1963 - One Bright Summer Morning (17 page)

He was unarmed, and he was about to drive up to this house which for the moment, he couldn't see and he was then going to ring on the front door bell. If his Chief was right, hidden in the house were dangerous hoods who had kidnapped one of the richest girls in the world. Unhappily, Harper thought, his Chief was invariably right. If these hoods got the slightest hint by some mistake he might make that he was a Federal Officer, they would kill him. Kidnappers had nothing to lose. The fact that they were kidnappers automatically put their lives in jeopardy. They wouldn't hesitate to kill him and then make a bolt for it.

Harper opened the gate, got in his car and drove up the drive. He drove slowly and his alert eyes took in the scene. He grimaced. The place offered no cover. There were a few small sand dunes behind which a man could hide, but they were too far away from the house. He could see as he drove that any car approaching would create a telltale dust cloud.

As he drove past the sand dimes, he saw the house. It was a quarter of a mile from him, set on a flat plane of sand, surrounded by green lawns and several outbuildings. He saw at once that there was no hope of approaching the house in daylight without being seen. He knew from the previous night that the moon shed a brilliant white light over the desert. It would be tricky and dangerous even to make the attempt at night.

He whistled through his teeth, thinking that Dennison would have a job on his hands if he meant to rush the place.

As he drew nearer to the house, he could see the long, deserted veranda. He noticed all the windows were closed. It looked as if no one was at home. Then he noticed a Lincoln

car parked near the house. It was dusty and had California number plates. He memorized the number as he pulled up near the car.

He felt instinctively that he was being watched. He got out of the car and stood for some moments regarding the house, then with casual strides and a thumping heart, he reached the veranda steps, mounted them and rang the front doorbell.

As he waited, he thought ruefully that although Dennison was his future father-in-law, he certainly dreamed up some tough jobs for him.

There was a long pause, then the door opened and Chita regarded him, her face expressionless, one eyebrow lifted. The sight of her gave Harper a jolt. Dennison had supplied him with the description of the girl who had been riding with Zelda Van Wylie just before Zelda's disappearance given to him by Patrol Officer Murphy. Harper recognized Chita at once from this description.

So Dennison was right as usual, he thought. I've walked right into them.

“Sorry to disturb,” he said with a wide, friendly smile, “but I was passing. Could I see Mr. Dermott for a moment?” He inclined his head slightly to one side. “You wouldn't be

Mrs. Dermott?”

“They're both out,” Chita said in a cold, flat voice.

“Mr. Harris-Jones . . . in case you don't know he owns this place,” Harper said. “He is renting it to me in a couple of months. As I was passing, I wondered if I could look the house over. I'm not all that sure if it will be big enough for my requirements.”

“I can't let you in, while they're out.”

Harper widened his smile which was beginning to make his face ache.

“I can see that. Well, then I'll get along. I shouldn't have bothered you, but . . .”

“Yeah,” Chita said. “You told me: you happened to be passing,” and she shut the door in his face.

Still aware that he was being watched, Harper walked to his car. The back of his neck felt prickly. He didn't hurry although he wanted to run. In spite of the fact that he kept wondering if he was going to get a bullet in his back, his eyes kept busy. There was a small cabin to his right, probably for the staff, to his left a double garage, then this expanse of lawn and another vast expanse of sand. It would be a hell of a place to approach without being seen.

It wasn't until he was in his car and driving fast down the drive-in that he began to relax. He had the information that Dennison wanted and he had got away with his skin in one piece: how Dennison was going to tackle this place happily was Dennison’s headache.

Once out of sight of the house, Harper pulled up and jotted down the number of the Lincoln. He then drove on fast to Pitt City. There he called Dennison.

“You hit it right on the nose,” he told Dennison when he came on the line. “This girl who was driving with Miss Van Wylie came to the door. From the description, I'm certain it's the same girl.” He went on to describe the approach to the ranch house and gave Dennison careful details of the layout of the house.

“Okay,” Dennison said. “Here's what you do now. Take Brody and Letts and go back there after dark. Get as close to the place as you can . . . you'll have to walk part of the way. Take a pair of field glasses with you. I want a twenty-four hour non-stop watch kept on the house. Go prepared. I don't have to tell you what you want. Get Franklin of Pitt City to fit you out. I want to know who is in the house. Understand,”

“Yeah,” Harper said.

“The one thing you have to take care about is that no one in the house has the slightest idea they are being watched. That's your responsibility. Take no risks. Good luck,” and Dennison hung up.

* * *

The reception clerk of the Mount Crescent Hotel, Los Angeles, smiled politely as Vic Dermott came up to the desk.

“You have a reservation for me,” Vic said. “The name's Jack Howard.”

“That's right, Mr. Howard. Room 25. You will be staying only the one night.”

“Yes.” Vic was aware the clerk was staring curiously at his bruised face. “Just the one night.”

He signed the register, handed his grip to the bellhop and followed him to the elevator.

The time was twenty minutes to six. When the bellhop had finally finished fussing around the bleak little room and had gone, Vic sat on the bed and rested his aching face in his hands. His thoughts were of Carrie and Junior. He wondered fearfully what was happening to them.

He had eight hundred thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills in his suitcase. He had had no trouble in cashing the first two cheques. Tomorrow, he would buy another suitcase, and then go to the Chase National Bank and cash the third cheque. Then he would leave Los Angeles and drive up the coast as directed. At eleven o'clock tonight, this fat gangster had said he would telephone.

The nagging ache of his face and the nervous tension of the day exhausted him. He dropped back across the bed and closed his eyes. He hoped he would sleep for a while.

* * *

At the Rose Arms Hotel, San Francisco, Kramer poured himself a large whisky from the bottle standing on the dressing table, added water and tried to make himself comfortable in the armchair that was a shade too small for his bulk.

He kept looking impatiently at his watch. The time now was five minutes to eleven. Had Dermott succeeded in picking up the first of the money? How were things going at Wastelands? Kramer drank some of the whisky. Maybe he had better ease off with this drinking, he thought. He had been drinking steadily since he had had the indifferent hotel dinner. His head felt hot and there was this goddam nagging pain in his side. He drank again, then set down the glass. He lit a cigar and then reached for the telephone. He asked the hotel operator to connect him with the Mount Crescent Hotel, Los Angeles. There was a slight delay, then he got the number.

He recognized Dermott's voice.

“You know who this is,” he said. “How did it go? Care how you talk. Did you run into any trouble?”

“No,” Vic said.

“You have the first consignment?”

“Yes.”

Kramer grinned. When it came to planning, he was still in there, beating the best of them!

“Fine. Tomorrow you go to Santa Barbara, and then on to Salinas. I've booked a room for you at the Cambria Hotel under the same name. I'll call you this time tomorrow.”

“I understand.” A slight pause, then Vic said anxiously, “I want to call my wife. May I do that?”

“I shouldn't if I were you,” Kramer said heavily. “Not unless you want to annoy our friend. He doesn't like telephone calls,” and he hung up.

He finished the whisky and refilled his glass. His heavy face was flushed and sweat beads made his thinning hair glisten in the hard overhead light.

He was now eight hundred thousand dollars to the good, he told himself. In another three days, he would have four million dollars in cash! There was Moe and these two young punks to take care of, but even after their cut had been deducted, he would still have three and a half million dollars for himself. At his age, that was lasting money!

He felt a sudden need to talk to Helene. He hesitated for some moments before he put the call through. There could be no danger, he assured himself. Why should there be? He gave his home number to the operator and replaced the receiver. He grinned to himself. Helene would be worrying herself stiff, he thought. Maybe now was the time to tell her about Solly Lucas. She would have to know sooner or later. If she started asking too many questions, he would always hang up on her, but she had better be warned: no use jumping the whole thing on her at once.

The telephone bell rang and he picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” Helene said. Her voice sounded far away and tense. “Who's that?”

“This is your lover,” Kramer said and laughed. He was feeling fine and a little drunk.

“Oh, Jim! What's happening. Where are you?”

Joe Seesbruger, one of Dennison's men, who had tapped in on Kramer's line, gently pressed down the start button of the tape recorder connected to the line.

“How are you, honey?” Kramer was saying. “Are you lonely without me?”

“Jim! Two Federal Officers have been here! They were asking for you!”

Kramer felt as if someone had punched him violently under the heart.

Seesbruger was signalling to the telephone engineer.

“Trace this call fast,” he whispered.

“What?” Kramer was saying. “What did they want?”

“They wanted to talk to you. Oh, Jim, I'm so worried! They know Moe has been here! This man, Inspector Dennison . . .”

Kramer nearly dropped the receiver.

“Dennison!”

“Yes. He said Moe hasn't a restaurant. He said Moe hadn't a dime to call his own. He - he said he hoped for your sake you weren't planning anything bad. Oh, Jim! You're not, are you?”

Kramer was scarcely listening. He wished now he hadn't had so much to drink. He couldn't think clearly. Dennison! One of the smartest Feds in the business and an old enemy of his! Dennison was a man he dare not underestimate!

“I'll call you back,” he said hurriedly. “There's nothing to worry about. I've got to go now. Don't worry,” and he hung up.

The telephone engineer said, “That's a call from the Rose Arms Hotel, Frisco.”

Seesbruger grabbed the telephone and asked to be put through to the Federal Bureau, San Francisco.

Kramer was on his feet. What a mad fool he had been to have called Helene! They had seen him with Moe and they had rightly decided he was planning something. He had been stupid enough to have imagined he could lose them, but with Dennison on the job, he hadn't lost them 1

Dennison would have tapped his home telephone line! By now they would know he was at this hotel! In a few minutes, they would be here! He was already struggling into his lightweight dust coat. His suitcase only contained a change and his toilet things. To hell with it! He wouldn't have time to settle his check before the Feds arrived. He had to get out fast!

Eleven minutes later, two Federal Officers hurried into the Rose Arms Hotel. They flashed their badges and showed the startled reception clerk Kramer's photograph.

“Seen this man?” one of them asked.

“Why, sure,” the clerk said. “That's Mr. Mason. He went out only two minutes ago.”

The two Federal Officers exchanged exasperated glances.

The taller of the two, Bob Arlan, said, “Did Mr. Mason make any telephone calls this evening?”

“I wouldn't know,” the clerk said, “but I can easily find out.” He started towards a door that led to the switchboard.

Arlan followed him.

The telephone operator, large-eyed to be questioned by a Federal Officer, gave Arlan the information he needed.

Dennison was about to go home when Arlan called him.

“Kramer just beat us to it,” Arlan reported. “He had one other call besides the call to his home. Around eleven, he talked to someone staying at the Mount Crescent Hotel, Los Angeles.”

“Okay,” Dennison said. “Forget Kramer now. I'm not ready to pick him up.” He cut the connection and then got on to Seesbruger. “Stay where you are. I want details of every call put through to Mrs. Kramer.”

Seesbruger said wearily he would stay right on the job.

Dennison looked at his watch. The time was ten minutes after midnight. He called home and warned his wife he would be late, then he went down to where he had parked his car and headed fast towards Los Angeles.

* * *

They were all in Carrie's bedroom which was unbearably hot because Moe had shut the windows when he had seen Harper approaching.

Carrie stood near the cot. Happily, Junior, overcome by the heat, was asleep. Zelda and Riff stood by the window, concealed by the net curtains. Moe, gun in hand, was in a position where he could see out of the window and yet watch the other three in the room.

They watched Harper get in his car and drive away. The door had been left ajar and they had all listened to the conversation between Chita and Harper. Now, Chita came back into the room.

“Okay,” Moe said, relaxing a little. “Just one of those things. Get those windows open.”

Riff pushed open the windows and let in the light evening breeze.

Moe said, “Listen you two. I don't give a damn what you all do after we've got the ransom. You can marry this girl or her grandmother for all I care, but you're not leaving here until Kramer comes back with the ransom. I've handled punks like you most of my life. If you think you can do something about it, try, but I warn you the next time you try to start something, I'm shooting first and crying over you after. That understood?”