or thirty yards. Then it turned, came back and drew up alongside Miller’s car. Conlon, gun in hand, got out. Harold Miller handed him the package of money.

“Keep him covered while I check it,” Reynolds said, as Conlon returned with the ransom to the car. In the glow from the dashboard lights he hurriedly thumbed the thick wads of currency.

Presently Reynolds put the bag in the seat beside him and said through the open window, “You’re a smart apple, Miller. It’s all here.”

Harold Miller hardly heard him for Conlon was saying, “I’ve seen you some place before, punk.”

Looking at him hard, Miller replied, “That’s right. We have met before.”

“Tie a kite to that social stuff,” came impatiently from Reynolds. “We’ve got to keep moving.”

“But what about my wife?” Miller asked tautly.

“Don’t worry,” Reynolds replied through the window, “we’re not killers. We’re not risking a murder rap. We just drugged her and left her on the bed. When she wakes up she’ll come home. By then we’ll be a long, long way off.”

The station wagon drove away. After a moment Miller followed.

Harold and Edith Miller sat in the kitchen spreading marmalade on toast and drinking hot coffee.

“It’s lucky for me you didn’t destroy your plates and equipment when I asked you to,” Edith said.

“It was — yes.” Harold Miller ran his fingers through his thinning hair wearily. “But now I’ve destroyed everything. And of course Conlon has seen me before. When I was doing that stretch for counterfeiting he was in the next cell-block.

“But I didn’t do too good a job with the hundred grand. They’re sure to be picked up. And, as kidnapping calls for a far heavier penalty than passing counterfeit bills, they won’t be able to put up much of a defense.”

Edith smiled tiredly and kissed him.