The Devil's Cook

20

Had it worked? Had it, after all, really worked? He had taken a long chance against the odds and the best judgment of his superiors; he had held from the beginning very little hope for success. And that wasn’t all of it. If the thing had leaked, or broken wide open, there would certainly have been some bad publicity accompanied, no doubt, by assorted nastinesses directed against the department. It might even have become necessary to lop off somebody’s head, and any head that rolled should have been, in all justice, his own. At that, it had been a close call.

There had been evidence of sniffiness on the part of the press; it was blind luck that no reporter had managed to nose his way to the neighborhood of the Skully place. The families of Charles and Vernon were not practiced in the art of deception.

Well, Bartholdi reflected as he drove toward The Cornish Arms, it would break now. With a bang. Before that happened, though, perhaps a kidnapper and murderer could be trapped. He felt, thinking this, a vast uneasiness. Withholding information from the public was one thing, but withholding it from the criminal engaged in the desperate business was another. What kind of kidnapper-murderer would have left his victim’s tomb unobserved for three full days and remained in ignorance of all that had happened in the meantime? What kind of egomaniac? There lay the slim chance. Delusions of grandeur so monstrous as to make the killer indifferent to ordinary caution. It took a nut, after all, to commit this type of crime.

Bartholdi drove into the alley and parked on the apron. There was room for five cars there, and two of the places were taken. Getting out, he stood for a moment in the early November darkness to survey the rear of the buff brick building. The wall was broken by the bedroom windows of the four apartments. There was light behind the blind of the bedroom window to his lower left as he faced the building. Ben Green or Farley Moran, or both; apparently in. The one above this was dark. Fanny Moran was apparently out. The window on the lower right, beyond the rear entrance, was dark; but there must be a light at the front, unless Jay Miles was waiting for him in the dark.

Bartholdi’s glance darted up the wall to the window above. The blind moved, erasing a thin crack of light that had been there an instant before. Someone in the apartment of Otis and Ardis Bowers was curious, Bartholdi thought. Watching and waiting. For what?

A car turned into the alley. It was an old car, but it ran quietly. Turning onto the apron beside Bartholdi, it parked and Farley Moran got out. He peered at Bartholdi over the top of Bartholdi’s car, which stood between them.

“Is that you, Captain?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Making a call on Jay Miles. He’s got some information for me.”

“What kind of information?”

“You may as well come along with me and find out.”

“Don’t tell me he’s heard from the kidnapper!”

“He has, as a matter of fact. You sound incredulous.”

“I never really believed in the kidnap theory, to tell the truth. There could have been so many other reasons for killing Terry.”

“And so many others capable of doing it?”

“I didn’t say that. After all, it takes a rather special kind of kook to kill, it seems to me.”

“Fortunately. Come on.”

Jay, opening his door in response to Bartholdi’s knock, evinced no surprise at seeing Farley, too. He seemed, indeed, to be beyond surprise, or any emotion. He sat down again and removed his glasses and began to polish them with an air of industry. Bartholdi, retaining his topcoat and holding his hat, sat down facing him. Farley remained standing just inside the door, feeling like an interloper.

“How do you feel?” Bartholdi asked Jay.

“All right.” Jay replaced his glasses and folded the handkerchief into a neat square as if it were a task of great importance. “Don’t worry. I won’t fall apart on you.”

“Can you remember exactly what was said to you on the telephone?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Begin at the beginning.”

“Well, the phone rang, and I answered it, and there was this voice. It was a man’s voice, I think, but I can’t be positive. It was muffled, a kind of whisper that was very penetrating. It seemed to come from a great distance. Maybe it was my imagination, I don’t know. Anyhow, it told me not to talk, only to listen, and that’s what I did.”

Jay paused, staring at the square of handkerchief he had smoothed on one knee, which still lay there. He seemed to be listening again to the strange, faraway whisper on the telephone. Bartholdi waited patiently.

“The voice told me that Terry was alive and unharmed and would be released after payment of fifty thousand dollars. The money was to be in unmarked bills of small denominations. I broke in to say that I didn’t have that kind of money. But the kidnapper, whoever he is, knows about Terry’s inheritance, as you suspected. He said the money could be got from the estate; it would require only a phone call on my part and a quick transfer of funds. I kept trying to stall, to see if I could recognize the voice, and I said the executor of the estate wouldn’t just take my word about the kidnapping. But that did no good, either. The kidnapper knows I reported Terry’s disappearance to the police. He said corroboration by the police would convince the executor. He seems to know everything. He’s been watching me all the time.”

His account was broken by a long pause.

Bartholdi kept asking himself questions that he could not answer.

Everything? Not quite. He doesn’t know, it seems, that we have found the body of Terry Miles. Why? Why should he be ignorant of the very thing he should know above all?

Jay’s voice, drained of life, picked up the thread of his account.

“I’m to have the money ready tomorrow. Tomorrow night, at midnight, it’s to be delivered by a third person. He made a point of saying that I mustn’t bring it. This third person is to start walking exactly at midnight along a certain road west of town. Somewhere along the road he will be contacted. There are to be no police in the area; the police are not to be notified. He warned me Terry will be killed if they are.” Surprisingly, he laughed. “What kind of monster could tell me a thing like that, knowing he’d killed her three days ago?”

“What road?” Bartholdi asked.

“West End Road, he said. I’ve been trying to think where it is, but I can’t.”

“I know it. It’s a narrow road, little more than a lane, about five miles long. It begins at an isolated intersection and runs eventually into another. It’s poorly maintained — hardly ever used. It’s lined on both sides with hedges and underbrush.”

“Anyhow, that’s where the money is to be delivered.” Jay sank back as if the account had depleted him of his last reserve of strength. His face, turned up to the light, was gaunt and livid. “The question is, what do we do now?”

Bartholdi said, “We do as we’ve been told. It won’t be necessary, of course, to arrange a transfer of funds. I’ll have a dummy package prepared for the contact to carry. I’ll have men stationed after dark near both ends of West End Road and at intervals between. We can’t have them swarming all over the place, of course — we mustn’t risk scaring our man off. But we’ll take all possible precautions. The contact man will be from headquarters.”

“No.” Jay sat up suddenly. “That won’t do.”

“Why?”

“Because I was told whom to send. Someone the kidnapper seems to know by sight.”

“Who was specified?”

“Apparently he didn’t know the name. His exact words were, ‘The fellow who went with you to headquarters.’”

Bartholdi turned to Farley, at the door. Farley was looking as if he had bitten into a sour orange.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Farley said. “I’m no bloody hero to go walking down a country road at midnight to meet a murderer. There may be a few cops scattered around, but how the hell do I know they’ll be where I may need them? A man could get hurt on an assignment like that.”

“That’s right.” Bartholdi nodded. “He could.”

He continued to look at Farley, who was trying not to look at Jay, who kept looking at his hands. After a moment Farley struck a fist into a palm bitterly.

“All right, damn it, I suppose I’ll have to do it. It’s what I deserve for not minding my own business. It’s Fanny’s fault, that’s who! She kept after me and after me — wouldn’t leave me alone—”

“That’s settled, then.” Bartholdi rose, slapping his hat against his thigh. “Speaking of Fanny, do you happen to know if your sister’s home?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“She’s around somewhere.” Jay lifted his eyes from his hands, escaping the contemplation of his shame. “She and Ben were in here a while ago. I think they must be across the hall.”

“Do they know about the telephone call?”

“Yes. I saw no harm in telling them. Anyhow, I couldn’t pull my wits together.”

Bartholdi’s voice sharpened. “Do they also know your wife’s dead?”

“I haven’t told them that. I haven’t told anyone.”

“You, Mr. Moran?”

“Not me,” said Farley glumly.

“Good. I have some unfinished business concerning Mr. Green. I believe I’ll step across the hall and have a word with him.”