Rub-A-Dub-Dub

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Clarence did not take the time to point out the physical improbability of this statement.

  “Not all the old men,” he said with a patience that was beginning to wear thin. He had a feeling he was repeating himself. “Just one of them.”

  “One at a time, you mean, Clare? Hey, that would be nice!” Harold suddenly frowned. “Only they always stick together, it said in the papers—”

  “Not one at a time. Just the one of them. For just the one visit,” Clarence said, trying not to grit his teeth. His teeth were the material of nature, and not the plastic masterpieces that graced Harold’s gums, and he knew that gritting them could lead to problems later in life. Still, it was difficult to refrain from grinding them. There were times when Clarence wished he had been more selective in his choice of associates. Certainly Harold’s chief attribute, that of brute strength, would be of small use in the present caper; an eight-year-old girl with two broken arms, Clarence felt, should be able to handle any one of the three old men, if not all three together. At the moment what he wished he had was an associate with a little more imagination, plus a little more toughness, because Clarence had a feeling if he explained his true plan, Harold might object. And the kidnaping, as Clarence saw it, required two men if it were to be successful. Not that he felt Harold would object to kidnaping in principle; only where these particular three old men were concerned. It was, Clarence thought, what came of never having had a father.

  Clarence had decided on kidnaping for several reasons. One, it was a crime almost unknown in England as far as he could determine, and the constabulary precautions against such malfeasance were therefore undoubtedly relatively debile, although it is doubtful he would have expressed it in exactly those words. Two, if the three old men really sacrificed everything each for the other à la Dumas’ musketeers, as the newspapers claimed, then they certainly would not let a small matter of money stand between one of them and his freedom, or even his health, if it came to that. And lastly, kidnaping had a simplicity about it that Clarence admired in any scheme; it required no equipment and small expense, other than a little food for a few days.

  Clarence had already taken most of the preliminary steps to assure a minimum of difficulties in the execution of the plan; he had already informed their sleep-out help, a certain Mrs. Southington, that Harold had come down with a virulent case of tertiary morosis which was highly contagious, and that it would be safer if she remained away until further notice. He had also laid in a goodly supply of food, including many pounds of tea, which he was sure would be necessary sustenance for an English old man. The problem, however, was to break the basic idea of the kidnaping to Harold without the big man getting the feeling that he would be, in essence, sequestering his own unknown father in surrogate.

  “Hey, Clare,” Harold said suddenly, hitting himself on the forehead for not having thought of it sooner, and instantly rubbing the injured spot, for he had a hand like the bumper on a gravel truck, “I got a great idea!”

  “Yes,” Clarence said absently, and went on checking off the points of his plan in his mind. He had already seen to it that their car, rented by the month at the cheapest rate possible—for though Clarence had money and was willing to expend a portion of it to further any scheme that could bring back a buck, he did not throw it away—had been properly filled with fuel; he had made sure there were sufficient bedclothes and blankets around, as it would be counterproductive to let the old man die of pneumonia, at least until they collected the ransom. He ticked the points off in his head and then nodded to himself. The essentials had been met; the only thing left was to figure out some way to get Harold to go along with the scheme without being aware of his role until it was too late to back out. That would take a bit more thinking, but there was still an hour or so before the car had to leave to meet the flight from Gibraltar, and if he, Clarence, couldn’t think of a way to confuse Harold in that span of time, then he promised himself to retire and take up honest labor.

  “Yeah!” Harold said with enthusiasm, unaware that he had lost his audience. “Why don’t we just snatch one of them old men?”

  “Yes,” Clarence said without consciously hearing a word. Maybe if he told Harold the old geezer was really a long-lost relative, an uncle, maybe, on his grandfather’s side, only the old geezer didn’t know it and he didn’t want to spring it on him too suddenly, as old geezers notably had weak hearts—no, that didn’t sound as if it could pass even with Harold —

  “Hey, Clare, you ain’t listening!” Harold sounded aggrieved. “I said I just had me a great idea. Why don’t we simply put the old snatcheroo on one of the old—”

  “Yes,” Clarence said, and pressed his brain for a decent answer. Possibly if he told Harold he needed the old man’s help in figuring out the plot of one of the old mysteries in the Avery farm library—after all, according to that Sunday supplement all three of them had once been mystery writers—he suddenly looked up, startled. “What did you say?”

  “I said, why don’t we just snatch one of them? Keep him here for a while,” Harold said, waving one of his hamlike hands around as if in explanation. “We wouldn’t hurt him. Just keep him here awhile.” He might have been speaking of a pet rabbit, or a turtle.

  Clarence studied the earnest features of his large confederate for several moments, wondering when he would learn not to prejudge people. It was a dangerous habit for a professional con man to get into. Maybe he had been in England too long; the damp weather, possibly, was beginning to warp his brain.

  “Are you suggesting,” he said slowly, “that we hold one of those poor old men for ransom? That’s against the law, you know.”

  Harold waved this argument away as being specious.

  “What ain’t?” he demanded. “Sure we hold him for ransom; that gives us a good excuse to have him here, don’t you see? They got lots of loot, it says in the papers, and I could sure use some. You got all the dough we got between us, but I’m broke. What do you say, Clare? It’s a good idea, ain’t it? We’d split the dough right down the line. What do you say? Huh?”

  Clarence Wellington Alexander scratched his chin; it was the same sort of delaying come-on he used when people appeared eager to buy small amounts of oil-well stock, rather than the large, economy-sized blocks he preferred to sell.

  “I don’t know—”

  “Sure it’s a good idea!” Harold said fiercely. It was not often that ideas struck him, but he knew a good one when it did, and he hated to see it abandoned. “Look, Clare—I’ll even do most of the work. You want one of them old men here, how do you expect to get him to come? Just by askin’? Maybe he says no. Maybe he don’t like it on a farm; it took me a while, and I still ain’t sure. I tell you, snatchin’ one of them is the only way! I could pick him up at the airport when they come in, I bet! Bring him right out here. No sweat!” His mind, now as firmly in the saddle as it ever got, was charging along in all directions.

  “Well, possibly—”

  “No possibly. It’s a sure thing.” It was said with cold finality. It was rare, indeed, that Harold found himself this forceful with Clarence—without, that is, having his head handed to him verbally. It was an intoxicating feeling. “And it was lucky you went shoppin’ yesterday; we got enough food in the joint to last weeks.” He frowned as a snag in his scheme suddenly appeared. “There’s one thing, though. What about that old bag who comes in to do the cleanin’?”

  “Mrs. Southington?” Clarence shook his head at the tragedy that besets even the best of us in this cruel world. “Poor soul, she’s pretty sick. She came down with shrinking edema, I just learned yesterday. She won’t be able to come in for a week or so.”

  “See?” Harold came as close to crowing as his gravel voice would allow. It was almost as if the gods were blessing the venture. “It all works out! I tell you, Clare, it’s a natural!” He could not imagine how any rational person could doubt the rightness of the idea,
and therefore moved on to the next point, hoping that sheer momentum would bring Clare into camp. “Which one of them are we goin’ to snatch, Clare?”

  “Which one would you prefer for company?” Clarence asked, now feeling generous.

  Harold was delighted with himself; his ploy had worked. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the newspaper article with its accompanying photograph. When he finally brought it into focus, he examined it carefully. He nodded.

  “The fat guy, I think,” he said, and opened his eyes, blinking. “Yeah. He looks like the happiest one, like he’d be the most fun. And also, them fat guys can’t run so fast, if he gets any funny ideas.” He suddenly grinned; it looked as if someone had opened a new box of pipless dice. “Hey! We’re really goin’ to do it, Clare?”

  “Well,” Clarence said, finally allowing himself to be sold, “all right. If you think you can snatch him at the airport and bring him back here without any fuss”—Harold snorted at the thought of any old man, or any ten of them together, giving him any trouble—“and,” Clarence added, “without half of the airport seeing you and following you.” He studied Harold. “Can you do it?”

  “Sure!” Harold said expansively, and then paused. Faced with the need to consider the minute details, his mind stumbled to its normal halt. The basic idea was sound, he was convinced, but unfortunately, that was as far as he had gone.

  Clarence, watching the uncertainty take over from the assured on Harold’s face, took pity on the big man.

  “You know,” he said pensively, as if the idea had just occurred to him and had not been conceived hours before, “I’ll bet if I were to be at the airport, too, and somehow managed to separate the fat man from the other two, all you would have to do would be to take charge of him, get him into the car, and be on your way.”

  “Yeah!” Harold said, overwhelmed by the profundity of Clarence’s solution. He had been sure that once Clarence had accepted the basic premise, he would contribute his share to the success of the venture. A rift, though, appeared in the lute. “Only how you goin’ to get the fat man alone by hisself?”

  “I’ll think of something,” Clarence promised, and went back to his original idea. “When you have him in the car, tell him you were sent to pick him up by some company—say a television company—to take him someplace for an interview. He’ll go quietly enough. Tell him his two friends will meet him later.” He nodded in satisfaction as the final pieces fell into place. “Yes, that should do it nicely. Tell him his friends will meet him at his club, that Mystery Writers thing the paper mentioned. String the story out as long as he isn’t suspicious, but if he starts to get the idea that something isn’t kosher in Kankakee, that he’s being snatched—”

  “Yeah? What then, Clare?”

  Clarence eyed the large man coldly. “Then you just have to make sure he stays quiet the rest of the way.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Harold nodded automatically, and then checked himself. “But I ain’t goin’ to hurt him, am I, Clare? Because I don’t really want to hurt him, Clare.”

  “Nobody is going to hurt anyone,” Clarence said soothingly. “We’re just going to have a guest for a few days. A paying guest,” he added significantly, and smiled.

  “A what?” Harold pondered. Suddenly his dazzling smile appeared, to be followed by what would have been an anguished growl from a dog suffering a bone in its throat, but with Harold was a guffaw. “A payin’ guest, huh, Clare? Hey, that’s good.”

  “Yes,” Clarence said, and glanced at his watch. “And now, if you’ll get the car out, we’ll be on our way. Luckily, between here and the airport is largely open country; you won’t have to put up with city traffic.” Or too many curious people, he thought, who might wonder at seeing a fat man struggling with a giant in what even the Japanese would have called a small car. “You drop me at the nearest telephone booth to the arrival building,” he continued, “and then go around to where they come out of customs. I’ll see to it that the fat one is alone when he comes through. You pick him up and bring him back here and entertain him until I come back.”

  “You ain’t comin’ with us, Clare?”

  “No. I’ll go into town from the airport and take a train from there and a taxi from the station to come home when I’m through. Besides, three’s a crowd—” In their small English car two would have been a crowd. “And I have other things to do.”

  “Like what, Clare? Huh?” Harold’s brow was furrowed, his tone plaintive. “You ought to tell me what you’re goin’ to do, Clare. After all, snatchin’ the old man was my idea in the first place, you want to remember.”

  “I shall never forget it,” Clarence said soothingly. “What I shall be doing is first composing the ransom note, and then dropping it in the mail. That’s a basic move in all kidnapings, you know.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure, I forgot,” Harold said.

  “And another basic thing in kidnaping,” Clarence went on, “is to make sure your captive has no idea where he is being held. So when you get near the farm, make sure you blindfold him. Understand?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “And another of the usual procedures is to make sure your victim doesn’t walk out of the door when you turn your back, or go to the john, or something. When you have him inside, handcuff him to something, a chair or a bed. Understand?”

  “Sure,” Harold said, almost disdainfully. He had seen as many snatch movies as the next guy, and more than Clare, he bet. Then he frowned. “Only I ain’t got any handcuffs.”

  “Then tie him up, or sit on him, I don’t care which. Just make sure he’s still there when I get back.”

  “Oh. Sure.” He suddenly grinned. “Hey, Clare, how much we goin’ to ask for him, huh, Clare?”

  “That’s another thing I have to do in town,” Clarence said. “I shall also be determining the size of the award they received. A phone call to a newspaper ought to handle that, I imagine.”

  “We ain’t goin’ to ask for all of it, are we, Clare?” Harold said in a worried tone. “We don’t want to leave them broke. We don’t want no old men to starve, do we, Clare?”

  “If the award they got is as big as it sounded,” Clarence said, “half should do nicely.” He looked at his watch and then up at Harold significantly.

  “I get you,” Harold said. At times he could exhibit almost human intelligence. “You mean you want to leave now, Clare?”

  “If we’re going to leave at all,” Clarence said rather pointedly.

  He watched the huge man leave the farmhouse and walk lumberingly toward the barn that served as their garage. Clarence was still not quite sure how he had conned Harold into believing the kidnaping was his idea, and it bothered Clarence a bit not to be able to pinpoint the exact words he had said that had triggered the desired response in Harold’s brain. It might have proved useful in some future con. Still, he supposed it didn’t really matter. Like his namesake in the matter of the sunken road at Waterloo, C. Wellington A. was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

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  About the Author

  Robert L. Fish, the youngest of three children, was born on August 21, 1912, in Cleveland, Ohio. He attended the local schools in Cleveland and went to Case University (now Case Western Reserve), from which he graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. He married Mamie Kates, also from Cleveland, and together they have two daughters. Fish worked as a civil engineer, traveling and moving throughout the United States. In 1953 he was asked to set up a plastics factory in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He and his family moved to Brazil, where they remained for nine years. He played golf and bridge in the little spare time he had. One rainy weekend in the late 1950s, when the weather prohibited him from playing golf, he sat down and wrote a short story that he submitted to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When the story was accepted, Fish continued to write short stories. In 1962 he returned to the
United States; he took one year to write full time and then returned to engineering and writing. His first novel, The Fugitive, won an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery. When his health prevented him from pursuing both careers, Fish retired from engineering and spent his time writing. His published works include more than forty books and countless short stories. Mute Witness was made into a movie starring Steve McQueen.

  Fish died February 23, 1981, at his home in Connecticut. Each year at the annual Mystery Writers of America dinner, a memorial award is presented in his name for the best first short story. This is a fitting tribute, as Fish was always eager to assist young writers with their craft.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1971 by Robert L. Fish

  Cover design by Jason Gabbert

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-4995-8

  This 2015 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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