1963 - One Bright Summer Morning (8 page)

Chita nodded.

Kramer looked over at Moe.

“You'll drive them to Wastelands. You've seen the map and you know where it is. You should get there around midday. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Moe said.

Chita asked, “Wastelands? What's that?”

Kramer ignored her. He was now looking at Riff.

“Now you get your ears open and listen carefully. This is going to be your end of it. The trick in this is to find a place to hide the girl where no one will think to look for her and also find someone who will arrange about the ransom. None of us is going to contact the father. I've found a fella to do the job. You two ever heard of Victor Dermott?”

Chita said, “There's a guy of that name who writes plays. You don't mean him, do you?”

“That's him,” Kramer said. “He has a big reputation: he's known. People think a lot of him. I've picked him to talk to the father. He'll convince him to pay up and to keep the cops off our necks.”

“Why the hell should he?” Riff demanded, scowling.

“Because he happens to have a nice-looking wife and a baby,” Kramer said, smiling evilly. “You, Moe, the girl and you,” he glanced at Chita, “will be in his house. Your job is to put such a scare into this fella he'll do what he is told.”

Kramer regarded Riff's blistered and scarred face. Okay this slob was tricky, but Moe had picked the right one. If he couldn't throw a scare into a man with a wife and baby, then no one could.

“I don't get it,” Riff said. “How does this guy come into it?”

“He's writing a play,” Kramer explained. “I happen to know the fellow who has rented him a ranch house. I've seen the place. I went there a couple of years ago. It's the most awful, lonely, Godforsaken spot you can imagine, but just the place for a guy who wants some peace and quiet to write a play. He's out there now with his wife, baby, a Vietnamese servant and an Alsatian dog.” Kramer paused to stub out his cigar, then he pointed a thick finger at Riff. “Your first job is to fix the dog and the servant, then throw a hell of a scare into the Dermotts. Get it?”

“I can fix the dog,” Riff said, looking searchingly at Kramer, “but how do you mean . . . fix the servant?”

“These Vietnamese can be tricky. You'll have all you want to do watching the Dermotts,” Kramer said. “Keep the servant locked up in his quarters. He could make a bolt for it and make trouble.”

Riff glanced at Chita who stared back at him with blank eyes. Impatiently, he shrugged.

“You'll put the telephone out of order and immobilize the cars,” Kramer went on. “They have shotguns. Get them and put them out of the way. Make sure there are no other guns in the house. Then stick around until Moe arrives. You'll get down there around midnight the day before the snatch.”

Riff got to his feet and crossed the room to the window. He looked through the curtains without touching them.

“What do we do about that jerk down there?” he asked.

“Not a thing. You two go down to the bar and buy yourselves a drink. Stick around for half an hour and then leave. That guy down there doesn't know you, but watch out you're not tailed. The chances are you won't be, but watch out. Moe leaves now. They know him and they'll tail him, but Moe's been tailed before. I'm checking out after lunch. They'll tail me.” He showed his big, yellow teeth in a grin. “And I've been tailed before.” He levered his bulk out of his chair and went over to a briefcase. From it he took a thick envelope which he tossed to Riff. “There's all the dope for you both. Maps, times and the whole setup. When you've got the stuff into your heads, burn it. We make the snatch next Friday. In the meantime, Moe will drop out of sight. On the day before the snatch, you will be at Twin Creek Tavern at five o'clock. Moe will be there. He'll give you final instructions and check to see you both know what you're to do. Got all that?”

Riff, who had been listening intently, nodded.

“How about some dough now?” he asked. “We're down to our last dollar.”

“You'll find a hundred bucks in there,” Kramer said, waving to the envelope that Riff held in his hand. “That'll hold you. Moe will give you more when you meet. He'll also have a car for you.” The small, hard eyes shifted to Chita. “Now, get down to the bar and remember if you foul this up, you'll have me as well as the Feds to reckon with!”

The Cranes went out, leaving Kramer and Moe together.

* * *

On Thursday night, Riff Crane drove on his motorcycle from Pitt City towards Boston Creek. Some fifteen miles along the highway, he turned off on to a dirt road and drove a further fifteen miles until he arrived at the five-barred gate that guarded the entrance to Wastelands.

It was a warm, moonlit night. Riff pulled up outside the gate and sat for some moments peering up the long drive that he had been told by Moe led to the ranch house.

Riff was wearing his black leather uniform together with a pair of heavy goggles that half hid his face. He was sweating and uneasy. This was his first major job and he knew the consequences if the job turned sour. He and Chita had talked and talked about the job during the past seven days. They were both mesmerized by the thought of laying their hands on ten thousand dollars, but at the same time, they both realized they would be risking their lives. This wasn't their usual small-time, petty thieving: this was suddenly big-time, and the payoff, if the

job turned sour, would be their finish. Both agreed after endless discussion that the gamble was justified. A character like Kramer, old as he was, wouldn't stick his neck out unless he was sure the job would work.

So Riff was now committed. In another nine hours, Chita would also be committed. Then there would be no turning back for either of them. The job had to succeed!

He opened the gate and wheeled his machine on to the grass verge. Moe had told him to walk the machine up to the house. Riff walked very cautiously, his eyes probing ahead. He had no stomach for a sudden encounter with an Alsatian dog. He had come provided with a lump of poisoned meat, but he knew if the dog saw him before it saw the meat, he would be the one to suffer.

It took him over an hour before he saw the ranch house in the moonlight, and by then sweat was streaming off him. He lowered his machine on to the grass and then moving rapidly, he approached the house.

He was lucky. He saw the dog before the dog either saw or smelt his approach. Riff dropped flat. The dog was standing upwind, looking away into the darkness. It was some fifty yards from the ranch house and by the way the dog stood, its ears cocked forward, Riff guessed it sensed pending trouble.

He took the meat from the plastic bag and gauged the distance, then with a quick overarm throw, he tossed the meat towards the dog. It was a good throw: the meat landed within a few feet of the dog. It whirled around, looking in Riff's direction, but Riff had already flattened in the sand, sure he would be invisible in his black uniform. He lay there, sweating, his face buried in his arms, wondering if the dog was bounding towards him and knowing it would be fatal to make the slightest movement.

He lay like that for a long, heart-thumping five minutes, then very slowly, he raised his head. He saw the black shape of the dog lying on its side. He stared, waited, then as there was no movement, he got slowly to his feet. He approached cautiously.

Ten minutes later, using a trenching tool he had brought with him, he had completed the burial of the dog. He spent some minutes smoothing down the sand, and then satisfied no one could tell where the dog was buried, he returned for his motorcycle.

He wheeled the machine towards the outbuildings. Leaving it behind the garage, he paused to take stock of his surroundings.

Moe had supplied him with a detailed plan of the house and the outbuildings. He quickly identified the staff cabin. In the cabin would be the Vietnamese servant. He hesitated for a long moment whether to tackle the servant first or go to the house. He decided finally to go to the house. Moving like a long, black shadow, he silently circled the house. He quickly found the lead-in wires of the telephone. These he cut and rejoined with thin black string Moe had provided him with.

To the left of the house were french windows, leading to the gunroom. The lock on the door gave him little trouble and he moved silently into the big room. He had never before broken into a house and he was nervous. He stood in the darkness, moving the beam of a powerful flashlight around and listening. The beam came to rest on the gun rack.

He lifted the guns to the floor, then acting on Moe's instructions, he searched the drawers of the desk. He found the .38 automatic which he slid into his hip pocket. Then gathering up the guns, he walked out into the moonlight. When he was several hundred yards from the house he buried the guns in a sand dune.

All this took time. When he returned to the ranch house, it was a little after two o'clock. He closed the french windows and with the aid of a paper-thin knife, he coaxed the catch to drop back into place.

He then walked quickly over to the garage. The door was unlocked. He swung it up, entered and lowered the door back in place. He turned on the electric light. Working quickly, he removed the sparking plugs from both cars. These he rolled up in his handkerchief. He carried them to the place where he had buried the guns and buried them too.

He was less nervous now. Everything was working out the way Moe had said it would. The dog was gone, the guns buried, the cars immobilized and the telephone fixed. He now had to take care of the Vietnamese servant.

From a long narrow pocket that ran the length of his left trouser leg, he drew out a bicycle chain. This was Riff's favourite weapon in a fight. Carefully he wound the chain like a bandage around his right fist. He flexed his fingers, making sure he hadn't the chain on too tightly, then satisfied, he headed for the staff cabin.

Di-Long was a shrimp of a man: fine boned, thin and nervy. A few minutes after two o'clock, he had woken out of an uneasy sleep. Usually, he slept through the night and to come awake so suddenly startled him. He lay for some moments in the dark, wondering what could have woken him, then he turned on the bedside light and got out of bed. He found he was thirsty and he went into the kitchen.

He took a bottle of Coke from the refrigerator and snapped off the cap. With the bottle in his hand, he went to the cabin door, turned the key and pulled the door open. He moved out into the warm moonlight, looking across at the ranch house. As he stood there, Riff came silently around the side of the cabin.

The two men paused and looked at each other. The moonlight fell fully on Di-Long and Riff saw him clearly, whereas he was in the shadows and Di-Long only saw a towering black shadow that paralysed him with terror.

The bottle of Coke slipped from his fingers and dropped silently into the sand. The spilt Coke made a black puddle as Riff, recovering first, his nerves tightening to vicious tension, moved forward. He saw Di-Long open his mouth. He knew that in a second the silent night air would be split by Di-Long's scream for help. His right fist, bound in its chain, swept up with the force of panic and with the speed of a striking snake.

Riff felt his fist crunch against the side of Di-Long's face. He felt the shock run up his arm. The Vietnamese catapulted back into the cabin and thudded to the floor. Only his thin ankles and small feet in their straw sandals remained in the pool of moonlight.

I shouldn't have hit him so hard, Riff thought, feeling a chill crawl up his spine. He knew he had hit the little man a terrible blow and he had a sickening idea that a man of that size couldn't recover from such a blow.

He looked over at the ranch house, feeling cold sweat running down his face.

My luck! he thought. What was he doing out here? Judas! He scared me! He was going to yell! I had to hit him! He unwound the chain and began to slide it back into his pocket when he became aware that the chain felt wet and sticky. Grimacing, he moved away from the shadow of the cabin and stared at the glistening dark patch that ran three-quarters of the length of the chain. He knew it was blood, and angrily, he scrubbed the chain clean in the sand. Satisfied that it was clean, he returned it to his pocket. Then he lit a cigarette, reached into his hip pocket and pulled out his flashlight. He stared at the small, narrow feet lying in the moonlight. Suppose he had killed this yellow punk? If he had, the job would blow up in his face. Kramer had said there was no risk as he had been certain he could talk the father of the kidnapped girl into paying up and keep the cops out of it, but if this little punk was dead, could Kramer keep the cops out?

Cursing under his breath, his heart thumping with panic, Riff pressed the button on the flashlight and threw the beam of light on to Di-Long's mangled and dead face.

CHAPTER FIVE

I
f Zelda Van Wylie had been anything but the heiress to a billion dollars, it would be hard to say what she would have become: probably an inefficient saleswoman in some second-rate store or possibly an inaccurate copy-typist, but certainly with her education as it was and her indifferent intelligence, she couldn't have aspired to anything much higher.

But since she had the fortune to be born the only child of a Texas billionaire who was besotted with her, she was able to surmount to some extent the various handicaps with which nature had endowed her.

In appearance she was nothing to set a bonfire alight. This she had come to realize herself after hours of examining her naked body before a full-length mirror in her bathroom. She was pretty in a vapid, colourless way. She had large brown eyes that were generally sulky. She had a pretty nose and a nice mouth, but her chin faded away and this spoilt her overall appearance.

She was flat chested and this distressed her as she admired those movie stars with overdeveloped busts. She was cursed with broad, matronly hips which she endeavoured to discipline by squeezing them in the most vicious girdles that the girdle market could provide. Her legs, however, were long and slender, and they were of great consolation to her.