1963 - One Bright Summer Morning (14 page)

She sat sulkily in an armchair and watched Carrie change Junior's nappy. Her nose wrinkled with disgust. Babies! But to be in Vic Dermott's house gave her a tremendous thrill. She had seen every one of his plays. She thought it was frantically romantic that Dermott of all people should be the man to collect her ransom. Vic Dermott! What an endless source of conversation she would have when she finally returned home!

She liked Carrie. It was a pity such an attractive girl should be so obsessed with this fat, dreary baby. She wanted to relax and talk to Carrie about clothes. She was sure Carrie could help her. She had so little confidence in herself in choosing the right things to wear. If only Carrie would quit fussing over this fat little horror, put him away somewhere and concentrate on her, Zelda would be happy.

With relief, she watched Carrie put the baby back in his cot and arrange the small toys hanging above the cot to keep him amused.

“Well, he's fixed for the moment,” Carrie said. “Now I guess I'd better straighten this room or maybe you'll do it while I see what there's for lunch.”

Zelda stared at her as if she couldn't believe what had been said.

“I do it? I don't know what you mean.”

“Well, someone's got to keep the place going,” Carrie said patiently. “I'm willing to do the cooking. I thought you might straighten the bedrooms. Those two out there aren't likely to do anything.”

“I'm not doing anything either!” Zelda said angrily. “I’m not a servant! In a day or so, my father will pay the ransom and I'll return home. What happens here doesn't concern me in the slightest!”

Carrie regarded her thoughtfully.

“Well, of course, if that's how you feel about it,” she said, “then I'll do it. I suppose you want to eat?”

“Of course I want to eat!”

The two girls stared at each other, then Carrie shrugged.

“All right, if you just want to sit around, I'll handle it,” she said.

“I'm certainly not turning myself into a servant,” Zelda exclaimed crossly and looked out of the window.

At this moment, the bedroom door swung open and Riff appeared in the doorway.

Both Carrie and Zelda stiffened as they stared at him.

Riff 's scarred face was glistening with sweat. Carrie was nearer to him than Zelda. She could smell the dirt from him and she backed away. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring at Zelda who seemed frozen in her chair.

“Come on, baby,” Riff said, beckoning to her. “You and me are going to have a jazz session. Get out of that chair!”

Carrie moved in front of Zelda and faced Riff.

“Get out of here!” she said fiercely. “You're not to touch her!”

Riff grinned evilly.

“Out of the way or I'll start on you first!”

Carrie didn't move. She was terrified, but something in her forced her to face this scarred-faced thug.

“Get out!”

Riff's long looping left with his fist half closed caught Carrie on the side of her face. It was as if she had been struck by a tremendous blast of wind. She went reeling across the room, thudded against the bed and fell across it, stunned and only half conscious. She was vaguely aware that Zelda was screaming. She made a desperate effort to get to her feet, but her legs buckled and she slid from the bed to the floor. Dazed, trying to get up, she watched Zelda struggling with Riff. Zelda was helpless in his savage grip. He swung her off her feet and carried her out of the room. Her screams echoed through the house. Her fists pounded uselessly on the shabby leather uniform. Riff rushed her down the short passage and into the bedroom she occupied. Brutally, he flung her on the bed, then turning, he locked the door. As she scrambled off the bed, her eyes wide with terror, Riff moved in on her. As his hands grabbed her, she began to scream again.

Chita sat motionless in the hot sunshine while she listened to the high-pitched screams coming from the ranch house. She didn't move. She just sat still, her face wooden, her hands clenched between her knees.

After a while the screaming stopped.

* * *

Moe Zegetti stood in the telephone booth waiting. Sweat ran down his fat face. Through the glass panel of the booth he watched two girls in tight-fitting, washed-out jeans, sitting on stools, sucking at straws in Coke bottles. A boy with a crew-cut and with freckles across his nose, leaned his elbows on the soda counter and talked to them. He too had a Coke bottle with a straw in it in his hand.

Moe wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. How much longer did he have to wait? He could hear the hum over the open line and every now and then, faint voices. He had got through to the hospital. They had told him to hold on. Minutes dragged by. One of the girls at the counter slid off the stool and went over to the jukebox. She inserted a coin. As the juke box began to blare jazz, she began to swing her small, childish hips and snap her fingers while her companion and the boy watched her, grinning.

A voice said, “Mr. Zegetti? This is Nurse Hardisty. I'm sorry to tell you your mother passed away peacefully last night”

The strident sound from the jukebox came through the glass panel of the booth and swamped Moe's isolation. He found it impossible to hear what the woman was saying. He pressed the receiver to his ear, his heart thumping. He couldn't really have heard aright . . . his mother . . . passed away . . . that meant she was dead!

“What was that?” he demanded. “Hold on a moment.”

He opened the booth door and bawled, “Turn that goddam thing off!”

The girl stopped dancing and stared at him. The other girl and the boy turned and stared too. Then the girl started dancing again, giggling and rotating her hips at Moe and went hip swinging down to the entrance door, snapping her fingers and singing.

In despair, Moe slammed the booth door shut.

“How's my mother?” he shouted frantically above the noise of the music.

“I told you.” The nurse sounded impatient. “She passed peacefully . . .”

“You mean she's dead?”

“Why, yes, of course. I'm telling you . . . she died last night.”

Slowly, Moe replaced the receiver. He leaned against the wall of the booth and closed his eyes. A bluebottle fly buzzed busily around and about him. The girl wriggled her slight body as her companion and the boy began to clap their hands in time with the music.

Moe suddenly had no further wish to own a quarter of a million dollars. What use would the money be to him now? He was alone. He'd always be alone now Doll was dead. With her, it would have been fun to have had money to burn, but without her . . .

He walked slowly from the cafe, unaware that the barman and the three young people were staring curiously at him and he sat in the car, his hands resting slackly on the driving wheel. Should he go back to Wastelands? Suppose something went wrong? Kramer was old: suppose his planning came adrift? Moe thought of those awful years in prison. What would he do with a quarter of million dollars anyway? But then he thought of the little restaurant and the long hours of slavery. He couldn't go back there. With money he could buy himself a small house. He could live decently. He might even find some woman with whom he could share his life. Besides, he couldn't let Kramer down. No . . . he had to go back. Kramer would never forgive him if he ducked out now. With a gesture of despair, he drove the car on to the highway and headed back towards Wastelands.

* * *

“You still don't remember where you've seen him before?” Van Wylie asked. He was standing at the window watching Vic Dermott as he got into his Cadillac. Vic was on his way down to the California and Merchant Bank to pick up the certified cheques.

“No . . . but I'm sure I've seen him some place,” Andrews returned. “I'm sure of that and I'm sure he's something to do with the theatre.”

“You got his car number?”

“Sure.”

The Cadillac was now out of sight. For a long moment, Van Wylie stood thinking.

“Okay, now let's get busy,” he said. “If these punks think they're going to get away with four millions of my dollars, they're in for a surprise. They said they'd tapped the telephone here. Could be bluff, but I'm not taking any risk. Jay Dennison is the boy we want. Send him a Telex. Tell him to meet me at the L.A. airport at twelve. Warn him it's to be a secret meeting. We'll take the helicopter. They won't be able to follow us in that. Get moving.”

An hour and a half later, Van Wylie with Andrews at his heels, strode across the tarmac of the airport and into a small office where Jay Dennison had arranged to meet him.

With Dennison was Tom Harper.

It was some years since Van Wylie and Dennison had met. Then Dennison had saved Van Wylie a considerable sum of money when he had exposed a bank fraud by a brilliant piece of detective work. Van Wylie hadn't forgotten Dennison's work, and every Christmas, Dennison had received a large food hamper with Van Wylie's compliments.

The two men shook hands and Dennison was quick to see the hard bitter gleam in Van Wylie's eyes.

“My daughter has been kidnapped,” Van Wylie said abruptly as he sat on the edge of the desk. “The ransom is for four million dollars with the usual threats if I go to the police I won't get her back. I'm consulting you, Dennison, because as soon as I do get her back, I want you to get these hoodlums. We flew here. They have no means of knowing we have met, and they mustn't know.” He took from his pocket a small reel of tape. “I recorded the man's demands. You'd better have this,” and he handed the reel of tape to Dennison.

“When did this happen, Mr. Van Wylie?” Dennison asked, sitting behind the desk. He glanced at Harper who had his notebook ready.

With lucid detail, Van Wylie stated the facts while Dennison listened. Finally, Van Wylie came to Vic Dermott's part in the kidnapping.

“It's obvious this fella has nothing to do with the kidnappers,” Van Wylie said. “He's in as bad a fix as I am. Andrews here thinks he has seen him before.”

Dennison looked sharply at Andrews.

“I'm trying to remember just where, but I can't place him,” Andrews said in his slow drawl. “I'm sure he's something to do with the theatre . . . maybe an actor. I'm quite sure he isn't a movie actor . . . he's to do with the theatre.”

“Well, that's something to go on,” Dennison said and reached for the telephone. He got through to the Field Office at Paradise City and spoke to Abe Mason. “I'm sending along a Mr. Merrill Andrews. He'll be with you within an hour. He'll explain. I want you to call up Simons and Ley, the theatrical agents. Get them to let you have photographs of every actor around thirty-eight years of age, around six foot tall, dark, they have on their books. This is a rush job .”

He hung up and looked at Andrews.

“Mr. Andrews? There's a chance you'll spot the guy from the photographs my man will show you.”

Andrews looked inquiringly at Van Wylie. At his nod, he hurried from the office.

“The kidnappers are dangerous,” Van Wylie said. “I don't want Zelda to run any risk. You understand?”

“Of course,” Dennison said quietly. “We know how to handle this. Let's have some more facts about her routine. You say she always went to the hairdresser's at the same time and on the same day?”

An hour later, Van Wylie got to his feet.

“That's about it,” he said. “I'll leave it to you, but you don't make any moves without first consulting me.”

“That's understood,” Dennison returned, getting to his feet and shaking hands.

Van Wylie stared at him for a long moment.

“I'd rather lose four million dollars than Zelda,” he said, “She's all I've got to live for now.”

When he had gone, Dennison reached for the telephone.

At the Field Office, Merrill Andrews tossed the last photograph on Abe Mason's desk with an exclamation of disgust.

“No . . . he's not among this lot,” he said.

“Maybe he's a movie actor,” Mason said. “I can get . . .”

“He's not a movie actor,” Andrews broke in. “I'm as sure as I sit here, he's to do with the theatre and well known at that.”

“Okay,” Mason said, getting to his feet. “We'll go over to the
Herald's
office and look through their photographs. They have a library of famous people. Maybe we'll spot him there.”

As they were leaving the building, they ran into Dennison who had driven fast from the airport.

“Any luck?” Dennison asked, pausing.

Mason explained where they were going, and Dennison nodded. He went up to his office and put through a call to the San Bernadino police. He asked if any patrol officer on the highway leading from the Van Wylie estate to San Bernadino had seen Miss Van Wylie around nine o'clock the previous day. The sergeant in charge said he would call back. Dennison then asked the sergeant to alert every patrol officer to look out for a Jaguar E-type car and gave Zelda's licence number.

That done, he got Harper to check on the licence number of the Cadillac that Andrews had given him.

“No such number,” Harper said as he hung up the telephone receiver.

Dennison grunted. He pulled a tape recorder towards him and wound on the reel of tape that Van Wylie had given him.

The two men listened to the voice. After playing the tape back three times, Dennison turned the machine off. He reached for a cigar, lit it and relaxed back in his chair.

“Know anyone who binds his fist with a bicycle chain as a weapon?” he asked suddenly.

“About a couple of hundred by name,” Harper said cynically. “There are probably twenty or thirty thousand who I don't know. It's the latest fad with these beats.”

“Yeah, but this isn't small-time, Tom. Four million dollars! That was an old man's voice.” Dennison blew smoke up to the ceiling. “It takes my mind back to the old days when gangsters really asked big money for a ransom. You know, it's the kind of job that Jim Kramer might pull if he was crazy enough to come out of retirement. Knowing Kramer the way I do, I can't believe he would try a kidnapping. Send a Telex to every bank in the state, telling them to report when someone cashes a bearer cheque, signed by John Van Wylie for four hundred thousand dollars. We may be a little late, but we might just possibly catch up with this guy, cashing the cheques.”