by Ed McBain
“If that is true, may I please observe the alleged victim?”
“Follow me,” the governess said.
Bozzaris followed her into the house, thinking, Look at this, look at the fruits of organized evil! Disgusting, a filthy materialistic ostentatious display, pardon the French.
“Lewis,” the governess said, “this is Detective Lieutenant Alexander Bozzaris.”
“How do you do?” Lewis said.
“Have you been kidnaped?” Bozzaris asked.
“No,” Lewis said.
“Very well,” Bozzaris said, thinking Crime does not pay.
As Dominick the Guru steered the. Volkswagen up the driveway to Many Maples, he passed a police car on the way out. He almost drove the small car off the road and into the trees lining the drive, but decided instead that this might look suspicious to any alert police officer. He drove to the oval in front of the house, cut the engine, and got out of the car. Standing in the driveway for several minutes, he listened with his good burglar’s ears for the sound of the police car returning. Convinced that it had gone on its merry way, he rang the doorbell.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Dominick Digruma,” he said, which was his proper name.
“Just a moment,” the woman said, and unlocked the door.
“Are you Nanny?”
“I am Nanny,” she said.
Dominick reached into his pocket and handed her the thick white envelope. “This is from Benny Napkins,” he said. “May God help you in getting back that poor little kid from the maniacs that have got him.”
“Thank you,” Nanny said.
“My pleasure,” Dominick answered.
Nanny closed the door. Outside, she could hear Dominick’s footfalls as he walked on the gravel toward his automobile. She heard the car starting, heard the tires squealing as he backed around, and then heard the engine gunning as he drove forward. The sound of the car receded. She waited until she could no longer hear it at all, and then she opened the envelope.
There seemed to be fifty thousand dollars in the envelope.
There also seemed to be a round-trip ticket to Naples via Rome.
Nanny grinned.
Benny Napkins was about to enter the Alitalia terminal when he suffered the fright of his life. A man, waving his arm at passing cabs, was striding along the sidewalk from the direction of the International Arrivals Building, followed by a big-breasted woman in a smartly tailored suit and a porter wheeling what appeared to be a dozen pieces of luggage.
The man looked exactly like Carmine Ganucci.
“Hey you!” he suddenly yelled at Benny. “Hey, Dummy!”
Benny stopped dead in his tracks. Whereas those had not been the exact words hurled at him in Chicago in the year 1966, when Ganucci had come there to upbraid him about the damage done to the goddamn window, the voice was unmistakable. Images of assorted mayhem, visions of drowning flashed through Benny’s mind. In panic, he thought, Ganooch is home, he knows about the kid, and then prayed hastily and briefly to both St. Joseph and the Virgin Mother, begging that Dominick had been granted safe passage to Larchmont and that fifty thousand dollars’ worth of insurance was already in Nanny’s possession. Smiling numbly, his hand outstretched, he approached Ganucci and said, “Hey, hi! What’re you doing here? Hello there, Mrs. Ganucci. I thought you were in Italy.”
Without accepting his hand, Ganucci said, “What are you doing here?”
“I’m going to Naples,” Benny said.
“What for?”
Benny lowered his voice. “To make a delivery,” he said.
“To who?”
“To you.”
“I’m here,” Ganucci said. “Make the delivery here.”
Benny reached into his jacket pocket, and handed Ganucci the second of the thick white envelopes, figuring that the fifty thousand dollars inside was being returned to its rightful owner, which was only fair. “Thank you,” Ganucci said, “you done good.” He transferred the envelope to his own pocket, and then turned toward the curb and yelled, “Taxi!” A cruising cab pulled up immediately. Ganucci stuck his head into the open window and asked, “You make out-of-town calls?”
“No, I don’t,” the driver answered.
“Yes, you do,” Ganucci said, and opened the back door. “Come on, Stella.”
In the living room of his West End Avenue apartment, Luther poured himself a drink and sat in the chair behind his desk. There were many things to think about, many things to ponder, least of which was the smashed front door—had he broken it himself in his frenzied haste to get the boy back to Larchmont? Well, no matter; he had already called the superintendent and been advised that the lock would be repaired in the morning. The super had also mentioned that it might be best to wedge a chair under the doorknob tonight because you never knew what kind of crooks were running around the city.
Luther sipped at his drink.
There was something to be gained from this entire experience, something to be savored and . . .
“Are you coming to bed?” Ida asked from the doorway.
“In a moment,” he said, and then noticed that she was wearing the black nylon nightgown he had bought for her six years ago in Arnold Constable.
“Don’t be long,” she said, and turned and went out of the room.
Luther stared thoughtfully into his glass. There was no doubt in his mind that Ida had already benefited from the experience. Never before had he seen the maternal instinct so clearly revealed in man or beast. Once fermenting, who knew what such potent juices might brew? Would he himself become a father soon, protecting some helpless brood as fiercely as he had protected his kidnap scheme? The notion was not entirely fanciful; there was no question in Luther’s mind that he had behaved admirably and bravely throughout, and that these very same qualities could be brought to bear on matters of less importance or urgency, as for example making Ida pregnant.
Luther walked slowly to the bookcase. His hand reached out for the cherished volume of Martin Levin reviews. He opened the book and scanned the pages leisurely until his eye fell upon a passage of exquisitely written prose, which he also considered germane to events of the recent past and immediate future:
The masculine mystique once again is prevalent here: courage, sacrifice, coolness, grace under pressure, and a hatful of other sidelines that are irrelevant except when they are needed.
He closed the book, replaced it on the shelf, and went back to his desk. Lifting his glass to the ceiling, he said aloud, “There’s something for all of us to learn here. John? Martin? Malefaction does not yield recompense.”
He swallowed the rest of his drink and went into the bedroom where Ida was waiting.
Jeanette Kay was already asleep when Benny got back to the apartment. He peeked in at her, and then went into the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich. Whereas Jeanette Kay did not like notes, she had left one for him on the refrigerator door, held in place there by a tiny daisy-shaped magnet. Benny took the note down and read it:
Well, Benny thought, at least that part is okay. The boy is back, thank God, and Ganooch will have nothing to get excited about. Except maybe the second fifty grand. He would have to try to find The Jackass in the morning. Somewhere out in the city, The Jackass was laying on a mattress wallowing in all that money, six thousand bucks of which was Benny’s own. He would have to talk to The Jackass. He would have to patiently explain to him that even though the boy was returned and everything worked out all right, “Crimes are not to be measured by the issue of events, but from the bad intentions of men.”
He made his sandwich, ate it, and went apprehensively to bed.
“Surprise!” Carmine Ganucci shouted.
“Surprise!” Stella shouted. “We’re home, we’re home! Where’s Lewis?”
“In his bedroom, madam,” Nanny
said.
“Oh, I can’t wait to see him!” Stella said, and took off her hat, and tossed it onto the hall table, and then rushed toward Lewis’s bedroom at the back of the house.
“Hello, Nanny,” Ganucci said.
“Hello, Mr. Ganucci,” Nanny said.
“I took some nice pictures in Italy,” he said.
“How nice,” she said.
“Carmine!” Stella called. “Come say hello to your son!”
Ganucci went down the corridor to Lewis’s bedroom. Stella was sitting on the bed, embracing the boy. Ganucci smiled. The kid, though no Cary Grant, looked more and more like him every day.
“How’re you doing there, Lewis?” he said, and tousled the boy’s hair, and then embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Great, Papa,” Lewis said. “But I lost my watch.”
“I’ll get you a new one,” Ganucci said, “what the hell.”
“Did you miss us?” Stella asked.
“Almost,” Lewis said.
“Huh?” Stella said.
“Well, we’re home now,” Ganucci said, “and it’s great to be here. You know what I feel like doing, Stella?”
“What, Carmine?”
“I feel like developing some of those pictures I took in Italy.”
“Now?”
“Now, Stella.” He kissed his son again, said, “See you in the morning, Lewis,” and walked out of the bedroom. Nanny was waiting for him in the corridor, near the kitchen. “Nanny,” he said, “I want to develop some of those pictures I took in Italy.”
“Now?” she said.
“Now. Do you think you could assist me in the darkroom?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Ganucci,” she said. “Of course.”
She followed him up the carpeted steps, walking behind him as she always did, and thinking of the fifty thousand dollars already tucked away in the bottom drawer of her dresser, not to mention the ticket to Naples via Rome which she could easily exchange for a ticket to London if and when life at Many Maples got too demanding. Madam Hortense, in fact, might be very happy to see her again.
“Carmine!” Stella called from the foot of the stairs. “Will you be developing film all night?”
“No, dearest,” Ganucci replied, “just a roll or two,” and opened the door, and graciously allowed Nanny to precede him into the darkroom.
18: Nanny
THE END
The author wishes to express his thanks and appreciation to the following good and honest citizens who posed for the various characters in this novel:
Richard A. Kennerson (Graphic Designer)
Harry Melnick (Retired Businessman)
Samuel N.Antupit (Art Director and Publisher)
Richard Hunter and Mark Hunter (Students, Harvard University)
Jack Farren (Theatrical and Motion Picture Producer)
Charles F. Lombino (Retired Mailman)
Robert Gage (Art Director)
Dr. Fred Holtzberg (Research Chemist)
Edward L. Lucci (Certified Public Accountant)
Evan Hunter (Writer)
Ted Hunter (Student, Silvermine Art College)
Gene Federico (Advertising Agency Principal)
Jerry Bock (Composer)
Ingram Ash (Theatrical Advertising Representative)
Kaneji Domoto (Architect and Landscape Architect)
Stephen Antupit (Photographer and Sculptor)
Richard Condon (Lieutenant, NYPD)
Anita Ash (Teacher)
The photo of Evan Hunter was graciously posed for by Ed McBain, the eminent novelist, author of The Sentries and other widely read books.
John Simon and Martin Levin are represented entirely by himself—themselves?—theirselves?—their own selves?—John? Martin?
The Martin Levin quotes on pages 30 and 31 are from the New York Times Book Review, 8/30/70.
The John Simon quote on page 31 is from New York, 9/7/70.
The John Simon quote on page 78 is from New York, 9/21/70.
The John Simon quote on page 172 is from New York, 11/30/70.
The Martin Levin quote on page 219 is from the New York Times Book Review, 11/15/70.
The ransom note on page 104 is composed of words clipped from John Simon’s reviews in New York and Martin Levin’s reviews in the New York Times Book Review, as follows:
“This type of interchange”—NYTBR, 11/29/70.
“is”—NYTBR, 11/29/70.
“factitious”—NY, 11/9/70.
“jaunty eclecticism”—NY, 11/9/70.
“(quite generous snippets, too)”—NY, 11/16/70.
“by”—NY, 12/7/70.
“a polymath”—NY, 11/16/70.
“The”—NY, 11/9/70.
“conspectus”—NY, 11/9/70.
“is cheerful and unassuming as a nosegay of wildfiowers”—NY, 11/9/70.
“Let’s put it this way:”—NYTBR, 11/29/70.
“you can go along with the rest of this buffoonery”—NYTBR, 11/29/70.
“or”—NY, 11/30/70.
“invite”—NY, 12/7/70.
“anfractuous”—NY, 12/19/70.
“unmitigated disaster”—NY, 11/30/70.
“roll back the tide of violence”—NYTBR, 11/15/70.
“enough money”—NY, 11/23/70.
“desiderated”—NY, 11/9/70.
“with”—NY, 12/19/70.
“oh-so-now”—NY, 11/9/70.
“delivery”—NY, 9/21/70.
“What we need immediately is”—NY, 8/17/70.
“though I shudder to mention it,”—NY, 8/17/70.
“lucrative”—NY, 8/3/70.
“capitalization”—NY, 8/3/70.
“Or”—NY, 9/21/70.
“will”—NY, 12/19/70.
“feel free to terrorize, foreclose and even murder.”—NYTBR, 11/29/70.
The postcards on pages 12 and 13 and 96 and 97 are reproduced by permission of “Fotoedizioni Brunner & C.-Como.”
The watch on pages 128 and 166 was created and copyrighted by Dr. Dougherty’s Dirty Time Company, manufactured by Windert Watch Company.
All of the photographs in this book were taken by the author, with the exception of the picture of The Jackass on page 116, which was taken by Richard A. Kenerson. Mr. Kenerson also devised the dollar bill on pages 57 and 212.
About the Author
Ed McBain is one of the many pen names of legendary author Evan Hunter (1926–2005). Named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, Hunter is best known for creating the long-running 87th Precinct series, which followed an ensemble cast of police officers in the fictional city of Isola. A pioneer of the police procedural, he remains one of the best-loved mystery novelists of the twentieth century. Hunter also wrote under the pseudonyms Richard Marsten, Hunt Collins, John Abbott, Ezra Hannon, Curt Cannon, and others.
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 ort mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, 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 © 1972 by Ed McBain
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3916-1
This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.mysteriouspress.com
www.openroadmedia.com
EAR
LY BIRD BOOKS
FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY
BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—
NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!
The Web’s Creepiest Newsletter
Delivered to Your Inbox
Get chilling stories of
true crime, mystery, horror,
and the paranormal,
twice a week.
ED McBAIN
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of
publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.
The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.
