One Bright Summer Morning

Chapter Five

If Zelda Van Wylie had been anything but the heiress to a billion dollars, it would be hard to say what she would have become: probably an inefficient saleswoman in some second-rate store or possibly an inaccurate copy-typist, but certainly with her education as it was and her indifferent intelligence, she couldn’t have aspired to anything much higher.

But since she had the fortune to be born the only child of a Texas billionaire who was besotted with her, she was able to surmount to some extent the various handicaps with which nature had endowed her.

In appearance she was nothing to set a bonfire alight. This she had come to realize herself after hours of examining her naked body before a full-length mirror in her bathroom. She was pretty in a vapid, colourless way. She had large brown eyes that were generally sulky. She had a pretty nose and a nice mouth, but her chin faded away and this spoilt her overall appearance.

She was flat chested and this distressed her as she admired those movie stars with overdeveloped busts. She was cursed with broad, matronly hips which she endeavoured to discipline by squeezing them in the most vicious girdles that the girdle market could provide. Her legs, however, were long and slender, and they were of great consolation to her.

From her birth she had been spoilt. Now at the age of eighteen years, she was bored, sexually frustrated, irritable and tiresome. She had enough intelligence to realize that the various young men who swarmed around her had a calculating eye on the riches that would eventually be hers. She had come to dislike and distrust men as a breed, but she worked off some of her sexual frustrations by poring over photographs in various Nature magazines of nude males with enormous muscles and bulging jock straps. Her other outlet was the adoration of certain male movie stars whom she pestered continually for their autographs and photographs. She considered men like Cary Grant, George Sanders and William Holden as the acme of male perfection.

In spite of having everything that money could buy, Zelda led a life of routine boredom. She went to the movies four times a week. The parties she arranged twice a week were vulgar and showy, but the young people who came were happy enough to eat the exotic food and drink the vast quantities of liquor provided, since most people become parasites whenever free food and drink are supplied. They sneered at her behind her back and offered nothing in return.

The few people whom she knew better than others thought it was sad that Zelda regarded her father as the reason for her unhappiness and boredom. If he hadn’t had so much money, she was continuously saying, she would be happily married by now. Marriage was Zelda’s idea of the cure for all her troubles and boredom. Her father’s cloying affection smothered her like a blanket. His eager interest in everything she did or planned infuriated her. His constant suggestions to relieve her boredom were received with scorn. It was certainly due to his continual encouragement to have a good time with boys of her own age that soured Zelda’s interest in men. John Van Wylie did his best for his daughter, but he failed to realize that by spoiling her, by showering everything on her she wanted or didn’t want, he had become to her a nerve-tingling old bore.

On this summer morning in July, Zelda had risen at seven o’clock and had submitted to an hour’s painful massage by an expert who lived in the enormous house for the express purpose of attempting to reduce Zelda’s hip line. She then had a sulky breakfast with her father and finally, a few minutes to nine o’clock, following her set routine, she left the house and got into the E-type Jaguar that waited for her at the bottom of the terrace steps.

She had decided to brighten her weekend by having her hair dyed the colour of fresh apricots. She had read in one of the numerous women’s magazines that apricot was not only the latest colour for the hair, but it was also very chic and sophisticated. If there was anything that Zelda wished it was to be considered both chic and sophisticated.

She drove the Jag down the long drive. Among her very few talents, Zelda could handle any car like a racing expert.

At the far end of the drive, by the electrified gate, Chita waited. She stood beside a blue Ford Lincoln that Kramer had bought in some out-of-the-way car mart.

Some twenty yards from her, Moe Zegetti stood behind a thick clump of shrubs, aware that his heart was beating uneasily. He had no doubt that Chita would do what had been asked of her, but he knew, once they had the girl, there would be no turning back. Like Riff Crane, he too was aware that he was risking his life. Although trying to assure himself that Kramer had never made a mistake, he realized that Kramer was no longer the same man who had once ruled the Unions so ruthlessly and so successfully.

To add to his uneasiness, as he was leaving to meet Chita, he had had a telephone call from the hospital. The nurse had told him his mother was now very ill and was asking for him.

This was something Moe could do nothing about. He had committed himself to this job. He had told the nurse he would come as soon as he could. He knew his mother would understand.

His depressed thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching car. He was in time to see the Jaguar as it swept up to the gate before he ducked out of sight.

By now Chita had lifted the hood of the car. She was wearing a blue and white cotton dress, bought with Kramer’s money for this occasion and her dyed hair was tied neatly back with a piece of blue ribbon. She looked like any average American girl you see in their thousands.

Unlike Moe and her brother, Chita had entered into this affair with complete confidence. Already she was planning what they would do when they had the ten thousand dollars promised them. It never occurred to her, in spite of Riff’s uneasiness, that the job could turn sour.

As Zelda got out of her car to open the gate, she stared enviously at Chita. She saw by the hard nipples pushing against the cheap material of Chita’s dress that this girl wasn’t wearing these wretchedly uncomfortable “falsies” that she was forced to wear.

“Can you help me?” Chita asked, her smile wide and friendly. “There’s something wrong with the ignition. Is there a garage near here?”

Watching and listening, Moe nodded his head with approval. Chita was giving a natural and acceptable performance.

Zelda liked the look of this girl. She was from a world in which she never had the chance of mixing. The girl interested her.

“There’s a garage along the highway. I’ll take you there... get in.”

It was as easy as that.

As Chita slid into the car, she said, “Gee! What a beaut! Is it yours?”

Zelda nodded as she pressed the starter.

“Yes... you like it?”

“I bet it does over a hundred.”

This was the wrong thing to have said for Zelda was a showoff. With her foot gently squeezing the gas pedal, Zelda slid through the gears. The car surged forward, and within seconds the speedometer needle was flicking around one hundred and thirty-five miles an hour.

Moe who was about to get into the Lincoln saw the Jag literally vanish from sight. Cursing, he started the Lincoln and swung out on to the highway.

Realizing that Moe couldn’t possibly catch up with them at this speed, Chita put her hands to her face and screamed, “It’s too fast! Please! It’s too fast!”

Zelda laughed. She delighted in scaring anyone with speed. She slowed down until they were moving at a sedate seventy miles an hour.

“Did it really scare you? I often drive as fast as that... I adore speeding!”

“I thought I did,” Chita said and looked over her shoulder through the rear window. There was no sign of Moe. “But... that was too fast!” She paused, then went on. “It’s some car! You wouldn’t be going to San Bernadino, would you? I have a date... I’m late already.”

“That’s where I am going,” Zelda said, “but we can stop off at the garage and get them to fix your car. They can drive it to San Bernadino for you.”

Chita could see the Shell sign ahead of them. Quickly she said, “It doesn’t matter. I’ll get a taxi back. I really want to get to S.B. as soon as I can. I’m late already.”

Zelda shrugged and zipped the Jaguar past the service station. Then, glancing in the driving mirror, she exclaimed, “Oh hell! Not again!”

“What is it?” Chita asked sharply.

“A damn speed cop,” Zelda said in disgust. “Sorry, but I’d better stop,” and she slowed, pulled to the side of the road and stopped. A moment later, a big, red-faced cop pulled up beside the car.

Chita sat motionless, her hands clenched tightly between her knees. She kept her face turned slightly away from the cop as he got off his motor-cycle and leaned into the car.

“Morning, Miss Van Wylie,” he said with a beaming smile. “You were clocking a hundred and thirty just now. Sorry, but I’ve got to book you.”

“Oh the hell with you and your wife and your children!” Zelda snapped. “Go ahead and book me! I hope you fall off your lump of iron and break your neck!”

The cop laughed.

“Sure, Miss Van Wylie, but for Pete’s sake relax with the gas on this highway.” He scribbled on a pad and gave her a ticket. “Your Pa okay, Miss Van Wylie?”

“As if you care,” Zelda said and made a face at him. “He’ll hate you worse than he does already when he hears of this.”

The cop laughed again. It gave him a kick to hand a speeding ticket to one of the richest girls in the world. He knew Zelda well. He gave her a ticket at least once a week. His small, cop eyes shifted to Chita and they hardened. He stared for a long moment and Chita turned her head slowly and looked directly at him. For a brief moment, she felt suddenly small and naked under the probing, hard eyes, then forcing down this feeling of fear, she looked away.

The cop stepped back, giving an elaborate salute.

“Sorry to have stopped you, Miss Van Wylie, but you know how it is.”

“Oh, go jump in the sea, Murphy,” Zelda said and smiled. As she pulled once more on to the highway, Moe, in the Lincoln, came upon them. He kept going, driving past them, seeing the cop and feeling a clutch of fear at his heart.

Zelda said sharply, “That looks like your car.”

They were now moving at a sedate forty miles an hour. Chita shook her head.

“My car? How could it be?”

Zelda looked puzzled, then she shrugged.

“I thought it looked like your car. What a bore about that cop! He’ll follow me now all the way to S.B. I know him. He’s a damned sadist. He loves booking me.”

They were now climbing the hill to San Bernadino.

Chita hesitated. She looked back. In the distance she could see the cop was following them; this could be dangerous. Maybe the cop would turn back once they reached the city. She opened her handbag and took out the flat flask Kramer had given her.

Zelda said, “What have you got there?”

With a sudden vicious note in her voice, Chita told her.

For several seconds Vic Dermott stared down at his bloodstained shoe, then with a little grimace of disgust, he flicked the shoe off his foot.

Carrie had sat down abruptly on the bed.

“It’s blood, isn’t it?” she asked in a tremulous voice.

“It could be... I don’t know. Come on, Carrie, don’t just sit there! Let’s get going!”

The note of urgency in his voice forced Carrie to her feet.

“I’m nearly ready... Vic... it is blood, isn’t it?”

Vic put on another pair of shoes. He was trying to remember where he could have picked up the blood that had stained his shoe. He was sure he would have noticed the blood if it had been out in the open. It must have been in the cabin, he told himself. Had Di-Long been hurt?

“Yes, I think so. Let’s not talk about it now. Let’s...” He stopped as he heard a sound that set him alert. It was the unmistakable sound of the door of the refrigerator closing.

“Did you hear that?” Carrie whispered, her eyes growing round. “There’s someone in the kitchen!”

Vic hurriedly completed lacing his shoe, then he straightened. They looked at each other.

“Sounded like the refrig door shutting,” he said, a little unnerved.

“It was! Oh, Vic! Someone’s in the house!”

“All right... all right,” Vic said. “Now don’t get scared. You wait here. I’ll go and see.”

“No... you mustn’t! Stay with me!”

“Darling... please...”

Moving silently, he went to the door of the bedroom which stood ajar. He listened, heard nothing, then looking over his shoulder, he said softly, “Stay with Junior,” and then walked quickly and silently across the lobby to the kitchen door.

He paused in the doorway, his heart skipping a beat. The sight of Riff Crane in his shabby leather outfit and his scarred face, as he sat on the kitchen table gnawing at the leg of a chicken would have shaken men with much better nerves than Vic possessed.

Vic stood motionless, his heart now thumping and a cold wave of blood crawling up his spine.

Riff grinned at him.

“I bet I scared the crap out of you, Mac,” he said. He took a final bite out of the chicken leg and then flicked the bone across the kitchen.

As the bone skidded along the floor, Vic’s fear turned to sudden anger.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

Riff eyed him. The fixed smile remained on his scarred face, but his eyes turned bleak and hard. He slid the bicycle chain from its pocket.

“Listen, Mac, you’ll have to get used to me. I’m here for quite a while. Relax and you won’t get pushed around. If you do what I tell you, you and the doll and the brat will be fine.” He began to wind the chain slowly around his right fist. “I want coffee. Tell your doll to make me some... hear me?”

“Get out of here!” Vic said. “Go on... get out!”

Carrie came to the door. She caught her breath in a sharp gasp at the sight of Riff who eyed her and grinned.

“Nice,” he said and leered. “Hi, baby doll, get me some coffee or your pretty boy will get hurt.”

Vic made a move forward, but Carrie, terrified at the sight of Riff, caught his arm.

“No, Vic! I’ll give him coffee. Vic... please!”

“That’s the idea, baby. So long as you both do what you’re told, no one gets hurt,” Riff said. Then his expression changed to animal viciousness and he smashed his chained fist down on the table. He yelled, “Coffee! Hear me? I won’t tell you again!”

Vic caught hold of Carrie and pushed her roughly out of the kitchen.

“Stay with Junior,” he said. “I’ll handle this thug!”

As he turned he was in time to see Riff slide off the table and come at him with a sneering little grin on his face.

Vic had always kept himself fit and in his Varsity days he had been a pretty useful boxer, but he was no match for Riff who had been fighting brutally ever since he could remember. Vic shot out a left hand punch that Riff avoided by a lightning shift of his head, then his chained fist slammed against the side of Vic’s face and he went down as if struck by a sledgehammer. He lay unconscious at Riff’s feet.

With a sharp scream, Carrie threw herself down on her hands and knees beside Vic, turning him and screaming again at the sight of the blood running down his face.

Riff unwound the chain and returned it to his pocket, then leaning forward, he twined his thick fingers in Carrie’s hair and dragged her to her feet. She struck out blindly, but he gave her one paralysing shake that nearly broke her neck, then releasing her, he shoved her away.

“Coffee!” he bawled at her. “Hear me! Coffee or I’ll put the boot to this jerk!”

Carrie steadied herself. She looked in horror at the steel tipped skiing boots Riff was wearing, then not quite knowing what she was doing, she walked unsteadily across the kitchen and plugged in the percolator.

One of the telephones on Jay Dennison’s desk buzzed urgently. He reached out and scooped up the receiver and growled, “Federal Field Office here. Inspector Dennison talking.”

“Chief... this is Tom.” Dennison recognized his future son-in-law’s voice. “I’m sorry, but I’ve lost Kramer... just this minute. I guess he knew I was on his tail. I had Abe with me, but Kramer was too smart for both of us. He just dissolved into space.”

Dennison’s mouth tightened in anger. He was silent for a long moment while he bit back angry words that jumped to his tongue, then he said, “Well, okay, Tom: come back in and fast,” and he hung up.

Ten minutes later the telephone buzzed again. This time it was Special Agent Harry Garson.

“Sorry, Chief, but we’ve lost Zegetti.”

“I know,” Dennison said savagely, “he just dissolved into space,” and he slammed down the receiver. He leaned back in his chair and as he began to fill his pipe, the door opened and Tom Harper came in.

“Zegetti too,” Dennison said. “So these two must be up to something... but what?”

Harper hooked a chair towards him and sat astride it.

“He was on to us, of course,” he said, “but I didn’t imagine he could pull such a vanishing trick. He went into the lobby of the...”

“Forget it,” Dennison broke in impatiently. He got to his feet. “We’re going for a ride.” He slapped his hat on the back of his head and strode to the door. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside the long drive that led to Kramer’s house.

“I bet he won’t be home,” he said, looking at the imposing wrought-iron gates, “but with any luck his wife will be. One time, she used to be a nightclub singer. I haven’t seen her for years. From what I hear she’s gone respectable. A visit from Federal Officers could scare her out of her girdle.”

Tom got out of the car, opened the gates, then got back into the car.

“Sort of lives in style, doesn’t he?” he said enviously as they drove through the park and towards the big house.

“So will you when you make your first million,” Dennison said sourly. “He’s made four.”

A fat, pleasant-faced negress opened the front door.

“Mr. Kramer,” Dennison said.

“Mr. Kramer ain’t at home,” the negress said, eyeing the two men with alert suspicion.

“Then Mrs. Kramer will do. Tell her it’s Inspector Dennison, Federal Bureau.” Dennison moved forward and the negress gave ground. The two men walked into the big, pleasantly furnished lobby.

Helene Kramer was coming down the broad stairs. She paused at the sight of these two men. Her hand went uneasily to her throat.

“Evening, Mrs. Kramer,” Dennison said heavily. “We’re Federal Officers. Mr. Kramer isn’t in, I understand?”

Helene felt a cold sick emptiness form inside her. Federal Officers! Her hand tightened on the banister rail. This was a moment she had always been dreading since Jim had retired. She remained motionless, staring at the two men, panic in her eyes, then making an effort, she came down the stairs, waving Martha to the kitchen.

“Yes, Mr. Kramer is away,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “What is it?”

“I wanted to see him. I’m Inspector Dennison.” Dennison glanced at the open door leading into the lounge. “We can talk better in here,” and he walked heavily into the big room, followed by Harper.

Helene hesitated, then followed them into the room.

“I don’t understand... what is it?”

“I want to talk to him... it’s police business. Where is he?”

Helene flinched. The two men watching her saw her hands turn into fists.

“New York. I... I don’t know exactly where he is staying. He — he has gone up there on business.”

Dennison stared for a long moment at her. He remembered the way she had looked fifteen years ago. She was rather faded now, he thought, and she was certainly in a panic.

“Isn’t it a fact, Mrs. Kramer,” he said in his cop voice, “that a man called Moe Zegetti, an ex-convict and a known criminal, visited this house a couple of weeks ago?”

Helene walked to a chair and sat down.

“Yes, he did. He is an old friend of my husband’s. He was looking for a site to open a restaurant in Paradise City,” she said slowly. “As he happened to be passing through, my husband naturally invited him to lunch. They have been friends for years.”

Dennison rubbed the side of his face, an inquiring, sarcastic expression jumping into his eyes.

“Zegetti starting a restaurant? Did he tell you that?”

“Yes, that’s what he told us,” Helene said.

“Would it surprise you to know that Zegetti has been a third-rate waiter in a fifth-rate restaurant for the past months and he hasn’t a dime to call his own?”

Helene closed her eyes, shivered and then looked anxiously at Dennison.

“I know nothing about the man,” she said. “Only what he told my husband.”

“Look, Mrs. Kramer,” Dennison said, “we have nothing against either you or your husband. Your husband was one of the top racketeers in the business. He had the sense to pull out before we caught up with him. I have an idea he is coming out of retirement. I hope for your sake and his, he isn’t. I hope for my sake he is. If you contact him, tell him I’m on to him. Tell him if he is starting something, he is heading for trouble. This is a friendly warning: you won’t get another. Understand?” He jerked his head at Harper. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

When the two men had driven away, Helene put her hands to her face and burst into tears.

While Inspector Dennison had been talking to Helene, Jim Kramer arrived by taxi at the Lake Arrowhead Hotel, a plush, de luxe hotel which, at this time of year, was crowded with rich visitors.

He signed the register in the name of Ernest Bendix. The previous week he had taken the precaution to telephone for a reservation and he was shown immediately to a comfortable suite with a balcony overlooking the lake.

He was feeling pleased with himself. The way he had shaken off those two Feds proved to him that he hadn’t lost his touch. He hoped Moe had been as successful. After unpacking his bag, he went out on to the balcony. He sat there, admiring the view and smoking a cigar until a little after seven o’clock, then he went into the sitting room and put through a call to Twin Creek Tavern. He asked to be connected with Mr. Marion: the name under which Moe had registered.

The two men talked briefly. Anyone chancing to listen-in would have gained no information from their conversation, but Kramer gathered all was well and the Cranes had arrived.

“Call me tomorrow when you have the safe delivery of the package,” he said and hung up.

He wondered if he should call Helene, but decided against it. He had told her he had urgent business in New York concerning Solly Lucas’s death and for her not to worry if she didn’t hear from him for a few days. He was a little uneasy at Helene’s look of worry when he left. He knew she was no fool, and it irritated him to realize that she probably didn’t believe his story. It would be dangerous to call her, he decided. She might easily have his call traced, and then she would know he wasn’t in New York.

He had an excellent dinner served in his room and he spent the evening on the balcony, smoking and drinking whisky and listening to the crowd milling around on the terrace below.

He remained in his room during the following morning. A little after eleven o’clock, Moe telephoned. He sounded short of breath and there was a quaver in his voice that Kramer didn’t like.

“We have the package,” Moe said, “but there are complications.”

“Where are you?” Kramer demanded, an edge to his voice.

“At Lone Pine. I’m calling from a booth.”

In the hotel lobby there were a number of telephone booths that Kramer knew didn’t go through the hotel switchboard.

“Stay right where you are. Give me your number. I’ll call you back,” he said.

This he knew to be dangerous. One of the switchboard operators might be listening in, but he had to know what the complications were.

Moe gave him the number and hung up.

Kramer took the elevator down to the crowded lobby of the hotel. He was lucky to find a telephone booth unoccupied. Shutting himself in, he called the number Moe had given him. Moe answered immediately.

“What is it?” Kramer demanded. “What’s gone wrong?”

Moe told him about the speed cop.

“If the job turns sour,” Moe said uneasily, “the cop will have a description of Chita. He got a good look at her. It was bad luck, but this girl drove like a lunatic.”

Kramer thought quickly.

“It won’t turn sour,” he said. “That’s the trick of this thing. The cops won’t come into it. Relax. How’s the Van Wylie girl behaving?”

“Chita is handling her... no trouble there. The acid scared the hell out of her. I thought you should know about the cop.”

“Yeah. Okay, Moe, you get off. You’ll be at Wastelands in another hour. I’ll call you there at twelve-thirty. Crane was told to put the line out of order. Get it going again as soon as you arrive. When I know you’ve got there, I’ll talk to Van Wylie.”

Moe said he understood and he hung up.

Kramer returned to his suite and went out on to the balcony. One never knew for certain with any job, he thought uneasily. The speed cop disturbed him. If he was one of those who stuck his nose in other people’s business, he might just possibly report to headquarters that the Van Wylie girl was travelling with a girl out of her class. The chances were he wouldn’t, but he might.

Slightly less sure of himself, Kramer tried to relax in the sunshine. He found he was continually looking at his watch. Finally, a few minutes to half past twelve, he went down to the lobby and put a call through to Wastelands.

There was some delay, then the operator said, “I’m sorry, but the line is out of order. Our engineer is on his way out there now. If you will make your call again in about an hour, I should be able to connect you.”

His face suddenly like granite, Kramer thanked her and hung up.

Now things weren’t going his way. It was possible the hairdresser might call Van Wylie to tell him his daughter hadn’t kept her appointment. Van Wylie might wait until lunchtime and then inquire at the Country Club, knowing his daughter always lunched there after her hairdressing appointment. When they reported not seeing her, the chances were he would call the police and then the fat would be in the fire.

Our engineer is on his way out there.

Would Moe be able to handle the situation? What would the engineer think when he found the telephone lines cut? Would he report back? Would his report go to the police? Everything now depended on how Moe handled it. Kramer suddenly became aware that his collar was too tight. He dug two thick fingers down the collar band and eased it. His mind worked swiftly. He would have to assume that Moe and Chita had got the Van Wylie girl to Wastelands. He had to call Van Wylie before Van Wylie alerted the police.

He took from his pocket a small notebook. In it, among many other telephone numbers, he had noted down Van Wylie’s number.

As he began to dial the number, he suddenly hesitated and cut the connection. He had very nearly made a mistake! A man like Van Wylie would draw a lot of water in this district. He could very easily get this call traced to the hotel and that could be fatal if there were an investigation.

Leaving the booth, Kramer hurried out into the hot sunshine. He flagged a taxi and told the driver to take him to Main Street, a few minutes later, he was in the General Post Office and dialling Van Wylie’s number.

A man said, “Mr. Van Wylie’s residence.”

“I want to talk to Mr. Van Wylie,” Kramer said. “It’s urgent... to do with Miss Van Wylie.”

“What is the name, please?”

“He won’t know me. I am a friend of his daughter. Mannikin’s my name.”

“Will you hold on for a moment, please?”

John Van Wylie had just returned from his routine morning ride. He was in his study, a double Martini on his desk and he was flicking through a big pile of mail.

Fellows, his manservant, knocked and came in. He told Van Wylie that a Mr. Mannikin was on the telephone.

“He says, sir, he is a friend of Miss Zelda’s.”

John Van Wylie was a short, heavily built man with a broad flat face, small hard eyes with fleshy bags, a large thin mouth and a square aggressive jaw. He looked what he was: the son of a wagon driver and a man who could turn one dollar into ten and care little how he did it.

He looked for a long moment at Fellows, his eyes becoming slits. Not once could he remember any friend of Zelda’s calling him up. He moved to the telephone and with his left hand, he switched on a tape recorder hooked up with the telephone and with his right hand he picked up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Van Wylie?”

“Yes.”

“This is to do with your daughter. You have no reason to be alarmed... yet,” Kramer said, speaking quickly, not certain if Van Wylie had some means of getting the call traced. “Your daughter has been kidnapped. She is perfectly safe and will be returned to you within a few days unharmed. However, if you attempt to go to the police or do anything you’re not told to do, then you won’t see the girl again. We are a big organization and your house is being watched: your telephone line has been tapped. Do nothing, say nothing and wait. You’ll be hearing from me again tomorrow. Again I warn you if you want to see your daughter again, wait and do nothing.” He cut the connection and leaving the booth, he walked quickly over to the taxi rank and told one of the drivers to take him back to the hotel.

John Van Wylie stood for a long moment motionless, the telephone receiver clenched in his big, powerful hand. His face had lost a little of its colour, but his mouth was suddenly an ugly, cruel line. He replaced the receiver and turned off the tape recorder.

“Get Andrews,” he said in a curt, hard voice.

Fellows went quickly away. A couple of minutes later, Merrill Andrews, Van Wylie’s secretary, a tall, bronze, hard-bitten Texan wearing a sports shirt and blue jeans, came into the room. Van Wylie was talking to the telephone supervisor.

“The call was made from the General Post Office, Mr. Van Wylie,” she said in a flutter to be talking to one of the richest men in the world. “One of the public booths.”

Van Wylie thanked her and hung up. He turned to Andrews who was looking at him expectantly.

“A call has just come through saying Zelda’s been kidnapped,” Van Wylie said. “Get the hairdresser’s and the Country Club. Find out if Zelda’s been there.”

Andrews stepped to the telephone as Van Wylie walked to the window. Van Wylie stared out, his hands gripped behind his back. Andrews talked quickly and efficiently. After a few minutes, he said, “Miss Zelda didn’t arrive at the hairdresser’s. She hasn’t been seen at the club. Shall I call the Federal Agents?”

“No,” Van Wylie said, a snarl in his voice. “Say nothing to anyone about this! Now, get out! I have some thinking to do!”