The Kidnapper (16 page)

“Why, I don’t know.”

“That is my belief. This crime was the work of a clever man, or several clever men. The very simplicity of it indicates that. Even though the police have managed to trace the owner of the automobile through the tire tracks found at the scene of the ransom exchange, I am quite sure it will lead nowhere. The criminal, or criminals, would abandon the car immediately.”

“They traced the car? When did you hear that?” Mary was getting excited. She talked to Mr. Racklin, but she was looking beyond him—out the window, at the garage. At the garage, where Specs’ car was.

“Just now, on the radio. The car belongs to some factory worker named Schumaker, or Schumann—perhaps a fellow-countryman of mine.”

“Do they think he did it?” I asked.

“The broadcast did not say. This man has been missing from his residence and from his work since the beginning of the week. Personally, I believe he was probably the victim of the kidnappers. They took his car, and it is my theory that—”

“Oh, Hans, I’m sure the Hendersons aren’t interested in your theories!” Mrs. Racklin waved her hands. “My husband used to be a detective, in the old country. In Czechoslovakia, before the war.”

“Not a detective,” he said. “A criminologist. There is a great distinction.”

“But you think you’ve got this case figured, eh?” I asked.

He shrugged. “One can only surmise. There is so little to go by. If the police can find this girl, this maid, then we would know.”

“You think she did it?” Mary had to ask.

“Contrary to my wife’s opinion, I do not. I believe she might have served as an accomplice, yes. It is probable that one of the kidnappers may have formed a liaison with her and persuaded her to arrange for the abduction. Such a man would find it necessary to be well-informed about the routine of the Warren household. He would desire definite information which the maid could supply. If the police capture him, I am sure they will find the girl in his company.”

“Do you think they
will
catch him?” Mary had to ask that question, too.

Mr, Racklin smiled. “He will capture himself. Excuse me, I am not saying it very well. I mean, he will betray himself. It is all a part of the pattern.”

“Please, Hans—” Mrs. Racklin said. “We’ve got to be going.”

“No, wait a minute. This is interesting,” I said. “What do you mean by this pattern you were talking about?”

More smoke drifted my way. I preferred it, because it hid his eyes. They were too blue, and he could look right through you. But I wanted to hear the rest.

“The pattern I refer to is a peculiar one,” he answered. “You know, in Europe, there are very few crimes of this sort. Kidnapping is almost—how shall I say it?—an American crime. It is the sort of activity that would appeal only to an American criminal. Because of the pattern, which is merely a way of thinking, a way of life. It is the American ideal all over again—to get something for nothing.” He smiled at me. “I trust you do not misunderstand when I talk this way, Mr. Henderson. I am not by any means a Communist.”

“Hans left Czechoslovakia when the Reds came in,” Mrs. Racklin said.

“Sure, I understand. Go ahead. You figure whoever did it was looking for easy money, is that it?”

“The professional criminal has always sought money,” Racklin said. “Today he seeks social recognition which is security.”

I thought I heard a sound in the bedroom, but I couldn’t be sure. All of a sudden I wanted him to get out of here. But he was wound up.

“There is no security for the average man today. It is no longer enough to be a good husband, a good father, a good craftsman. If you do not have a Cadillac in the garage, you are a failure. That is the message of modern advertising, that is the new standard of values we accept.

“Of course, most people adjust. They compromise. The man who cannot buy the Cadillac as a symbol of success will buy a television set. The man who cannot afford a television set buys whiskey. The weak conform. But the strong rebel.

“Some have entered business. During the last war, fortunes were made—and if you are a successful business man, nobody cares where you got your money. Maybe you evaded taxes, cheated the government into building you a factory and turning it over to you for next to nothing. Maybe you took it under the table in the black market or made it gambling. Who cares? Such men are socially accepted today; their names are linked with motion picture stars, they have friends in Washington.”

Mrs. Racklin stirred in her chair. “Please, dear, it’s so late!”

“In a moment.” The cigar was getting short and I could see his eyes again. “So what does our strong man do, our rebel? If he cannot enter a business and succeed by such methods, he may turn to crime. Not out of revenge on society, but merely to gain recognition and security—in a culture where the only real crime today is getting caught.”

“And you figure the kidnappers think that way?” I asked.

“They may not reason it out, no. But that is the pattern.” Racklin stood up, and so did his wife.

Mary looked at him. “You said they would betray themselves, though. What did you mean by that?”

He shrugged. “If I were the police, I should look for these people in the playgrounds of the wealthy. Florida, California, resorts in Mexico or the West Indies. Look over the major crimes of the past few years, involving large sums of money. Most of the culprits were caught because they couldn’t wait to show off, flash their wealth, talk about it. They were too eager to enjoy their new recognition.”

Racklin moved towards the door. “If I were the police, I’d go to these resorts. And I would wait. Sooner or later there will be quarrels about money, drunken displays. Somebody will crack, come and inform on the others. It is true, you know—crime does not pay. They will be caught, these kidnappers.”

Mrs. Racklin bustled up. “My, what a lecture!” she said. “Would you mind if I used the mirror in the bedroom? I want to powder my nose.” She started walking towards the closed door.

“In here,” Mary said. “The light’s better.” She got her over to the john and I breathed easier.

Racklin and I went outside and stood on the steps.

“By the way,” he said. “I wanted to inquire—did you by any chance notice, in the garage, a large oil drum?”

“Oil drum?”

“Yes. I thought I might have left it behind.”

“Why, I don’t know.”

“Do you mind if I take a look?” He started down the steps. Specs’ car was out there. Specs’ car—

“Wait a minute! Now I remember. There was a drum, yes. But I didn’t know anybody wanted it. I gave it to my brother-in-law when he came up here Sunday; he noticed it and said he wanted a spare for his garage.” I talked fast. “Gosh, I’m sorry, I just didn’t think. I’ll be glad to pay you for a new one, if you want.”

“No. That is not necessary.” Racklin stopped. Mary and Mrs. Racklin came out together.

“Well, it certainly was nice, visiting. And I’m glad everything is all right.”

“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Stop by again.”

“Maybe we will.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Racklin said. “I enjoyed our conversation.”

He would, he’d done all the talking.

“Goodbye!”

“Goodbye!”

They drove off, switching on their lights. It was getting dark already. I couldn’t see Mary’s face as she stood there, but when we got inside again I turned on the light.

She was pale.

“Aw, forget it,” I said. “It’s just talk.”

“But even a man like that, he suspects me—”

“Tomorrow they get your letter,” I told her. “Maybe even this afternoon it came. It’s all right.”

“No it isn’t!”

I turned. Specs was standing in the doorway.

“I heard,” he said. “I was standing in the bedroom and I heard every word. They traced the car.”

“Hell, we can take it out tonight and ditch it. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

“No.” He came in, shaking his head. “You can’t talk me out of it this time. Give me my dough, Steve. I’m getting away from here.”

Chapter Nineteen

S
pecs was right. I couldn’t talk him out of it. The argument went on, all through supper.

“What a sucker I was,” he said. “Listening to you, doing it your way!”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it? We’ve got the money.”

“Sure, we’ve got the money—but what good is that? You were the smart one. You quit weeks beforehand. Nobody saw you. But they’re looking for me, and they’re looking for Mary, too. Because you planned it that way.”

“What’re you driving at? You think I had any choice? This was the only scheme that would work. I didn’t hear you come up with a better one.”

“Well, it’s not any good now. I’m not sitting here until the cops arrive, or until those Racklins come back again. Jesus, I nearly passed out when I thought that dame was going into the bedroom where I was.”

“They probably won’t come back before we leave.”

“That’s what you say. And what am I supposed to do in the meantime—stay in there night and day, out of sight, in case they do show up?” Specs hit the table with his fist. “No, I’m through. I’m leaving tonight. If you want to come with me, good. If I was you, I would—at least, if I was Mary. She’s in as deep as me, now.”

“What do you say, Mary?”

“Steve, it’s up to you. I still trust you.”

“Thanks.” I leaned across the table. “Would you mind telling me just where in hell you think you’re going, how you expect to keep under cover if the cops are looking for you?”

“Damn right I mind! It’s none of your business. I’ll get by. You didn’t tell us where you hid the body, why should I tell you my secrets?”

“Well, one thing’s for sure,” I said. “You’re not taking your car. Maybe if you get rid of those glasses, dye your hair or something, you can get by. But they’ve got the car spotted—the license number too, by now. You’ll have to take the Olds.”

“Suits me. I’m all packed and ready to go. So where’s the dough?”

“I’ll get it.”

And I did. I brought the carton in. The shades were down, the door was locked. I began to put the money on the table.

“I still think you’re making a mistake,” I told him. “But it’s up to you. I only hope, if they catch you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

“You know me better’n that, Steve. They won’t get nothing out of me. Mostly because they aren’t gonna catch me.”

I finished counting. “Here it is. $65,000. Count it over.”

“Hey, wait a minute—it’s supposed to be $66,666.”

“Like hell it is! What about the car you’re getting? And our expenses, for the cottage here and all.”

“All right. Give me the keys.”

I gave him the keys, stood up while he went into the bedroom and lugged his suitcase out. He opened it up and tossed a bunch of shirts and socks onto the table.

“I won’t need these,” he said. “Gives me more room.” He stuffed the bills into the suitcase, closed it up again.

“That does it. I’m off.” He stood there, looking down for a moment, and then he smiled. “Goodbye, you two. And—I’m sorry, Steve, for saying all that. I didn’t really mean it. It’s just that I’m like you say, chicken. You two’ll be better off without me around, anyway.”

“Good luck,” Mary said.

“Thanks.” He held out his hand to me and I took it.

“So long,” I told him.

Then he opened the door and went out. Mary sat down and looked at me.

“I didn’t really think he’d go,” she said. “You suppose it’s going to be all right?”

“Sure. It’s his life.”

“But I hate to think of that poor weak little guy, trying to hide out all by himself. He could get caught so easy.”

I reached into my coat pocket.

“Maybe he needs this,” I said.

“The gun? Yes, Steve, he ought to have something. But what will we do without it?”

“Never mind. We’ll get by.” I headed for the door. I could hear the motor starting up, and I ran down the steps. He had the garage door open. I walked in and closed it behind me.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” he asked. He shut off the motor.

“I forgot something. I didn’t want anyone to see from the road, because I thought maybe I’d better give you this.”

He stuck his head out of the window.

“What is it?”

I showed him the gun.

“Gee, thanks! You’re right, that’s just what I need. Maybe it’ll come in handy.”

“It will,” I told him. “You still sure you want it?”

He reached out. “Give it to me,” he said.

I gave him the gun, then. I gave it to him, right on top of the skull.

Chapter Twenty

I
didn’t go back to the house for about five minutes. And when I did, I paid no attention to Mary. I just walked right over to the cupboard and got out the whiskey.

“What’s the matter?” Mary asked.

I took a shot raw, out of the bottle. I still wasn’t ready to look at her.

“Steve, something’s wrong. I didn’t hear Specs leave yet.”

“He left, all right. He’s gone for good.”

“Steve!” She came over to me, put her arms around me. Then she drew back and reached into my pocket. She’d felt the gun there, of course.

“You didn’t give it to him?”

“Yes I did. Oh, yes, I gave it to him good.”

Her eyes started to bug out. “Oooh—you—you didn’t!”

I swung her around. “What in hell did you think I was going to do? Let him drive away from here with our car? Let him take his chances on getting recognized by the cops?”

“But—”

“I tried to talk him out of it, didn’t I? And you heard what this guy Racklin said. He’s no dummy. He figured the score on Specs, all right. First thing Specs would do, he’d head for some resort. Or maybe even not get that far. Hole up in a roadhouse, hotel, someplace, and start drinking. You saw what happens when he gets drunk, Mary. You know how he’d act. Wave his money around and holler for a woman. That’s just the way they catch most of these guys. And if they ever caught Specs, we might as well give ourselves up. Because they’d have him spilling his guts in ten minutes.”

“But what you did, it’s murder—”

“Self defense. Him or us, that’s the way it was. And it’s not going to be us, Mary. Not after we’ve gone this far.” I put my arms around her. “You think I liked having to do it, sweetheart? You know better than that. Listen, you can hear my heart, it’s still pounding. But I did it for you. To protect you. You’re all that counts.”