by Lionel White
“All right, Mitty,” the cop said. “You can take it easy now. I didn’t know these guys had been keeping you down here all this time. Hell, I thought they’d taken you upstairs hours ago and booked you: They had no right keeping you down here this long. I’ll tell you what, I’m going to send out and have a container of coffee and some food brought in and you eat them. While you’re doing it, I gotta go upstairs for a few minutes and see the lieutenant. You eat and catch a little shut-eye and then, after a while, why I’ll be back and maybe we can talk again, eh?”
Mitty stared at him and smiled crookedly.
“Sure, sure,” he said. “We can talk. But like I told you, there ain’t a thing to talk about. Nothin’.”
Horace Sims, detective first grade, waited patiently until Lieutenant Parks finished with the telephone call. He stood over by the window, not bothering to remove his hat, and looked out, a bored expression on his heavy face.
Lieutenant Parks didn’t look up as he flung the receiver back into its cradle. “I want you to go down and talk to him again,” he said, annoyed. “It’s just too damned much of a coincidence.”
Sims nodded. “Right away. But can you spare a moment? It’s about the Sherwood woman.”
“About who?”
“The Sherwood woman. Remember—she’s missing. You sent me out with her husband last night to look the house over.”
Parks looked up, thoughtful for a moment. He had a lot on his mind. “What about her? Has she turned up yet?”
“No. But I’ve run into something a little odd.”
“I thought you were back working on the Rumplemyer job,” Parks said, irritated.
“I am. But I stopped out at the Sherwood house around noon because I happened to be in the neighborhood. He’s been calling in all morning bothering us. I just stopped as I was passing—we covered everything I could think of last night. I’d suggested that Sherwood find out if his wife had drawn any money out of her bank. They have a joint account. It was just a routine suggestion. Well, it turns out she not only stopped at the bank after she took him to the train yesterday morning; she drew out just about every dime they had between them. Twenty-six hundred dollars, to be exact. Got a certified check made out to cash.”
Parks drew down the corners of his thin, wide mouth and slowly nodded his head.
“So-o-o. Well, that should make the picture a lot clearer. She probably just got fed up with her marriage, or maybe had someone else on the string and took the money and blew.”
Sims shook his head, turned away from the window, and stepped toward the desk.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I talked with young Sherwood for more than an hour last night and I went over that house mighty carefully. There’s no doubt that she never returned after taking him to the station, and the way the house was left, she certainly must have intended to come back to it. If she was going to leave him, take the dough and scram, why wouldn’t she have gone back for her clothes? She had plenty of time.
“Another thing, I get the very strong impression, from talking with him and several of the neighbors, that they got along very well together. She doesn’t seem to be at all the kind of woman who would have had anything going, on the side. Of course you can never tell, but I have a pretty strong feeling about it. Something has happened to her.”
Parks nodded.
“What else makes you reach that conclusion?”
“Sherwood told me this noon that twice the telephone rang during the morning and each time when he picked up the receiver a man’s voice asked for his wife. Same voice each time, he said. The guy hung up when Sherwood answered.”
“That don’t exactly sound as though she was so damned pure. You sure this guy Sherwood is leveling with you?” Parks asked.
“I’m never sure of anything. On the other hand, I’d bet he’s on the up and up. And I don’t like the idea of her disappearing with a certified check made out to cash.”
For several seconds Parks sat in deep thought. Finally he looked up.
“Okay,” he said. “I can’t spare you right now with this damned Rumplemyer mess on our minds, but maybe you better stick with the Sherwood thing for another day or so. Go on out to the house again and see if you can find anything at all. Try and get a little better picture of the woman from the husband. Also, if that guy should call again, you pick up the phone and try and get a trace on the call. I’ll go downstairs and take care of this mug Mitty.”
“You think maybe you got something there, with him?”
The lieutenant shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know,” he said. “Probably just one of those damned coincidences, but we aren’t passing up any bets. The guy used to be a driver for Rumplemyer. Worked there about six months back, for several weeks. Quit his job for no reason at all. Told them he couldn’t handle the job because he had a bad back. Any way, he has a record, all petty stuff. Used to be a prizefighter at one time. Strictly third rate. Then he just drifted around, working now and then. In trouble a couple of times on assault charges, and once for larceny. Funny, his being picked up yesterday morning an hour after the stickup, trying to steal an automobile. He was in the front seat and working on the wires when a squad car happened to pass. Murphy, who was driving, spotted him and made the arrest.”
“Doesn’t seem that a guy who has just finished pulling a quarter-million stickup would be hanging around trying to lift a hot car,” Sims commented.
“It doesn’t to me either,” Parks admitted, “But it is a rather odd coincidence. Anyway, we don’t seem to be getting anywhere with him. We can hold him for the car job, of course, but we’ll have to charge him. The second we do, he can demand bail. And get it—unless we can tie him in on the other some way. Anyway, you stay with the Sherwood thing. I’ll see Mitty. But try and wind it up. Missing wives are all well and good, but the commissioner is a damned sight more worried about missing money at this point. Missing money, and a dead man.”
Sims grunted and turned to the door. “I’ll keep in touch.”
Goldman kept his eye on the traffic and drove slowly, heading north through the park and keeping the car at an even thirty miles an hour. He kept both hands on the steering wheel and didn’t bother to remove the short cigar butt from the corner of his mouth as he talked. His heavy lips were stretched tight across his face and his eyes behind the thick-lensed glasses were hard and cold as he spoke. He never looked at the man at his side.
“You shouldn’t have called me at the apartment,” he said. “God damn it, how many times do I have to tell you guys. You wantta get hold of me, call the office. That’s where I do business, out of the office.”
Santino moved nervously on the leather seat of the car, shifting so that he seemed to squeeze his small body into the very corner. He too looked straight ahead as he talked. “I had to call you,” he said. “It was important. Cribbins said to get hold of you the second I made town. I had to tell you about Mitty.”
“God damn it,” the lawyer said, “don’t mention no names to me. I don’t know no Mitty.”
“Well, I had to let you know the cops got him. Cribbins wants you to get him out.”
Goldman laughed bitterly. “So I should get him out! Are you all crazy? How the hell am I supposed to know that the cops got him, huh? You expect those cops up there to think I’m clairvoyant or something? Cribbins knows better and so should you. Mitty will call me as soon as he gets the chance. I can’t call him. And don’t worry, Mitty won’t talk. Sooner or later he’ll contact me. I represented him before so it’s only natural.”
“I suppose,” Santino said sarcastically, “that the Brookside cops are just going to be real nice and give him a dime and he can call you and you can spring him.”
Goldman shifted the cigar around in his mouth. “You happen to suppose just right,” he said. “That’s the trouble with all of you punks—you don’t know you’re alive. Of course the cops will let him call. They’ll work him over, but sooner or later they’ll let him make a call. After
all, this ain’t Russia. They’ll let him call and when he does my office will get it and one of my boys will go up and get him out. Even Mitty is smart enough to know that.”
“All right,” Santino said. “The hell with Mitty. I’m not worrying about Mitty anyway. What I’m worrying about is me. What about me?”
“Well, what about you?” Goldman said. “What the hell do you expect me to do—drive you up there and hold hands with you? Good God, first you guys muff this whole thing—make a mess out of it and end up knocking off the driver. Then you haven’t enough brains to make a clean getaway. What the hell do you want me to do? I’m a lawyer, not a baby-sitter.”
Santino turned and looked at the man beside him with cold, bitter eyes. “Nuts,” he said. “Don’t con me, mister. I know who you are, and I ain’t asking you for nothing. I only called last night because Cribbins told me to call you. And the only reason I’m seeing you today is because you were too cagey to talk over the phone and told me to see you. As far as I’m concerned, you ain’t nothing. Nothing at all. But I did think, that knowing what happened, you might arrange a car so Luder and I could get up to the country.”
“Why don’t you rent a car?”
“I don’t rent a car because I’m not stupid,” Santino said. “For the same reason I don’t take no bus nor no train. I was damned lucky I didn’t get picked up when I caught that train into town from Brookside. Luder and I talked it over when we met last night and we figured it would be best if you could get us a car of some kind.”
For the first time Goldman took his eyes off the road and turned to glance at the little man next to him.
“Brother,” he said, “you are crazy. I should get you a car yet! And suppose you get picked up on suspicion. The car gets traced right smack back to me. That would be just great, wouldn’t it?”
He hesitated for a minute and then continued. “I guess I got to do your thinking for you. The best thing is to lay low for at least another day. Then if you don’t want to rent a car, or steal one, you’ll have to borrow one. Borrow it from some friend or a cousin or something. You got a cousin or something, haven’t you?”
Santino didn’t answer.
“Where’s Luder now, by the way.”
“What’s it matter?”
“It doesn’t,” the lawyer said. He drove on for several minutes in silence and then once more spoke.
“Look,” he said, “don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I’m annoyed the way things turned out. This isn’t my caper, you know. I told Harry that I’d handle the stuff after you got it, and that I’d represent you boys if there was any trouble. It isn’t that I don’t want to help you, but I have to watch my step. I’m a lawyer and a respectable businessman and I don’t take chances.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Santino said.
“Then don’t. As far as a car is concerned, I can let you have some dough if you’re short. You’ll have to work out the details yourself.”
“I’m not short,” Santino said crisply. “And I can get a car all right. I’ll borrow one. You can drop me off anywhere. I’ll grab a cab.”
“I’ll take you back to the bar where I picked you up. And you and Luder take it easy. I talked with Harry last night after I heard from you. He knows about Mitty, and there’s nothing to worry about there. Just you and the old man take it easy and don’t rush up to the country. Harry’ll wait.”
“Sure—sure,” Santino said. “Why shouldn’t he? He’s got plenty of company. Two good-lookin’ broads. Why shouldn’t he wait?”
For a moment the lawyer looked startled and he slowed down for a traffic light and waited until it had changed before he again spoke. “What the hell do you mean, two broads?” he asked. “I thought that that girl of yours was up there alone.”
Santino laughed without humor. “Yeah—two,” he said. “My Paula, and the other one. The one he snatched when we pulled the job.”
Goldman for the first time reached up and took the cigar out of his mouth. He pulled over to the curb and stopped and turned toward the other man.
“The girl he snatched?” he said in a hollow voice. “What in the name of Christ do you mean, the girl he snatched? What girl?”
Santino took his time telling about it, and enjoyed watching the blood leave the lawyer’s sallow face and watching as his hands began to shake imperceptibly as he tried to get the cigar butt back between his lips.
For several minutes after the little man finished speaking, Goldman said absolutely nothing. Then at last he reached down and again started the car. He spoke once again when they were under way.
“That does it,” he said. “That does it up just fine! A kidnapping—that’s all we needed.”
“It will have to be a little more than just a kidnapping,” Santino said. “The girl was there when I used the chopper. She was there when it happened.”
Bart Sherwood needed a shave. He also needed something a lot more substantial than the dozen cups of black coffee he had existed on during the last thirty-two hours. He’d finally managed a little rest early on Tuesday morning with the help of several sleeping tablets, but by seven o’clock he was up and nervously pacing the floor.
He put the coffee on, started to open the refrigerator and get out the bowl which held the eggs. But there was something about the kitchen, with the dirty dishes still there from the previous morning, which brought a lump to his throat. This was Joyce’s job, making the breakfast. Something she always did. Suddenly he had no desire for food. He’d just have coffee and let it go at that.
He walked into the bathroom, and there, at the edge of the black-tiled sink, was the twisted tube of toothpaste, with the cap off, where she had left it in her hurry to prepare his breakfast and get ready to take him to the station. It was one of those little things which they had fought over a hundred times, but somehow this morning, instead of the sense of irritation he had always experienced, he felt a constriction in the region of his heart.
Carefully he picked up the tube, found the cap and screwed it back on. He forgot about brushing his own teeth. The bathroom was like the kitchen. It reminded him of Joyce. She was everywhere in the house; in the empty bed, in the living room, everywhere.
God, what could have happened to her?
He took a wet washcloth and wiped his face and went back to the kitchen and downed two cups of black coffee. At nine o’clock he called his office and said he wouldn’t be in. He didn’t explain; he couldn’t. How do you go about telling your secretary that your wife is missing?
God knows the news would be around soon enough. He knew that the papers would pick up the story, especially if foul play were suspected. Normally the thought of the publicity would have bothered him, but by now he was long past the stage of being bothered by anything so trivial. He didn’t care what happened, just so Joyce was found and Joyce was all right.
The newspaper was outside the door and the idea of possible publicity made him go out and get it. It was a New York morning paper and he looked through it carefully. There was plenty about the robbery of the Rumplemyer armored car out in Brookside and about the murder of the driver, but there was nothing about a missing girl named Joyce Sherwood.
Maybe missing wives weren’t news, after all.
Thank God, there were things to be done. To him they seemed futile, rather ridiculous things, but the detective who’d accompanied him home the previous evening had suggested he do them. Although they didn’t seem to make much sense, he’d follow the man’s instructions to help fill in the time. Anything was better than just pacing the floor and waiting.
He looked into the file of old bills and found the receipt for repairs on Joyce’s watch. He called the jeweler, and the jeweler gave him the serial number of the watch. Bart wrote it down and then telephoned it in to the police station, giving it to the desk clerk with a request that he give Sims the information.
Next he looked up the slip of paper which had the number of Flick’s dog license. He telephoned the pound an
d reported the dog missing and gave them a description and the license number.
He notified the insurance company that the car was missing. For a moment, when they asked if it was stolen, he hesitated. He didn’t know what to say. How can you say your wife has stolen your car? But Sims had said to report it. He ended up by saying he thought so.
He was about to telephone the bank and was looking the number up when the first call came from a man whose voice he didn’t recognize. The man asked for Mrs. Sherwood and for a second he fought to catch his breath.
“She’s out,” he said at last, in almost a whisper. “This is Mr. Sherwood.”
The click of a receiver being replaced on its hook struck his eardrum.
He was still wondering about the call when he finally telephoned the bank. That’s when he learned about the certified check. For a moment or so he just sat there, wordless with shock.
“Are you sure?” he asked at last.
The bank was sure. He wasn’t satisfied and insisted on speaking to the teller who had waited on her. He had to believe him. There couldn’t be any doubt at all about it. The man even remembered the conversation; how he had warned Mrs. Sherwood that carrying a certified check was just like carrying cash.
Detective Sims had stopped by at noon, just casually, saying he was in the neighborhood. Bart told him what he had learned. It embarrassed him somehow, but he’d also I told Sims about the man who’d called and asked for his wife and then hung up; and about the second call, from the same man, a few minutes before noon, when the same thing had happened.
It was after this telephone call that Bart walked into the living room and over to the liquor chest and portable bar which Joyce had given him for Christmas. Neither of them drank much, but now and then Bart would bring home people from the office and she knew that he took a particular pride in his mixed drinks. He’d been pleased with the liquor chest; it was the sort of extravagance neither of them would ever have indulged in on normal occasions, but Christmas was in no way a normal occasion and they went out of their way to get each other the sort of things which they considered “extravagances.”
