1963 - One Bright Summer Morning (11 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER SIX

R
iff stood on the veranda of Wastelands, a cigarette dangling from his thick lips. He watched the approaching car as it came up the long winding drive and he fingered the butt of Dermott's automatic that he had thrust into the hip pocket of his leather trousers.

It was a few minutes past noon. Riff had locked the Dermotts and their baby in the front room. The windows were open, but there was no other exit. From where he stood he could see the windows and he had no worry that they could escape. By hitting the man so hard, he had knocked the guts out of him and also out of his wife.

But Riff was savagely uneasy. He had killed the Vietnamese. This, he told himself, was the result of moving too fast from small-time into big-time. He cursed himself for hitting the little man so hard. A man of Dermott's build could take a crushing blow, but a shrimp like the

yellow-skin just couldn't. Well, it was done now. Riff had decided to say nothing to Moe about the Vietnamese. He had come to realize during his short association with Moe that clever as this Wop was supposed to be, he was soft. If he knew Riff had killed the Vietnamese, he was likely to flip his lid.

The car pulled up a few yards from him. Moe was driving. Chita and the kidnapped girl sat at the back. Riff looked curiously at the girl, letting smoke drift down his thick nostrils. He was disappointed. He had hoped for something more glamorous, but when she got out of the car, he saw her broad hips and his eyes narrowed. Maybe she mightn't be so bad after all, he thought, as he walked down the veranda steps, deliberately exaggerating his rolling swagger.

“Okay?” Moe asked anxiously as he got out of the car.

Riff raised a dirty thumb.

“Nothing to it . . . and you?”

“Yeah.” Moe paused, then looked at the car. “I had better get it under cover. Where's the garage?”

Riff pointed.

“Lots of room in there.”

Moe got into the car and drove it over to the garage. Riff looked at Chita who was standing beside Zelda. He lifted his eyebrows and she nodded. He then looked at Zelda who was eyeing him curiously. She had got over her scare now and was relaxed. From what Moe had told her, she hadn't anything to worry about. It was just a matter of how long it would take her father to pay out the ransom.

This dirty-looking man in the shabby black leather uniform with his scarred face intrigued her. He was the kind of thug she so often saw on the movies: the type who sent hot blood through her body and gave her erotic dreams.

Riff saw the hot flush that stained her face and the way her eyes darkened. He knew he had set off a spark in her.

He leered at her.

“I'm Riff,” he said. “What's your name, baby?”

“Zelda Van Wylie,” Zelda said. Her flush began to recede. For her age, she was pretty self-possessed. This could be fun, she was thinking. God! What a hunk of a man! If only he were a bit cleaner! Those shoulders! Those brutal hands! “You in this too?”

“Sure, baby,” Riff said, eyeing her over. “We're all in it. Come on in and make yourself at home.” He took three swaggering steps forward and put his hand possessively on her arm. Now he was close to her, she could smell his dirt and see the grime on his neck, his black fingernails and the dust in his close-cropped hair.

She jerked away from him, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Don't touch me!” she said sharply. “Keep away from me! You - you smell!”

Riff stood very still. The muscles of his face moved under his grey-white skin like the ripple of moving water. His eyes narrowed and his mouth turned into a white, thin line.

Recognizing the signs, Chita said, “Cut it out, Riff! Hear me? Stop it!”

The sudden vicious fury that now burned in the narrow eyes shocked Zelda who backed away.

Chita exclaimed. “Riff! Cut it out! He's coming!”

“Okay, baby,” Riff said softly, staring at Zelda. “I'll remember. Plenty of time . . . I'll remember.”

Moe came up, wiping his sweating face with a soiled handkerchief.

“What are you doing out here?” he demanded. “Get her inside!”

Chita nodded to Zelda and the two girls walked up the steps and into the house.

Riff stared after them. His eyes moved down the length of Zelda's back.

“What's happened to the Dermotts?” Moe asked.

Riff said nothing until the girls were out of sight, then he turned and stared at Moe.

“Got 'em locked up in the front room. The guy got a little frisky and I had to tap him. They won't trouble us now.”

“The dog?”

“Nothing to it. I've buried it.”

“The servant?”

Riff jerked his thumb towards the staff cabin.

“He's locked in there. I scared the crap out of him. No trouble with him now. He can't get out.”

“You'd better repair the telephone line,” Moe said. “The boss will be coming through any time now.”

Riff resented taking orders from anyone. He eyed Moe and then shrugged his heavy shoulders.

“Can't be done,” he said. “I cut 'em, but there's no slack to fix 'em with.”

“Look in the garage,” Moe said impatiently. “There may be some spare wire there. We've got to get the line repaired. Get going!” And he walked up the steps and into the house.

Riff picked his nose thoughtfully. It was a little too soon for a showdown. Shrugging, he walked with lazy strides towards the garage.

Vic Dermott, lying on the settee in his study, heard the car pull up. His head ached violently and he had extensive bruising down the right side of his face. He had been conscious for over three hours, but he was only now slowly recovering. Carrie sat by his side, holding his hand, anxiously watching him. They hadn't said much to each other. The blow had been so violent, Vic felt his brain had come adrift, but at the sound of the car, he attempted to sit up.

“Stay still,” Carrie said, getting to her feet. She looked through the window to see Zelda and Chita confronting Riff. Then she saw Moe drive the car over to the garage.

“There are three more of them. Oh, Vic! What is happening? Who are these people?”

Gritting his teeth, Vic slowly sat up. For a moment the room spun around before his eyes, then everything came into sharp focus. He looked beyond Carrie through the open window.

Riff was talking to Zelda. Vic looked at the girl, then at Chita before his eyes flicked back to Zelda.

“It can't be,” he muttered and passed his hand before his eyes, then stared again. Zelda and Chita were now walking towards the house. “That girl . . . it can't be.” They were out of sight now and they could be heard moving through the lounge. “She looks exactly like that Van Wylie girl.” Vic touched the side of his face and winced. “You know . . . she's supposed to be one of the richest girls in the world. Zelda . . . isn't that her name?”

Carrie said breathlessly, “Of course! I knew I had seen her somewhere before.” She looked at Vic. “They've kidnapped her!”

“Could be and they are using this place as a hideout.” He reached for a sponge lying in a bowl of ice water, wrung it out and held it to his face. “Could be,” he went on. “It's a damn smart idea. Who would think of looking for them here?”

“There's a car coming!” Carrie exclaimed. She pointed out of the window. Some miles down the dirt road they could see a cloud of dust that always heralded an approaching car.

Vic relaxed back on the cushion. His head began to ache so violently that he suddenly didn't care anymore. Then Junior began to whimper and Carrie hurried over to him.

Carrie hadn't been the only one to have seen the approaching car.

Riff came quickly into the lounge where Zelda and Chita were sitting. Moe was making himself a drink at the cocktail bar.

“Car coming!” Riff said. “Be here in five minutes!”

Moe hurriedly set down his glass and went to the window. He stared at the approaching cloud of dust and his fingers nervously touched the butt of a .38 he had in a holster under his coat. His brain worked quickly. He turned to Chita. “You act the maid,” he said. “If they come here, go to the door and say the Dermotts are out. If there's trouble, we're right behind you.” He looked at Zelda. “You make a sound and you'll be sorry.”

Riff grinned.

“She won't. Will you, baby?” he said, staring at Zelda.

She stared back at him and then looked away, her expression contemptuous.

“You're cute,” Riff sneered. “Baby, there's a time coming for you. I'm . . .”

“Shut up!” Moe barked. “Watch the Dermotts! Keep them quiet. I'll stay here.”

Riff eyed him, broadened his sneering grin and went across the lobby, unlocked the study door and went in.

Chita, who was looking out of the window, said, “It's a telephone repair truck.”

Moe cursed under his breath.

“They're checking the line. When they see it's cut . . .”

“Oh, cool off!” Chita said sharply. “I'll fix them.”

As the truck with a ladder on its roof and two young engineers in the cab pulled up outside the house, Chita crossed the lobby and opened the front door.

* * *

The doorman of the Lake Arrowhead Hotel touched his cap as Kramer came across the crowded lobby.

“Your car's ready, sir,” he said. “It was only for two days, wasn't it?”

“Yeah,” Kramer said and slipped a five-dollar bill into the doorman's expectant hand. “If I need it for longer, I'll let you know.”

The porter conducted him to a Buick convertible that stood in one of the hotel's parking bays and opened the door.

“Get you a car any time you want, sir,” he said as Kramer settled himself behind the driving wheel. Kramer nodded to the doorman, engaged gear and headed for Pitt City.

Some minutes after three o'clock, in the blazing heat of the afternoon sun, Kramer drove up the dirt road leading to Wastelands. He pulled up at the gate, got out, opened the gate, drove the car forward, got out and shut the gate.

The heat made him sweat and he was aware that the nagging pain in his left side had returned. As he drove up the winding road that led directly to the house, he felt a sudden loss of confidence. He was getting old, he told himself. If something should go wrong! If, after all those years in the rackets, he should suddenly find himself in a police cell! The pain in his side increased, and he put a big, fleshy hand to his chest. But there was no turning back now. He trusted Moe. The plan was right. It couldn't turn sour.

When he pulled up outside the front door of Wastelands, he saw Riff lounging in a bamboo chair, his feet on the veranda rail. Riff stood up as Kramer got out of the car.

Kramer said briskly, “Get this car out of sight. Where's Moe?”

Riff stared at him, his narrow eyes probing. He jerked his thumb towards the front door and with a lazy movement, vaulted the veranda rail, got in the car and drove it towards the garage.

As Kramer came up the steps, the front door opened and Moe came out into the hot sunshine. The two men paused and looked at each other.

“Well?” Kramer demanded, a snap in his voice.

“It's okay,” Moe said. “The girl's here. There's been no trouble with the Dermotts. We had a telephone engineer out here because Riff cut the lines, but Chita handled him. He went away satisfied. We're in the clear.”

Kramer drew in a long, slow breath. He showed his discoloured teeth in a sudden, wide grin of relief.

“When you want something well planned you come to me, huh?” He moved into the house. “Where's Dermott? He's the guy I want to talk to.”

Moe motioned him to the study door.

“He's in there with his wife.” As Kramer began to move forward, Moe said, “Jim . . . just a moment. He got a little out of hand. Riff had to hit him.”

Kramer stopped in his tracks. His fleshy face turned a dusty red as he turned to glare at Moe.

“Hit him? What the hell do you mean?”

Moe shifted uneasily.

“Well, the guy tried to be a hero. Riff had to quieten him.”

Kramer removed his Stetson hat and wiped his sweating head.

“How bad is he?”

“He's okay now, but Riff hits hard.”

Kramer grunted, then went to the study door, turned the handle and walked into the big, airy room.

Vic and Carrie were seated side by side on the settee. At the sight of this big, elderly man, Vic got slowly to his feet.

“I have to apologize, Mr. Dermott,” Kramer said in his hearty, insincere business voice. “I hear one of my boys got a little excited.” He stared at the livid bruise that extended down the side of Vic's face. “I'm sorry.”

“Who are you?” Vic said. “Just what are all these - these thugs doing in my house?”

Kramer moved further into the room and sat down. He nodded to Carrie who was staring at him.

“My respects, Mrs. Dermott. Sorry for all this, but it is unavoidable.” He looked at Vic. “Mr. Dermott, it is your misfortune to have rented this place. I hope you will be cooperative. If you'll sit down, I'll tell you exactly what it is all about and then you can decide for yourself whether or not you want to play along with me.”