THE FIVE DAY NIGHTMARE

Copyright, ©, 1962 by Fredric Brown

Tower Books paperback edition published
by arrangement with E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.

All Rights Reserved Printed in U.S.A.

Chapter One

Sitting there stunned, reading and rereading the kidnaper's ransom note in my own typewriter, all I could think of at first was, Oh God, oh God, why did this have to happen now, now when Ellen and I were in the midst of the worst quarrel we'd had in five years of marriage, now when, if I never saw her again alive I'd never be able to apologize for the horrible things I'd said to her at breakfast. Of course she'd said equivalently horrible things to me. Besides, I still thought I was in the right, but . . .
That didn't matter now. Nothing mattered but getting her back, alive.
The note was on a sheet of my own stationery.
It read:

IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR WIFE ALIVE AGAIN YOU HAVE FIVE DAYS TO RAISE TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND. DOLLARS IN UNMARKED BILLS NOT OVER HUNDREDS. STAY HOME WEDNESDAY NIGHT ALONE AND YOU WILL RECEIVE INSTRUCTIONS ON DELIVERY. IF YOU GO TO THE POLICE YOUR WIFE WILL BE KILLED, IF NOT, SHE WILL BE RETURNED UNHARMED. YOU MAY CHECK WITH ARTHUR J. SEARS ON ONE POINT, RANDOLPH EARLY I ON THE OTHER. BOTH IN PHONE BOOK. BUT IMPRESS I THEM WITH SECRECY AND TALK TO NO ONE ELSE IF YOU WANT HER BACK ALIVE.

I knew the name Arthur J. Sears; it had been in the newspapers two months back, and big. I didn't remember the details but his wife had been kidnaped. He'd gone to the police and his wife had been killed—found dead in a cemetery out near Chandler.
I couldn't place the other name, Randolph Early.
Still, it could mean only one thing. Arthur Sears had gone to the police and his wife had been killed; that was one point. The opposite point would be that Early had not gone to the police and his wife had not been killed. In other words, there'd been two kidnapings and there'd been no publicity on the second.
I stopped pacing and sat down at my desk again. I flipped open the telephone directory and found a listing for a Randolph Early. The address was west on Camelback Road, out near the Grand Canyon College campus. I dialed the number and got an operator who told me the number had been changed to another. I dialed it, got a woman's voice and asked for Mr. Randolph Early. A minute later a voice said, "Early speaking."
I said, "You don't know me, Mr. Early. My name is Lloyd Johnson. I—"
"Lloyd Johnson of Johnson & Sitwell?"
"Yes," I said. "Your name sounded familiar to me, Mr. Early. Do we know each other then?"
"We met about six months ago in your office. I am— was, rather—a client of yours. I dealt with your partner, Mr. Sitwell. He introduced us once."
"Oh," I said. And, although I didn't remember, I said, "I remember now, Mr. Early. Could I see you now—on a matter of great importance—if I came right over to your place?"
"Why—I'm afraid it would be pretty inconvenient right now. We were just about to eat dinner and after that, we have tickets to a show. Couldn't it wait until tomorrow evening? I'm free then."
"It's—it's a matter of life and death, Mr. Early."
There was a change, a sudden tenseness, in his voice. "Whose life or death, Mr. Johnson?"
"My wife's," I said. "I have a note which requests me to talk to you about it. May I read it to you?" He didn't answer and I didn't wait; I read him the note in the typewriter.
His voice sounded suddenly flat when he spoke again. "All right," he said. "We'll stay home. Come right away. Wait!"
"Yes?"
"You're coming alone, aren't you?"
"Of course. Why?"
"Just that—well, if he, or they—suggested you check with me, they just might be watching this place to see that you came alone. Understand me?"
"All right," I said. "When I tried to phone you the first time the number had been changed. Is it still the same address or have you moved?"
"Moved. Glad you thought to ask." He gave me an address on Indian School Road.
I reached to pull the note out of the typewriter and then stopped myself. There wouldn't be any fingerprints on it, or on the typewriter keys; he or they would be too smart for that. But even so, on the off chance, I wasn't going to touch either the note or the typewriter, not until Ellen was back and safe. Then the police could have it and if it led them to the kidnaper I hoped they would lead him to the gas chamber. And from there to frying in hell, if there is a hell.

Chapter Two

For what good it did me, I thought I knew the time Ellen had been kidnaped, within half an hour.
That afternoon, a Friday afternoon, I had finally come to the conclusion that it was going to be up to me to make the first pass at ending our quarrel. I still didn't think that I was any more in the wrong than she had been—but maybe I was as much so, and one of us had to take the first step toward appeasement and it might as well be me. I still loved her, damn it. And I was over the worst of my anger. So, why not be big about it? Maybe she'd cooled by now too and if I called her she'd agree to bury the hatchet in a couple of steaks at The Flame or The Embers (I'm not kidding; those are both good Phoenix restaurants) for dinner. And it was half past two and I realized that if I was going to ask her I'd better call now before she might make plans for dinner at home—women always want lots of advance notice on dinner-out invitations.
So I asked Marjorie for a private line—so there'd be no chance of her listening in—and dialed my home number. It was busy, and since it's a private line that meant that she was home.
I was going to dial again in a few minutes, but in popped one of the most annoying clients of Johnson & Sitwell, investment counselors and brokers.
Mrs. Van Vries is a middle-aged widow of three years' standing whose husband was smart enough to leave her the bulk of his modest estate in the form of an annuity that paid her about nine thousand dollars a year, enough to live on comfortably. And since she wasn't extravagant she did live on it comfortably and had no financial worries. Unfortunately there had also been some cash, about fifteen thousand dollars to begin with, and Mrs. Van Vries had decided that if Hetty Green could make a killing on the stock market and get rich, so could she. She was constantly buying and selling small blocks of stock. Her choice of stocks was determined by how cheap they were because if she bought low and the stock went up, she'd have so many more shares of it on which to make a profit. Penny stocks particularly fascinated her. To be able to buy several thousand shares of something for less than a thousand dollars was to her a bargain to end bargains and she couldn't or wouldn't understand that such stocks were low-priced because they were next to worthless and they almost always went down instead of up. I almost always had to buy for her over my protests, and her capital was considerably down from what she'd had when she'd started. I usually managed to steer her off the worst dogs, but that was all I could do.
And that was all I could do this afternoon. Finally, wearily, I agreed to sell certain things for her and buy certain others, as of when the exchange opened on Monday, got her signature on the necessary orders, and walked with her to the door of the office.
I stood there in the doorway to the outer office watching while she left. No one was in the outer office except Marjorie, our receptionist-steno-bookkeeper, who was making the electric typewriter sound like a machine gun. Marjorie is a cute little number for an efficient gal, genuinely blonde and filling out a dark blue dress just the right amount in just the right places. I'm a married man myself, but I'd often wondered why my bachelor partner Joe Sitwell didn't date her. But that was his business and I guess he had plenty of girls on the string without having to date office help.
I called out to her and asked her if she'd give me that private line again and went back to my desk. Again I dialed my own number but this time got no answer. It was three o'clock, I noticed; Mrs. Van Vries had wasted a full half hour of my time.
Ellen had probably gone shopping, I decided. Since we live right near a supermarket it wouldn't take her long; I'd try again in half an hour or so. I started on some paper work.
My phone rang and it was Joe Sitwell calling from his own office. He asked if I was free and could he drop in for a minute; I said sure.
Despite the fact that our firm name is Johnson & Sitwell, I'm not the senior partner; neither of us is. We're the same age within a year and when we started business together we each put in an equal amount of money and just about an equal amount of experience so we flipped a coin to see whether it would be Johnson & Sitwell or Sitwell & Johnson. It came up Johnson & Sitwell.
We always got along fine, even though we're somewhat related by marriage. Cousins-in-law. When I'd married Ellen about five years ago I'd been a junior executive and customer's man with a biggish brokerage firm, Graydon & Co., here in Phoenix, Arizona. And while we were engaged Ellen had told me that she had a first cousin about my age, who held a job almost exactly like mine with a Chicago brokerage outfit.
They—Ellen and Joe—weren't at all close and didn't correspond except for Christmas cards to keep in touch, but she sent him a wedding announcement and got a present back, and the following summer Joe took a vacation trip to Phoenix, checked in at the Westward Ho, and looked us up. He and I hit it off right away—in fact, I always got along better with him than Ellen did; I think she figured that as a gay young bachelor he was a bad influence on me.
During his two weeks with us, Joe fell in love with Phoenix. He kept asking questions about it and about his chances of getting a job in his line, our line, and he sounded serious about it. I told him Phoenix was already half a million and growing like crazy, and that there were plenty of people interested in investing in anything from uranium stocks to blue chips.
The next spring he landed a job by mail here and quit his Chicago one. And the year after that, three years ago, we'd decided that we had enough money, just enough, between us, and enough experience and enough contacts to start our own small firm, and we'd done it. We weren't getting rich by any means, but we were out of the red and it looked as though, in another few years, we'd be getting places.
Joe came in and sat down on a corner of my desk. He's tall and lanky—I'm medium height and heavy-set—and has sandy hair that won't stay in place.
"Hi, boy," he said. "Want to proposition you." He held out a pack of cigarettes and I took one and picked up my desk lighter to light it and his.
"Proposition ahead," I told him.
"It's spring and I'm restless. Got a sudden yen to run up to Las Vegas for the weekend. And tomorrow's Saturday, a half day. I've got no appointments. Mind if I take it off?"
"Hell, no," I said. "You've got vacation time coming anyway." We allowed ourselves two weeks a year vacation time; I generally took most of mine all at once and took a trip somewhere with Ellen. Joe usually took his a day or a few days at a time, to make long weekends, usually to go and play golf somewhere besides the Phoenix courses. He's a pretty good golfer, I understand; I don't play myself, although he'd tried talking me into it. As a matter of fact, his clubs were at my house right then.
"Since it's after three o'clock, could I take off now? Will you hold the fort the last couple of hours?"
"Sure. Driving up?"
"No, there's a six o'clock plane and if I take off now I'll have time to pack and to make it."
"Okay by me," I said.
"Swell. I dictated some letters to Marjorie, but she can sign 'em for me. Say, Lloyd, you can waste twenty minutes; how's about having a stirrup cup with me downstairs? Then I can go on and you can come back. Have a drink to wish me luck."
I said I would. Not that he needed luck. Joe won more often than he lost. And he never lost heavily because he never took more than a couple of hundred with him.
"Sure," I said. "Just had a session with Mrs. Van Vries. I can use a drink. But only one, if I'm coming back here."
We told Marjorie what the score was and went downstairs to the bar in our building and ordered Martinis.
"You're looking a little down, Lloyd," Joe said. "Something worrying you?"
I shook my head, because I didn't want to tell him about the quarrel with Ellen. It was none of his business. Then I added, "A little tired, maybe."
"Listen, I've got a thought," he said. "If I postpone my trip till tomorrow afternoon—there's a plane at somewhere around two—will you come with me? What you need is a change, a vacation, even if it's only a day and a half. My good coz ought to let you off the hook for that long. You ought to get away from each other once in a while. Good for both of you."
I shook my head again. "Not in the mood, Joe. Besides, this would be a bad time. Had a little squabble with Ellen last night and this morning and I don't think she'd take kindly to the idea this weekend in particular."
"Nothing serious, I hope? I mean the squabble with your squab."
"It'll blow over."
Our Martinis came and at my suggestion we drank a toast to his luck. And then, at his, a toast to Ellen and everything being right between us again.
He took off for the parking lot and I went back upstairs. It was almost half past three and I tried phoning Ellen again, with still no answer. I decided to try once more at four.
At four I was busy, but I was less busy fifteen minutes later and this time had Marjorie try to reach her. Still no answer.
And then at a quarter of five, almost quitting time, Marjorie came into my office looking a little scared.
"Mr. Johnson," she said, "I just remembered when I got to it that one of those letters Mr. Sitwell dictated to me has a paper with it—some kind of a personal quitclaim—that's supposed to be notarized. I can sign the letters for him, but I can't sign that. What can we do?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe it's something that can wait over the weekend." I looked at my watch. "Maybe he's still home packing. Will you ring him? And put him on the phone to me if you get him? Otherwise, I'll try him later, have him paged at the airport."
She went back to her desk and a minute later rang my phone and I picked it up and it was Joe. I explained what had happened and asked what he wanted me to do.
"Oh, Lord!" he said. "That damned thing should go out. And there isn't time for me to get back to the office and then to the airport. Lloyd, is it asking too goddamn much for you to meet me at the airport with it—and bring your little notary seal with you?"
"Okay," I said. "I'll see you there around five-thirty. In the airport bar."
"Thanks. I hope you forget something sometime so that I can return the favor. And listen—just thought of something else, if you don't mind."
"What?"
"My golf clubs. You said you weren't going to use them and I might. Vegas has got a beautiful course and I'll be there two full days and I can't spend all that time at the tables. Would you bring them?"
I said sure, and when I hung up, picked up the phone again and got a private line from Marjorie. This time to make a last stab at inviting Ellen out for dinner, also to tell her in case she'd started one, that I'd be home at the usual time but would have to take off again and not be back for keeps until six. But what I was going to tell her didn't matter, since I still didn't get an answer.
It was ten minutes later when Marjorie brought in the letter and the enclosure that had to be notarized, both in an unsealed envelope. I put it in my pocket and took off, leaving her to close up, got my car and drove home. Ellen still wasn't there; I had to let myself in with my key. I called her name and got no answer, so I got the clubs out of the hall closet, put them in the car and drove to the airport.
Joe was waiting at the airport bar; he'd just got there and hadn't ordered yet. He put down a bill to pay for the drinks and told me to order while he checked his suitcase and the golf clubs I'd brought through to Las Vegas.
Our Martinis were there when he came back and sat down. We got the business of his signing and my notarizing the quitclaim over with and sealed it and I promised to mail it for him. We finished our drinks and he checked his watch and said his plane wouldn't be called for ten minutes and he'd like to buy another round. The first one was for bringing out the quitclaim and the second would be for bringing the clubs.
I said okay if I could make a phone call while he ordered, and went to a booth and tried my own number again. If I could catch Ellen just as she got in and before she started anything, the steak-out deal could still work. But again no answer.
I went back to the bar and our second round of Martinis was there. We talked a bit, about nothing in particular, while we drank. Joe remembered to tell me that, in case I needed to reach him, I could find him at the Paragon Hotel, on the strip, where he usually stayed.
At about ten minutes of six they called the plane and I strolled to the gate with him and then back into the airport where I mailed the notarized document and then called Ellen once more. Still no answer.
When I got home, there was still no one there. Cheetah, our Siamese cat, whom I hadn't seen when I'd dropped in for the golf clubs, came to me miaouwing her I'm-hungry miaouw. Ellen usually fed her around five o'clock, so I went to the kitchen, opened a can of cat food, and made sure there was water in her dish. "Kitty," I said, "your mother must be really mad at us to stay out this late. Did you have a quarrel with her, too?"
She didn't answer.
It was then that I remembered that the few times Ellen had known she was going to be late or something and hadn't reached me by phone she'd left a note for me in the carriage of the portable typewriter on the desk in my den.
I went into the den and found the note. Not a note from Ellen because she didn't type; she wrote her notes by hand and stuck them loosely in the carriage, not down under the roller, as this one was, at the last line of the typing a third of the way down the page. It  read:   if  you  want  to  see  your  wife  alive again . . .

Chapter Three

It was dusk by the time I got to the address Randolph Early had given me. It was a small 'dobe house, not over three rooms, I judged from the outside, and it didn't look like the place a man who could pay a reasonable ransom for his wife would live.
He must have been standing at the door watching for me through the pane, for he opened the door as I was coming along the walk toward it. A woman was behind him. He said, "Mr. Johnson?" and when I nodded he stepped aside to let me come in. "I'm Early," he said, "and this is my wife Helen."
Helen-Ellen, I thought, Ellen-Helen, and wondered if there'd be any other coincidences. Helen Early was about the same age as my Ellen, about thirty, but not as pretty. A smallish, almost mousy woman. She looked scared. Early himself didn't look scared, but he looked stiff, rigid. He was a big man with prematurely gray hair, iron-gray. But he had an almost baby-type face that couldn't have been much over forty. He looked slightly familiar but I still didn't remember having met him.
He seated me in an overstuffed chair in the living room and Mrs. Early sat down across from me and he started to sit next to her and then said abruptly, "This will take some time. Can you use a drink?"
I hesitated and then nodded. I could use a drink; my remnant of effect from the Martinis had been knocked clean out of me.
He started to move away but his wife stood up and said, "Sit down, Randy. I'll get them. You start the talking, your side of what happened."
He sat down and started talking. "It was just about a month ago, April fifth. I came home at nine in the evening—I'm manager of the Regis Hotel downtown and work irregular hours—and found Helen gone. I let myself in and was puzzled because I'd talked to her over the phone at five o'clock to tell her I wouldn't be home for dinner and she said she was staying home all evening. I—"
I interrupted. "Had there been any quarrel between you?"
He looked surprised. "No, why? How would that come in?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "My wife and I had quarreled. Nothing serious but— Well, I'm just looking for similarities and differences. Hope you don't mind if I interrupt occasionally."
"Of course not. I was surprised to find her gone and looked around to see if she'd left a note. I found one. But not hers. One like the one you read me over the phone."
"Typed?"
"No, I don't have a typewriter at home. But it was written here, blocked in capital letters and on a piece of eight and a half by eleven paper, lying on the desk over there. Before you ask me, I don't have it. The police or the F.B.I., one or the other, has it. But I can quote it for you exactly, from memory:

"ARTHUR SEARS WENT TO THE POLICE AND THE PAPERS TOLD YOU WHAT HAPPENED TO HIS WIFE. STAY AWAY FROM THEM IF YOU DON'T WANT THE SAME TO HAPPEN TO YOURS. YOU HAVE THREE DAYS TO RAISE THIRTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. UNMARKED SMALL BILLS. BE HOME FRIDAY EVENING WAITING FOR INSTRUCTIONS. IF YOU GO TO THE POLICE, I'LL KNOW."

I nodded. "Similar style to mine. No misspellings?" He shook his head. "And no slang, no attempt at pretended semiliteracy."
"You say it was the fifth of April and you were given three days. That would mean the fifth was a Tuesday?"
"Right. You say he gave you five days—but there's a weekend in between, so that makes it about the same. Did you bring your note?"
Before I could answer Mrs. Early came in with a tray with three highballs on it and put it on a coffee table between my chair and the sofa.
I picked up one of the highballs and took a slug of it without tasting anything. I said, "No. My note was typed, and left in my own typewriter. I didn't touch it; I thought of the possibility of fingerprints on either the paper or the typewriter itself."
"I did the same," Early said. "And after Helen was back, I let the police check the desk and the note. No prints on the note and only mine and Helen's on the desk. He's a careful son of a bitch."
"What did you do when you got the note? First, I mean."
"Sat and sweated. And made up my mind to raise the thirty-five thousand in three days. And it was rough, but I did. My savings account, checking account and stocks and bonds ran to twenty-six thousand. But I was able to borrow on the house—the one I lived in then on Camelback, the address that's still in the phone book—to the tune of eight thousand. I had to confide to an extent in my banker to do that, so he'd cut red tape and give me the money right away. Even that left me one thousand short; the hotel advanced me that on my salary when I told them it was an emergency."
"And you sold the house when you had time to get a price for it?"
He nodded. "We have to retrench a while, so we decided the place was bigger than we needed. Too big for poor people. We're just renting here."
"You said stocks and bonds. Did you sell them through our firm, through Joe Sitwell?"
"No. My dealings with your firm, with Mr. Sitwell, consisted of one little flier I took on the market about a year ago, a few thousand dollars in Baywater Oil. It went up a few points within a month or so and I took my profit and sold out. And crowed over my regular broker, Carter Orwell—know him?" I nodded. "I hadn't bought the Baywater Oil through him because he was so against it. I went to a new firm, yours, just for the one deal. But I wasn't really mad at Carter, just wanted a chance to put him down a little." He grinned. "I don't suppose I'd have told him and given him a chance to crow, if I'd lost instead of gained."
But the conversation was going astray and I prompted him, "So you were home alone on the Friday night, with the money ready. What happened?"
"A phone call. At seven o'clock. Sounded like a disguised voice. Asked me if I had the money and I said yes. Told me to go downtown and put it in one of the two-bit rental lockers at the Greyhound bus terminal. Then to go to the men's room and take the first pay toilet on the right and tape the key to the outside back of the toilet bowl where it wouldn't show, then go home, and stay home till I got another call.
He said if he was picked up while he was getting the money or followed afterward, I'd never find Helen alive even if they arrested and questioned him. That I'd have to take his word because Helen would be dead within an hour if I did anything else."
Early took a deep breath and then a sip of his highball. He said, "I followed orders exactly. Nothing happened until after one o'clock in the morning. I was nearly going crazy by then wondering if I'd made a fool of myself by not going to the police, if she was dead anyway or going to be. At least they could have caught him when he tried to pick up the money at the bus depot.
"But before I went completely crazy, the phone finally rang and it was him again. He said I'd find my wife, unconscious but unharmed, just a little way inside the gate of a small cemetery 'way out Highway 99, a mile past Glendale.
"I got in my car and made it there in almost nothing flat. I found her lying on a grave wrapped in two blankets. Out cold but thank God breathing. I got her the car and to a hospital and while they were working on her to bring her around I phoned the chief of police and gave him a quick run-down. He said he'd come out himself and he did, with a couple of his own boys and one F.B.I, man who was still around town trying to crack the Sears kidnap-murder case."
He interrupted himself long enough to take a sip of his drink.
"By that time the doctor who'd been working on Helen had his report. She wasn't conscious yet, but she was okay—nothing wrong except that she'd been kept under drugs; there were a dozen puncture marks on her arms—and they thought she'd be conscious again soon.
"They gave us—the cops, the F.B.I, man and me—use of an office to have a conference and I gave them the whole story just as I gave it to you right now. We all agreed that it was best to keep it out of the papers, even though Helen was back safe. They were sure it was the same guy who'd kidnaped Mrs. Sears and thought the less he knew that they knew about him, the better chance they had of catching him.
"They kept Helen in the hospital three days. She'd been—well, it's her turn to talk. You might as well get it direct."
I turned to Mrs. Early. "What happened?"
"There isn't much to tell. It was early dark that evening, around seven o'clock, when there was a knock on the door. The side door, alongside the driveway. I thought nothing about going to it and opening it. There was a man standing there and he had a handkerchief tied across the bottom of his face and his hatbrim pulled down. He pushed the door open wider before I could even try to slam it and shoved a gun into my stomach.
"He said—I think these were the exact words, anyway they're as near as matters—'Don't scream, lady, and you won't get hurt. Just take me to whatever money you have in the house." By the time he'd finished saying that he'd pushed me back a step and had closed the door behind him.
"I thought maybe it was just a simple hold-up and if I gave it to him he'd go. I was too scared to scream and anyway I wasn't sure I would have been heard—there was a vacant lot on each side of us, no really near neighbors out there. The only money I had was about thirty-five dollars and some change. It was in my handbag lying on my writing desk. I turned and took one step that way and—there was sudden but brief pain and that was all I knew."
"He hit her with a blackjack," Early said. "She still had a black jack-type goose egg behind her left ear when they examined her at the hospital."
"Behind the left ear? Wouldn't that mean he's left-handed?"
"Not necessarily," Early said. "He had the gun in his right hand and probably had the blackjack in his left hand or pocket, ready to swing the second he conned her into turning her back toward him."
Mrs. Early nodded.
"Anyway, that's the last coherent and positive memory I have, up to the time I regained full consciousness in the hospital. For the next three days—and it could have been one day or thirty for all I knew—I was constantly under drugs. I had hazy moments of half-awareness, when I almost knew what was going on. I know I was lying on what felt like an army cot, and that my wrists and ankles were bound and there was a bandage over my eyes, all the time, as far as I know. At least I don't remember seeing anything. My wrists and ankles were awfully sore and chafed afterward, but I didn't feel any pain at the time because of the drugs he kept me on. And sometimes my mouth was taped shut, but not always, because I vaguely remember being fed and given water through—well, what must have been one of these bent plastic straws they use for feeding patients in a hospital. The only food I remember was liquid—bouillon and once tomato juice—fed me through the same straw.
"And—well, that's it. I was completely unconscious most of the time, semiconscious but not really knowing what went on the rest of the time. I'm certain I didn't see anything—he probably never did take the bandage off my eyes—and I don't remember hearing, not even a voice."
Early said, "We've gone over it a thousand times. There's absolutely no clue as to where she was held. The police think probably some little shack way out of town, but the only indication of that is that she doesn't remember hearing traffic or noises, and even that's not much proof considering the state she was in. Of course it would probably have been safer for him to have held her in an isolated spot; there's that to consider. And it couldn't have been far from town; he had to have time to go get her and take her to the cemetery after he'd picked up and counted my money."
I asked, "Would you know him if you saw him again, Mrs. Early?"
"I'm certain I wouldn't. I just had a glimpse and didn't see his face at all. He wore a dark suit, and my impression, for what it's worth, is that he was medium height, a little stocky—about your build. And I doubt if I'd recognize his voice either. At least not unless he was using it the same way, talking tough like a hold-up man on a television show."
She stood up and asked if I'd like another drink, and I thanked her but said I'd better not.
She said, "You—you must not have eaten anything yet if you found that note when you got home. We've given up going to the show. Will you stay and have something to eat with us?"
I thanked her again but begged off on the ground that there was someone else I had to see right away. There wasn't, but I was too nervous to consider staying to eat.
When she left for the kitchen, Early asked, "None of my business whom you're going to see next, but is it Arthur Sears?"
"No. To be frank, I don't have to see anyone. I just want to get home alone and do some thinking."
"I understand that. You needn't have given an excuse."
"Do you think I should see this Sears?"
"I don't. For quite a few reasons, but maybe you don't want me to go into them now. I don't think it would help you in any way to know them—or to see Sears either—and you've probably got enough on your mind for one night. I hope we'll see each other again. Tomorrow maybe, when you're over the worst of the shock. Look me up any time, here or at the hotel."
I stood up and thanked him and then hesitated. "Mr. Early," I said, speaking softly so my voice wouldn't carry to the kitchen. "There's a question I'd like to ask you privately. Could you possibly take a walk around the block with me—or maybe we can sit in my car for a few minutes."
Early and I went out and decided to use my car.
We sat in the dark except for the glow of our cigarettes. Not looking at each other, staring through the windshield.
It took me a moment to word the question. "Was there any indication that Mrs. Early'd been sexually molested, while she was held prisoner?"
"I thought that's what it might be," he said. "The answer is no. At least she doesn't think so, the doctor who examined her didn't think so—and there was one pretty strong indication to the contrary."
"What was that?"
"It's a rather unpleasant thing to have to tell you, but I guess you ought to know. You see he gave her water or liquid food a few times but—he didn't make any sanitary arrangements. Like using a bed pan, I mean. She was pretty much of a mess when I found her. Her skin was pretty badly chafed and burned. She—well, the hell with details. Anyway, a man who was using an unconscious woman sexually wouldn't have let her get in shape like that."
My darling, my darling, I thought; five days instead of three.
He'd answered my question and he changed the subject quickly. "About money. Can you raise twenty-five thousand by Wednesday night?"
I said, "I haven't even thought about that in detail. I haven't got any further than deciding to pay it. I haven't got that much on hand, nowhere near. But I think I can borrow. I'll make it somehow. I've got to."
"That's the way I felt, and I made it. The bastard figures us close. Listen, Lloyd—and you'd better start calling me Randy—I wish I had some to lend you, but I'm just pulling back even again."
"I didn't expect—"
"I know you didn't, but let me finish, damn it. There's one thing I can do that won't cost me anything. If it comes up that a few thousand makes the difference and you can't get it on your own signature but can if I co-sign a note with you, well, I'll do it."
"Thanks a hell of a lot. I hope I won't have to."
He said, "The way I stand now, I haven't got anything but don't owe anything. I'm still manager of the hotel, a solid job that pays fifteen thousand. And on signing or co-signing notes my experience is that banks look at income more than they do at assets."
"Hope so," I said. "My assets aren't going to run near twenty-five grand. But Joe and I are doing all right with Johnson & Sitwell. We've been drawing down a thousand apiece a month for the past year."
"You're lucky in one thing. Your note reads 'unmarked bills not over hundreds.' Mine read 'unmarked small bills' and I took that to mean tens and twenties and played it that way. God! Lucky I raised the money, or almost all of it, the first two days because it took me a full day, going from bank to bank, to get thirty-five grand in tens and twenties. Filled a shoe box packed tight.
"Probably took him so long to count it that he changed the rules for you. Two hundred and fifty hundred-dollar bills will go in an envelope, a big one."
"If you've got time tell me one more thing. Not the details about the Sears kidnaping—I can get them from the newspapers—but why you advised me not to see Sears himself. Do you know him?"
"No, I've never met him. But we have acquaintances in common and I hear he's on a big binge. That he held up okay after his wife's murder for about two weeks but that he hasn't drawn a sober breath since. So he couldn't help you and just might mess you up somehow. And, as you say, you can get the story from the papers. Or I can tell it to you. I didn't mean I wouldn't, just that I thought you had enough to think about for one evening."
"Okay," I said. "I'll stay clear of him, in that case." Unless, I thought but didn't say, I didn't get Ellen back despite playing it the kidnaper's way. In that case, I might join him.
But not till after I'd bought a gun and done some hunting, not until I gave up on finding the murderer, once Ellen was dead and I had nothing to lose going hunting . . .

Chapter Four

I parked my Buick at the curb in front of the house instead of putting it in the garage.
And then, halfway to the dark house—it had never seemed so dark before—I had a thought and turned back. Once before I'd left it at the curb and, quite late, a cruising policeman, nicer than most, had rung the doorbell and asked if it was my car and if I'd got permission to leave it there overnight. A parking ticket didn't scare me, but to have a policeman come to my door tonight—?
I had no idea how often I'd be watched, or my house would be watched, for the next five days, so the only safe thing to do was to assume that it would be all the time and take no chances. Not go near a policeman or give one the slightest reason or excuse to speak to me.
So I got back in the car and put it in the garage after all, right beside and dwarfing Ellen's little Volkswagen. If I'd happened to go to the garage when I'd dropped in to pick up Joe's golf clubs, I'd have started wondering about Ellen sooner, maybe looked for a note from her then. She disliked walking and never went anywhere without the Volks.
I went to the house and let myself in the kitchen door and turned on the light. And stood there in the middle of the kitchen wondering what I was doing there, why I'd come home at all. Then I realized that it was because there was nothing else to do, no place else to go.
A sudden sound made me jump and whirl to the kitchen door. But it was only Cheetah coming in through the tiny cat-door I'd rigged for her. Wherever she'd been outside she'd seen the kitchen light go on and had come to investigate. I stared down at her, wondering if she'd been in the house, and had seen the kidnaper when he had come. Damn, why hadn't I bought a dog, a watchdog that would have barked at the knock on the door and just possibly have given the kidnaper pause?
"Cheetah, you bitch," I said, hating her for the moment because she wasn't a bitch. She sat just inside the door and stared up at me with slightly crossed china-blue eyes, her dark brown tail coiled around her dark brown forepaws. Then the tail twitched and she suddenly ran around me and into the dark living room.
Was she trying to lead me to something? I knew it was silly to think so; cats just don't do things like that. But I went to the entrance to the living room and turned on the lights there. Cheetah had jumped onto the sofa, was curled up to sleep there. I should have known.
I knew it was silly, but I decided to search the house for Ellen. Everywhere, under beds, in closets, even in cupboards and other unlikely places, everywhere remotely large enough to hide a drugged or tied up and gagged person. I even went out to the garage and looked there, under the workbench, behind and in the Volkswagen. Even, against all reason, in the back seat and luggage compartment of the Buick, which had been downtown on a parking lot at the time she had been taken.
But Ellen was nowhere. And I was back in the kitchen and again the kitchen was the only lighted room.
I told myself I should eat something, at least a sandwich. I went to the refrigerator and the moment I opened the door I had company. Cheetah can hear the sound of that door opening no matter where she is in the house.
The cold cuts looked no more unappetizing than anything else, so I got them out, and the bread, and made myself a sandwich. I gave Cheetah a slice of ham loaf, intact, to work on. I sat down at the kitchen table and doggedly munched at the sandwich till I finished it. Then I gave Cheetah another piece and put things away, straightened up, even washed the plate I'd used, and Cheetah's dish. That was one thing I could do for the next five days, keep the house in order.
It was in good order to start with; yesterday, Thursday, our weekly cleaning woman had been here. Things were in good shape and I'd keep them that way by replacing my divots. If everything went well, I'd have Ellen back Wednesday night—or, rather, have her in a hospital. So Mrs. Frisby could come again her regular day next Thursday and do a thorough cleaning again. Of course if—but I choked off that thought. The only way I could stay sane for the next five days was to assume, to make myself feel confident, that at the end of that time I'd have Ellen back. Alive, even though she'd probably have to be hospitalized at least as long as Mrs. Early. Maybe a little longer. Damn him, damn him, why had he taken her just before a weekend so he had, or thought he had, to give me five days instead of the three he'd given Early?
What kind of drug did he use? Something habit-forming, like morphine? I hadn't thought to ask Early, and he hadn't brought it up. Maybe that was good; if it had been a problem, a serious problem, he'd almost certainly have mentioned it. Well, learning that was another thing that could wait. Everything could wait until I had her back. Everything except getting together the money.
Maybe I should start figuring how much of it I could raise myself, how much of it I would have to borrow, and from whom.
I went into my study, avoided looking again at the ransom note in my typewriter—since I knew every word of it from memory, why torture myself by reading it again?—and got some paper to figure on, a pencil. I went back to the kitchen and put down a figure or two, and then threw down the pencil. No, not tonight. Tomorrow, when my mind was clearer.
But what to do tonight, when my mind was numb? I looked at the kitchen clock and was horrified to discover that the time was only eight-thirty. It had been not much over two hours since I'd found that damned note.
And I was numb, but not sleepy. Would I ever sleep tonight?
I'll have to get a little drunk, I thought. Just tonight, to get me over the first night of this. Tomorrow it'll be a duller pain. After tonight I'd work so hard, think so hard, that I'd manage to tire myself. But tonight—
I went to the cupboard where we kept the liquor and checked it. Yes, there was half a bottle of whisky, most of a bottle of gin, and two kinds of vermouth. Ellen and I usually had a cocktail or two before dinner.
But I wasn't in a cocktail mood so I took down only the whisky, and a glass. I put a few ounces of whisky into the glass and filled it with tap water. I didn't want to mess with ice cubes and I didn't give a damn how it tasted; I just wanted to slug myself so I could get sleepy as soon as possible.
I went back to the kitchen table and sat with it, not exactly gulping it but not sipping it either. After a while I made myself another, and then a third. And about halfway through the third drink I found the real reason why I'd felt the compulsion to drink that way. Suddenly was crying—and crying was something I could never have done sober. And it was something I needed to do, once and once only.
Partly numbed, I could let my mind go. I could think about Ellen as she must be at this moment, and I could think of the possibility of never getting her back alive, even though I paid the ransom in full and followed every instruction.
After a while, with a fourth, last, and even stronger drink in my hand I went into the living room, almost but not quite staggering, and turned the light on there. I sat down on the sofa and picked up, from the end table, the photograph album that held, among other pictures, all the ones I'd ever taken of Ellen.
And let myself look at them, part of the time through a blur of tears, until that blur changed to a different kind of blur, one that was of thought and not of vision, and while I was blurrily wondering whether I should and could make it to the kitchen for one more drink to make the job a thorough one, my body took care of the question for me and I passed out cold.

Chapter Five

I woke to darkness and to a confusion which gradually cleared as one thing after another came back to me. The big thing first and then all the rest of it. Or almost all the rest of it; the last I remembered the living-room light had been on and I'd been sitting on the sofa. Now the light was off, I was lying down, and as I sat up and put my feet on the floor I discovered that my shoes were off. But considering the amount I'd drunk—at least twelve ounces of whisky in four drinks—there was no mystery about those little things. Either I'd done them, without remembering now, just before I'd passed out, or I'd done them sometime subsequently to make myself more comfortable, without fully awakening.
I felt all right physically, or as near all right as anyone feels in the first seconds of waking up, except for a bad taste in my mouth.
I groped and found the light switch and turned it on. My wrist watch told me that it was five o'clock in the morning. Good, now it was Saturday morning and I could start by straightening myself out first and then doing the figuring that would tell me how much I could raise myself toward twenty-five thousand dollars, how much I'd have to borrow and where would be the best place or places to borrow it.
I shaved, showered, and put on fresh clothes, then went back to the living room for my shoes. I remembered my decision to keep things orderly and not let the house turn into a hurrah's nest, but I went to the kitchen first and put on the coffee. Then I straightened things up in other rooms. The coffee was perking by the time I got back to the kitchen. The window panes were still black but it would be getting light soon.
Cheetah, who had been out doing whatever it is cats do out at night—we'd had her spayed so we could let her run free without worrying about her—came back in and I felt a little less alone. She miaouwed up at me almost as though asking a question and I said, "I'm working on it, pal. I'll get her back." But that was a mistake because saying it brought up that lump in my throat again, and I'd had my emotional binge. Now I was through crying.
I poured myself black coffee and sat down at the table, slid over the paper and pencil I'd brought from my study last night. I decided to start fresh, and crumpled up the top sheet on which I'd put down a couple of figures. I wanted to start my thinking from scratch. I started.
Cash on hand, negligible. It was probably between twenty and thirty bucks but I didn't bother to take out my wallet to count it. And no use looking for and in Ellen's purse. There would be even less in it than I had; she used charge accounts and wrote checks for things she bought, kept only pin money in cash. Not carrying much cash and not having much around the house was almost a fetish with Ellen.
Checking account, at the moment a few dollars under four hundred. I mentally added a few dollars cash if necessary and wrote it down as that, four hundred. A start.
Savings, investments, should run between five and six thousand. I'd been drawing a thousand a month out of the partnership, as had Joe, and—of course it hadn't been that after taxes, but still I'd been salting a reasonable share of it. In stocks, mostly, as behooves an investment counselor who takes his own counsel. They were in my lock box at the bank and I didn't know the exact total and wouldn't until I could get into the box Monday. And, of course, compared them with the Monday market quotations. But I thought they'd run closer to six thousand than to five. I called it five thousand six hundred so I could add that to the four hundred in the checking account and get an even six thousand.
The house. I'd paid twenty-five thousand and had got a good deal on it at that price; it was still worth at least that. Improvements I'd put in more than made up for depreciation. But you can't sell a house and get your equity out of it in cash within a few days and usually not within a few weeks. The best I could do was to refinance —and even that would take some doing; but I had a friend who specialized in real estate financing and I thought I could do it with his help. Or maybe, instead of refinancing, a second mortgage would be quicker and simpler. On second thought, it would be. And I should be able to get a second mortgage for at least five thousand, possibly as high as ten if the mortgagee agreed with me that the house was now worth more than I'd paid for it.
I split the difference between five and ten thousand, and put down seven thousand five hundred. I made it eight thousand by figuring a loan of five hundred on the furniture, which was all paid for. Fourteen thousand, with the six from savings.
The Buick could go. It was two years old and perfect, should bring fifteen hundred if I had time to find a private buyer, but with all the other things I had to do, I'd probably have to sell it to a dealer and he'd probably give me a thousand. I put that down and had fifteen thousand. I wouldn't be able to sell the Volkswagen, not because I couldn't get by without a car for a while, but because it was registered in Ellen's name. On second thought, I would be able to get about five hundred out of it by forging Ellen's name on the bill of sale. She wouldn't sue me. But I'd put that in the last resort category, along with writing bad checks. Meanwhile, luckily I had keys to it and could drive it after I sold the Buick. Which, come to think of it, was something I could do today or tomorrow; unlike banks, used car lots are usually open on weekends.
What other tangible assets did I have that could be sold or borrowed against? Well, there was the joint business checking account of Johnson & Sitwell. At the moment there was a little over three thousand in it and half of it was mine; if I wanted to draw fifteen hundred it would be equivalent to my drawing salary a month and a half in advance. The business would survive unless Joe did the same thing.
And that, if I counted in the Volkswagen, made it seventeen thousand dollars and left eight thousand to go. Eight thousand to borrow, because that was it on my tangible assets. I carried no life insurance; Ellen and I had agreed that, as an investment counselor, I should invest our savings in ways where they would appreciate in value.
And that led me to the next big question. How much could Joe come up with? The whole eight thousand? Or even more if it turned out I'd overestimated somewhere the amount I could raise myself? He ought to be at least as solvent as I was; he'd been making approximately as much as I and for about as many years before we went into partnership, exactly as much since then. And he was a bachelor so his living expenses weren't as high as mine, or at least shouldn't be. He had a nice three-room bachelor apartment but its rent couldn't be as much as payments and upkeep on my house. His Chrysler convertible had cost less than my Buick and the Volkswagen put together. His hobby was hi-fi and though he probably had a couple of thousand sunk in electronics equipment and tapes and records, he had bought them gradually. He had to have some salted. Of course I couldn't expect him to strip himself down to nothing the way I was going to have to do. But surely he'd come up with everything he had that was negotiable, salable without a loss. Once he knew . . .
And suddenly I realized that Joe Sitwell would have to know. I could keep this from the police; I'd have to. Other people I'd need help from would have to know that I was in sudden and urgent need of money but they wouldn't have to know the real reason. I'd be doing some tall lying within the next few days.
But not to Joe. Joe would have to know the truth, to share the secret, or I couldn't possibly expect the degree of help I'd need from him. No lie I could make up could possibly convince him of the urgency, especially the fact that the money had to be in hand, and in cash, within a few days. Yes, Joe was one person—the one person aside from Randolph Early—whom I'd have to trust with the truth.
And the sooner I could talk with him and learn how much of the total he could come up with, the better.
I had to talk to Joe right away.
Not on the phone, of course. I didn't think my own phone was tapped, but a long-distance call to Las Vegas would have to go through too many operators besides a hotel switchboard, too much of a chance of a leak. I could call him, of course, to tell him an emergency had come up and ask him to take the next plane back; that much would mean nothing to anyone who happened to overhear. And wouldn't get me in trouble even if—although I thought the chance was one in a thousand—my phone was tapped and the kidnaper heard the call. He'd know I'd have to be making calls like that to raise that much money in so short a time.
Suddenly I had another idea. Instead of phoning Joe, I could fly to Vegas and see him there. The plane fare wouldn't matter, because I could put it on a credit card and not have to worry about it till next month. And at least I'd be doing something.
I went to the phone and dialed the airport, checked my watch while the number was being rung. It was half past six, and the windows were turning gray now instead of black.
The plane times were fine. I could catch a plane for Vegas at eight-forty a.m. and it would get me there a little before noon. I could catch one back at two-ten, which would give me two hours there. Plenty of time to talk to Joe, even to talk out details, especially if he met me at the airport so we'd have the full time together. I told the airline to reserve seats for me on both those planes.
Despite the early hour, it took me some time to get through first to Las Vegas, then the Paragon, and finally I got Joe's voice, sleepy and a little annoyed. But the delay gave me time to figure out a story; no use making him worry and wonder till I got there.
"Lloyd, Joe," I said. "Sorry as hell to wake you up this early but I wanted to reach you before I take a plane. Changed my mind, and I'm coming there today."
"Swell. Ellen coming with you?"
"No. Last night Ellen made up her mind to visit her sister in San Francisco for the weekend. I just put her on a plane a few minutes ago. Decided I might as well kill time and have breakfast here at the airport till it's time for the next Las Vegas flight. The office can take care of itself for one Saturday morning. I'll call Marjorie and tell her to hold the fort."
"Good boy. We're making too much money anyway. When do you get in?"
"Flight three-oh-four. Due in at eleven fifty-five. If you can meet me, we'll have lunch some place."
"Sure. See you there."
I considered whether to call Marjorie now or to wait till I got to the airport, by which time she'd probably be awake anyway, and then I realized I couldn't call now if I wanted. I didn't have her home telephone number, and she roomed somewhere; there'd be no listing in her name. I'd have to go to the office first—and that was good in a way because it meant I had less time to kill before I could take off to start the day.
I straightened up after myself, even rinsing and wiping the cup I'd used for coffee. I put a couple of slices of cold cuts in Cheetah's dish for a snack. She must have been outside somewhere because she didn't hear me open and close the refrigerator door.
I locked up, wondering why I bothered, and drove to the office, found and copied down Marjorie's phone number and drove to the airport. It was half past seven when I got there and picked up my round-trip ticket. The man behind the airline counter told me a breakfast would be served on the plane so I was at leisure for a little over an hour.
I called Marjorie and told her I had to go out of town on family business and wouldn't be in. All she needed to do was keep the office open from nine to twelve, phone two people to cancel appointments I had made, and take any incoming calls.
I sat and waited till my plane was called, and boarded it.

Chapter Six

Joe was waiting at the gate as I walked in from the plane. We waved at one another and I saw there was a girl with him. For a silly fraction of a second I thought the girl was Marjorie.
Then I saw it wasn't Marjorie, of course, just a girl of her general type, and I cursed myself for not having given Joe at least a clue, when I'd talked to him over the phone, that this wasn't a pleasure trip and I had only limited time. My fault, not his; you can't blame a bachelor on a fun-type weekend for picking up and hanging onto a quail as pretty as the one he had. He probably had another girl lined up for me, in case I told him I'd decided to kick up my heels a bit on what he'd naturally thought was my first Ellenless weekend in a long time.
He gave me a big grin and a handshake and then introduced us. The girl's name was Miss Malarky—or something that sounded like that—and she gave me her hand and a sweet smile, and I gave the smile back and murmured the usual polite nothings and then apologized to her and said that if she'd forgive us a moment I had something personal to tell Joe before we made plans. Joe looked at me a bit puzzled but she was pleasant about it and said that she'd visit the powder room a moment if we'd promise not to plot against her.
As soon as she was out of hearing I gave it to Joe straight. "Ellen's been kidnaped."
He'd been smiling. He quit smiling. "Oh, sweet Jesus Christ. Not the same bastard who—"
"Later on details," I said. "This Miss Malarky or whatever is my fault; I should at least have given you a clue over the phone that I wasn't coming for fun. I'm taking the next plane back and we've got to talk—or I've got to talk to you. So, however you handle it—"
He put a hand on my shoulder. "I'll handle it. I'll give the gal a story and load her into a taxi. I'll tell her—"
"Anything but the truth," I cut in. "The police aren't in on this and they're not going to be, till after Ellen's back. I don't want even any rumors to start."
He nodded. "Leave handling her to me. I'll wait outside the powder room. You wait here till I get rid of her."
"No," I said, "I'll go rent a car so we can talk freely. Is there a Hertz agency here?"
He nodded and pointed and I said, "You'll find me there."
He joined me just as the attendant was bringing up the car.
We pulled away, Joe doing the driving, and I started the story. Every little detail of it I could remember. I was just up to this morning when the car stopped. I looked up—I hadn't been watching where we were going and, in any case, I don't know Las Vegas. We were stopped in front of a big hotel-casino and an attendant was coming toward us to take over the car.
"The Paragon," Joe said. "We can talk just as well in my room. Better. When did you say your plane starts back?"
"Two-ten."
"Good, I'll have time to pack up and check out. I'll go back with you."
"No, don't—" I started to say. But then because I didn't want to talk going through the hotel lobby or in the elevator I shut up until we were in Joe's room and had the door closed.
Then I said, "No, Joe, there's no reason for you to come back with me. If I'd wanted that, I'd just have phoned and asked you to come back. There's nothing you can do over the weekend and besides—"
He waved a hand impatiently to stop me. "We can argue that later. You were just getting to the point about money. How much of it can you raise and how much will you need?"
I told him and he started pacing the room, thinking.
Finally he turned. "You've added up to seventeen thousand. I can raise the eight thousand difference—just about that. More if I have to—like selling the Chrysler, my electronics stuff."
"That I wouldn't ask of you. At least not till we see if my estimate of what I can raise is correct. And even then, if we find we're coming out short we ought to be able to get a loan at the bank, especially if you'll co-sign. I appreciate this, Joe. But even if Ellen's your cousin I can't expect you to strip yourself down the way I'm doing. You won't be taking any loss on the eight thousand, will you?"
He shook his head. "No, that's all in stocks, good stocks. Some of them may be a point or two down, if I sell them on Monday's market, but some of them will be a few points up. Oh—and I've got six hundred in a checking account if that should make any difference."
I said, "Thanks to hell and back, Joe. And don't worry about the checking account—not till Wednesday anyway. If I find I'm coming out a few hundred short then—well, I may be desperate enough to ask anything, or do anything."
"Okay, Monday morning I'll cash in my stocks. But what's this about my not flying back with you this afternoon? Think I'm going to enjoy the rest of the weekend here, knowing the jam you're in?"
"But what could you do if you did come back before Monday, Joe? Hold my hand? I wouldn't want you around. See, Joe, I'm taking no chances. I know the kidnaper's not following me around all the time; he couldn't be. And I wasn't tailed to the airport; I checked that. But I'm going to play utterly goddam safe by assuming he may spot check me, so I'm going to stay off spots. Suppose you came around to see me this evening; how would he know you're not an F.B.I, man I contacted? Nope, until Ellen's back I'm not seeing anybody I don't have to, for business reasons."
Joe shrugged. "You're playing it ultrasafe, all right. But I guess I don't blame you. Okay, we'll see each other only at the office until—until it's over. Although he must have cased the job and must know you by sight, so like as not he knows me by sight too, as your partner. Say, did you eat on the plane?"
"Breakfast, yes."
"You'd better let me have a couple of sandwiches sent up. They won't be serving any food on a plane that takes off at two-ten. Or would you rather have something more?"
"A sandwich will be fine. Ham, maybe."
He ordered two for us and we were eating them when I almost choked on a bite and said, "Oh, God!"
"What?"
"I just remembered something. Your friend Lieutenant Willie Tregoff."
"What about him, Lloyd?"
"He's a cop. And, nice guy that he is, he manages to look like a cop. If only from his size."
"Well, hell, you don't think I'm going to talk to him about this, do you?"
"That's not the point. It's how often you're seen with him. You said once he drops up to your place fairly frequently to listen to hi-fi. He might look you up; he probably will."
"Relax," Joe said. "The kidnaper may know me by sight. I'd say he probably does, since he must have cased you pretty thoroughly. And he possibly knows where I live. But the police feel sure that he's a lone operator—or at most has one other person working with him—and he can't tap phones, yours or mine. And Willie Tregoff never comes to see me without phoning first. If he phones before next Thursday I'll just tell him I have another date. As for running into him accidentally, that could happen in only one or two places and I'll avoid them. Or maybe not go out at all, unless it's a business date. Did you buy a round-trip ticket?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Then you won't have to get to the airport early. We've got plenty time for a drink. I could use one. How about you?"
I agreed and he phoned room service again. When he put down the phone, I asked, "Have you talked about the kidnapings to Tregoff—or, I mean, has he talked to you?"
"Sure. Willie was on the Sears case for two weeks straight, and spent a week or so on the Early one. He told me quite a bit about both."
"How come you never mentioned it to me?"
"Willie told me some things that weren't in the papers —including the story of the Early case, which never reached the papers at all. They knew about it, but the police and F.B.I, talked the editors into not reporting it, even though Mrs. Early was recovered safely. Willie said it was pretty much an open secret but still the fewer people who knew about it the better. So I didn't talk about it to anyone, even you and Ellen. Of course if I'd guessed Ellen might be the next victim—but, hell, how could I? Even the police didn't figure he'd strike again —at any rate not so soon after getting thirty-five grand from Early. They thought he'd lay low while it lasted."
"He took only a month between the first two kidnapings."
"Sure, but he didn't get any money out of the first one. You'd figure—everybody did figure—he'd lay low for at least a year after a successful snatch that put him in the bucks. But everybody figured wrong; he must have thought the Early snatch went so easy for him he'd take another chance and increase his stake."
I started another question, but there was a knock on the door and I waited till we had our drinks and the bellboy had left.
Then I asked, "Just what happened with Sears? I don't think I read much more than the headlines at the time."
"Sears came home one night and his wife wasn't there. He didn't worry for an hour or so because she played a lot of bridge and once in a while a session would run long and she'd get home after he did; in that case they usually went out to eat. But when it got to be seven-thirty he did start to worry—she'd never been later than seven before, at least without phoning him. He decided to start calling a few of her friends and went to the phone in the living room. He couldn't get a dial tone when he picked it up, and then he saw that the phone cord had been pulled out, broken, at the wall."
"Why would the kidnaper have done that?" I asked.
"You'll see in a minute. There was another phone in the house, in the room Sears used as an office when he worked at home. A separate line—he wanted to be able to use it whether or not his wife was on the other phone. Naturally he went to it, really worried now, and since it was on the desk with his typewriter he couldn't help seeing the kidnap note sticking out of the roller of the machine. The kidnaper had pulled the phone cord out so Sears wouldn't start making calls before he went to his office where he'd see the note."
I said, "I wonder why he didn't do that to my phone? Of course I found the note easily because it was where Ellen always leaves notes for me when she happens to leave one. But he couldn't have known that. Nobody would except Ellen and me. Even you wouldn't."
Joe shrugged. "Your setup is different. Naturally you'd look around before you started phoning, and your den is right off the living room and you'd naturally look there. He wouldn't have had to know it was the first place you'd look. He seems, incidentally, to have a predilection for leaving his notes in a typewriter when there's one around. It would have been simpler for him, in the Sears case, to have typed the note on the typewriter and then left it by the phone in the living room."
"Do you remember the wording of the Sears ransom note?"
"Not word for word, but the sense of it. It was shorter than yours or Early's. It was typed in all capitals like you say yours was. I'll quote it as near as I can. 'If you want your wife back alive raise twenty-five thousand in small bills and have it ready by—' I think it was Thursday evening—yes, the kidnaping was Monday and he gave Sears three full days—"
I interrupted. "I wish to hell it had been only three days for me. Why the hell did he have to kidnap Ellen on a weekend so he'd have to make it five? But go on."
"Let's see '—by Thursday evening and be home alone ready for instructions. If you go to the police she will be killed.' " Joe looked at his wrist watch. "We'd better leave to make sure of your getting to the airport on time. We can talk more on the way; that was a good idea, to rent a car instead of taking a taxi."
While we were driving, I asked, "Did Sears call the police or go to them?"
"Neither, right away. He sweated out four hours or so trying to make up his mind what to do.
"Around midnight he went out for a ride in his car, drove around aimlessly as though he wasn't going anywhere—but managed to make enough turns in districts where there wasn't any traffic to make sure he wasn't being followed, and then dropped in a bar or restaurant, I forget which, and made a phone call. Directly to Forgeus' home."
"The chief of police," I said. "Did Sears know him?"
"Slightly. Sears had been in politics for a while, had once served a term on the city council and knew quite a few people. Anyway he told Forgeus the score, roughly, and said he didn't want to report it officially or have it get in the newspapers, but said he'd finally decided it might be a good idea for the police to know about it in advance as long as they didn't come around to his house or do anything openly until his wife was back. Then they'd be ready to move fast, once it was safe for them to move.
"Forgeus agreed with him and said he thought they should have a talk—right away but not at police headquarters. He told Sears to head out of town on Highway Sixty to a roadhouse called The Chateau, outside of Mesa."
"I know where it is," I said. "Took Ellen out there once, a long time ago. Cost thirty-some bucks for dinner and a few drinks."
"Yeah. Well, places in town would be closing at one and the joint there stays open till four o'clock or so. Sears got there first and when the chief showed up he'd brought along an F.B.I, man and one of his own lieutenants. He knew, it turned out, the man who ran The Chateau and had phoned ahead and arranged for them to have a private room for a conference.
"Sears told them the details, such as they were, of what had happened and showed them the note. They took the note to check for latent prints and the police lieutenant took Sears' prints so any he'd made could be eliminated. They also wanted to check the typewriter keys and the telephone and other things, like knobs, in the house that the kidnaper might have touched and had a conference as to how that could be done without a policeman going to the Sears house. They decided it would be legitimate for a telephone company truck to drive up and someone in a repairman's uniform to go in; even if the house was being watched, the kidnaper would know Sears would have to get his phone reconnected. The man who came with the phone company truck knew enough to splice the pulled-out phone wire, but he was also a fingerprint man and dusted and photographed too. But he didn't get any prints that weren't Sears's or his wife's or of somebody else who'd had business being there. Nor off the note.
"Nor did they ever find out anything—and they really checked after the murder—to indicate that any part of it, even a tip-off, was an inside job. The Searses had had a cleaning woman who came in two days a week and a gardener who came one day, but they were both cleared. Even volunteered and took lie detector tests, later. Also—"
"You're going too far ahead of your story, Joe," I said. "What did they decide about the ransom money and whatnot?"
"That Sears should raise it. Too much chance that the kidnaper might have some way of knowing whether or not he was cashing things in. And, at Sears' insistence, that he actually follow whatever instructions he got and deliver the real McCoy—not a dummy package—and with no cops following him."
We were in the airport area now and I said suddenly, "Hey, here's the Hertz place. Let's take back the car."
Joe drove on. "Twenty minutes till your plane is called. I'll park it and we can sit in it and talk that much longer. I'll turn it in after you're gone. Or better, I'll drive it back into town and turn it in there; save me taking a taxi and it won't cost any more."
"Okay, but I was going to put it on a credit card and—"
"Nuts. They still take money and I've still got some. Now shut up and let me finish about Sears. They were going to monitor Sears' phone, and Chief Forgeus was going to make a fast decision the second he heard the kidnaper's call. According to what instructions Sears got for the payoff, he'd have decided whether it was safe for them to pick up the guy when he tried to pick up the money, or whether to lay off and not try to crack the case until Mrs. Sears was back safely.
"If it had been, for instance, a deal like Early got later, it would have been easy. Did he tell you how he made delivery?"
"Yes," I said. "Money in a locker in the downtown bus depot, key to locker taped back of the bowl of a toilet in the men's room."
"Something like that would have been a cinch on the Sears case. There'd have been detectives in the bus depot even before Sears could have got there. They'd have noticed which locker he put the package in and the minute someone else went to that locker, they'd have had him. On the other hand, in case it was something devious, something they couldn't move in on without risking tipping their hand, they wouldn't do anything. And they decided not to risk marking the money—even the kind of markings that show only under black light. The kidnaper might be onto that dodge and check the money before he released Mrs. Sears. So—that was all, and they broke it up and Sears went home.
"That was Sears' last contact with the police. He wasn't even home when the man came to fix the phone. He spent two days raising money and converting it into cash, had most of it ready. Wednesday night around midnight he was having a nightcap when the phone rang."
Joe looked at his wrist watch. "I'd better get back to your case. I'm to raise eight thousand Monday, right?"
"Wonderful, if you can," I said. "I can never thank—"
"So shut up and don't try. And I'll get as much of it in cash as I can and turn the rest into cash Tuesday. By Tuesday evening, eight thousand in cash. You're sure you can raise seventeen?"
"I think so. But the biggest single item is the most doubtful one, the seven and a half I'm counting on raising on my equity in the house. I think I could raise that much through ordinary channels—but not that fast. You know how much red tape there is on refinancing a house or getting a second mortgage. But I'm counting on Harry Bernard to cut the red tape for me. Or even to advance me the money on his own while the deal goes through, if the red tape can't be cut that fast."
Joe nodded. "He can raise that much on an hour's notice. And tell him the truth if he drags his feet otherwise. You can trust him not to spread the word."
"I had it in mind, if I have to. But he's the last person who's going to know about this till afterward."
We got out of the car and walked into the airport.

Chapter Seven

For a fraction of a second I was startled as I walked up to the counter; at first glance the girl behind the counter looked exactly like Ellen. Then, of course, she didn't look like Ellen at all; it had been just the shape of her face, the color of her hair and the way she wore it in a long bob that turned under at the ends. Was this my day for seeing almost-doubles?
She checked my ticket and looked up. "Sorry, Mr. Johnson. Your plane will be a little late in taking off. It will be called in about thirty minutes."
"That's fine," I said, no doubt to her surprise. But I was glad. There was no rush in my getting back to Phoenix; so Joe and I would have time to go back to the car and he could finish telling me about the Sears kidnaping.
When I turned from the counter, I saw Joe was walking toward the airport bar. I caught up with him in the doorway.
"I heard what the gal told you," he said. "Thought I'd take a look in here and . . . It's not crowded. Take that booth over there and we'll be all by ourselves. I'll stop at the bar and put in our order so the damn waitress won't have to come twice."
I went to the booth and he joined me a moment later. The booths on either side of us were vacant and we could talk freely.
"Where was I? "he said.
"Wednesday evening, two days after the kidnaping. Sears had most of the money raised. He was home alone, having a nightcap."
"The phone rang and he answered it. A voice—he could only describe it as a man's voice, fairly deep, said —I don't remember the words and they don't matter— that since he'd gone to the police he could have his wife back a day early, that he'd find her alongside the road about halfway between Sunnyslope and Cactus."
The waitress came with our drinks. She didn't remind me of anybody I knew.
Joe said, when she'd left, "That was the end of the conversation, a click when the guy hung up. Sears knew that meant his wife was dead, but the guy hadn't actually said so, so he started running for his car. And then realized that the police could get there faster and could search better. Alongside a road halfway between two places three miles apart wasn't too specific. So he went back to the phone and called Chief Forgeus again at home. He—"
"Hold it," I said. "With the cat out of the bag anyway, why didn't he call police headquarters direct?"
"He didn't know who there knew about the kidnaping and—well, he figured he might have to do explaining to get action. And Forgeus wouldn't have to explain a damn thing to headquarters.
"Anyway, he got Forgeus and told him about the phone call, then burned rubber getting out to the Cave Creek Road. And there were cop cars there ahead of him, all right, cruising both sides of the road and using their spotlights. Forgeus himself got there a few minutes later and then a police ambulance, in case they did find Mrs. Sears alive."
I said, "Or to bring back the body if she was dead."
Suddenly my drink tasted bitter. "A real kind thought of the chief's."
"Don't be foolish," Joe said. "If they found her dead— as they did, of course—there'd have been plenty of time to get a wagon out while they were taking photographs and so on. All the procedure they go through before they move a body. Forgeus was being considerate; the ambulance was there first only in case she was found alive."
"I'm sorry," I said. "So they found her."
"About thirty feet off the road. Sears would never have been able to see her there with his car headlights if he'd gone out alone. She'd been dead not over two hours, and it was one hour after Sears got his phone call that they found her. The kidnaper—we can call him the murderer now—must have taken her there, driven right back into town, and phoned Sears as soon as he was sure he was safe."
I said, "I just skimmed the newspaper stories, Joe. Crime has never interested me much—till now. But I think I remember she died of an overdose of some drug."
He nodded. "Morphine."
I thought a minute. "Those times you mentioned. Dead two hours or less, Sears' phone call an hour or less after her death. Doesn't that narrow down the area she was held to somewhere near where she was found? He'd have had to kill her and then drive her there and drive into town; he couldn't have killed her very far away."
"You're not thinking, Lloyd. He could have been keeping her a hundred miles away. He could have loaded her, unconscious, into the trunk or back seat of his car and taken her there, carried her that far off the road and administered the fatal shot right where she was found.
"In fact, that's the way they figured he did it. One puncture mark in her arm—there were nine or ten of them altogether—looked awfully fresh. And the quantity of morphine found in her blood indicated that what he shot into her, the last shot, that is, was enough to have killed her within minutes. If he had enough medical knowledge to know that, he wouldn't even have had to wait there by her till he was sure she was dead. If he was an amateur he probably waited; he wouldn't take the chance of a doctor reaching her while she was alive and being able to save her life."
"Which way do they figure? That he has medical knowledge or that he's an amateur?"
Joe shrugged. "No way of telling. Any junkie would know the dosage that would put her safely under and the intervals at which it would have to be administered to keep her under. If he could multiply by ten he could figure what would be a quickly lethal dose. And any citizen who wasn't a junkie could find out the same thing by reading in a book or three on toxicology or forensic medicine at any public library."
I said, "But any citizen couldn't get the morphine."
"He could, easily. I talked that over with Tregoff. He told me to read Alexander King's autobiographical book, Mine Enemy Grows Older, and I did. Damn good book, incidentally; read it sometime when all this is over. King tells how he was a morphine addict for years, and never bought through an underworld connection. If you know just what to tell a doctor, just what symptoms to describe, it's easy to con him out of a prescription for morphine. It has plenty of legitimate medical uses. At times King would be seeing several doctors a day, getting prescriptions from each of them and getting the prescriptions filled at different drugstores. Do that over a period of time, and you could hoard enough morphine to keep a dozen people unconscious for a dozen days."
"But doesn't the narcotics bureau check signatures on drug registers? Hell, I remember last winter when I bought some elixir terpin hydrate with codeine for a cough I had to sign the drug register. If you do for something with a little codeine in it, wouldn't you have to for morphine?"
"Sure. And the narcotics boys do check and compare those registers periodically. If the same name recurs too frequently, they investigate. But it's difficult to compare handwriting in case—well, say, a guy is seeing half a dozen different doctors and using a different name with each. And using a different drugstore to fill each doctor's prescriptions.
"After the Sears case, they brought in a handwriting expert and had him go through drug registers for as far as a year back. Must have been a hell of a job."
"And with no results, I gather."
"He did turn up two cases where two people—one a man and the other a woman—had been doing just that. But they were both genuine addicts. And they both had solid alibis, as it happened, for either the time Mrs. Sears was kidnaped or the time she was killed. The woman's undergoing treatment now in a private sanitarium in L.A. and the man's in the federal hospital in Lexington, Kentucky."
I said, "He could have underworld connections and have got all the morphine he'd need for three kidnapings all in one buy. Maybe brought it across himself, from Mexico."
"Don't think they haven't been working that side of the street too, looking for anybody who might have made a big buy of morphine recently—especially someone who isn't a regular distributor."
I said, "I doubt if they get anywhere that way. It wouldn't take a very big buy for his purpose. But I suppose more than an addict would be likely to purchase at one time. Joe, did you read the autopsy report?"
He shook his head. "Hell, I didn't go that far into the case with Willie; he didn't show me anything. But he told me what the report was and death from overdose of morphine was all that it amounted to. Oh, and presence of a bruise and swelling on the head, just back of the front hairline, that could have been caused by a blow from a blackjack or something like it, hard enough to have knocked her unconscious about two days before death. Which fits; he used the same system he used on Mrs. Early. Why?"
"No indication of—sexual attack?"
"Hell, no. And they checked. Lloyd, damn it, at least get that off your mind. There's enough to worry about otherwise." He reached across the table, put his hand on my upper arm and squeezed. "Don't picture him as more kinds of a fiend than one. One's enough."
He pulled back his hand and glanced at his wrist watch. "Get any sleep last night?"
"Some," I told him.
"Which means not much. Come on, there's time if we go to the bar, to have another quickie or two straight. That'll put you in shape to sleep on the plane and you look as though you could use it."
He stood up before I could answer. But what the hell, it seemed like a good idea so I got up and followed him. While the bartender was pouring the double and single he ordered, he said, "I'll take the same flight back tomorrow. I'll go home and stay there, in case you want to reach me. For anything. Now down the hatch with that drink." I downed the drink.
They started calling my flight on the loud-speaker system and I stuck out my hand and said, "Thanks to hell and back, Joe."
Instead of taking my hand he waved at the bartender. "One more of each," he told him. And then turned back to me, "You've got minutes yet. A plane doesn't take off sixty seconds after it's called. Bartender, stick around; we may need you. Down the hatch, Lloyd."
It took me two swallows this time. Joe said, "If you don't call me tomorrow evening I'll see you at the office Monday morning. What day of the week is tomorrow?"
He looked a little wavery to me. I said, "Sunday, you goddam fool."
"Damn," he said, "you're still sober. One more double for him, bartender, and then I'll pour him on the plane."
I had one more double and then he poured me on the plane, just as they were getting ready to shut up shop and take away the ramp.
I got into a seat and the engines started to rev up and a green sign flashed on up at the front of the plane that I couldn't read but that must have read "Fasten Seat Belts" so I fastened my seat belt and that's the last thing I remembered.

Chapter Eight

When I awoke I looked through the plane window and saw that it was dusk. I felt a little stiff and uncomfortable but otherwise fine, physically. I was rested and my mind was clear.
I unfastened my seat belt and stretched. A stewardess was coming down the aisle.
I caught her eye. "How far are we out of Phoenix?" I asked her. "I mean in minutes, not in miles."
"About twenty minutes, sir. I'm afraid it's too late for you to be served a meal. You were sleeping so soundly that—"
"That's all right," I said. "But is there any coffee still hot? I'd have time for a cup of that."
"Of course. How would you—"
"Black and bitter," I told her. "And don't bother with a tray. I can manage it."
The coffee tasted black and bitter, as it should have, but it cleared any last little cobwebs out of my mind, and it matched my thoughts. Which, at the moment, were about getting a gun. I didn't have one, but I could use one. In my early twenties, before Ellen, I'd been interested in target shooting, and had even entered a match or two, though I'd never won any. But a pistol target, the kind you use at twenty-five yards, is smaller than a man's chest. Or about the size of his face. I'd owned a nine-shot twenty-two for practice and a six-shot thirty-eight for contest shooting, both revolvers with six-inch barrels. With either I could have hit a man running, a block away. Or hit a man, probably in a vital spot, with a quick draw and snap shot at twenty yards or so.
Ellen had been afraid of guns and hated to have them around the house and I'd decided what the hell, I'd never use them again and had sold them shortly after we were married.
Ellen wasn't going to be afraid of guns any more, once I had her back. She was going to learn to use one. To use one and to use it well. Target shooting was going to become a hobby of mine again, and this time she was going to be head over heels in it with me. If I had to beat her, verbally, to make her do it. She was going to have to learn to love guns instead of fear them, and there was going to be one around the house at all times, loaded and ready to hand.
And a chain-bolt on each one of our three doors so she could open any one of them a few inches without exposing herself to danger until she knew who was outside. And a watchdog to supplement our nonwatch cat, which had probably watched the whole proceedings of the kidnaper with complete indifference. Cat and dog would have to learn to get along together, or we'd be looking for a home for one registered Siamese.
Oh, sure, I was locking the barn after the horse was stolen now, but that's better than never. And then too the thought: if I should go after him on my own and get too close for his comfort, might he not think of reprisal? If he did, there'd be surprises waiting for him.
The plane was descending now, I could feel it. The "Fasten Seat Belts" sign went on again and the stewardess came back along the aisle making sure everyone had seen it and was taking appropriate action. She relieved me of my coffee cup and I fastened the seat belt.
The plane banked in a lazy circle to swing into the landing pattern and it was darker now and below me, out the window, I could see the lights of Phoenix. Half a million people down there below me and somewhere among those people, among those lights, Ellen lay drugged and bound. At least mercifully unconscious. Somewhere, where? It seemed likely that she would be on the outskirts or even outside of town; an isolated building would be most convenient for her captor's purpose. But that was only a probability, not a certainty. She could be right in the middle of that spread of lights, in a vacant building, an abandoned warehouse.
Anywhere. There was no clue.
Perhaps even in a house in a fine residential district. Why not? The kidnaper was certainly solvent. He'd collected thirty-five thousand dollars from Randolph Early only a month or so ago. Thirty-five thousand dollars tax-free.
And he'd have another twenty-five thousand four days from now.
Would that satisfy him? Would he rest on his laurels awhile, or did he plan more kidnapings? He'd made three tries thus far, one a month, and had collected on the second, would collect on the third.
The plane's wheels touched the runway lightly and then there was only a slight jounce before they settled down firmly and then we were coasting along the ground to an almost stop, and then the engines were revving up slightly and we were taxiing, turning. And then we were stopped and the seat belts sign went off and I unfastened my belt. Some of the other passengers were moving forward toward the door, but I wasn't in any hurry. There wasn't anything I could do this evening. Or—yes, there was one thing I could at least try to do.
Most of the used-car lots would be open late on Saturday. I should have time to try one or two of them and if I could get my price on the Buick—I'd figured it in as an even thousand—tonight that would be one thing I wouldn't have to do Monday or Tuesday. The plane door was open now and I strolled forward and joined the back of the line filing out.
I stood a moment just inside the door of the airport building wondering whether I should go to the coffee shop now and eat something or wait to eat until after I'd seen to the Buick. The sandwich I'd had with Joe was all I'd eaten since breakfast—and it would be easier to eat something out than to have to feed myself after I got home. I wasn't hungry but a man has to eat even if his wife is kidnaped.
While I stood hesitating I noticed the back of a man standing at the TWA counter and it looked familiar. Then he turned and I saw it was Harry Bernard, my friend in real estate, from whom I was counting on help in raising cash by refinancing the house. A sudden fear hit me. Was he leaving town for a while? Without him I'd be in a hell of a jam raising that money. Oh, I might raise it through strangers—the value was there—but all the red tape would be there too.
He caught my eye just then and raised his hand in a salutation and we walked toward each other. "Hi, Harry," I said. "Flying out?" I found that I was holding my breath for the answer.
He nodded. "Quick short trip, though," he said. "Just down to Tucson, overnight."
I breathed again and wondered if my held and suddenly exhaled breath was as audible to him as it seemed to be to me. "How long before your plane takes off? Time for a drink?"
He glanced at his wrist watch. "Got about fifteen minutes before it's called," he said. "But I'm on the wagon, damn it. An incipient ulcer that I want to keep incipient, so the doctor told me to lay off for a month or two. I'll watch you have one though. For fifteen minutes."
"I don't really want a drink myself," I said. "Let's settle for coffee then. For a place to sit down even if you don't really want any."
He nodded and turned toward the doorway of the coffee shop and I followed him. I would have preferred a booth or even a table but he headed for the counter and I decided that it didn't matter. I couldn't talk to him here and now in fifteen minutes; all I wanted or could expect was to make an appointment so I'd be sure of seeing him Monday. Or, come to think of it, even sooner if he was getting back early enough tomorrow.
We took counter seats and suddenly Harry was taller than I; he'd been several inches shorter while we were standing. He has an odd build, short legs and a long torso with long powerful arms. His build is—well, you might think of him as an oversize dwarf; he has the long lugubrious face of a dwarf and his clothes, expensively tailored though they are, always hang on him like a clown's costume. But don't ever mistake him for a clown or you'll come up with the short end of any transaction you're negotiating with him. You'll probably come up with the short end anyway, unless he's a friend of yours. He's the sharpest real-estate operator in Phoenix, if not in all of Arizona, and maybe New Mexico to boot. He'd be a rich man if he liked working, but he doesn't like working. And he'd be one of the most lovable slobs in town, if he wasn't so sensitive. Possibly because of his odd appearance, although that's something you never think of again after you've met him. But because of his sensitivity he has at least as many enemies as friends. If he feels someone has slighted him or insulted him in the most trivial way, that someone is his enemy for life. And the enmity becomes a two-way thing, too; he sees to that.
There's a story about him I like. When he was about thirty, ten years ago, he married for the first and only time—of all things a chorus girl, beautiful and dumb, three inches taller than he. He'd met her on a business trip to Los Angeles and had fallen for her at sight. Within a week—and with no passes—he proposed to her. When she accepted him he said he was returning to Phoenix for a few days and they'd be married when he got back. He got back and they were married one morning at City Hall, after which he took her to his hotel. Unromantically and without giving a reason he sent her up to his room ahead of him and said there was something he must do right away and that he'd join her soon. She went up to the room and waited. An hour later a messenger delivered an envelope to her there. It contained ninety thousand dollars in cash—every cent he'd been able to realize back in Phoenix by converting or borrowing against his assets at that time—and a brief note that told her that he loved her very much but didn't see how she could possibly love him and that if by any chance she was interested in his money here it was, every cent he could raise. He himself would be en route to Phoenix and if she wanted to join him there he would be very happy. But if she wanted to stay here and get an annulment, which would be easy since he'd left town so soon after the ceremony, she was welcome to the money and he'd understand. She used a couple of hundred of the money right away, to charter a plane to take her to Phoenix. She knew she'd get there ahead of him that way, since he was driving. She got to his apartment ahead of him and, by showing the marriage license to the building superintendent, got inside. When he came through the door she threw the money in his face and gave him the worst bawling out she'd ever given anyone. Then had made him go outside the door again with her and carry her over the threshold and didn't let him put her down until he'd carried her on into the bedroom and really made her his wife. The story may even be true, because his wife told it once, to Ellen. But she lied on one point, calling herself beautiful and dumb. Beautiful she still is, ten years later, but Nedra Bernard could never have been dumb.
"How's Nedra?" I asked him, to start the conversation.
"Fine," he said. "Hate to leave her tonight but—hell, you know I'm taking every precaution short of hiring a private police force. You're doing the same thing. With those two snatch jobs a month apart and the last one a month ago—well, the second one went too smoothly for him. You must have heard about the second one, even if it wasn't in the papers. Everyone else has. He's not going to stop there. How is Ellen, by the way?"
"Fine," I said. The word was bitter in my mouth but I managed to inflect it so it wouldn't sound that way. And before he could talk any more about the safety precautions I should have taken (even though I hadn't heard about the second kidnaping until after the third) and hadn't, and make me feel even worse about it than I did already, I took the ball and ran with it.
"By the way, Harry," I said, "there's a matter of business I'd like to talk over with you the first available opportunity you have. It's important—to me, that is. Don't want to go into it now, with only a few minutes before your plane, but—what time are you flying back from Tucson tomorrow?"
"Plane gets in a little after three o'clock."
"Which gets you home by four. Could you spare me, say, half an hour between four and half past? I can explain the deal in less time than that and then, if you see it my way, we can take care of the details at your office Monday, any time you name."
The waitress had taken our order for coffee and was bringing it. Harry waited till he'd put cream in his and stirred it. Then he said, "Okay, but I've got a better idea. I've got no plans tomorrow after I get home and I'm sure Nedra hasn't. Why don't you and Ellen both come at four? We'll have time for a few rubbers of bridge—we haven't played together for six months or so now—and then we can go out somewhere for dinner around seven or eight. We can have our half hour for business talk cither before or after."
"Sounds wonderful," I said. "But Ellen's out of town for a few days. Left to visit her sister in San Francisco. That kills the bridge. But since I'll be lonesome tomorrow evening anyway, how about letting me take you up on part of it? I'll get there around half past six or seven, we'll have our little conference, and then I'll take you and Nedra out to dinner. With Ellen away it'll give me a pleasant evening instead of a dull one alone."
"Sounds good to me, Lloyd. But let me make absolutely sure it's all right by Nedra, that she hasn't made any plans I don't know about. I have time to give her a quick call and then we'll know for sure."
He slid down off the stool and was short again. He looked around for a phone booth and located one, went to it. A minute or two later he came back and nodded. "All set." And I said, "Fine." He started to drink his coffee just as the public address system blared out the announcement that the Tucson plane was now loading. He took another leisurely sip and stood up. "Well, see you tomorrow evening then, Lloyd. What are you doing here at the airport, by the way? Seeing Ellen off for San Francisco?"
He might know or learn that there was no evening plane for San Francisco, if there wasn't—I didn't know myself—so I said, "No. I saw her off yesterday. I'm out here to meet a client who's flying in—his own light plane —from El Paso. Phoned me today that he was coming. He didn't know exactly where the tower would tell him to land so we're meeting here in the main airport building." I stood up and strolled with him toward the gate for his plane. "He's late," I said, a bit worriedly. "Gave me an E.T.A. of half an hour ago. Hope nothing happened to him."
"Probably took off a little later than he anticipated."
I carried on with it to keep it plausible. "Should have wired me then, damn it."
"He wouldn't, for half an hour. Or maybe he's just bucking head winds. Don't worry yet. You can't keep to an exact schedule in a light plane. Ever flown one?"
I shook my head. We were joining the end of the line at the gate and I thought I might as well stick with him till he went through it. He said, "I took some lessons once, thinking I might buy one if I got a license. I did get one but never bought a plane, rented one a few times but lost interest and didn't keep my license up. It's nice flying yourself but not really worth it unless you do more traveling than I do. Almost all my business is in Phoenix or Tucson and Tucson's only a three-hour drive. Not worth flying, commercially or otherwise."
"How come you're not driving this time, then?"
"Touch of bursitis. Hurts my shoulder to lift my left hand as high as the wheel. Not bad enough to keep me from driving around town when I have to, but it would bother me too much on a trip."
We were at the gate and he took his ticket envelope out of his pocket and handed it to the attendant. I said, "Tomorrow evening then," and walked back to the airport building. I looked at my watch on the way and saw that it was almost eight, decided I'd better not eat till after I'd visited a lot or two with the car. Some or all of them might close at nine. So I headed for the parking lot and redeemed the Buick.
I drove north to Van Buren and then toward town, keeping an eye out for used-car lots still lighted and came to one within a few blocks. It was a fair-sized lot and most of the cars on it seemed to be relatively new models, not jalopies, so I turned in and parked in front of the office shack. A fat man came out of the shack as I got out of the car and came over to me. "Yes, sir?" he asked, around a stub of thick unlighted cigar.
"Selling," I said. "Want cash for the Buick."
I stepped back as he walked once around it, leaning in for a look at the mileage reading on the speedometer. "Just cash?" he asked, "or would you be interested in trading up? We got a few almost new cars on the lot that I could make you a good deal on. A Chrysler only a few months old and with only five thousand miles on it, just broken in, and—" I was shaking my head. "Or trading down maybe? Could give you some cash and a car a little older but still in plenty good shape, like a fifty-five Chevvie that—"
"Just cash," I said. "I've got another car. Just decided I could use some money for a business reason. And I'm in no hurry; I couldn't cash your check till Monday anyway, and this is the first lot I've tried. So make your best offer and I might not try any others."
He walked around it again, this time bending over to look at the tread on the tires, opening the door to look inside so the dome light would flash on and give him a look at the upholstery. He finished the circuit and said, "Seven-fifty. As is."
I shook my head. "It's worth more than that. Not much over two years old—three months over, to be exact. One owner, I bought it new. Low mileage—you just read it. Good shape all around. You'll get fifteen for it, and without having any work done on it. I want a thousand."
He was shaking his head slowly and I said, "Okay, then," and opened the door to get into the car and drive off.
He said, "Wait a minute, damn it. I haven't said I won't give you a thousand, or anyway better than seven-fifty. But I'd have to check it a little closer first, maybe put it up on a rack and check the frame isn't bent or anything. Sure, you haven't had it in a wreck but you'd sure tell me that even if you had. Wouldn't you now?"
"Sure I would. But it's never had worse than a bent fender and only one of those. How long would it take you to vet it? And how late are you open?"
"Till midnight. And I'd want my partner's okay, too. You in a hurry? Tonight, I mean."
"I don't want to spend till midnight here," I said. "I could find several other lots in that length of time. Or decide to hell with it till tomorrow or Monday. Is your partner around?"
"He's feeding his face." He pointed to a restaurant across the street that I hadn't noticed. "Been gone almost an hour so he should be back any minute. If he isn't I can go over and pry him loose. I'll give you an answer in half an hour. Okay?"
The sight of the restaurant had decided me. "Okay," I said. "I'm due for a meal myself. I'll go across the street and be back when I've finished eating. You can have an answer for me by then. But make it yes or no, not nine hundred and ninety-eight dollars."
"Hey," he said as I started off. "Leave me the keys, huh?"
I'd taken them out and put them in my pocket automatically when I got out of the car. I turned back and handed them to him. I said, "My house keys are on there too. If we make a deal don't let me forget them."
He chuckled. "You'd be surprised how many times that happens when we buy a car. But okay, between us we'll remember it this time. Say, if you want a full meal and like lobster try it over there. Damn good. They have 'em flown in live, best in Phoenix."
As I started off he called to me, "If you see my partner "over there tell him to skip dessert and get back here. You can't miss him. Tall and skinny with a face like a horse and a suit like a bookie's."
I crossed the street and went in. A man who could have fitted the description, although his partner had exaggerated a bit about both face and suit, was sitting at a table near the entrance, but he had his check on a tray in front of him and a bill on top of the check; he was just waiting for the waiter to take it and bring him his change, so I let the headwaiter lead me past him and to a table of my own.
I ordered an Old Fashioned while I studied the menu. I didn't feel up to fighting a whole lobster, live or otherwise, but wiener schnitzel was listed as one of their specialties and I had that and it was good. It was a restaurant I hadn't happened to discover before, but it was a good one.
The wiener schnitzel hit the spot and on the whole I felt a hell of a lot better than I had this morning, let alone yesterday evening and last night. Considering that it was a Saturday I'd accomplished quite a bit. I'd seen Joe and learned that I could count on him for at least as much as I'd figured him for and a thousand or two over if necessary; by pure luck I'd run into Harry Bernard at the airport and had an appointment with him even before Monday; and I was probably going to sell the Buick tonight and have that off my mind: the partner with the cigar wouldn't have wanted time and a consultation unless he figured that he'd probably give me my price unless he found something wrong with the car that didn't show on the outside. And he wouldn't. Oh, they'd probably offer me nine-fifty when I went back and say that was as high as they could possibly go, but they'd make it a thousand when I started to get into the car to drive away.
But Harry's remark about protecting his wife still bothered me. Damn it, I'd never thought even of chain bolts for the doors, let alone any other precautions. I simply had thought when I'd read of the Sears kidnap and murder: This is something that can happen to other people but not to us. I tried to analyze why I hadn't and the best answer I could come up with was that I simply hadn't thought of myself as having twenty-five thousand dollars —the amount he'd asked of Sears—and hadn't realized that I could, in case of desperation, raise any such figure. But I was in the process of raising twenty-five and without having to do anything dishonest (I hoped) to get it.
The kidnaper had been a lot smarter than I in estimating—or more likely taking a flying guess at—my degree of solvency.

Chapter Nine

Across the street at the parking lot I saw that I'd guessed right, in the restaurant, about the identity of the other partner. He was on the lot now, but busy talking to a customer who was looking at a recent model Fairlane and had reached the tire-kicking stage. The fat man walked toward me. The car was exactly where I'd left it; I didn't think they'd really run it up on a lift to check the frame, or even driven it around the block. But, except for exact wording, I could have predicted the conversation.
"Hi," I said. "Talk to your partner?"
"Yeah, and we looked it over. It's fairly clean, sure, but we can't go a thousand. Nine-fifty top. We got to make a profit."
"Okay," I said. "Will that offer still be open Monday evening after I've got a few other bids?"
"I guess so—unless you wreck it meanwhile. But nine-fifty's a good price, mister. We pay top prices, and you won't get a better offer, I'll guarantee you. You'll just waste your time. And what's fifty bucks?"
"It's fifty bucks," I said. "And I can ask you the same question."
He shook his head sadly. "You're a hard man to deal with."
"I won't be," I said, "after I've had a few other bids and they turn out to be under yours. Well, sorry we couldn't get together on it. See you Monday eve— Say, are you open weekday evenings?"
"Only till six." He sighed. "All right, damn it, you win. We'll go the thousand. Get the registration and bill of sale out of the car and come in the office; I'll be there writing it up."
He started to turn away, but he hadn't sounded too reluctant—they'd intended to go my price all along, of course, if I hadn't weakened, so I decided to get one more concession. "I'm a hard man to deal with," I said. "One more condition. A lift home. Not just to save a taxi fare; I've got some personal stuff in the trunk and the glove compartment I want to take out, without having to carry it."
"How far do you live?"
I told him the address; it was about two miles. He looked at his watch. "Okay," he said, "if you'll wait till nine. I promised my partner to stick around that long; he'll hold it down alone the last three hours. It's half past eight now."
I told him that would be fine. I got the papers from the car and followed him into the office. It took about ten minutes and I had a check for a thousand bucks. I was one twenty-fifth of the way, or would be when I turned the check into cash Monday.
A potential customer came in just before nine and the fat man was busy with him until a quarter after, but I waited, and he drove me home. I emptied the glove compartment and took out the few things I had in the trunk.
The house was dark, but once I opened the door, far from silent. There was immediately the demanding, almost strident miaouw-miaouw-miaouw-miaouw of a hungry Siamese. So close to my feet that I didn't dare take a step inside until I'd reached in and flicked the light switch.
"Poor, poor cat," I said to her intense blue eyes, "didn't I put down enough food this morning to see you through? Or are you just lonesome?"
She didn't answer, and I didn't want to get into the lonesome angle, so I went out into the kitchen to feed her. I started to reach for a can of cat food and then remembered I'd seen an unopened half pint of rich coffee cream in the refrigerator; I'd never use that all up myself before it soured, so I gave her about half of it in her dish. Cheetah won't drink anything as plebeian as ordinary milk but rich cream really sends her,
She lapped it hungrily but daintily and almost finished it. Then, without even looking at me, let alone thanking me, she went to the cat door in the kitchen door and let herself out into the darkness, leaving me alone.
I started pacing the floor, wishing now that I hadn't eaten out; at least getting myself something to eat would give me something to do for a while. I considered building myself a drink but put the temptation behind me. I'd gone that route last night and I'd needed it then, but from now on no more solitary drinking. And none quite as social as when I'd let Joe load me.
I told myself that I didn't really want a drink anyway, that I was in a lot better shape than I'd been last night, at any rate. I'd got started, despite its being a Saturday. And I was twenty-four hours closer now to having Ellen back. Four days now instead of five.
Not that the days would be bad, after tomorrow; Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday I'd be so damned busy I wouldn't have time to think. The nights would be the worst, the long nights. Like tonight; it was only ten o'clock and I didn't feel as though I'd be either tired or sleepy for hours yet. My sleep on the plane had been a good idea then; now I wished that I hadn't taken it.
The telephone rang and I picked it up and said hello.
"Lloyd? This is Randy. Called you a time or two before but you were out. Uh—you got a party line?"
"No, private."
"Good. So's mine. So we can talk freely—unless someone else is with you at your end?"
"No," I said. "I'm alone."
"Good. Wait, I don't mean it's good you're alone. In fact, that's what I called up about, to offer you company and conversation for a while. I've been through just what you're going through right now, so I know how you feel. Or were you thinking of turning in soon?"
It sounded like a good idea. "Lord, no," I said. "I took a plane ride this afternoon and slept a few hours. Tell you about it later if you're coming over. But I was just wondering when, if ever, I'd get to sleep tonight. Last night I drank myself to sleep—but that's nothing to do twice in a row."
"Right you are. I'll run over a while then. It's not much after ten and I never turn in before midnight anyway. Listen, I've got your address from the phone book, but save me looking at a map. Where's Birnam Street?"
I gave him directions, the best route from his place.
"About twenty minutes," he said. "Oh—you're not on the wagon completely, are you? Should I bring something along? We can have a drink or two to lubricate conversation without tying one on."
"Good idea," I said, "but don't bring anything if you like gin, got plenty of that. And some vermouth to match if you like Martinis. Had half a fifth of whisky but I killed most of that last night."
"Martinis sound fine. See you in twenty minutes."
I put down the phone and wondered what to do for twenty minutes. Then I remembered that the evening paper would be outside somewhere. Probably in the flower bed that ran along the front of the house; that's where it usually landed when the boy threw it from his bicycle. I turned on the front outside light and went out and found it there, brought it in and left the outside light on so Early could spot the house easily.
I checked the local story headlines carefully, in case there was by any chance anything new on either of the first two kidnapings. There wasn't, nor was there any crime story at all that seemed to have even a possible connection. A headline on narcotics caught my eye until I read enough of the story to learn that it concerned two teen-agers picked up for smoking marijuana, charged with possession and use. Marijuana and morphine are pretty far apart, and anyway kidnaping isn't a teen-age crime, particularly the professional, systematic type of kidnaping I was up against. As far as tonight's paper was concerned kidnaping was forgotten. Not even an editorial. I remembered now that there had been several editorials after the Sears woman had been found dead, charging the police with carelessness in letting it leak out that they had been notified of the kidnaping. The editor pointed out that Sears had taken every possible precaution when he'd gone to the police, directly to the chief, with his story, so the leak that had caused the kidnaper to murder his victim instead of even trying to collect the ransom must have come from the police department somehow.
Come to think of it now, that angle—how the kidnaper could have known that Sears had gone to the police—was something I'd wanted to ask Joe about. Certainly Sears had been cautious enough the night of the kidnaping. But had he been careless later? Or had the news really, as the editorial had implied, trickled down through the police department and outside it? There'd certainly been nothing in the newspapers; the writer of the editorial had been most emphatic in pointing that out.
I heard a car stop in front and had the door open by the time Early got out of the car and started up the walk.
"Should have had a pitcher of drinks ready," I said as he came in. "But I'd forgotten tonight's paper and had to look it over. Nothing in it."
He grimaced a little. "A plane crash in Florida with forty-two killed, one new African revolution, atomic war with Russia one step closer, two new satellites put in orbit— Yeah, I know what you mean by nothing in the paper. There were a few days when I didn't find any news in the paper either. I see where your kitchen is; sit down and relax and let me mix the Martinis. I'm an expert."
I said, "Everybody who makes them at all thinks he's an expert. Come on, let's do it together."
It turned out we both liked five-to-one, so there wasn't anything to argue about. Except for the minor difference that I measured mine and he thought it should be played by ear and claimed that nothing measured could be a work of art nor could it have a soul. We harmonized again, though, in agreeing that a true Martinian never desecrated his drink with olive, onion, lemon peel, or any other extraneous object. I poured the dividend, enough for another drink apiece, off the ice and put it in the refrigerator to stay cold. Cheetah must have heard the refrigerator door that time for she came in the cat door and Early jumped several inches as it flapped shut, then laughed at himself when Cheetah miaouwed.
We took our drinks into the living room and made ourselves comfortable.
He led off. "I can tell you something now I couldn't last night. If you need it, if it might make the difference, I can lend you three thousand, in cash, by Monday evening. Besides co-signing a note, if you want me to do that too.
"When I was raising thirty-five grand myself there was one asset I couldn't touch, a life insurance policy; I'd made Helen the irrevocable beneficiary, which meant I couldn't even borrow against it without her signature. Still can't for that matter, but we talked it over today and she's willing—glad—to sign. The loan value's just a few bucks over three thousand as of this date. And until you're on your feet again—I know you'll be going in hock in all directions the way I did—all you have to do is keep up the interest payments, around a hundred and fifty a year. The loan won't come through that quick, of course, but I talked to my insurance man—don't worry; I didn't give anything away—and he'll advance me the money out of his own account until the loan does come through. All I'll have to do is pick up his check Monday and turn it into cash for you."
"Thanks, Randy, but—thanks, but I think I can make it without that. Depends on whether I can swing a refinancing deal on this house—and, as you'd be doing with your insurance agent—get the money in advance of unwinding the red tape. I can make it, without too much sweat, if that goes through and for the amount I'm counting on. I'll know, maybe by tomorrow night, for sure by Monday."
"Fine," he said. "If a wheel comes off, or if you get less than you're counting on, let me know Monday evening and I'll have the cash for you Tuesday evening, still in plenty of time. Keep it in mind. About this house— none of my business what equity you've got in it, but did you pay about twenty-five thousand for it when you bought it?"
I nodded. "On the head. You're a good appraiser."
"Hell, I'm no appraiser at all, and I just got a glimpse of the outside and I've seen only two rooms inside, don't even know how many you have. But it fits a hunch I've got, if it did cost just about that. It makes the hunch into a probability instead of a wild guess."
"What's the hunch?"
"That the kidnaper figures how much money a man can raise by how much his house cost him. Regardless of what equity he has in the house. It's as good a rule of thumb as any, I guess. I paid thirty-four thousand five hundred—thirty-five as near as matters—for mine. I'm not talking about the house you saw last night—guess I told you that's rented. I mean the house I had to sell. It didn't hurt me to sell it, incidentally; it was too damn big a house for just the two of us. I bought it when Helen was expecting a child, and we expected to have more children. But she not only lost the child, but was told she couldn't ever have one because—hell, you're not interested in that.
"And Sears' house cost him twenty-six thousand—with the nearest even figure being the twenty-five the kidnaper asked him for. That Sears and I should respectively have been nicked for approximately what we paid for our houses could have been a coincidence. But with you joining the parade—well, I'd say it's probable now, not just possible, that that's the bit of information he uses to set his prices. Something easy enough to look up, too, for anyone who knows how and where real estate transactions are recorded."
I thought it over. Cheetah had joined us in the living room and she jumped up on the sofa beside Early and let him stroke her. "You're a member of the family," I said. "She doesn't let many people do that to her. Not even me very often. But I think you've got something on that rule of thumb business for ransom payments. At least for people in middle- or upper-middle-income brackets. People who live in twenty- to fifty-thousand-dollar homes, say. A man who owns a five-thousand-dollar house might not be able to raise five hundred bucks even under forced draft, unless he had more than a down payment or so in the house. And it wouldn't work for the other end of the spectrum either—a man who could raise half a million or more wouldn't have that much invested in the house he lived in. But for people like us—yes, could be."
"Income would be a better basis," Early said, "but unless you have access to income tax returns—and damn few people do—that's harder to learn or even guess than how much a man paid for his home. Especially for somebody who's self-employed, as you are. Or Sears. But anyone can take a look at a man's home and at least make a flying guess what it cost. Or find out fairly close by pricing a house or two for sale that look to be in about the same category.
"Well, hell," he said, "you've probably been wanting to ask questions and I've been doing all the talking without giving you a chance. Shoot."
I remembered what I'd been wondering about earlier. "How do you figure—or how do the police figure—the kidnaper learned that Sears had gone to the police about his wife?"
"Well—there are several possibilities. How much do you know or remember about the case? Last night I told you quite a bit about the Early case, but we didn't go into the Sears one much."
"I saw my partner Joe today. I told him the truth about things—almost had to, in his case. But he's the only one who knows, outside of you and me and the kidnaper, and I know damn well Joe won't spread it. Ellen's his cousin, incidentally."
He shook his head. "You're forgetting one other person who knows your wife was kidnaped, though. My wife. But don't worry about her—she's been there herself. Thumbscrews wouldn't get it out of her. But I thought we were leading into how much you know or remember about the Sears deal. What's your seeing or telling Joe Sitwell got to do with that?"
"I was getting there, roundabout." I told him about Willie Tregoff being a friend of Joe's and having talked to him about both cases while he was working on them, to explain how, while Joe and I had had time together, he'd been able to brief me fairly well on the Sears case.
"Tell me how much he told you," Early suggested, "and maybe I'll be able to add a little, or a lot. Believe me, I studied that case thoroughly, after I had my wife back. I've talked it over with several cops, Willie Tregoff included, and two F.B.I, men. And I think they've all leveled with me. In fact, I know several things I promised not to pass on, that they don't want the kidnaper even to guess that they know. But I think that you'd be an exception to that promise, since you're in the same boat I was in."
"Okay," I said, and told him everything Joe had told me that afternoon.
He thought a minute. "Well—"
"Hold the well," I said. "I'll refill our glasses."
When we had drinks again, he said, "Well, Willie pretty near leveled with Sitwell, but not quite. There's one point they're really keeping under cover, and probably Tregoff had orders not to mention it to anyone, even his closest friend—or to his wife if he's got one."
"He hasn't," I said. "What's the secret?"
"They're not really working the narcotics racket side of the street. Oh, they keep in touch with the narcotics boys on the off chance, but they don't figure that either a pusher or an addict is involved. Unless maybe it's an addict who's a doctor—quite a few doctors do become addicts, you know. They have such easy access to drugs like morphine that it's an occupational hazard with them. But anyway they think it's someone with a little more than a layman's medical knowledge."
"You mean the way the shots were given, the exactness of the amounts—?"
"No, no. Oh, that too, but any layman, addict or not, could learn proper dosages for morphine by a bit of study in a book on materia medica.
"No, here's what they're keeping secret: Morphine sulfate was the principal drug used, but not the only one. They found traces of two others, scopolamine and sodium amytal. Drugs a layman would have heard about but would never think of using or know how to use if he did think of it. But if you want to make a person unconscious for a reasonable period of time, and safely, a shot of, say, a quarter grain of morphine sulfate mixed with about a hundred and fiftieth of a grain of scopolamine is better than straight morphine. And for keeping your victim out cold for an extended period—three or five days —you're better off—or your victim is—if, instead of using those shots every four or six hours, you reinforce those shots once in a while, or even alternate, with sodium amytal."
"But hell," I said, "wouldn't the kidnaper, if he knew that much, know that all three drugs would have shown up in an autopsy?"
"Not necessarily, even if he was a doctor. The doing of autopsies, and just what they show and don't show, is pretty much of a specialized branch of medicine. Besides, an ordinary average coroner doing a routine autopsy would probably have settled for the morphine and let it go at that. But the F.B.I. had a Dr. Boettinger flown here from San Francisco to do the autopsy; he's the top man in the country in that field. And when he came up with scopolamine and sodium amytal traces besides the morphine, they decided to keep the whole thing under cover including who did the job. According to the newspaper reports, and as far as anyone except a few on the inside knows, the regular coroner, Dr. Stofft, did the autopsy. And he's just a general practitioner and morphine is probably all he would have come up with.
"It makes sense that that's all he'd have found because the cause of death was plain morphine. He used it straight—and plentifully—to administer the lethal shot. The scopolamine and the amytal barely showed, as traces. Especially the scop—he may have used scop with the morphine only in the first shot he gave each of the women."
"Why in the first shot if not in the others?"
"Well, we know his modus operandi with my wife, and it seems reasonable to assume he used the same one with Mrs. Sears and with your wife. Knocked her unconscious with a blackjack. And probably, although this isn't positive, he gave her a first shot inside the house before he took her out the door to his car. I say that isn't certain, but it damn near is. He couldn't know just how long she'd be unconscious from the blow with the blackjack and he wouldn't take the chance of her coming to, and starting to scream for help, while he was taking her wherever he took her. Even if he used a closed panel truck, he wouldn't chance that. With me so far?"
"Sure," I said.
"Then look at his next problem. Getting her to the car—or truck or whatever transport he used. All three houses, yours, Sears' and the one I lived in at the time, have driveways along the side leading to garages in back, and the houses have side doors as well as front and back ones. We know, in my wife's case, that he used that side door, so it's probably that he used the same m. o. in the other two cases. So he's got an unconscious woman and the problem of getting her to his car. If he'd driven the car back into the driveway near the side door, it wouldn't be far to carry her, but there'd be a chance of someone walking by and glancing back or someone happening to look out a window of the house next door, and seeing him. So he wouldn't carry her in his arms, unconscious, if he didn't have to. And he didn't have to.
"He could have waited a minute or a few minutes until she showed signs of starting to regain consciousness and then given her a shot of morphine sulfate mixed with scopolamine. It would start working as the effects of the blackjack blow wore off, and for a while, for a few minutes before she went under the drugs completely, she'd be in a semiconscious, almost somnambulistic state. He could help her to her feet, take her by an arm and simply walk her to the car and put her in it. She'd be sleepwalking, not knowing what was going on, but she'd look okay to anyone who happened to see her from a distance.
"After she was in the car and he'd driven off, she'd lose consciousness the rest of the way, and go limp. He could just push her down on the floor of the car, out of sight, for the rest of the trip.
"We don't know he did it that way, but it would have been the easiest and safest way for him. You can make someone sleepwalk like that for a brief period after a straight morphine shot, but it would be easier if the morphine was mixed with scop. And there were traces of scopolamine so he probably used it at least for that if he didn't bolster the subsequent morphine shots with it."
"It makes sense," I said. "And I can see why the police wouldn't want that information to get out. It would warn him that they knew more about him than he probably thinks they do. Okay, I won't pass it on, even after Ellen's back. Not even to Joe, since Willie Tregoff didn't tell him. Anything else Joe was wrong about or doesn't know?"
"Nothing else he was wrong about, nothing important that he didn't know. I could maybe add a few details if I thought about it but I don't think of them offhand."
"I suppose," I said, "that the police questioned Sears' neighbors, and yours, to see if any of them saw a car turn into the driveway about the time of the kidnaping, or if they saw a man hanging around or going to the door or —saw anything at all."
"Yes. Results negative. And they'll be questioning your neighbors, after Wednesday night, and let's hope somebody did see something this time. But don't question them yourself sooner than that. You're not doing, any open investigating, remember. And the cops can do a better job than you, anyway, when it's time to do it."
"Right," I said. "Shall I make another shaker of Martinis? These seem to have evaporated, but I don't feel them."
He looked at his wrist watch. "Neither do I. But it's half past eleven. Sure you're not tired?"
"I'm not," I said. "But if you are—"
"Guess I'm good for another hour if you really want me to stay. Sunday's a busy day in the hotel business and I'll have to go down, but I don't have to get there early."
I made another trip to the kitchen.

Chapter Ten

Early settled back comfortably in his chair. "There are three schools of thought on that business of the leak. Any one of them can be right; there's no real proof one way or another.
"The one I consider least likely is that Sears gave it away himself, somehow. That his house was being watched at the time he got home and found the note, that the kidnaper was in a car nearby and did follow him for a while and, when he saw Sears was deliberately driving so as to shake off a tail, if any, he decided that Sears wasn't just driving aimlessly or to some innocent destination, but must have made up his mind to contact the police and was making sure first that he wasn't being followed. Which was, in fact, just what he was doing."
"Sounds possible to me," I said.
"Oh, it's possible, yes. But here's why I think it's pretty unlikely, Lloyd. If the kidnaper had decided then and there to kill Dorothy Sears, he'd never have waited two full days to do it. Holding a hostage for ransom involves a certain amount of risk; keeping one alive and drugged involves a certain amount of trouble. If he decided to kill Dorothy Sears the night of the afternoon he kidnaped her, he most certainly wouldn't have held her alive for almost forty-eight hours, having to use drugs on her at least eight times in that period and feeding her several times. Yes, she'd been fed—the autopsy showed the presence in her stomach of liquid food, bouillon and milk that had been given her probably through a plastic straw while she was in a temporary state of semiconsciousness; the last time within eight hours of her death. I'd say that his information that Sears had gone to the police came to him, if it came to him at all, within eight hours of the time he last fed her. Doesn't that make sense to you?"
"Sure," I said. "But what the hell did you mean by 'if it came to him at all'; you don't think he killed her just for the hell of it, do you?"
"I'll answer that when I give you the third school of thought. Let me finish the first one first. Unless Sears is flatly lying, the kidnaper couldn't possibly subsequently have learned through anything he said and did that he'd gone to the police the first night. He claims he didn't confide in a single person, managed to raise as much of the twenty-five grand as he'd raised up to that point without having to tell anybody at all that his wife was kidnaped. I don't see any reason to doubt him."
"The second possibility must be the police. I don't see any other leak except through Sears or the police—using 'police' in a broad enough sense to include the F.B.I, men and anyone at the telephone company who'd been briefed in connection with the bit they were going to set up for listening in on Sears' phone calls the third night. How else could the information have leaked?"
"No way that I can see, Lloyd. But the third possibility was that there never was a leak at all. That the kidnaper didn't know Sears had called copper and didn't care whether he had or not, because he never intended to try to collect the ransom. That he just made the assumption—as it happened, justified—that Sears would have gone to the police secretly."
"But why the hell? You mean he might have taken the risk of a kidnaping without even intending to try to collect on it?"
"I mean just that. As to the why—the first kidnaping could have been just a feint. A setup to get himself publicity so the second kidnaping would pay off in cash and with no risk from the police, as it did. And so the third kidnaping, and others if any happen, will pay off the same way.
"He knew the first kidnaping would make the papers
—it would have to, if it culminated in murder. It would prove to his second victim—me—that he meant business and that my wife would be killed, as Sears' wife had been killed, if I tried to play footsie with the cops, at least before I had her back. He could tell me as he did tell me, 'Arthur Sears went to the police and the papers told you what happened to his wife. Stay away from them if you don't want the same to happen to yours.' And he knew that while I couldn't be sure I'd get Helen back alive if I did pay up, I could be damn sure what would happen if I didn't. He didn't even have to be very devious in working out instructions for me to leave the money where he could pick it up. He knew damn well that, unless I wanted my wife killed, I wouldn't have arranged for the police to be watching that pickup."
"I'll be damned," I said.
"And he can be even surer in your case that you haven't called copper and won't. To you he could say, in effect, 'Sears went to the police and his wife died. Early didn't, he played fair with me and got his wife back alive and unharmed.'
"He probably didn't follow Sears, and stayed clear of him. He didn't care whether Sears went to the police or not; he was going to kill Dorothy Sears anyway, as an object lesson to future victims. As it happened, Sears had gone to the cops, so it worked out perfectly for him. If Sears hadn't, it would still have been all right for him.
Everyone would think Sears had done something suspicious, somewhere down the line, that had made the kidnaper think he'd gone to the police. General effect would be the same on future victims. No?"
"I'll be double damned," I said. "Whose theory is this? Yours?"
"Yes. And Forgeus partly agrees with me—admits it's a strong possibility anyway. That's the real reason Helen's kidnaping and return was kept out of the papers. If my theory's right, giving him free publicity on that would be playing right into his hands if he kidnaped a third time. Not that lack of that publicity deterred him. All he had to do was refer to me personally, as he did; he knew you'd at least get in touch with me before you'd go to the police. And that I'd give him the reference he wanted, tell you that I'd paid up like a good little boy and got Helen back. So you'd be a good little boy too. As you are being."
"God!" I said. I thought of Joe's telling me not to think of the kidnaper as more kinds of a fiend than one. Joe had been trying, of course, to reassure me in my worry about the possibility of Ellen being sexually molested. This theory of Early's didn't affect that angle, but God, what a cold-blooded one-way fiend it made out of him! Cold-blooded murder, planned that way, just to set up future victims and let him feel safe in collecting from them without even worrying about whether he might be caught picking up the money.
"Did you tell Sears this?" I asked. "It'd be a damn good theory for him to believe, I'd say. If he bought it, at least he wouldn't blame himself for his wife's death. It wouldn't bring her back, of course, but at least he wouldn't feel guilty about it. If he's making himself into an alcoholic, it's probably more because of guilt feelings than because of grief."
"I think so too." Early shook his head slowly. "I tried to sell him on it, but he wouldn't buy. The only thing that will ever convince him will be if they catch the kidnaper and get him to confess that he intended to kill Dorothy Sears all along and hadn't known Sears had gone to the police."
"But, as you said, he kept Dorothy Sears alive for two days. If he intended all along to kill her, why would he have done that?"
"Think it through," he said. "And you'll see that he had to. He had to put it on the record that his intentions had been good originally. That he could and did keep his victim alive and in reasonably good health until—presumably—he learned that the cops were in on the deal and that he'd be caught if he tried to collect.
"He had to sell me, and sell you—even though probably neither of us had been picked out yet—that he could and did keep his hostages alive, until and unless." He stood up. "Go ahead and think it out for yourself. Our glasses are empty and I'll do the honors on divvying what was left of that second shaker of Martinis."
I let him. I didn't move—my mind was racing on more cylinders than I'd known it had. I was thinking of at least fourteen things all at once, or it seemed that way.
Then our glasses were filled, and he was sitting down again.
And I was scared stiff of the direction in which my thoughts had finally focused themselves. I ducked it for the moment by asking an interim question the answer to which, even in my state of mind then, should have been obvious to me. "Getting back to your saying he must be a doctor or have considerable medical knowledge, why would he have gone to the trouble of mouth-feeding them, having to let them get partly conscious so they'd drink through a tube, when intravenous feeding would have been simpler?"
He said patiently, "Because he didn't want to narrow the field of suspicion to doctors or people with considerable medical knowledge. The fact that they'd been fed intravenously would at least tend to narrow the field in that direction. Even a routine autopsy would have shown that. It wouldn't have shown those traces of scopolamine and sodium amytal—and unless he's got a real solid pipeline to the top brass in the police department, he doesn't know that the autopsy did show that. And he won't know it; if the police have any edge on him at all up to now, it's that they know one thing about him that he doesn't know that they know."
I nodded, feeling stupid for having asked.
I took a sip of my drink and spilled a little of it.
I said, "God, but I hope you're wrong, Randy."
He frowned a little. "Why?"
I said, "Now you're not thinking things through. What if this is the end of the line for him? What if he's going to be satisfied, for a while anyway, with sixty grand— your thirty-five and my twenty-five? If he's the coldblooded criminal you think he is, he's smart enough to know that he can't keep kidnaping and getting away with it indefinitely. He knows that if he keeps on he'll slip sooner or later; he can't win them all.
"What if, for instance, he happens to pick as his next victim a man who secretly hates his wife and would be happy to be rid of her? Some men feel that way, maybe a higher percentage than we'd guess—and it doesn't always show. He can never be sure he's not picking a man like that, and if he does he's dead. The police will be in on it that time, and he'll walk right into their hands when he tries to collect the ransom."
Early said, "He's probably set his quota, sure. I'd say he is that smart. Whether it's two successful jobs—ones he collects on; we can't count the Sears one if that was done for the reason I'm guessing it was—or three, or four, he's going to quit while he's ahead and can relax and enjoy the money. Maybe go somewhere like Mexico to enjoy it—hell, in Mexico, and in a lot of other places, you can live like a king for a hell of a long time, years, on even the income from sixty grand. But—so what?"
I said, "You're still not thinking it all the Way through, Randy. If sixty grand is his quota, if this is his last crime —or anyway his last kidnaping—then Ellen Johnson is dead right now. If he's quitting after he collects from me, then what reason would he have for having kept her alive at all? It's easier to bury a body out on the desert somewhere, and safer, than to keep a woman alive when he hasn't any reason to keep her alive. Don't you see, Randy? If this is the last kidnaping he plans to do, why would I ever hear from him again after he's got my money? He wouldn't take even the slight risk or bother to call me up to tell me where to find her body. He called Sears to tell him, sure, but if you're right, he had a reason for that. In that case, he wanted the body found."
He hadn't thought it through in that direction, but he was with me and ahead of me as I laid it out for him. The blood had slowly drained out of his face while I'd talked.
He didn't say anything for a while and then he said, "Oh, God, I didn't think of—" And he didn't get any further than that, because there wasn't anything reasonable for him to say. What, unless to repudiate his own theory, or try to? Or try to convince me that the kidnaper surely wouldn't be planning to quit the game with only sixty thousand?
I had to be the one to break the silence. I said, "Well, there's no use thinking about it. It could be that way, but I'll just have to go ahead on the assumption that it isn't. Shall I make us another shaker of drinks?"
"I don't think— Hell, if you want to, I'll go along. Christ, I could cut my tongue out for saying what I just said, and being so damn smug about it at that. I hadn't thought it through, all the way. Damn it all, it's still a theory; we can't be sure."
"No, we can't. Nor that he's ready to quit after collecting from me. So, it's just a possibility I have to face, that's all. Come on, you can give me a hand on those drinks."
After we'd made the drinks and come back with them we talked about the other "school of thought"—that the fact that Sears had called copper might have leaked out from the police department. We were both grateful that that possibility existed.
After all, there could have been a leak from the department. Very easily. By the second day after the kidnaping at least ten people there knew the score, the full score. Another dozen—six pairs who would have got the duty —knew that they had a special assignment the following evening, that they'd be stationed in unmarked radio cars at various points in the city from six o'clock listening in for an indefinite period until they either got special instructions or were called in. Even that much would have tipped off the kidnaper had the information reached him. And at least six employees of the phone company knew that a special setup was being arranged and worked out so that Forgeus and an F.B.I, man would be able to monitor calls made to a certain phone—two phones in fact, since they were going to monitor both Sears' regular phone in the living room and the business phone in his office at home; the kidnaper might use either. Like the men who knew of their coming assignment to the radio cars, none of the telephone company employees knew that there'd been a kidnaping, but they knew that something special was going on that evening. And four out of the six knew the numbers of the two telephones that were to be monitored—and could easily have discovered that both of those phones were in the name of Arthur Sears. All of them swore—in the investigation afterward —that they hadn't looked up who had those telephone numbers. But five out of the six admitted that they'd mentioned or discussed the monitoring arrangement with fellow employees or with their wives and in some cases with friends, and had speculated about what was going on. One had even admitted mentioning it in a barroom conversation the evening before.
And while the police officers who knew the score about the kidnaping all claimed they hadn't talked about it outside—except in two cases to their wives—the dozen men assigned to the radio cars, who knew nothing about & kidnaping, had not kept their Thursday evening assignment a secret. Those of them who were married talked about it to their wives, naturally, since they knew only that their assignments might run all night and get them home late. Some of them had happened to mention and discuss the assignments with other police employees and even, in a few cases, people outside the department.
Yes, the fact that there was a special assignment for unmarked radio cars manned by policemen in plain clothes could have leaked out just as easily as could the fact that the police would be monitoring a telephone or two. And both for Thursday night, the night the kidnaper had promised to phone Sears instructions on where to leave the money.
The kidnaper wouldn't have needed much of a pipeline to either the police department or to the telephone company to have learned one or the other of those two facts, and either would have tipped him off.
Maybe Early went a little overboard, in view of the previous theory he'd sold me, in trying to show me how possible it was that the kidnaper really could have learned, even accidentally, that something special—besides his own plans—was afoot for the next evening. But it was good listening and I let myself be convinced that the theory of a leak of information was at least as possible as Early's own theory, the deadly one that Dorothy Sears' murder had been planned from the start.
Anyway, it gave us something to talk about while we killed the third shaker of drinks. And it was half past one then, and we were both beginning to yawn. Early left, and I went to bed and surprised myself by going right to sleep. Maybe I was a bit numb by then.

Chapter Eleven

I fought my way out of a dream that was almost if not quite a nightmare. In it, I was trying to get at a man who was just out of my reach, only about two yards away. He was about my height, medium, but stockier. He wore a dark suit and had his hatbrim pulled low, but there wasn't a handkerchief over the bottom of his face: there was just a blank there, no face at all. But my feet were stuck as though in cement and I couldn't move except to lean forward toward him, reaching out, a foot or two short of him with my bare hands straining toward him. My fingers were tense and curved, aching from the need to strangle him, to get them around the thick neck under that blank that should have been a face. I wasn't thinking about Ellen in the dream so I don't know whether she was dead or still captive; my whole concentration was on the man and the fact that I had to kill him and couldn't. My whole being was filled with a hatred beyond anything I had ever felt before, something more intense, more all-encompassing than anything I could possibly feel in a waking state. I was the hatred and the hatred was me; there was no room for anything else but the need to kill. And there was no setting, I don't know whether it was happening indoors or out; there was nothing but my stretching, thwarted hands, the man with no face, and my need to kill. There was no action; he didn't move and I couldn't. It was a horrible tableau that seemed to have gone on for a long, long time, an unconscionable time just short of forever, until I was finally able to break it by awakening.
I sat up in bed quickly to shake it off. It was still dark and I glanced at the luminous dial of my wrist watch and saw that it was a little after six. I didn't lie down again. It was Sunday and I could have slept late, but I wasn't going to. Somehow I knew that if I went back to sleep now I'd find myself back spending another almost-eternity in that hideously static dream.
I groped until I found the switch of the lamp beside the bed and turned it on. Then I got up, found a cigarette and lighted it, pacing with it until the dream became dim instead of vivid. But not forgotten; I'll never forget that dream. I'd read somewhere that hatred can be a much more intense emotion than love, but I'd never believed it until then.
Four and a half hours of sleep. But it would be enough, and I'd slept on the plane, too. The worst thing would be trying to kill a Sunday, twelve hours of it before it would be time for me to go around to the Bernards'—half past six or seven, I'd told him. And there wasn't a goddam constructive thing I could think of to do before then.
Getting dressed and getting myself some breakfast and straightening things up afterward filled an hour and left only eleven of them to go. It was light outside by then.
Then the thump of the Sunday paper hitting the house before it dropped into the flower bed was a welcome sound because it gave me something else to do. I brought it in and made myself some more coffee to go with it. I went through it first as I had last night's paper, looking for crime news, for anything that could possibly tie in with any one of the kidnapings or with all three of them. Nothing. Some routine crimes, one holdup and two burglaries—but mine enemy wouldn't be committing any routine crimes right now. Not while he was holding Ellen—and I resolutely pushed back the thought: if he still was.
Then, because there was nothing else to do, I made myself go through the paper again, this time reading all the parts and sections of it that I usually read. Even one part I seldom read, the column of "Miscellaneous for Sale" items in the want ads. There's no Sullivan Act in Arizona or Phoenix; you can buy, sell, or own all the guns you want, as long as you don't carry them concealed, and they are often advertised for sale by private parties in the want ads. Since I was going in for shooting again and was going to teach Ellen to shoot too, it occurred to me that if I could find a private deal on a pistol or two that I wanted, it would be one thing I could do on a Sunday; looking at guns would not only help kill the time today but would save time later.
And I wanted at least one pistol for sure, no matter what happened. Especially if—well, especially if, and I let the thought go at that.
There were several rifles and shotguns advertised, but only two pistols and neither of them interested me because they were both automatics and I dislike automatics. They're less accurate, they have safeties to worry about, and they sometimes jam. Give me a double-action revolver every time. You can cock the hammer for a sighted shot, but you don't have to cock it; for a quick shot just pull the trigger and it goes bang. Every time, for six times. If you haven't hit what you're shooting at by then you had no business shooting at it in the first place.
But looking at the want ads made me remember something—or, rather, somebody. Because he sometimes ran ads for guns in the paper, it made me remember Carry Carrington. Carry had been a friend of mine back in the days before I was married and was interested in pistols and pistol shooting. Carry was a real aficionado of gun collecting. He was only fair as a marksman—about as good as I was—but he was gun-crazy. He bought, sold, traded, collected. He seldom had fewer than a dozen rifles and twenty to thirty revolvers. And except for a few which were his special pets he was always willing to buy, sell or swap them. We'd drifted apart after I'd quit shooting, since it had been our only real common interest, but I knew he was still around town because I'd seen him on a downtown corner less than a month ago. If he still lived at the same place—
He did. I found him in the phone book. It was still too early to phone him on a Sunday morning, but I made a mental note to do so late morning or early afternoon.
I went through the paper again, reading even things I didn't ordinarily read—advice to the lovelorn, a column on bridge, letters to the editor. And then a sound from outside, the sound of a lawn mower, made me look at the clock, and it was after nine and lawn mowers were all right to use, and that was wonderful. Because our lawn had needed mowing for over a week, and Ellen had been heckling me about it for almost that long. And mowing it would be a very satisfactory way to kill another hour of this day. Two hours, come to think of it, because luckily our power mower was on the blink and I'd have to use the old hand mower that I'd kept for just such contingencies.
I mowed the lawn. Got the grass shears and trimmed the edges neatly. I must have inspired my next-door neighbor because he went to his garage and got out his own mower, then came to the hedge to talk a minute. "How's everything, Lloyd?" "Great," I said. "You and Ellen doing anything this afternoon? Bess has been talking about having the two of you drop in awhile." And I explained regretfully that Ellen was out of town visiting her sister for a few days, otherwise we'd be glad to. And we talked about the  recession, baseball, and  charcoal broilers and then he started his mowing and I finished my edging.
It was half past eleven when I went back in the house and I phoned Carry Carrington. "Hi, Carry Carry," I said. "This is Lloyd Johnson. Still got as big an arsenal as you used to have?"
"Bigger. Getting interested in guns again?"
"A little," I said. "Haven't pulled a trigger for almost five years and don't even have a popgun, but my trigger finger's been getting a little itchy of late. Going to be home this afternoon?"
"Sure," he said. "Come on over. How's Ellen? Can you bring her along? Or is she still gun-shy?"
"She's fine," I said. "But out of town for the weekend. As for the gun-shy bit, I'm thinking of picking me up a revolver or two while she's gone and curing her after she gets back."
"Hold the line a minute, Lloyd."
I held the line a minute and he came back on. "Just had a summit conference with the boss. She says that if you're batching you might as well have lunch with us, unless you have other plans. One o'clock. Okay?"
"Give my love to the boss and tell her it's a wonderful idea. Be seeing you."
It gets warm in Phoenix, even in April, and I'd got a bit hot and sweaty pushing the mower, so I took a shower and changed. By then, since Carry lived in Chandler, a good half-hour's drive away, it was time for me to leave.
I hadn't driven the Volkswagen for a long time and, being used to automatic transmission, had a little trouble with it for a while. I remembered the gear shift, but kept forgetting to use the clutch and stalling the car, once in the middle of a stop-light intersection at Twenty-fourth and Van Buren. But by the time I was outside the city limits, heading out Arizona Avenue toward Chandler, I had it licked. It still felt as though I was piloting a kiddy car instead of an automobile, but that would wear off.
Garry heard me turn into his driveway and came out to meet me. He looked at the Volks and shook his head sadly. "I remember when you used to drive a car. Now you're down to roller skates—one roller skate to be exact. Business that bad?"
I laughed and gave him the story I'd be telling a lot of people in the next few days, that I'd had a slight accident with my Buick and it was in a body shop so I'd be without it for a few days, that I'd be using our second car, Ellen's, until I got the Buick back.
Garry is a big hearty man, in his fifties, with a moon face and iron-gray hair; his wife, whose real first name I'd forgotten since Garry and everyone else calls her Toots, is a big, hearty woman, a good match for him. They've been married twenty-some years and have two children, teen-age when I'd known them well five years ago, but neither the boy nor the girl was there; Garry had mentioned when I'd seen him downtown a month ago that they were both away at college.
Toots told us, "Don't start playing with guns yet. Lunch will be ready in ten minutes and if you get into that gun room I'm going to have trouble prying you loose."
"Gun room?" I asked, turning to Garry. "You didn't use to have one."
"Just since the kids are away. Damn brats, insisting on going away, with Arizona State University almost in their back yard. But Walt wants to be a mining engineer and I'll admit that Texas College of Mines and Metallurgy in El Paso is tops there. And Elfrieda's studying journalism and insisted University of Wisconsin's better for that. I doubt that; I think she just wanted to get away on her own and picked Wisconsin because her best friend's going there. Anyway, I took over Walt's room for my guns. His stuff's still there too, though, so he can. use it when he's home on visits. But Toots insists on calling it the gun room now."
Toots served us a big lunch and a good one. Afterward we went upstairs to the gun room. Carry's collection had grown, had almost doubled. Before, he'd collected only modern guns, strictly for shooting. Now he was starting on collector's items, frontier models dating back to the Civil War and before. Early Colt six-shooters and derringers. A Kentucky rifle and a couple of muskets that he told me were American but pre-Revolutionary, made in New England. The collector's items were on the walls, but his modern guns were in the drawers of a cabinet he'd had custom built for the purpose.
"Got a surprise for you," he said. "Think it's just the gun you want." He opened the drawer and handed me an S. & W. thirty-eight special with a six-inch barrel and walnut grips, equipped with special target sights. It looked like the last gun I'd owned, the one I'd used in the several matches I'd entered, and which, I remembered now, I'd sold him almost five years ago when I'd decided to give up shooting. I looked at it more closely and saw that it was the same gun. "I'll be damned," I said.
He grinned at me. "Had an offer or two on it but I kept it, had a hunch you might want it back. I paid you fifty bucks for it and got a bargain. You can have it back for the same price and that's even more of a bargain because I fired only a few rounds and I fired those from a vise to correct the sights. It was throwing two inches to the left at fifty yards and now if it doesn't hit the bull you'll have to blame yourself and not the gun."
"Sold," I said, "and thanks. By any chance have you still got the holster I sold you with it? For another ten bucks, if I remember right."
"By any chance, I still have it too. Make me a check for sixty and you're back where you left off." He opened a big bottom drawer and started looking through it for the right holster.
I had my checkbook out and the date written before I remembered that guns used bullets. "How you set for ammo? If you've got a few spare boxes of thirty-eight specials, it'll save me a trip to buy them."
He had the holster now and was dusting it off. When he finished he handed it to me. "The right one, isn't it?" And when I nodded he opened another drawer. " 'Bout a dozen boxes here, and you can have up to half of them. Four-sixty a box. Hey, come to think of it, you got one box coming free. You had one box left when you sold me the gun and tossed it in on the deal. So now you get a box back at the same price."
"Swell," I said. "One will do me for now. I'll make the check for sixty."
"Hold it, don't write the amount yet, because there's one more thing you'll need. Some practice. If you've got the rest of the afternoon free, that is. There's a gun club with a pistol range, new since your time, less than five miles from here. I'm a member and can bring a guest. But you'll want more than the one free box of cartridges if we're going."
"Right," I said. "Make it five more boxes, six in all."
"You add it. And add in some targets if you want something to shoot at. Like three packages at sixty cents a package. I'll be generous, though, and furnish the thumb tacks."
I did the multiplying and adding and wrote the check. Carry picked out a revolver for himself—pretty similar to mine except that it was a Colt instead of a Smith & Wesson—and put guns, cartridges and targets into a brief Incase. We told Toots where we were going and we were off. Carry pretended indignation at the thought of riding in a Volkswagen—and it would have been a tight fit, at that, for a man his size—so we took his Pontiac.
I was really bad for only the first few rounds, then it began to come back to me and pretty soon I was squeezing them off almost as well as I ever had. And I was really grateful to Carry, although I didn't dare say so or he would have put me down, for keeping my gun for me on the chance that I'd want it back someday; he probably could have sold it and made a profit on it without even trying.
We got back, still slightly deafened from all the shooting we'd done, at five o'clock. Toots wanted me to stay for dinner too, and I would have had it not been for my appointment with Harry Bernard. But I stayed with the Carringtons a while longer until it was time for me to leave and reach Scottsdale, the swanky suburb northeast of Phoenix where the Bernards live, just on time.

Chapter Twelve

If there'd been any way to park the Volks out of sight from the Bernards' house, I'd have done so. Since there wasn't, I wheeled it right around the house to where Harry and Nedra were sitting together in the patio. While I was saying hi to Nedra and shaking hands with Harry I beat them to the punch by telling them the story about the Buick being in a body shop over the weekend.
"I thought you were a careful driver, Lloyd," Nedra said. "Getting sloppy these days?"
"I wasn't even in the Buick when it happened," I said defensively. "It was parked at the curb. Some damn fool driving past misjudged distance and put a long gouge down the side. Both doors, both fenders on that side. A real mess."
"Hit-run, or did he leave a note for you?" Harry asked.
"Wait a minute," Nedra said. "It's getting cool out here. Let's go inside and you can tell us about it while I make us some drinks."
We went inside and Nedra and Harry bickered a bit over which of them should make the drinks. Harry won the argument and started making the drinks and I launched into my story about the car.
It had happened late Wednesday afternoon, I told them, two blocks from home. Ellen had run out of gas when she'd started out to go shopping; she'd walked back home and phoned me for help, so I'd left a little early and had picked up a can of gasoline, had picked up Ellen and put her and the gasoline in the Volks, then I'd left the Buick there and had gone with her on her shopping trip. About an hour later she dropped me off to pick up my own car and it had been side-swiped at the curb. But there was a note from a cop under the windshield wiper telling me he had picked up the man who'd hit the car and had him under arrest, that I should phone headquarters and ask for a Sergeant Donahue. I did, as soon as I got the Buick home and in the garage, and was told the man who'd hit me was under arrest for drunken driving—a patrol car had seen him weaving and was closing in to arrest him when he'd scraped my car in passing it. The police said that he had liability insurance and that I should go ahead and get the Buick fixed and have the garage or body shop bill the arrested man's insurance company. There was no question of liability, with a policeman as a witness. So Friday morning after I'd driven Ellen to the airport for her San Francisco trip I'd taken the Buick to a body shop to be worked on. I'd use the Volks until it was ready for me, which would be before Ellen got back. Paint dry and rarin' to go.
Harry handed drinks to Nedra and me and started one for himself—which puzzled me until I remembered his mention of an incipient ulcer; he poured a glass of milk and put a shot of whisky in it. "Tough luck," he said, "but at least it was nice timing. How bad a rap will the guy take for the drunken driving bit?"
I said, "I don't know and don't want to know. I haven't met him and don't want to, because I'd feel sorry for him. I've driven a few times myself when I shouldn't have—only I was lucky and he wasn't."
"Well," Harry said, "you wanted to talk some business privately. Shall we finish these drinks and talk a while, or shall we go into my study now and get it over with? Let's see, it's six-forty and unless somebody's hungrier than I am I don't imagine we'll be going out to eat before eight. How long will our discussion take?"
"Not over half an hour," I said. "No reason for Nedra to drink alone. Let's finish these and then talk. Okay with everyone?"
"No," said Nedra flatly. "It isn't."
I looked at her in surprise. I'd never heard Nedra Bernard use just that tone of voice before nor seen her face quite as it was then, a careful blank that gave no clue at all to what she was feeling or thinking.
"What the hell, Nedra?" Harry asked. He was obviously as surprised as I was.
Neither Nedra's tone of voice nor her face changed. "I don't want the conversation to be private between you. I'm sorry if this sounds like an ultimatum—but I'm afraid it is one. I want to be in on it."
"Nedra, God damn it—" Harry was getting indignant.
Nedra looked at him, not me. "Harry, I've got a reason. I'll tell you, and Lloyd, what it is—but not now, after we know what this is all about. Until then you'll just have to take my word that my reason is adequate."
Harry's voice was puzzled again now. "But look, Nedra, reason or not, you've never pulled anything like this before. How about a compromise? Let Lloyd talk to me privately as he wants to—I presume he's got a deal or proposition of some kind or other he wants to put to me —and I'll agree not to decide on it till I've talked it over with you. That is, if it is a business deal he has in mind.
"Damn it," he said, with an edge to his voice again, "what if it's something he just wants advice on and wouldn't want you to know about? Something really personal?"
My mind had been racing while he'd been talking. I didn't have the faintest idea what it was all about, but a wheel had come off somewhere, somehow. I was going, it seemed, to have to raise the money without Harry's help. Could I? Well, I had him down for seven-fifty; Joe could and would come up with a couple of thousand more than I'd put him down for, and Early had offered me the three thousand he could borrow against his insurance. That left a gap of two and a half thousand, and—Hell, I'd make it even if I had to get Joe or Early or both to cosign notes for personal loans, or cash myself a mess of bad checks to worry about afterward, but—but damn, it was going to be rough. I realized more than ever that raising even a penny on my equity in the house was something I couldn't possibly accomplish, in cash, within a few days. Only Harry could, or would, cut red tape for me by advancing me the money while whatever real-estate deal I made went through. And Harry wasn't going to advance me the price of a cup of coffee if Nedra was flatly against it.
I tried to pick up whatever pieces were left—letting them start a quarrel about it in advance could only make things worse. I cut in the moment Harry had finished speaking and before Nedra could make things any worse. I said, "Wait a minute, Harry. I don't mind Nedra listening in. It's not personal at all—purely a financial matter. The only reason I suggested we talk alone was I thought Nedra would be bored and not want to listen in. Certainly she may, and there's no reason why she should even have to have a reason. Although I do admit I'm curious."
Harry shrugged. "I'll go along—but damn it, Nedra, I'll want your reason afterward, even if Lloyd doesn't. And with all this build-up, let's get it over with right now. But at least let's be civilized enough to sit down first."
We'd been standing around the private bar where Harry had made the drinks; we moved away now and Nedra and Harry sat on the sofa but not close together and I took an overstuffed chair facing them. Still wondering what had happened to Nedra or what I'd done or said wrong.
"It's nothing at all complicated," I said. "I've got a chance to make an investment that will be safe and still give me a quick turnover on my money—if I can raise the money. I've got collateral in the form of my equity in the house. I—"
I went on with the story. What I'd paid for the house five years ago, how much I'd spent since in the way of improvements—the patio, a double garage instead of a single one and so on, the fact that the neighborhood was building up and improving, deducted from these items a fair amount for depreciation,
"All right, all right," Harry said a little impatiently, "the property right now ought to sell for thirty thousand if you took time to find a buyer. You still owe ten on it, so your equity should be worth twenty thousand. On paper anyway. How much do you need for this get-rich-quick scheme of yours?"
I said, "No exact figure; it's a deal I'm buying in on. A minimum of five thousand, a maximum of ten."
"Then where's the problem? You wouldn't even need me, Lloyd boy. Anybody in town will give you a second mortgage for your bottom figure, maybe even for your top one. Or I will myself—subject to whatever the hell Nedra has in mind. My offer isn't firm till I find out what's percolating in that beautiful head of hers. But as I said, anybody in town will give you at least your bottom figure. So where's the problem?"
I told him it was speed and the cutting of red tape. Title search, registration of deed, escrow, the hundred and one things that took time in any real-estate transaction. I needed the money right away to take advantage of the opportunity I had to buy into something with it.
"Right now? You mean today?"
"Almost. Tomorrow, or Tuesday at the latest. And to get it that fast I can work only through a friend, and you know it. Someone who'll take my word that the title is sound, the details are as I represent them and, on the basis of anything he wants me to sign, is willing to write me a check and then go ahead with the paper work."
Harry turned toward Nedra. "The proposition's clear enough. Now, honey, what's been eating you?"
Nedra was still looking at me. "Why did you tell us a lie a few minutes ago, Lloyd? And such a detailed one at that? Your car wasn't damaged Wednesday because I saw it Thursday—and took a good look at it. I went downtown shopping and put my car on the same lot you always use and happened to put it only one car away from yours. I looked it over carefully because Harry's been telling me to trade my car in on a new one and I've been considering it. I've always liked the color combination on your Buick and I walked around it trying to decide exactly what shade of green and what shade of cream it was. There couldn't have been any damage bigger than a little scratch without my having seen it. So why such an elaborate lie? You've never told one before —that I know of. But if you're going in for that sort of thing, how can Harry trust you on a financial deal?"
So that was all it was. I was relieved, and felt foolish at the same time. I managed to laugh a little. "So that's all it was, Nedra. I'm sorry. I didn't want to admit I'd sold the Buick and I found myself running off at the mouth once I started to explain why I was driving Ellen's Volks—I found it was fun making up a good story while I was at it.
"The truth is that I'm raising every cent I can—besides what I want out of my equity in the house—to put into this deal. It's really something hot, as well as quick. And I've been thinking of trading in the Buick anyway, so I decided to sell it instead and buy maybe a Corvette in a couple of weeks when the deal turns over. Meanwhile using Ellen's Volks, since she'll be gone half that long anyway. But I feel so foolish driving it that—well—" I shrugged, and turned back to Harry, who was looking at me a bit puzzled. "Sorry I made an ass of myself, Harry —but I'm not lying about any detail on the house deal. If you'll give me an appointment tomorrow I'll bring in all the papers and—"
"Just a minute, Lloyd." Nedra's voice was sharp and I turned back to her.
"That wasn't the only lie," she said. "You said you put Ellen on a plane Friday morning. I spoke to her on the phone early Friday afternoon. Just for a few seconds; I'd lost an address that I knew she had and phoned her for it.
"I didn't call you a liar on either one of those things when you went through that rigmarole while Harry made the drinks. 1 thought whatever you wanted to say to him might explain why you were—"
Suddenly she stopped and her face went white as a hand went suddenly to her cheek. "Oh, my God, Lloyd. Ellen's gone and you're raising money even to the point of selling your car. Don't tell me—"
Harry's voice was sharp and sudden, cutting her off in mid-sentence. "If you don't want him to tell you, don't ask him, damn it. Maybe it's better we don't know. So you've done your detective work, and now shut up. Lloyd, how much money do you want?"
"I told you," I said. "Ten thousand maximum." There wasn't any point in trying to explain away my lie about putting Ellen on a San Francisco plane. They knew, and that was that.
"How much altogether? You're sure you can raise the rest?"
I nodded. "Easily, with ten thousand on a second mortgage. I'd have to scratch a bit with five, but with ten the rest is in the bag. It's twenty-five altogether, the same as Sears would have paid, less than Early did pay."
Harry said, "The second victim? I didn't know the name or the amount, just that there'd been a second kidnaping and that the man had paid without calling copper and had got his wife back. That much news got around. When did it happen?"
Friday afternoon, I told him. And that I thought it was between half past two and three; that I'd phoned both of those times and had got a busy signal on the first call, no answer on the second and subsequent calls. I asked Nedra, "What time did you call her and reach her?"
"I—I don't remember exactly, but it could have been at half past two, when you got the busy signal. We literally talked only seconds. I was in an awful hurry because I was overdue at an appointment with my hairdresser. But I wanted to mail a letter on my way there and needed the address to put on the envelope. Ellen remembered it offhand and I just jotted it down and apologized for not being able to talk another second, said goodbye, and hung up." She shivered a little. "And to think that less than half an hour after that—"
Harry interrupted her gently. "Lloyd's thought about it enough, Nedra. Lloyd, let me read you loud and clear on the money end. I'll have ten thousand for you at my office by early afternoon tomorrow. In cash, since that'll be the way you'll need it. I suppose you'll insist on my taking a second mortgage for it, but hell, a personal note will be plenty."
"I'd rather the mortgage," I said. "I'd negotiate one anyway, afterward, to pay you back, so we might as well do it that way to begin with."
"All right. But are you sure you can raise the other fifteen in time? And when's the payoff, by the way?"
I told him it was Wednesday evening and that yes, I was sure. Just by cashing in my own investments and letting Joe do the same and borrowing his from him, I'd make it. Six myself, eight from Joe, and a thousand in hand from selling the Buick. And that Randolph Early would come up with three in cash on twenty-four hours' notice if a wheel came off anything else.
"Don't bite Early," Harry said. "If he bought his own wife back only a month ago, bite me instead. Look, I'll have the ten thousand in cash for you by Monday noon, you pick it up. Then I'll raise another five in cash, factor of safety, and keep it on hand till after Wednesday night. If you and Joe together come out short, it'll be ready for you on no notice at all. I'll have it in the safe at my office and I'll make a point of staying in the office all day Wednesday—or anyway until you phone to tell me the whole package is ready and you won't need it. Let me know one way or the other as soon as you're sure, I mean, as soon as you've got the actual cash."
"Thanks," I said. What else could I say?
Nedra said, "Lloyd, I can't tell you how sorry I am that I reacted as I did when you— I should have known that you wouldn't lie without a reason, and not a selfish one.
"Don't apologize, Nedra. I'm the one who should apologize. I'd made up my mind to tell Harry, at least, the truth if I had to. I wouldn't have, if he'd have said yes otherwise. I shouldn't even have tried it that way."
"But I shouldn't have—"
Harry said, "Cut the Alphonse-Gaston bit, both of you. I know that, since nobody knows how the news leaked out in Sears' case, you're not in any way playing footsie with the police or the F.B.I. Or telling anybody, besides us, who doesn't have to know. I gather you've told Joe. Anybody else?"
"Randolph Early. That's all; that's all there will be. And he's been through this himself. I'd trust him with my life—I am trusting him with Ellen's, come to think of it, and that's even more important. Oh, and Early's wife. I couldn't tell one without the other, naturally. And besides, the kidnap note told me to talk to Early—to prove to myself that I would get Ellen back, as he got his wife back, if I played ball."
Harry nodded. "I guess that's all that needs to be said. Of course if you want to talk more about it, now that we know anyway, carry on. We'll be glad to listen—or to forget it and try to help you forget it."
I said, "Now that it's in the open anyway, I don't mind—"
Nedra stood up. "Wait a minute before we start, Lloyd. Our drinks are gone and I'm a hell of a hostess." She came over and got my glass. "Harry, you've drunk only half of that horrible whisky-milk concoction; want to kill it, or work on it?"
"Tastes like hell. I'll work on it."
He turned to me but raised his voice a little so it would carry to Nedra as she moved to the bar at the end of the room. "Lloyd, about dinner, even about another drink. Forget the amenities. I mean, if there's anything you'd rather be doing this evening than spending it with us, just say so. You can leave us now if you want, or leave from the restaurant right after we eat, or—"
"Restaurant, hell," Nedra said, from the bar. "Lloyd's in no mood to go out tonight. And neither are we, now. If he wants to stay with us and talk, I'll make us some hamburgers whenever we get hungry. And dig some cottage cheese for Harry if he wants to stick to his diet.
Okay, Lloyd?"
"Fine by me," I said. "I've got nothing else to do, that I can do, the rest of this evening. And having hamburgers here does sound better than going out."
"Harry?" Nedra asked over her shoulder as she handed me a fresh drink.
"Fine by me too, honey. Glad you thought of it. And to hell with the diet for tonight; I'll have a hamburger too. And a drink now, if you're ambitious enough to make me a real one. This damn ulcer's only incipient. If I live it up tonight I'll have nothing worse than a slight tummyache at bedtime."
Nedra made him a drink too, and then we talked. I told them all the details of the Early kidnaping and payoff, about what I'd been doing, and my own plans.
By that time it was half past eight and we all moved into the kitchen and Nedra made us hamburgers.
And then back to the living room and I told them about seeing Carry Carrington—Harry knew him slightly—and getting my favorite thirty-eight back from him and having already had one practice session of shooting with it. Harry turned out to be interested in guns— we'd never happened to discuss them before—and I brought in the thirty-eight from the Volks to show him. He showed me three guns of his own. All three of them were revolvers too; he felt as I did about automatics.
And the gun he'd bought for Nedra, right after the first kidnaping. A lightweight short-barreled hammerless thirty-two, nickel-plated and with a pearl handle. Decorative and a perfect woman's gun, small and light enough for even a smaller and frailer woman than Nedra. And, for close range, as deadly as a magnum, since Harry had filed crosses in the noses of the five bullets it held; they'd spread, dumdum, and really mess up anyone they hit even in arm or leg, let alone a vital area. It's illegal to use bullets like that, even in free-wheeling Arizona, but nobody was going to worry about that if a woman was shooting a would-be kidnaper in her own house or at her own door.
He showed me too the other precautions he'd taken. Heavy chain bolts on all the outside doors so Nedra could open a door a few inches to see who was outside without giving him a chance to push the door the rest of the way open. A burglar alarm on all windows, even the upstairs ones, that would ring bells not only inside and outside the house but at the Scottsdale police station.
The burglar alarm system must have cost into the thousands of dollars and was too rich for my blood, especially broke as I'd be for a while. But I'd get a gun approximately like Nedra's for Ellen as soon as she was back, and the heavy-duty chain bolts as well. And probably, I told them, a watchdog too, in lieu of the burglar alarm.

Chapter Thirteen

I started to leave at ten-thirty, since I would have a big day tomorrow. But I got talked into a stirrup cup and left at eleven, got home, and garaged the Volkswagen less than half an hour later.
Inside the house Cheetah reminded me in strident Siamese that I'd completely forgotten about feeding her— I'd not expected when I left to spend so much time with Carry Carrington and had thought I'd be home between my lunch date there and my evening at the Bernards'— and that she'd been starving to death for hours now.
I explained and apologized while I opened a can of cat food and gave her most of it instead of her regular quota of half a can, and the rest of the cream to boot.
When I'd come in I'd brought the revolver from the Volks, also what cartridges I had left, two boxes out of the six, and a cleaning rod, can of gun oil and cleaning patches Carry had given me. I put a newspaper on the kitchen table and got ready to clean the gun; if you really love a gun and want to keep it in tiptop shape you clean and oil it after each time you've used it. But before working on it I wanted to find out something, whether I could carry the gun stuck in my belt without it showing under a suit coat or sport coat. If it showed too badly as a belly gun I'd buy myself a shoulder holster the first chance I had, probably when I bought a smaller gun for Ellen.
I went into the bedroom where there was a full-length mirror set into one of the closer doors and tried it, front and side view. It wasn't conspicuous. Anyone who might suspect me of carrying a gun there could he fairly sure that I was, but otherwise it was unlikely that someone would notice. The fact that my build is stocky—like the kidnaper's according to Helen Early's impression of him —with broad shoulders but a flat belly helped.
I took off my suit coat and went back to the kitchen with the gun. I found myself a rag and was ready to start when the phone rang.
I answered it. It was Joe Sitwell. "Hi, Lloyd. Been calling you about once an hour for hours now, since I got back. You knew when I'd get back, damn it, and I told you I'd stay home once I got here. Why didn't you call?"
"Sorry, Joe," I said. "I should have. But I was with the Bernards out in Scottsdale and I forgot you'd be back. And there wasn't anything you could have done anyway."
"How go things? Did you level with Harry and Nedra?"
"Tried not to, but then I had to because Nedra caught me in a couple of lies—and then guessed the truth. Harry's coming through—he'll have ten grand for me tomorrow. He'll take a second mortgage for it. With what you promised to raise and what I'm going to raise myself, it's in the bag. I've already sold the Buick for the first thousand."
I'd decided not to tell him about the two factors of safety I had, the extra five grand Harry was going to raise and keep on hand in case I needed any part of it and the three Early had said he could get me on twenty-four hours' notice. I didn't want to bite Early at all and there was no reason why Harry should be bitten for more than the ten grand he'd advance me on a second mortgage, unless it was absolutely necessary. After all, Joe was my partner and Ellen's cousin besides; there was no reason why he shouldn't come through with all he could raise on whatever negotiable assets he could sell without taking a loss. I knew now that I wouldn't have to ask him to sell his car or hi-fi stuff or otherwise cripple himself in any way.
"Good," he said. "You're sure neither Harry nor Nedra will do any talking out of school?" He didn't know them as well as I did, so I reassured him.
"How went the plane ride back yesterday?" he asked. "Did those doubles do the job?" I assured him that they had. "I woke up only twenty minutes outside of Phoenix. But that was the last, Joe; I'm laying off any heavy or fast drinking from here on in. Don't try to get me loaded like that again."
"Right. But I don't think that one hurt you. What's with tonight? Think you can go to sleep, or want me to run over and talk a while?"
"Tomorrow's a big day, Joe," I said. "We've both got things to do, and we want to keep the business going too. I don't know how I'll sleep, but I'd damn well better try. Not that I wouldn't like yakking a while—but it's twenty of twelve and I was figuring on getting to bed, sleep or no, by midnight."
"How'd you sleep last night?"
"Got four hours or better. Early came over and we talked till half-past one. By then I was so overtired and numb, that I went to sleep fairly shortly after he left, and lasted till six."
"But you're not overtired or numb now; I can tell by your voice. Listen, four hours of real sleep is better than tossing around in bed for seven or eight hours. How's about this? I've got some sleeping capsules, Seconals. Suppose I drop over for an hour—or even half an hour. Like fifteen or twenty minutes before I leave, you take a couple of the Seconals. They'll have time to have started working and you'll be in fine shape by the time you turn in. Set your alarm for seven or seven-thirty and you'll get at least six hours of solid sleep."
"Sold," I said. "And if you've got plenty of Seconals bring at least half a dozen. They may come in handy Monday and Tuesday nights too."
"Will do," he said. "Fifteen minutes."
I went back to the kitchen table and cleaned and oiled the thirty-eight.
And loaded it. I don't like to have an unloaded gun around the house, even under ordinary circumstances. To me it's as bad to have an unloaded gun around the house—at least if you're thinking of the gun in terms of protection—as it is to have a car in the garage with no gas in the tank. If you want to use the car, you want gas in the tank. If you want to use the gun you want cartridges in the cylinder. As simple as that.
I put the loaded thirty-eight on the night stand by my side of the bed, put away the stuff I'd used in cleaning it, and the extra cartridges, and went to the front door to turn on the porch light for Joe. Almost too late; his car was pulling in at the curb just as I flicked the switch. So I opened the door and waited for him to come in.
He pulled a wrapped pint bottle out of the side pocket of his coat. "Jack Daniels. Okay?"
"Fine," I said. "I've got gin on hand, but I had a few highballs with the Bernards, so it's better if I stick to whisky. Highballs with water okay by you?"
Joe said it was, or they were, and we went out into the kitchen and fixed ourselves up.
Back in the living room, Joe remembered and handed me a little bottle with a dozen or more capsules in it. "Keep 'em," he said, "even if you don't use them all. I won't want them back; if I ever want any more I'll get a new prescription. Doc Everett gave them to me about a year ago while he was working on that infected tooth. I used only a few of them before it was okay."
"Thanks," I said. "Safe to take more than one?"
"Two, if you want. About half an hour before you figure on going to sleep. If you wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep, take a couple more. Won't hurt you if it's for only a few nights."
I nodded. "I'll take a couple pretty soon, chase you out half an hour after that. Early and I were talking last night about how the kidnaper might have learned Sears went to the cops. How do you figure it?"
"Leak from the department, of course. Or possibly even the phone company, although that's less likely. But hell, lots of people with the department knew at least that something special was being set for the night of the pickup, even if they didn't know what it was all about. They tried checking with everybody a cop had mentioned it to just to see who he'd talked to, but they gave up after a while. Too damn many people."
"Did they talk to you?"
Joe looked puzzled. "Me? Why would they? Oh, of course not. Just to people who might have known something before the murder. Willie didn't talk to me about it until afterward. Do anything else today besides seeing Harry and Nedra?"
I told him about seeing Carry, whom Joe didn't know, and buying my old gun back. And my plans for getting a smaller gun and teaching Ellen how to use it.
"You may have trouble. She's pretty gun-shy. Maybe it runs in the family. I've never shot one myself, except a rifle in the army—and that scared me spitless. But it's mostly the business end of a gun that scares me."
"Lucky you made quartermaster corps then. You said you were in Korea a few months, didn't you?"
He nodded. "But it wasn't luck I made quartermaster corps. I bucked for it, plenty. You ever been shot at?"
I admitted I hadn't. I'd put in a hitch in the navy but had never got off the Great Lakes. "Have you?" I asked him.
"Once when I was a kid on a farm in Illinois, yes. I was four or five and was with some bigger kids who were swiping pears from an orchard. Farmer came out with a shotgun and gave us both barrels while we were running away. I couldn't run as fast as the bigger boys and got the brunt of both blasts—and it wasn't rock salt either. Back, buttocks, back of my legs. I was in bed on my stomach for a week. Still have faint scars."
"Grief," I said. "Don't tell me the farmer got away with something like that."
"He didn't. He landed in a laughing academy. Not just for that. He'd been going psychotic for some time but mostly he'd been taking it out on his animals. When he started shooting at kids, they put him away.
"Anyway, it was damned painful and traumatic, gave me a real thing about guns and being shot at. Damn near a phobia. And to make it worse, when I was about fourteen a friend of mine shot himself in the head accidentally while he was cleaning a twenty-two pistol. I wasn't with him but I was the one who found him dead. You can have shooting as a hobby. I'll take golf."
"I can see why. Hope Ellen doesn't feel that strongly about it. Think she does?"
He shrugged. "Dunno, don't recall talking about it with her. But if she feels anything like I do about guns, you'd better get her judo lessons, or a big butcher knife. She'd be scared silly even being on the right end of a shooting iron."
He looked at his watch. "Well, it's half past twelve. Maybe you'd better take a couple of those capsules now and I'll take off like a big-assed bird at one. Sooner if you say you're starting to get sleepy."
I took two of the Seconals and used the last of my drink for a chaser. Joe killed his too and we made ourselves fresh and final ones.
The next half hour we talked only about business.. I guess we were talked out about kidnaping; there just wasn't anything left to say. At least, it came up only indirectly, and in connection with working hours. Joe suggested that I take the morning off after I picked up my negotiables from my deposit box, to turn them into checks and the checks into cash while he held down the office, and I could do the same thing for him in the afternoon. I agreed but we made it the other way around when I told him morning would be too early for me to pick up the ten grand from Harry Bernard at his office.
At a few minutes of one o'clock I yawned and Joe got up immediately and said he was on his way. I told him the yawn didn't really mean anything, but he said I'd be really sleepy by the time I got ready for bed and now was the time for me to start. He insisted on leaving the Daniels in case I wanted a final nightcap.
I got ready to turn in and the yawn really hadn't meant anything, so I did make me a final nightcap, and sat on the edge of the bed sipping it until I yawned again. Then I downed what was left of the drink, remembered to wind the alarm clock and set it for seven, turned out the light, got under the covers.
A sudden slight weight on the mattress told me Cheetah had jumped up on the bed. She wasn't allowed there, but maybe she was lonesome without Ellen. Well, she wasn't the only one.
She curled up against my side and I reached down and started stroking her gently. She began to purr, and that is the last thing I remember.

Chapter Fourteen

I awoke before the alarm went off, but not by much. It was twenty minutes of seven and I'd slept a little over five hours. I closed my eyes again and tried to add the odd twenty minutes but found myself getting wider and wider awake instead, so I shut off the alarm and got up.
It was Monday, the third last day.
I showered, shaved, dressed. Decided I didn't want any breakfast except coffee and started to make that, then remembered I'd given Cheetah the last of the cream. More to kill time than because I couldn't have drunk it black, I got out the Volks and drove six blocks to a neighborhood grocery that opened early and got two half pints, one for myself and one for Cheetah, and when I got home and plugged in the electric percolator again, I poured some of hers into a dish and put it down for her. And, in another dish, a snack-sized portion of cat food.
She came in from wherever she'd been while I was drinking my coffee and daintily lapped the cream but ignored the cat food. That was all to the good; the longer before she got hungry enough to eat it, the better.
I killed a little more time straightening up the house. When it was finally time for me to leave and still not get to the office more than fifteen minutes or so early, I left.
My parking-lot attendant was mildly curious about why I was using a Volks instead of my Buick and I gave him the story about a slight accident and the Buick being laid up for body work, but no details or elaborations; my experience with Nedra had showed me that when you want to get by with a lie it's best to keep it simple. Besides it would be none of the lot attendant's business if I came to work on a bicycle. But he's a friendly guy and we kidded around a while about my getting a special rate on the Volkswagen as against the Buick if I was going to use it for any length of time.
I let myself into the office and, on my desk, found a dozen or so memos from Marjorie concerning calls she'd made Saturday morning to postpone appointments and incoming calls making new appointments for today. I sorted through them and separated morning appointments from afternoon ones, putting the latter aside to turn over to Joe. Only a few of our clients insist on doing business with one of us as against the other and luckily none of those few had appointments for today so there'd be no trouble in our divvying up the work.
Marjorie came in at a few minutes of nine and wanted to know if I'd had a good time over the weekend. I'd told her that I was going out of town on family business —which could have been a funeral as far as she knew. My expression must have shown what I was thinking, for she laughed and said that a girl friend of hers, one who'd picked her up a few times after work and who knew Joe and me by sight, had got back from Las Vegas last night and had phoned her and happened to mention seeing Joe and me walking through the lobby of a hotel there Saturday afternoon. And I didn't have any relatives in Las Vegas, did I? I laughed with her and admitted being caught in flagrante. Better that than to try to elaborate my story so a trip somewhere on family business would have been necessarily preceded by a quick stop to see Joe in Las Vegas. I simply wasn't that good at tangled webs and was convinced again that the less lying I had to do from here on in the better.
So I promptly got myself into hot water again. To keep the conversation light I told her she'd better not tell my wife on me when she got back.
It was her turn to look surprised and I remembered she didn't know Ellen wasn't home so I said casually that Ellen was away visiting her sister in San Francisco.
"Oh. Will she be gone long?"
I said she'd left Friday morning and should be back by Thursday. And then as Marjorie frowned slightly and turned and went from the doorway of my office to her own desk I realized I'd let myself be caught again. One of the times I'd tried to reach Ellen at home late Friday afternoon, I'd had Marjorie make the call instead of giving me a private line. And now—because that was the story I'd told the Bernards before they'd caught me in the lie I'd told Marjorie that Ellen had left Friday morning. So this time Marjorie knew I was lying and would start wondering why, and whether there was a rift between us and adding that to the fact that she thought I'd already lied to her about how I spent the weekend would come up with God knows what.
Well, anything I said now would make it worse, so I'd have to let her think what she pleased for the next few days. As long as it wasn't the truth, it couldn't matter less, no matter how scandalous she made it.
I heard the door open and Joe's voice say "Hi, Angel," to Marjorie and then he came into my office and pulled the door shut behind him. He took the customer's chair but moved it closer so we wouldn't have to talk loudly. "Dropped in to pick up my brief case before I went to the bank. But we may as well check a point or two while I'm here. Did you tell Marjorie I wasn't coming in this morning?"
I shook my head.
"Okay," he said, "on my way out I'll tell her I won't be back till afternoon. When do you want to leave?"
"At one, if you can make it back by then."
"I'll try, but don't forget the exchange doesn't open till eleven Phoenix time and most of my stocks are on the big board and I can't start selling till Wall Street opens. Got some local items I can get rid of before then, though. When's the first afternoon appointment?"
"Two," I said, and handed him the several appointment slips for the afternoon. "Tell you what, I'll hold things down till Marjorie gets back from lunch at one. I'll take off then, whether you're back or not. Just get back for the two o'clock appointment, huh?"
"Will do. Even if I haven't sold everything I'm going to sell or turned all the checks I'll get into cash. After all, there's tomorrow. And Wednesday for that matter, although I imagine you'll feel better if you've got everything in hand, and in cash, by Tuesday night."
"I will," I admitted. "Say, while you're here—" I told him about the flub I'd made with Marjorie and about a friend of hers having seen us together in Las Vegas.
He shrugged. "Probably figures you joined me there for a wild weekend while the cat's away. Probably puzzled why you tried to phone her Friday afternoon if she left Friday morning, but—hey, did you ask her to call Ellen or to call your house?"
"Just to call my number, I guess."
"No sweat, then. Mention sometime this morning that you're having some redecoration done at home while Ellen's away. She'll figure the decorators were there and you wanted to talk to one of them. That'll explain it and she'll forget it. The Las Vegas bit's nothing in itself."
"Thanks, Joe. You're a better liar than I am. That'll get me off the hook fine."
He stood up, the afternoon appointment slips in his hand. "Want your door open or closed?"
"Doesn't matter. Open, I guess."
" 'Kay. You're taking off at one. I'll be back by two."
He went out, leaving my door open, and went to his own office for a minute. Then I heard him talking with Marjorie for a moment and then the outer door opened and closed.
I picked up my phone and heard the switchboard buzz and then Marjorie answered, "Yes, Mr. Johnson?"
"Ring my home, will you, Marjorie?"
"Of course, but— I thought you said—"
I said, "We're having some redecorating done while my wife's away. They started Friday afternoon. Don't know how early they're coming in today, but you can see if anyone answers."
No one answered, but I knew Marjorie's unasked question about her call to my house Friday afternoon wouldn't puzzle her any more. She wanted to know whether she should keep on ringing at intervals till the decorators got there, but I told her to skip it. And explained in advance my absence for most of the afternoon by saying that I'd probably run home after lunch and see how they were doing, that you couldn't very well discuss color over a telephone anyway.
At nine-thirty the first client showed up and from then on I was busy till the last one for the morning left at a few minutes of twelve. When he left, Marjorie came to the doorway of my office to check whether it was all right for her to leave for lunch at twelve. We always worked it so one of the three of us would be there to keep shop.
I told her to go ahead, and held things down until Marjorie came back at one, and then took my own brief case and left. Harry's office was a dozen blocks away so I took a cab from the stand at the hotel across the street from our office building—much quicker than getting the Volks off the lot and having to find a place to park it at he other end.
Harry's secretary had orders to send me in the moment I arrived. Harry shook hands at the door of his office and I closed the door behind me. He said, "I know you're in a hurry, so we'll make this quick. Sit down while I open the safe."
I sat down and heard the click of tumblers behind me and the safe door swing open and he then put a package down in front of me and went around to his own side of the desk.
It was about three inches thick. "Open it and count it," he said. "Your note said 'not over hundreds' but I figured he'd be a bit more pleased if it wasn't all hundreds, so it'd make a nice package. There're fifty hundreds there, a hundred and twenty-five twenties, and two hundred fifty tens. I—"
"Thanks," I said. "I won't need to count it now." I reached for my brief case, but his voice stopped me.
"God damn it, Lloyd," he said. "There's two-fifths of all the money you need, in cash, and you can damn well take time to count it, here and now. And one other thing too, while you're at it, something I didn't have time to do. Check through whatever new bills there may be to make sure they're not so new they may have the serial numbers in sequence. If you run into any sequences at all, put them aside to trade for other bills. Don't even risk trying to break up any sequences by scattering the bills among the others. If he's smart he'll sort out all new-looking bills of each denomination and make sure none of them can be arranged into sequences, scattered or not."
"Right," I said. "Sorry if I seemed in too much of a hurry." I opened the package. "Do you have the application for a second mortgage ready for me to sign?"
"No, that can wait. Just sign this." He pushed a paper at me across the desk. "A straight demand note, for the record. We'll tear it up when the second trust deed is ready to go through."
I signed the note and gave it back, started to count through the hundreds, trying to keep an eye on the serial numbers at the same time. But I saw it wouldn't work that way; looking at serial numbers would make me lose the count, so it would have to be two operations and I got ready to start counting over again.
Harry stood up. "Got an appointment in the next building," he said. "Take me less than half an hour and it'll take you longer than that if you do a good check on serial numbers. I'll be seeing you."
He came back about forty minutes later, just as I was finishing up. "All okay?"
"The count, sure. Found ten new twenties that were in sequence, though. I put them in my wallet and will swap them for a couple of hundreds. Thanks again, Harry."
I took a cab to my bank, where I first took care of getting the twenties that were in sequence traded for two hundreds that weren't, and then cashing the thousand-dollar check I'd got for the Buick. Then I applied for my safe deposit box and asked for a private room to take it to. There I checked the bills from the Buick—they were all right—and traded my deposit box, eleven thousand in cash for all the stock certificates I had in it, all big board stuff. I started to list them and estimate their value as of the last market quotation—in most cases the closing price Friday—which I remembered for each. Then I decided, what the hell, I'd learn exactly what they were worth when I sold them and it didn't matter until then. I put them all in my brief case, put the safe deposit box back in its place in the vault and signed out.
There wasn't any hurry now. If I sold my stocks right away, I'd still never get back to the bank in time to cash a check for them today.
So I relaxed and had lunch before going up to the offices of Graydon & Co., the outfit I worked for before Joe and I went into business for ourselves. We do most of business for clients through them and I use them for my personal investing. Joe used Quarles, Everett & Jaynes for his own stock buying—which was lucky, since it wouldn't be noticed that we were both cashing in all our holdings at the same time. Both companies are big brokerage outfits, with big waiting rooms in which one can sit and watch quotations posted on blackboards as fast as they come in on the ticker; both are affiliated with New York firms which have seats on the exchange and buy and sell directly through them.
I took a seat in the waiting room and watched the figures being posted on the blackboard for a while, but not really seeing them because they didn't matter; I was selling out whether or not my stocks were up or down.
Roland Carstairs, tall, gray, and dignified, was chatting with someone I didn't know in the doorway of his private office; Carstairs, a vice-president, had been my immediate superior when I'd worked for Graydon and was the man I did my personal business with currently. I stood up and moved nearer until the other man left and Carstairs turned to go into his office and then I went over quickly and spoke before he could close the door. "See you a minute, Mr. Carstairs?"
"Certainly, Lloyd. Come in."
I explained to him that I wanted to close out my account temporarily, that I had a chance to make a local real-estate investment with Harry Bernard that would tie up all the capital I could raise but that would show me a nice profit within a few months.
He nodded, picked up his phone and asked a secretary to bring in my portfolio. "Not too bad a time to do it," he said. "I mean as far as the market is concerned. It's firm today. The real-estate deal I don't know about, but if Bernard's in it, it's probably sound enough."
When the folder came, he studied it. "Everything?" he asked. "It should bring you something over six thousand, but if you can get by with five, I'd advise holding onto your fifty shares of Narragansett common. You'll be taking a loss on it right now, but within a few months—"
I shook my head. "I'll make more on this deal than if Narragansett makes a comeback. I'd just as soon close out the whole account. For a few months, that is."
He said he'd phone the sell orders in right away, and that if I wanted to hang around the waiting room or come back in an hour or so, he'd have a check ready. I gave him the certificates from my brief case and said I'd be back in an hour. I'd just have time to get to see Joe for a few minutes.
Joe was in his office with the door closed and Marjorie said he was with a client. I asked her to ring him anyway and give me the call in my own office, and went in there and picked up the phone. "Lloyd, Joe. I've got maybe five minutes and then I'm going out again. How did things go for you?"
"Fine," he said. "Just a second." He must have put his hand over the mouthpiece and a moment later he said, "Mr. Haber will excuse me for a minute or two. I'll be right in, since you've got to leave again right away."
Half a minute later he came into my office and closed the door behind him. "Here," he said, putting a bundle of bills on my desk. "Three grand in cash for a starter. I sold out at eight thousand seven hundred. Took this much in cash at my bank, bought a cashier's check for another three thousand—I'll cash it tomorrow at the Valley National, didn't have time today. And put the balance into my account; didn't want to attract attention by getting all cash right away. And my checking account was six hundred before the deposit, so over all I'm good after nine, if you need that much."
"Wonderful," I said. "And I won't need it all. I'll be able to leave each of us at least a little for running expenses. I've got a check coming from Graydon. When I get it I'll handle it about the same way yon did yours from Q. E. & J." I looked at my watch. "No use my coming back tonight. See you here tomorrow morning; we'll decide then which of us sticks here while the other turns checks into cash."
My check at Graydon turned out to be six thousand four hundred and seventy, a bit better than I'd anticipated. If I turned it all into cash, keeping the odd seventy for running expenses, I'd have—I added it carefully mentally: eleven thousand in my box at the bank, three thousand that Joe had given me now in my brief case, and six-four from the Graydon check, for a total of twenty thousand four hundred. I'd need another four thousand six hundred from Joe and he'd have over a thousand left in his checking account; I'd still have the three hundred and some that was in my own checking account after writing Carry a check for the thirty-eight and the cartridges. And neither of us had had to touch the three thousand or so that was in our joint Johnson & Sitwell bank account. I could, and probably would have to, draw against that after I had Ellen back. But for now it was all in the bag, except for turning remaining checks into cash. I was well ahead of schedule and wished there was some way I could let the kidnaper know that I'd be ready to make the payoff tomorrow, Tuesday, night instead of Wednesday. But, damn him, there wasn't.
By noon Tuesday I had twenty-five thousand dollars cash, twenty thousand four hundred of it in my deposit box at the bank, and Joe's final four thousand six hundred with me.
Having it all gave me an idea that I wanted to talk over with Joe right away, so I asked Marjorie if she'd mind waiting until one to have her lunch so Joe and I could go right away and together, and she agreed.
We took a booth at the Chinese restaurant in the next block and I asked Joe if it was all right with him if I took off the rest of the afternoon and all day tomorrow.
"Sure," he said. "The rest of the week if you want it. But why? You've got the money ready and in cash and what the hell can you do before tomorrow evening?"
"Wait at home with the money," I said. "Listen, Joe, the kidnaper is as anxious to get that money as I am to get it to him. Like tonight instead of tomorrow night—if he knows I'm ready for him.
"And how do we know how much he knows about me? If he's keeping any kind of tab on me, even spot checking from a distance, there's at least an off chance that he'll learn I'm staying home waiting. And if he does, he'll know it can mean only one thing. That I'm ready for him and staying home in the hope that he'll get the message and phone me to fix the pay-off sooner. Tonight maybe. Or tomorrow morning or afternoon—there's no reason why he should figure whatever he has in mind would be safer by night than in daylight."
Joe nodded slowly. "Makes sense. Okay, you trot home as soon as we're through eating, and wait there. I'll hold down the office, the rest of today and tomorrow. And I'll tell Marjorie that anybody who phones for you or comes in to ask for you is to be told clearly that you're at home and can be reached there."
"And that I'm not expected back till Thursday. Fine, Joe, that'll get the message to him even if he gets it indirectly. But what about Marjorie? She'll be curious why. Especially after—"
"Don't let it worry you," Joe cut in. "I'll handle Marjorie."
"Okay, but tell me what you're going to tell her, so if should phone me or I should phone the office, I won't cross us up."
He shrugged. "I'll tell her it's personal business—yours, not hers. If she wonders, let her wonder and the hell with her. She'll never guess the truth and that's the only thing that could matter. Why tell her you're sick, or any other lie?" It was the right answer, of course.
When I left Joe outside the Chinese restaurant I went straight to the bank and got the money. Then, with a brief case full of cash that I held onto as though it was attached to my hand I got the Volks off the parking lot and headed home.
But first I stopped at a supermarket and did my shopping, enough food and cigarettes to see me through. I wonder what the checkout clerk would have thought if she knew that the brief case under my arm contained as much money as I'd make in two years, or she in five.

Chapter Fifteen

The first thing I did at home was to pull down the kitchen shades, dump the money on the kitchen table and count it all a final time, carefully. It was twenty-five thousand dollars, on the head. Then I went through it again, looking for any new bills together that might have consecutive serial numbers. This time I didn't find any.
Then I got wrapping paper and accessories and made a neat package of it, the size of two piles of bills side by side and about four inches thick. I put the package in my brief case and locked the brief case in a closet and that was all I had to do.
Except wait.
I tried to read and sometimes succeeded for several pages at a time. The phone rang four times during the afternoon. Two were wrong numbers. Or were they? I could at least hope that one of them was a check-up call to see whether I was home. After the first one I had an inspiration. From then on in I answered all calls, wrong number type or otherwise, by saying, "Johnson speaking. I am ready."
Easily explainable if, as with the first non-wrong-number call, which was from a friend of Ellen's, the woman said, "Huh? This is Estelle, Lloyd. Is Ellen there? And what's this ready bit?" I told her about Ellen's being in San Francisco for a week and then explained that I'd been expecting a call from a real-estate agent who was coming by to pick me up to give me a look at a lot he was trying to sell me and that I'd assumed it was he calling to see if I was ready to leave with him.
The other legitimate call was from Randolph Early and also got a "Huh?" response, but it was quickly followed by, "Early speaking. I get it, Lloyd. Got any reason for expecting a call now? If so, just say so and I'll hang up quick."
I explained to him that no, I had no reason to expect a call before tomorrow night, especially not this long before, but that I was hoping that if a certain party learned I was staying home waiting for his call, he probably would phone sooner than otherwise.
"Good idea, Lloyd. I called your office and your girl there told me you wouldn't be back before Thursday but that I could reach you at home. Thought that might mean trouble; glad to know it's the other way around. So you're ready and waiting, huh?"
"Right," I said.
"Fine. Just wanted to make sure you wouldn't need the three thousand I can borrow on that insurance policy. Now would be about the last minute for us to get started on it if I was going to get the cash by tomorrow. Well, glad to hear you won't need it—not for my sake but for yours. And I wanted to tell you one other thing."
"What's that, Randy?"
"I just got a call from Forgeus. He says they've been checking on what they think might be a hot lead. They're hoping to make an arrest soon. Reason he called to tell me is that he wanted to be sure my wife would be in town and available in case they want her to try to identify a suspect."
"Good God," I said. "How do you suppose that would affect—" I broke off, because my thoughts were branching off in a dozen different directions all at once.
The police didn't know he had another hostage, of course. They couldn't close in on him with that knowledge to guide them on how and when to pick him up with the least risk to Ellen.
Early said, "I couldn't get any details to speak of out of Forgeus, mostly because I had no legitimate reason for wanting them beyond pure curiosity. Here's what little I did find out. The suspect is unemployed at present, but pretty solvent for an unemployed man. He fits the requirement of knowledgeability about drugs; he had pre-med training in Los Angeles—that's where he's from— and one year of medical school before he washed out as a would-be doctor.
"He hasn't any record but his background isn't too savory. He got himself a couple of these meaningless degrees that sound like medical ones but aren't, from one of the diploma mills that are rackets but within the law and give degrees that sound like medical or ministerial ones—like D.D.T. for Doctor of Divine Therapy, that kind of crap. And lined himself up with one of the health-through-mysticism cults that flourish out there. Did all right for a while and then came here to organize a branch of the racket—I mean the church—about three years ago. It petered out about six months ago, for lack of enough suckers, I guess, but he stayed on in private practice as faith healer and spiritual consultant for the crackpot set."
"Fit the description?"
"Such as it is, yeah. The T-boys, the Treasury men, latched onto him on a routine spot check on income-tax return. Something's wrong there all right. He paid tax on seven thousand dollars' income last year, lived on a scale nearer twenty or twenty-five. But his legitimate income does seem to be not over ten at most so he must have had something going on the side."
"But why kidnaping? And anyway, there weren't any kidnapings last year."
"No, he must have been doing something else then. But he bought a new Thunderbird—and paid cash for it—less than a week after I paid off for Helen. And he was out of town—or supposed to be, but they can't verify it—at that time. And he's out of town—or supposed to be— right now and has been for four days. They're waiting— the T-men and the F.B.I, now for him to come back so they can pick him up for questioning. They're even beginning to wonder if he has another victim and is staying elsewhere under a different identity until he's completed the operation."
I thought a moment. "But—maybe he is just out of town. Why not?"
"Oh, he could be, but there are little things. His housekeeper says he drove into Mexico for a few days. But the F.B.I. checked every garage in town for Thunderbirds— and found his in storage. Also they checked tourist permits at the border and he didn't enter Mexico, at least through Nogales, under his right name. Nor any plane reservation, like there'd be if he changed his mind about driving. They think he's still in town, using a different identity and driving a different car—for some illegal purpose. Which could be— Well, they'll get him when he shows back."
"But what if he doesn't show back? Damn it, Randy, what if—"
"Take it easy, Lloyd. He'll show back. If he'd collect your twenty-five thousand and take off with it, he'd be abandoning almost as much as he already has. His bank account, whatever's in a deposit vault he has, his Thunderbird, several thousand dollars' worth of furniture and stuff in a swanky six-room apartment— He'll show back all right, if he doesn't know they're waiting for him. And they're being goddam careful about that possibility. Well—I thought you'd want to know, even if there's nothing you can do about it. I'd say it looks good for you rather than otherwise."
"Why?"
"The possibility we discussed—that your money would be his last collection and that he'd take off with it and—you know what I mean. Well, if he intended that I'd say he'd have cashed out his other assets first and be ready to take off the minute he got your dough."
"I don't see it. He could have this in mind as his last kidnaping and still intend to retire back into his real identity, couldn't he? Do you know his name?"
"No, and I'm not going to try to find out. And, damn it, Lloyd, I wouldn't tell you that even if I did know. You don't want to risk doing anything foolish."
"I won't," I promised.
The call gave me a lot to think about, but Early was right in saying there was nothing I could do about it, no change I should or could make in my plans, even if I knew Dr. X's name and even if I knew he was the kidnaper. I'd still have to follow his orders and play it dumb until either I had Ellen back—or—
The only calls that evening were from Joe and from Harry Bernard. Each just wanted to know if there was anything new or anything he could do for me. I didn't tell either of them about Early's call. The evidence that might indicate this was the kidnaper seemed pretty tenuous and even if he was I didn't know whether it was or wasn't good news as far as Ellen's safety was concerned.
It was a long, long evening. I turned in at twelve, but on the living-room sofa, not in the bedroom. The telephone was on a stand at one end of the sofa; I lay with my head that way knowing that I'd be sure to awaken if it rang during the night, no matter how soundly I might be sleeping. I didn't take any of the Seconals Joe had given me; even if I stayed awake all night I didn't want to risk sleeping through a phone call that might be from the kidnaper. And I slept, what sleeping I eventually did, in undershirt, shorts, and socks with my outer clothes ready nearby; in case of a summons to deliver the ransom I could be dressed and on my way as fast as a fireman answering an alarm.
I slept off and on, my periods of dozing alternating with wide-awake periods where my mind raced with thoughts and possibilities and the weighing of odds. I couldn't decide whether the F.B.I.'s lead on the metaphysical doctor was good news or bad—assuming that he was the kidnaper; of course if he wasn't it didn't matter one way or the other. If, despite their precautions, he should learn that they were waiting for him, it was bad, all bad. He couldn't think that their lead to him came through me, of course, so he even might still take the chance of collecting from me. But what reason would he have to return Ellen alive after that? If he had to lam anyway, not even going back to his real identity long enough to collect his other money and possessions— On the other hand, if—
If Ellen was still alive— If he intended to give her back to me safely if I played ball by his rules— If he didn't know he was now suspected— If, now that he'd perfected his method, or thought he had, and contemplated another kidnaping or two— If Early was wrong and he wasn't so cold-blooded as to have planned to murder Dorothy Sears even before he kidnaped her—If, if, if, if.
It was a hell of a night. I dozed off for the final time when it was beginning to get light outside, which meant it was around six, and it was fully light, seven o'clock, when I wakened and decided I might as well get up.
While I was taking a quick cold shower an idea for one constructive thing I could do came to me. After I'd dressed and had coffee, I again pulled down the kitchen shades, got the package out of the closet and opened it. If he didn't suspect that he was being waited for he might return to his apartment with the money, maybe even with the package intact, intending to count it there—regardless of what his plans thereafter were with regard to Ellen and to me. If so, he'd be caught cold with this package I'd just opened.
And if I had a list of the serial numbers of the bills in it the case against him would be a hell of a lot stronger than if I didn't have a list. Maybe by now the trail was too cold for them to prove beyond a doubt that he'd killed Mrs. Sears and had kidnaped Mrs. Early. But that wouldn't matter if they had him cold on the current kidnaping, and I could help them on that by listing the bills I'd be giving him. There was nothing to lose and I wondered why I hadn't thought of it before.
I got paper and pencil from my study and started with the hundreds. There were a hundred and forty of them, fourteen thousand dollars, a little more than half the amount in value, about a sixth or seventh of it in the number of bills. It was slow work listing those long numbers and when I finished the hundreds I realized it would take me most of the day to list all the tens and twenties and that it wasn't necessary. I rechecked the hundreds to be sure I'd listed them all and correctly and let it go at that. Before rewrapping it I made sure that I left a lot of latent prints on the paper, particularly on the inside surface where they wouldn't rub off. If they caught him with the package intact, those fingerprints would be even better evidence than my list of serial numbers. I put the package back in the brief case and relocked it in the closet.
And waited. There wasn't a single phone call all day, not even a wrong number. On their calls yesterday evening I'd asked both Joe and Harry not to call me again unless they learned something worth passing on to me. They understood how disappointing it was when the call turned out not to be the one I was waiting for.
Twice I managed to force myself to eat a little, but I didn't taste it. Mostly I paced, and smoked cigarettes. I was on my third package of them by midafternoon. I fed Cheetah twice, once at four o'clock because she was pestering me and again at five-thirty because I'd forgotten feeding her the first time, and remembered it only when she ate so little of the second offering.
At six o'clock I realized that my plan of staying home yesterday afternoon and all day today hadn't paid off, whether because the kidnaper hadn't checked up and had no way of knowing I was ready and waiting ahead of time or because he had his own reasons for waiting until this evening to make contact with me.
It had been seven o'clock, only another hour, when he'd phoned Early and given him instructions for delivering the money. And then nothing had happened until after one in the morning when the second call had told him where to find his wife. I hoped my first call would come as soon as his and that there wouldn't be six hours between it and a second call. There shouldn't be, if a good deal of that time was taken up in counting the money and checking it for markings or consecutive serial numbers. Early's money had been thirty-five thousand instead of twenty-five and it had all been in small bills. He'd got them into a shoe box but no doubt it had been pretty tightly packed. Over half of my smaller amount was in hundreds and so should take much less time to check.
The hour between six and seven dragged.
At seven o'clock exactly the telephone rang.

Chapter Sixteen

I'd thought it out carefully. I deliberately let the phone ring three times before I picked it up, to make myself calm and so my voice would sound normal, or as nearly normal as I could make it. I said clearly, "Lloyd Johnson speaking. I am ready."
The voice was a deep bass, slow and deliberate; from its slowness I would have suspected it of being Southern, but if it was, that was the only indication of it.
"Drive south to Williams Field Road," the voice said. "Drive east on it toward Chandler. Note mileage reading on your speedometer when you cross McClintock Drive. Four-tenths of a mile beyond you will see a billboard to your right advertising Wayne's Garage in Chandler. Park opposite billboard. Walk forward fifty paces and you will come to a culvert running under the road. Place the package in the south end of the culvert. At a time, I need hardly say, when no one is approaching from either direction to see you leave it. Drive on into Chandler, north on Arizona Avenue, turn left on Main Street back into Tempe and home from there. Wait for another phone call."
There was a pause and I tried to ask, "How soon will —" but he cut in, ignoring my question. "I will repeat once. Drive south to Williams Field Road. Note mileage reading when you cross McClintock Drive. . . ." He went through it again, not quite word for word, but as near as mattered. And hung up on me.
I put down the receiver and made myself sit there a moment repeating the instructions to myself, being sure that I had them clear. I had them all right; he wouldn't have needed to give them to me twice. The instructions were as clear as his voice had been.
I got my revolver and put it through my belt, under my suit coat. If I was going to have to stop and walk, even fifty paces from the car, out in the country, I wanted it along. Especially since, by the time I got there, it would be fully dark. I guessed the distance to the drop-off point as twenty-five miles and the first ten miles of it, getting out of Phoenix and through Tempe, would be in fairish traffic. It would probably take me an hour. Longer than that coming home if I followed instructions and drove on east into Chandler and north from there.
I got the package—not the brief case, no use taking that—from the closet, turned out the lights and left. The Volks was ready; I'd had the tank filled yesterday on my way home from the bank so that I wouldn't have to stop no matter how long a delivery trip I had to make. You can get a lot of mileage out of a tankful of gas, with a Volkswagen. And I had put a flashlight in the front seat in case I might need one; it would come in handy finding the end of the culvert. I put the package beside it and got going.
I forced myself to drive carefully. Surely he'd allow me plenty of time, and it would be a hell of a time for me to get arrested for speeding or to get into even a minor accident.
It was fairly dark when I turned east off Fifty-sixth it onto Williams Field Road. There was almost no traffic now, but I forced myself to hold forty-five for what would be the last few miles. McClintock Drive, and I checked the speedometer's last figure, two-tenths of a mile. At five-tenths I slowed down to twenty or thereabouts and concentrated on not missing a Wayne's Garage billboard to my right. I needn't have; it wasn't a large billboard but it was only a couple of yards from the edge of the road and showed clearly in my headlights.
I pulled off to the edge and stopped opposite it. I picked up the package and started to get out of the car. But a last look in the rear-vision mirror showed that a car was coming from behind me and I sat there and waited until it had passed before I got out.
The Volks' headlights were all I needed for the first thirty counted paces. Then I walked to the shoulder of the road and started using the flashlight to watch for the open end of a culvert. Another eighteen paces, and there it was. I stood still a moment looking both ways for oncoming headlights and there weren't any, so I went down off the edge of the road and put the package just inside the opening of the eighteen-inch culvert. Not far enough inside so anyone looking for it could possibly not see it.
Going back toward the Volks' headlights, I didn't need the flash. And no car passed.
I drove on into Chandler and north. It was maybe ten miles longer going home that way, and I saw no reason why he'd want to check up on my return route, but what the hell, I'd followed instructions to the letter thus far and it wasn't worth while violating them now to save twenty minutes or half an hour. Besides I was in for a long wait once I got there. Not as long as Early's had been, though, I hoped.
It was twenty minutes after nine when I got back and started that wait.
It was worse than the first one, much worse. Before, I'd at least known that a call was coming. Now there was that damned haunting thought—if he'd planned this to be his last kidnaping, wasn't going to take a chance on another one, then he didn't need me as a "reference" and he'd have had no reason to have kept Ellen alive at all. And if she was five days dead he'd have no reason to phone me, and—
The phone rang.
I whirled around—I happened to be in the kitchen ; doorway at the moment—and stared at it. It couldn't be, so soon. It wasn't ten o'clock yet, and he hadn't phoned Early until one in the morning. Despite the fact that Early's delivery had been to the bus depot right downtown and mine had been—
I ran for the phone and picked it up.
"Where is she?" It wasn't until I'd asked that, that I realized that it might be, almost must be to have come this soon, a wrong number, or a call from some friend of ours who didn't know that Ellen was gone.
But it wasn't a wrong number or an irrelevant call. That deep bass slow voice again. "Go back where you left the package."
And the click of the replaced receiver.
Anyone watching me for the next minute would have thought I was crazy, and he'd have been right. Ellen was still alive—she had to be or the bass voice wouldn't have phoned. If we knew anything about him at all, it was that he took no unnecessary chances. If Ellen wasn't alive, he'd have had no reason to call me back to tell me where to find her body. He'd had a reason to call Sears back—he'd wanted publicity so the next victim would know he meant business; that reason couldn't possibly apply now, since he'd collected.
But I hadn't been ready for good news so soon. I ran for the door, turned back to get the revolver and put it in my belt and started again, remembered the flashlight and hunted frantically for it before I remembered it was in the car and started again, thought of taking blankets and ran back to the linen closet and made a shambles of it finding what I wanted, fell over the dragging corner of a blanket and stopped and jittered while I got them rolled so I could carry them, hesitated a last time at the door wondering if I should call the police and arrange to have a police ambulance meet me at the spot, decided against it when I remembered that there was an emergency hospital in Chandler and that, since the police didn't know about Ellen's kidnaping, it would take too long to explain everything to them. I started out and stopped again because somebody should know. What if I had an accident en route? Ellen would lie there all night and possibly die of exposure.
I called Joe and told him, talking as fast as I could, that I thought Ellen was safe and where I was going to find her, near a culvert fifty paces past a Wayne's Garage billboard four-tenths of a mile past McClintock Drive on Williams Field Road. I said I was heading right there and hung up, leaving it up to him whether to decide to call the police and try to have them get an ambulance there ahead of me or whether to take off himself and meet me there. It didn't matter much which as long as he did one or the other; his big Chrysler would be a lot better transport for an unconscious woman than the tiny Volks, and besides, he'd be driving and I could hold Ellen.
This time I made it to the Volks, and drove fast. As fast as I could drive safely—and to hell with cops. I didn't see any.
I was just slowing down at the billboard—I could overshoot it a bit this time and still find the culvert—when I saw headlights coming up behind me. I hoped it was Joe, but I didn't wait to find out. I stopped what I guessed to be about forty yards past the billboard and got out, ran forward playing the flashlight along the edge of the road. The other car, Joe's Chrysler, squealed to a stop behind the Volks and he got out and ran toward me.
"There's the culvert," I said, "but—" I was standing at the end of it, playing the flash around in a half circle. Just flat land, sandy soil, as far as the light of the flash carried. A few clumps of sagebrush and ocotillo, none big enough to hide a person. Nor was she in the shallow ditch along the edge of the road; I played the light along it in both directions.
Joe was there by now. "Did you look in the culvert?" I hadn't thought of that. I swung the flash around and—Ellen wasn't in the culvert but something else was, just where I'd left the package with the money. Not the package itself, that was gone. A white envelope.
I picked it up. My name was on it, handwritten, just my first name, Lloyd. It looked like—
It wasn't sealed and I pulled out the letter and unfolded it, holding my flashlight to read it. It was Ellen's small, neat handwriting, a two-page letter on the stationary she used.
"Dear Lloyd:
"Probably to you our quarrel of last night and this morning wasn't important, and you think it will blow over as the others we have had recently have blown over. It probably would but—but, darling, there have just been too many of them recently. There is something wrong. I don't know whether it's my fault or yours, but I want to get away to think things out and I want you to take advantage of my being away to do the same thing.
"I'm leaving this afternoon to spend a week with Sue. 1 phoned her and it's all right, she wants me to come. I'm packed and I'll phone for a taxi as soon as—"
"For God's sake, Lloyd," Joe said. "What is it? Is she—"
"I—just a second," I told him. I was almost at the end of the first page. "—I've finished writing this. I'd phone you but you'd try to talk me out of this and I think it's something I—"
I handed the first page to Joe and kept on reading.
"—should do, we should do, take a week's vacation from one another and do some thinking. I don't think we should even write or phone each other, darling. I promise not to, and I'm asking you not to. I think we need a little time apart—do you realize it's been two years since we've been apart even overnight, the last time I visited Sue alone, and then only for a weekend? I'll phone you next Friday and let you know what plane I'll be taking back—and please, darling, don't phone me sooner, or even write. If either of us tries to influence the other on this, it'll spoil everything. Goodbye, darling, for a week. Take care of yourself, and of Cheetah. And do some thinking. I will, I promise. Ellen"
Joe had finished the first page about the time I finished the second. I offered my page to him but he shook his head as though in a daze and gave me the first page back instead. "I've read enough," he said, "but I don't get it. She wasn't kidnaped at all? Then how did the kidnaper know— I mean—what the hell?"
I whirled and started back to the cars. "The hell with what the hell," I said. "I've got to phone, make sure she's there. She could have just finished writing that note when the kidnaper came. Or maybe the cab driver—"
I guess I wasn't making much sense, but neither were things making sense.
Joe was right behind me. "My place is nearer. And let's take my car. I'll make it faster and we can get yours any time."
It made sense and I turned out the Volks' lights and we got in his car. Neither of us said anything. I was thinking hard—and getting nowhere. Whatever Joe was thinking, he drove fast. I thought of asking him to stop at the next pay telephone he came to but realized it would save only a few minutes and that I'd rather have quiet and privacy for the call. I'd call from his apartment because it was nearer but I'd ask him to—
We were swinging in to the curb in front of it already. Joe pulled the keys out of the car and handed them to me. "Go ahead up and phone," he said. "I'm going to make a stop at the liquor store halfway down the block. I'll knock when I come up. If you don't answer I'll know you're still putting the call through."
"Thanks, Joe," I said.
I hurried into the building. The automatic elevator was busy but his apartment was on the third floor, so I ran up two flights and let myself in. I hurried to the phone and when I got a long-distance operator gave her the name and address of Sue's husband in San Francisco; I didn't remember the number. Station to station, I told her; I'd talk to whoever answered.
I didn't recognize the voice that answered. It was a woman's or a girl's voice, but not Ellen's nor her sister's.
"Is Ellen Johnson there?"
"I'm sorry, she isn't."
"Is she staying there? Has she been there?"
"If—yes, I guess I did hear Mrs. Corey call her Ellen. She's Mrs. Corey's sister, isn't she? Yes, she's staying here. I'm just baby-sitting here tonight. Mr. and Mrs. Corey and Mrs. Corey's sister went downtown to a show. And maybe to a night club. They said they might not be home till one or two."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll call again after one. You can tell them that if they get home before I call again. I'm her husband—I mean Mrs. Corey's sister's husband, in Phoenix."
I looked at my watch as I placed the receiver back on the hook. It was half past eleven—we'd made that trip fast, both ways. That meant that it was half past ten in San Francisco—it wouldn't be until two o'clock here that I could try again. I still wanted to hear Ellen's voice, to know that she was safe. And to apologize all over the lot, if I had to, to get her to come back tomorrow, a day early, instead of Friday. Lord, I'd forgotten all about our quarrel; there'd been so much to think about.
But how—I could really start to think now—had the kidnaper known that this time he could safely collect a ransom without the risk of having to kidnap? How could anyone, but Ellen or her relatives, have known? For a second a horrible thought flashed through my mind, that Ellen was a party to— And then I saw how silly that was. And saw what was, what must be, the truth, no matter how incredible it seemed. Joe Sitwell—
There was a knock and I called out, "Come in," and Joe came in—and saw my thirty-eight revolver aiming at him, and turned pale. "Lloyd, what—?"
"Close the door behind you," I said. "And don't think I won't pull this trigger. Joe, how many thousands of dollars were you losing in Las Vegas while you were pretending to have gambled lightly? How much of the stock we're holding for clients have you sold?"
He was shaking his head slowly. "Lloyd, boy, you're having a nightmare—"
"How much?" I said. "The whole seventeen thousand six hundred that you made me raise besides the seven thousand four you kicked in with? And where did you get that? Embezzle that, too? God, you must have been desperate to think you could get away with it, that I wouldn't see it."
"Lloyd, you're— Put down that damned gun." He was beginning to sweat; I could see beads of perspiration on his forehead.
"It wasn't premeditated," I said, "or you'd have seen how obvious it was. When you left the office last Friday afternoon to go to your apartment to pack for the Las Vegas trip, you remembered I had your golf clubs and stopped to get them from Ellen. But Ellen was already gone, and you let yourself in to get them—with the extra key I gave you a few months ago, so that you could feed Cheetah while we were in Tucson for the weekend. You forgot to give that key back, and I never thought of it either. It was still on your key ring.
"And you found that note from Ellen stuck in my typewriter and knew she'd be gone, and wouldn't even phone me, for a week and—and suddenly you thought you saw a way to recoup and make good your embezzlements. God, you must have been desperate not to see how obvious it would be once I learned— You must have been crazy, Joe, to think I wouldn't guess the truth once I learned Ellen had never even been in danger—"
His face was working. He was seeing now, himself, how obvious it was. He must have kept himself from seeing it, until now.
I went ahead. "Of course it wasn't kidnaping—and maybe I can't even prove extortion. Or maybe I can." I jerked the thumb of my free hand at the big black panel of dials that controlled his hi-fi setup. "Your voice on the phone tonight, for instance. You used your own voice on a tape or a record but slowed it down to a lower speed when you played it back—that's why it sounded so deep, and so slow. Maybe the tape or the record is still here and you didn't even take time to erase it when I phoned you back so soon after your second call tome—
"No, that doesn't worry you so you probably did destroy it. But here's the catch, Joe, the thing you didn't see, the thing that was inevitable from the time you committed yourself by taking Ellen's note and substituting one you wrote. I don't have to prove the extortion—I don't even have to find the money. All I have to do is shoot you in the leg, here and now."
He licked his lips. "Why—? What good will that—?"
"It will put you in the hospital so you can't use that money, wherever it is, to buy back stocks to make good your embezzlements. Oh, shooting you will bring the police all right, and I'll be in jail, maybe, while you're in the hospital but they'll certainly credit my story enough to have an auditor go over our books and the company bank boxes before they let either one of us at them. You're sunk, Joe."
I lowered the gun a little till it aimed at his right leg halfway between the knee and the hip. Even without sighting, I couldn't miss hitting dead center, shattering the bone, at that distance. He knew it. I cocked the hammer.
"Wait, Lloyd, don't shoot— I'll—"
"You'll what?" I kept my eyes off his face; I didn't want to watch it just then. He was a guy I'd liked, once.
"I'll—do anything you tell me to. Sign a confession to the extortion. Get the money and give it back."
"Where is it?"
"Behind that billboard fifty yards from the culvert. Under a big rock that was there. I moved it only that far when I traded Ellen's letter for the package. I didn't even count it—I knew you were going to follow the instructions exactly."
"How much are you short?"
"Twenty-three thousand; altogether. But that includes the eight thousand I took at one final crack to put toward the twenty-five. That can go back right away. I—I really only took you for seventeen thousand, the part you put up from yourself and borrowed from Bernard. And—and I was short only fifteen thousand out of that; as of last Friday I was fifteen thousand in the hole. But I had to make it an even figure and—"
"Then ten thousand can go right back where it came from, replacing the embezzled stocks. If I rebuy all twenty-three thousand dollars' worth of the twenty-five, and accept your note for fifteen thousand—and a signed confession to implement it—how long will it take you to pay it back?"
"You mean if we keep on with the partnership and—"
"Hell, no. You're not even staying in Phoenix. We dissolve the partnership. I'll go back to the firm I was with and so will you—the one in Chicago. Or any other one anywhere but here. I don't ever want to see you again after we straighten things out—not unless you miss payments on the note and I have to turn in the confession and testify against you on the extortion charge."
He licked his lips. "I—I'll pay up half of whatever I make back in Chicago. If I stop gambling— Well, I'll have to stop gambling anyway. About two years, at a guess, to pay it all back."
"Get paper and a pen and start writing," I told him. "All the details. And the note too."
It was one-thirty when I got home in the Volks. With the money, the confession, the note. There was nothing else I could do tonight. Except wait until two o'clock, one o'clock San Francisco time, to see if Ellen was back yet.
The phone beat me to it by ringing at a quarter of the hour.
It was Ellen. "Lloyd, we just got home and I heard you called me. Is anything wrong?"
I'd already thought out my answer to that. Ellen would have to know the truth, the whole story, to understand why we were dissolving the partnership, why she'd never be seeing Joe again and why I'd be seeing him only for business and then as little as possible. Why the Buick was gone, and why we'd have to retrench financially for a while. Yes, she'd have to know everything, after she came back. But not tonight, not over the telephone.
"Everything's fine, honey," I said. "It's just—five days was enough. I couldn't wait any longer. I had to talk to you and ask you to come back a day early if you possibly can, tomorrow instead of Friday. Or are you still—?"
"No, darling, I'm not still angry. I had a chance to think and I'd already decided I was mostly wrong, and—"
"You weren't. I was—"
"Hush. I wanted to call you sooner, a day or two ago, but I'd promised not to and I wanted to give you a chance to be sure too. Are you sure? That you want me back, I mean?"
"My God, Ellen, do I? You'll make it tomorrow then? Can you get a plane reservation?"
She laughed. "I already have one. I was going to jump the gun by that much. I wasn't going to call you though; I was just going to be there when you got home from work tomorrow. Did you manage to keep busy and out of trouble while I was away?"
"Sweetheart," I said, and decided I might as well make it the biggest lie of my life, "it was the dullest damned five days I ever spent."