1963 - One Bright Summer Morning (18 page)

Riff eyed him. He was seething with fury, but the way Moe had produced the gun as if by magic had chilled him. He knew he hadn't the equipment to go up against a man who could draw a gun that fast. He had no guts for a showdown with Moe.

“You're crazy in the head!” he snarled. “Can't you see this lets us out? We take her back and we're in the clear. We take the ransom and we're in trouble. Can't you see that, you stupid Wop?”

“No one's getting into trouble,” Moe said quietly. “It's all been worked out. You two . . .” he waved his gun at the Cranes, “keep out of here. From now on, you're going to live in the cabin over there. She . . .” he waved his gun at Zelda, “is staying right here. If either of you come within fifty yards of the house, you'll get a bullet. I won't kill you, but you'll get a broken leg. Got it?”

Riff grinned evilly at him.

“And what are you going to do, Wop?” he sneered. “Keep awake for three nights?”

The room shook with the bang of the gun. The vicious yellow flame that lit the shadows like a photographer's flash gun made Zelda scream.

Riff staggered back. His hand went to his ear. Blood showed on his fingers. Blood began to run down the side of his neck. Riff stared at his bloodstained fingers as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

Moe watched him. A faint wisp of smoke drifted from the gun barrel.

“I can shoot, Riff,” he said softly. “Now get the hell out of here and stay out! You too!” to Chita.

Shocked and bleeding, Riff went out of the room. He was now holding a dirty handkerchief to his ear. The bullet had flicked off the lobe of his ear with the precision of a surgeon's knife.

As Chita followed him, Junior began to cry. Zelda had flung herself face down on the bed, sobbing and pounding the bed with her clenched fists. Carrie, white-faced from the shock of the exploding gun, picked Junior out of his cot.

Moe stood by the open window and watched Riff and Chita cross the expanse of green lawn until they reached the cabin and went inside, then he turned and looked at Carrie.

“You've got to watch this girl,” he said gently. “Don't let her out of your sight. I'll watch the other two. They're bad. If you and your bambino want to get out of this alive, you'll have to work with me. We have three days before the ransom arrives.” He paused, then said, “Are you going to be on my side?”

Carrie hesitated. So far this fat, swarthy Italian had behaved like a human being, she reasoned. The Cranes and this stupid girl were people she couldn't possibly trust. She realized she couldn't remain neutral in this nightmare affair. She had to take sides and there was no choice. She nodded slowly.

“Yes,” she said. “I'll be on your side.”

Moe visibly relaxed. He put his gun away. He stared at Junior who was still crying and Moe smiled.

“My brother had ten children,” he said. “He was killed in the war. I looked after his kids. I'm good with babies. Could I have him?”

Carrie felt a cold shiver run down her spine. She began to refuse but there was this odd, kindly look in Moe's eyes that stopped her.

“He - he doesn't like strangers,” she said. “Perhaps you . . .”

But Moe reached out and reluctantly she let him take the baby. The gangster and the baby stared at each other. Then Junior suddenly stopped bawling and screwed up his face as he continued to peer at Moe. Moe blew out his fat cheeks. He made a soft whistling noise, stopped, started the noise again and then grinned widely. Junior considered this, decided it was pretty funny and began to laugh.

Realizing no one was paying any attention to her hysterics, Zelda stopped crying and turned over. She glared at Moe and Carrie who continued to pay no attention to her.

“I like babies,” Moe said. “They like me.” He put Junior back into Carrie's arms and walked to the door. “You and me and the bambino together, huh? You watch her. If she gets troublesome, call me. I'll slap her.”

He went out on to the verandah and sat down. From where he sat he could see the cabin and he could watch the windows that led out on to the veranda. He felt very uneasy. He was pretty sure he could trust Carrie, but the Cranes were like snakes. He couldn't remain awake for three nights. Riff had put his finger right on the weak spot of Moe's plans. He could only hope that Kramer would telephone and he could alert him to what was happening. Maybe Kramer would send someone or come himself. He looked across at the cabin. The shutters were closed. The door too was closed. He wondered what the Cranes were doing in there.

In the cabin, Riff was bent over the toilet basin, sopping cold water on his ear and cursing. The experience of being shot at had unnerved him.

Chita lolled in an armchair in the small sitting room.

From where she sat she could watch her brother. She made no effort to help him.

“Can't you do something?” Riff snarled as the blood continued to drip into the basin. “Don't just sit there! Can't you stop this bleeding?”

Chita didn't say anything. For the first time in her life she had no desire to help her brother. That he should have even contemplated marrying this rich little bitch had raised such a hatred and jealousy in her that she felt that the binding link that had always held them together had been severed with the force of an executioner's axe.

She knew Riff as she knew herself. She knew that when he had said he was going to marry Zelda that this was no cynical lie: he really meant to marry the girl. Already, he was planning how he would live on her money, how he was going to quit the rut of their tough, drab lives that Chita so much enjoyed. How he was going to wallow in the softness of riches. Chita knew that sooner or later he would drop her. He wouldn't want her continually tagging along.

She would be in the way. He would give her money . . . she was sure he would do that, but he would want to be rid of her to absorb himself into the soft, futile, aimless life of the rich that would sap the guts out of him and he would become just another of the hundreds of playboys Chita had bedded with: spineless, gutless and useless.

Still cursing, Riff went into the bedroom, tore a strip off one of the sheets, made a pad and fixed it to his ear. He tied another strip of sheet around his head and finally stopped the flow of blood.

By the time he had finished, it was growing dark. He came into the sitting room, his leather jacket bloodstained, his face pale, his eyes vicious with fury.

“What's eating you?” he snarled. “Couldn't you have helped me?”

Chita said nothing. She stared down at her long, slender legs, her face expressionless.

“That Wop!” Riff exploded. “Who'd have imagined he could shoot like that! He could have killed me!”

He might just as well be talking to himself for all the notice Chita took of him.

He stared at her for a long moment, feeling uneasy. She had never behaved this way to him before. Then because his pride wouldn't allow him to persuade her to talk to him, he went over to the window. He peered through the slits in the shutter. He could see Moe sitting on the veranda. If he had a gun, he could have picked Moe off. The range was nothing. From where he was standing, he couldn't have missed Moe. Then suddenly he remembered the mystery of the missing gun. He had put Dermott's gun in the hip pocket of his trousers. When he had gone to fetch the gun . . . it had gone! Someone must have taken it! It wasn't Moe because Moe hadn't been in the ranch house at the time the gun disappeared. So it had to be one of the three women who had taken it.

He turned and stared suspiciously at Chita who was lighting a cigarette.

“Did you take my gun?” he demanded.

She looked indifferently at him, her eyes cold and hostile.

“Gun? What gun?”

Well, at least she was now talking to him, Riff thought.

“Dermott's gun!” he snarled. “I had it in my pants pocket. It's gone!”

“What do you expect if you're in such a hurry to throw off your pants?” Chita said with a sneer.

“Did you take it?” Riff shouted, his face darkening with fury.

“Why should I take it?” Chita got to her feet. “I'm hungry.” She started to cross the sitting room towards the tiny kitchen.

Riff grabbed her arm.

“Did you take it?” he yelled.

She threw his hand off with a strength that always surprised him.

“Keep your paws off me! I haven't got it! I don't care who's got it!”

She went into the kitchen and he heard her open the door of the refrigerator.

He went back to the window, cursing and worried. He continued to stare through the shutter at Moe.

* * *

It was a little after one o'clock in the morning when Dennison walked into the reception lobby of the Mount Crescent Hotel, Los Angeles.

The day clerk was about to go home. Dennison was lucky. Usually, the day clerk left much earlier than this, but it so happened his girlfriend had stood him up and because he didn't want to return alone to his dismal bedsitter, he had hung around the hotel talking to the night clerk.

Dennison identified himself, then he asked about the new arrivals at the hotel. The clerk showed him the register. After some talk, Dennison said, “and this guy, Jack Howard . . . remember him?”

“Why, sure,” the clerk said. “He's tall, dark and well-dressed. He has a bad bruise on the left side of his face . . . a hell of a bruise.”

Dennison grunted.

“Let me have a passkey,” he said. “He's the guy I want to talk to.”

The clerk hesitated, then went around the counter, took a key off a hook and handed it to Dennison.

“We don't want any trouble here, Inspector,” he said without much hope. “You'll know that.”

“Sure, sure,” Dennison said. “Who wants trouble?”

Vic had been unable to sleep. He lay in the darkness, thinking of Carrie. He had been lying, worrying for the past two hours. He kept trying to assure himself that so long as he carried out his part of the bargain. Carrie and Junior would be safe, but he couldn't get the image of the Cranes out of his mind. Those two really scared him. They were capable of anything. Suddenly, he heard a faint sound that brought him alert, his heart thumping.

Dennison had gently pushed the door key out of the lock.

The key fell to the floor. He then inserted the passkey, turned it and opened the door. As he did so, Vic snapped on the light.

The two men looked at each other. Dennison came in and shut the door.

“Inspector Dennison,” he said. “Federal Bureau. You're Mr. Victor Dermott, I believe?”

Vic hesitated, then he said, “That's my name.” He sat up in bed. “Just what is all this? Why have you . . .?”

“It's all right, Mr. Dermott,” Dennison said with his fatherly smile he kept for special occasions. “I'm here to help you. We know what's going on.” He sat on the bed. “We know the spot you're in. Now look, let's cooperate. We want to catch these thugs, but at the same time, we don't want to cause any trouble for Mrs. Dermott and your baby. I give you my word we won't make any move until the ransom is paid and Mrs. Dermott is freed. Maybe it will give you some assurance to know I have three of my men watching Wastelands right now. If anything bad should start, they'll be within reach where they will help your wife.”

Vic felt cold, and there was a sick fear growing in him.

“Why couldn't you have kept out of this?” he said angrily. “What's four million dollars to a man like Van Wylie? These devils are deadly! They won't hesitate to kill everyone in the house! They've already murdered my servant. They . . .”

“Just a moment,” Dennison broke in sharply. “You said they've killed your servant?”

Vic pulled himself together.

“I'm not absolutely sure, but there was blood in the cabin where my servant sleeps. He's disappeared.”

“They could have hit him hard the way you were hit,” Dennison said soothingly. “Now look, Mr. Dermott, try to relax. I would feel the same way if I were in your position, but you mustn't get too excited. No one knows you and I are meeting. Right now, all I want from you is information. I want a description of these people. I give you my word we won't make a move until your wife and baby are safe. We won't even make a move without your approval.”

Vic lay back. His face still ached. He remembered Kramer's warning.

“I can't tell you a thing,” he said. “I'm not interested in anything except keeping my wife and baby safe.”

“That I can understand,” Dennison said, “but this goes further than that, Mr. Dermott. I want you to trust me. Suppose I ask questions and you tell me if I'm right?” He smiled, then went on, “The man we think is behind this kidnapping is around sixty, tall, heavily built and with a whisky complexion. Right?”

Vic hesitated, shrugged then nodded.

“He has another guy working with him: an Italian; short, fat and swarthy. Right?”

Again Vic nodded.

“There's a girl: dyed blonde, tall, good-looking in a coarse way, around twenty-two or three. Right?”

Again Vic nodded.

“Then there's another of them, but I haven't got him tagged,” Dennison said. “He's the one who interests me.”

Again Vic hesitated, then he said, “He's the girl's twin. He's the one who scares me . . . a vicious, brutal thug. He's the one who hit me. He binds his fist with a bicycle chain.”

“Describe him,” Dennison said.

Vic gave him a description of Riff and when he was finished, Dennison got to his feet.

“You carry on the way you're going now, Mr. Dermott,” he said. “Get the ransom.” He put a card on the bedside table. “That's my telephone number. Memorize it and then destroy the card. When you have the ransom, telephone me. These hoods imagine once they have the ransom, they are in the clear, but they have badly underestimated Van Wylie. As soon as we know your wife and baby and Miss Van Wylie are safe, we're going after them. From now on, three of my best men will be tailing you. If you want help at any time, they'll be right with you. You have nothing to worry about. You have my word we won't make a move until your wife is

safe.”

Vic shrugged helplessly.

“I guess I have to rely on you,” he said, “but please hold off until these thugs have left Wastelands.”