1963 - One Bright Summer Morning (16 page)

“Oh, Riff. . .”

They both looked quickly down the veranda to where Zelda was standing. She had on a lemon-coloured shirt, pair of scarlet, tight-fitting slacks and she had bound a white scarf around her hair. Her expression was so animated she almost looked beautiful.

“When are we leaving, Riff?”

“Just as soon as I get some clothes on,” Riff said.

“I've found you something to wear,” Zelda said. “I've laid them out on the bed. Hurry, Riff. I want to leave as quickly as I can.”

Chita said in a cold, flat voice, “There's a car coming.”

Riff turned quickly and stared down the long dirt road.

He stood tense for a few moments watching the approaching car.

“It's Zegetti!” Riff exclaimed.

“This should be fun,” Chita said. “What are you going to tell him about taking her home?”

Riff ran quickly down the veranda and into Zelda's bedroom. Quickly, he picked up his black leather trousers which he had flung on the floor. He put his hand in one of the hip pockets for Vic's gun, but it wasn't there. A quick search, amid a stream of obscene cursing, confirmed the gun had vanished!

* * *

Vera Synder, a large comfortable-looking woman with grey hair, whose pleasant face now carried an expression of alert curiosity, had been Vic Dermott's secretary for the past five years. She sat behind her large desk and regarded Abe Mason and Merrill Andrews through big horn-rimmed spectacles as she said. “Federal Bureau, Mr. Mason? I don't understand.”

“Can you please tell me where I can find Mr. Dermott?” Mason repeated politely.

“You asked that question just now. I said I don't understand. What business have you with Mr. Dermott?”

While they were talking, Andrews was looking around the big, pleasantly-furnished room. He saw at the far end of the room a photograph of a man in a silver frame. He got abruptly to his feet, walked the length of the room and stared at the excellent likeness of Dermott, then he turned and said excitedly, “It's Dermott all right! No possible mistake about it!”

Mason relaxed. Now at last they were getting somewhere. To Miss Synder, he said, “This is an urgent police matter. It is essential we get in touch with Mr. Dermott right away. Please tell me where he is.”

“Mr. Dermott is writing a play,” Miss Synder said with determination. “He is not to be disturbed. I have no authority to give you his address.”

Mason restrained his impatience with difficulty.

“Mr. Dermott could be in very great danger,” he said quietly. “We have reason to believe that kidnappers have moved into the house where he is living and are threatening the lives of his wife and baby.”

Vic had often said that if an atomic bomb went off behind Miss Synder's chair, she would be completely unruffled.

She was unruffled now.

“May I see your credentials, Mr. Mason?”

With a suppressed grunt of exasperation, Mason handed over his warrant card. Miss Synder examined it and then returned it.

Three minutes later, Mason was on the telephone to Dennison.

“It's Dermott all right,” he said. “He and his wife have rented a ranch house called Wastelands from a Mr. and Mrs. Harris-Jones. The house is completely isolated: about twenty miles from a little place called Boston Creek and some fifty miles from Pitt City.”

“Good work,” Dennison said. “Come on back. We don't need Mr. Andrews anymore. Get back here as fast as you can.”

As Dennison replaced the receiver, the telephone bell began to ring. With an impatient movement, he lifted the receiver again. It was Sergeant O'Harridon of the San Bernadino police.

“We've found Miss Van Wylie's Jag,” he reported. “It was where you said. One interesting point: the passenger door has been sprayed with some pretty strong acid. It's eaten away all the leather work.”

“Get every fingerprint you can find on the car,” Dennison ordered. “Let me know what acid has been used.”

“The boys are working on it now,” O'Harridon said and hung up.

As Dennison reached for a cigar, the telephone rang again.

It was Tom Harper.

“Hit the jackpot right away, Chief,” Harper said. “Kramer stayed two days at the Lake Arrowhead Hotel. The doorman identified him from the photograph. Three o'clock on the day of the kidnapping, Kramer hired a convertible Buick and drove away, heading towards Pitt City. He didn't return that night, but he arrived back at the hotel the following morning soon after eleven o'clock. He paid his check, handed over the Buick and took a taxi to the railroad station. He was in time to catch the Frisco train.”

“Good work,” Dennison said. “So it looks as if it could be Kramer at the back of this. Now look, Tom, I have a job for you as you are out there on the spot. We're pretty sure Miss Van Wylie is at a ranch house called Wastelands.” He described where Wastelands was located. “But I'm not absolutely sure she is there. I want you to find out. Think you can do it?”

“I guess so,” Harper said without much enthusiasm.

“You've got to be surer than that,” Dennison said, a sudden edge to his voice. “These hoods mustn't be alerted. They could be killers. I know they are acid throwers. If they suspect we are on to them, they could massacre the girl, the Dermotts and anyone else there who could identify them.”

While he was talking, he was thinking. “Hang on a moment.”

He put down the receiver, lit his cigar while he continued to think. Then, picking up the receiver, he said, “Here's what you do, Tom. Hire a car. Leave your wallet, your warrant and your gun with Brody. Drive out to Wastelands, take a look at the place, then ring on the front

doorbell. Tell whoever answers the door that you are a friend of the Harris-Jones and they are letting you hire the house in a couple of months' time. As you happen to be passing, could you look over the house and see if it is suitable for your requirements . . . you know the blah. Keep your eyes open. They won't let you in, but you'll get an idea of the geography of the place. Let me know what outbuildings there are: what cover there is: if we can get a bunch of men near enough to the house to rush it. You know the sort of thing I want. And watch out, Tom: these hoods are dangerous if Kramer is hooked up with them.”

“Okay, Chief,” Harper said. “I'll get moving right away. I should be out there by five o'clock. Should I take either Letts or Brody with me?”

“What for?” Dennison said impatiently. “Do you imagine you're going to feel lonely?”

* * *

Moe Zegetti had taken his time about returning to Wastelands. When he was clear of Boston Creek, he had pulled up by the side of the road, prepared to give way to his grief.

To his surprise the tears he was expecting didn't come, for he suddenly realized what his mother's passing really meant to him. He realized for the first time in his life he would be able to do exactly what he wanted to do without having to consult his mother first. This unexpected realization startled him and he lit a cigarette and considered, not without a twinge of guilt, just what this discovery could mean to his future.

He was forty-eight years of age. He had never married because his mother had never approved of any girl he had brought home for her inspection. All his life he had been under his mother's domination. There had been times when she had driven him half-crazy with her bossy ways. Among many irritating things, she had insisted that he should change his shirt every day and that he should limit his drinking and so on and so on. With a quarter of a million dollars coming to him, he would have a new, free and exciting life to look forward to. Still thinking about himself as he sat in the car, he realized that when his mother hadn't been bossing him around, Kramer had. He had to admit that when Kramer had walked out on him, his affairs had turned sour, but that hadn't been really his fault. He had had bad luck. Now Kramer was back, bossing him around again! Moe moved restlessly. A quarter of a million dollars!

It was nice money, but why had Kramer offered him such a sum? Just how much was Kramer going to get out of this snatch? If Kramer was willing to part with a quarter of a million, it was a safe bet that Kramer himself was going to pick up at least three or possibly four million!

Influenced by this new heady feeling of freedom, Moe decided the split wasn't fair. Although Kramer had planned the job, he, Moe, had been landed with the dangerous end.

If the job happened to turn sour, he would be the first to take the rap. It wasn't good enough. When Kramer began to dish out the money, Moe told himself, he would be a sucker if he didn't ask for more. He might even persuade Kramer to split the take.

With these thoughts running through his head, Moe started the car and drove towards Wastelands. During the drive, he brooded about the ransom. He finally convinced himself that Kramer must split the money with him. He would tell Kramer he, Moe, would be willing to pay off the Cranes from his share, but Kramer would have to accept the new terms. In this mood of elation, Moe didn't even consider just how he would persuade Kramer to do this.

It was because his native cunning was alerted by these thoughts that he immediately sensed that something was wrong as he pulled up outside the ranch house. He sat for a long moment in the car, looking towards the veranda. Zelda, in a new outfit, with Chita was standing tense and looking towards him. There was no sign of Riff.

He got out of the car. Something was up, he told himself, but what? The Cranes were tricky, but for all their trickiness, he couldn't imagine what they had been up to to give him this feeling of uneasiness. Casually, he undid the button of his jacket to enable him to get at the .38 automatic he carried in a holster under his jacket.

He walked slowly to the steps of the veranda and mounted them.

“All okay?” he asked, pausing at the top of the steps and staring at Chita.

He saw Zelda glance swiftly at Chita and then away.

Chita said, “Why shouldn't it be?”

There was something about her expression that made him uneasy. He saw too that the left side of her face was slightly bruised.

“Where's Riff?” he asked without moving.

“Inside,” Chita said.

There was a pause as Moe stared searchingly at her, then Riff appeared in the front doorway. He was wearing his black leather suit. There was sweat on his face and his smile was a fixed grimace.

“Hyah, there,” he said. “So you're back.”

“Where's Mrs. Dermott?” Moe asked, turning so he faced Riff.

“Inside with her brat,” Riff said.

Moe suddenly noticed that Riff's hand was out of sight, behind his back.

“Everything okay while I've been away?” he asked.

“Sure . . . fine,” Riff said and he began to move towards Moe.

Out of the corner of his eye, Moe was aware that Chita was moving casually, but her languid strides were bringing her quickly towards him.

“What have you behind your back?” Moe asked.

“What are you talking about?” Riff asked. He was nearly within striking distance of Moe.

Moe hadn't been considered by the police as a dangerous criminal for nothing. He may have allowed himself to be bossed around by his mother and by Kramer, but when in a tight spot, Moe could be as dangerous as a rattlesnake. As Kramer's lieutenant, he had had control of young vicious hoods who could turn into killers and he had never lost in a showdown. He had the knack of drawing a gun faster than any of the hoods he handled. It was a knack that had saved his life many times in the past and a knack he had never let get rusty.

Riff, his hand bound in his chain, was about to deal Moe a crushing blow to his face when he found himself looking at the vicious nose of a .38 that had appeared in Moe's hand as if by magic.

Seeing the gun, Chita stopped as if she had run into an invisible wall. The Cranes looked at Moe who moved slightly so he could swing the gun easily to cover them both.

“What's the big idea?” Riff asked, his voice uneven.

“Get that chain off!” Moe snapped. “Drop it on the floor, fast!”

This was a new Moe. The fat face had tightened: the black eyes were steady and threatening.

Riff hurriedly unwound the chain and let it drop.

“I was only fooling,” he said, a whine in his voice. “What's eating you, Moe?”

“Get over there!” Moe snapped and jerked the gun towards Chita.

“You gone nuts or something?” Riff said, but he moved to join his sister.

Without taking his eyes off Riff, Moe bent and scooped up the chain.

“Now I'll ask the questions,” he said. “What's going on here?”

There was a long pause, then Zelda who had been watching this scene, her eyes wide with fear, said breathlessly, “You mustn't hurt him! We are leaving together! He and I are getting married! If you will help us, I'll see my father gives you some money.”

This news so stunned Moe that he lowered his gun to stare blankly at Zelda.

Quick to see his opportunity, Riff said, “That's the McCoy, Moe. We've taken a fancy to each other. Listen, this is a cinch. We'll take her back and her old man will be so pleased he won't sick the cops on to us. We'll be in the clear . . . the three of us. How's about it, pally? She and I will get married and we'll take care of you.”

Moe looked at Zelda and he saw the way she was regarding Riff, then he looked at Chita and he realized that this was something she didn't go along with.

Moe thought of Kramer. He cursed himself for ever suggesting the Cranes should come in on this job. There were three more days before Kramer could collect the final ransom. He now had Zelda and Riff against him. What was he to do with them? Chita might be on his side, but he knew he couldn't trust her. Then he had the Dermott girl in his hair too.

It was while he was standing in the hot evening sunlight, trying to solve this problem that he saw a cloud of approaching dust: the unmistakable sign of an approaching car.

CHAPTER NINE

T
om Harper pulled up outside the five-barred gate that guarded the entrance to Wastelands.

As he got out of the car to open the gate, he wiped his sweating face. It was a hot evening, but he realized he was sweating more than he usually did. He was aware too of the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach: a feeling of fear.