King's Ransom

by Ed McBain

  When his voice came from his mouth, it came as a hoarse cracked sound. He swallowed hard and tried again.

  “Hi, sonny,” he said. “What you doing? Playing cops and robbers?”

  * * * *

  Dusk was beginning to shoulder its way into the city.

  In October there is a special feel to dusk, the softness of a cat’s muzzle, and it is accompanied by the smell of wood smoke even in the heart of the city where people do not burn wood or leaves. The smell is something ingrained on the race memory of man, and it lends a quality of serenity to October which no other month can claim. The street lamps go on a little before darkness really falls. The sun stains the sky with a brilliant red, interlaced with the solemn purple of a vault of clouds wheeling heavenward. The bridges span the city in bold silhouette, suspended cables backdropped by the stain of purple dusk, green lights winking in the coming darkness like strung emeralds.

  The pace quickens a little, the step becomes a little lighter. There is a briskness on the air, and it bites the cheeks and stings the teeth, and the store fronts are coming alive with light now, like beckoning potbellied stoves, cherry-hot. There is a calm to the night because autumn is a time of stillness, and even the callous city respects the death of summer. Coat collars are lifted higher, hands are blown upon, hats are tilted lower. The wind is the only sound in the streets, and the citizens walk hastily because they are anxious to get indoors, anxious for the smell of cooking food, and the attacking force of steam heat hissing in radiators, anxious for the arms of loved ones.

  Dusk is upon the city.

  It will be dark soon.

  It will be good to get home before it grows dark.

  * * * *

  4

  In the Douglas King living room, the telephone rang. King crossed the room quickly, picked up the receiver, and said, “Hanley?”

  A voice on the other end said, “Who?”

  “Oh. Oh excuse me, I was expecting another call,” King said. “Who is this, please?”

  “All right, Mac,” the voice said. “I’m going to make this short and—”

  “There’s no one named Mac here,” King said. “You must have the wrong number.” He replaced the phone and turned toward the steps. Cameron was standing there, watching him.

  “Not Hanley?” Cameron said.

  “No. Somebody got the wrong number.” King snapped his fingers. “About wrong numbers, Pete.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Were you talking to George Benjamin a little while ago?”

  “On the phone do you mean?” Cameron asked.

  “Yes.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was.”

  “Why’d you call him?”

  “To tell him I wouldn’t be around tomorrow. He wanted to discuss that sales letter on the new Far Eastern Brocade line.”

  “You didn’t tell him you were going to Boston, did you?”

  “Why, no. Should I have?”

  “Hell, no. What did you tell him?”

  “Just that I’d have to skip the meeting because I was going out of town.”

  “But you didn’t mention Boston?”

  “Is Boston that important?” Diane asked. “Can Benjamin smash your deal if he knows where it is?”

  “I doubt it. But he’d give his eye teeth to know who I’m dealing with—or even that there is a deal cooking. You know, once this thing goes through, I’ll be in a position to…”

  The telephone rang again.

  “There it is now,” King said, and he walked quickly to the phone.

  “I’d better call for Bobby,” Diane said. “It’s beginning to get dark.”

  “Honey, wait until I take this call, will you? I don’t want you yelling in the background.” He lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Ready on your call to Boston,” the operator said.

  “Okay,” King said.

  “Go ahead, sir. Your party is on the line.”

  “Hello, Doug?”

  “How’d you make out, Hanley?”

  “It’s all set,” Hanley said wearily. “I got that five per cent for you.”

  “Great! On margin? You got it on margin?”

  “Just the way you wanted it, Doug. How soon can you get that check up here?”

  “I’ll send Pete immediately. Reserve a room for him. Pete, what’d you find out about those planes?”

  “Flights leaving Perry Field every hour on the hour.”

  “Good.” King looked at his watch. “Can you make a nine o’clock plane?”

  “If you say so,” Cameron said. Hanley,” King said into the phone, “he’ll be on the nine o’clock plane. I don’t know what time it arrives. You check with the terminal there.”

  “Right.”

  “And Hanley?”

  “Yes, Doug?”

  “Good work, boy.” He hung up. “Now we move!” he said excitedly. “Pete, call the airline and get that reservation right away!” He snapped his fingers, pushed a button in the face of the phone, lifted the receiver, paused a moment, and then said, “Reynolds, get over here, will you? On the double.”

  “Is everything all set now?” Cameron asked. “Can you tell me about it now?”

  “Now that it’s in the bag, I’d even tell Benj—No, no, I guess I wouldn’t.” He began chuckling. Quickly he walked to the bar and poured himself a drink.

  “I’d better get Bobby,” Diane said. “Look at how dark it’s getting.”

  “Let it wait a minute, Diane. Don’t you want to hear this?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Honey, the boy is in his own back yard, for God’s sake.”

  “Well… all right. But I really…”

  “You heard Benjamin spouting off, didn’t you, Pete? Said that I had thirteen per cent of the voting stock, am I right?”

  “Right.”

  “Wrong!” King said. He paused, anticipating the dropping of his bombshell. “I’ve been buying stock quietly for the past six years. Right now, right this minute, I’ve got twenty-eight per cent of it.”

  “Doug, that’s wonderful!” Diane said.

  “But where does Boston come in?” Cameron asked.

  “When did we go up there, Diane? Two weeks ago? Hanley’s been there since, lining this up, working on a guy who owns what I call a ‘disinterested’ chunk of voting stock.”

  Quickly he crossed to a dropleaf desk in the corner, opened it, and pulled a checkbook toward him. Sitting at the desk, he began filling out the check.

  “How much of a chunk?” Cameron asked.

  “Nineteen per cent.”

  “Whaaat!”

  “Add it up. Nineteen and twenty-eight make forty-seven. That’s enough to swing any election my way, even if those idiots should try to work out something with the Old Man. Enough to make me president of Granger! That means I’ll run the company my way, and I’ll make whatever damn shoes I want to make!” He ripped the check from the book triumphantly and handed it to Cameron. “Here,” he said, “take a look at this.”

  Cameron took the check and emitted a long, low whistle.

  “Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he said, awed.

  “And that’s on a fifty per cent margin. That stock is costing me a million and a half bucks before this is over and done with. But it’s worth it, believe me!”

  “Doug, where’d you ever… ?”

  “I’ve converted damn near everything we own into cash, Diane. I’ve even taken a mortgage on this house.”

  “A mor—” Diane stared at King speechlessly and then sat, suddenly overwhelmed.

  “That’s… that’s a mighty big pile of money,” Cameron said.

  “Everything I own! And a tight scrape at that, believe me. I couldn’t have got it for a penny less. Diane, this deal is going to make me.”

  “I… I hope so, Doug.”

  “It can’t miss, honey. Nobody can stop me now.”

  “Who are you buying the stock from, Doug?” Cameron asked.


  “A guy who cornered it on the q.t., and who doesn’t give a damn how we run the company. He’d just as soon have the cash as—”

  “Who?” Cameron said. “What’s his name, Doug?”

  “The beautiful part is that he’s got the stock spread over about two dozen proxies. Besides us, there isn’t a soul who knows he controls such a big chunk.”

  “Who? Who is he?” Cameron said.

  There was a slight cough at the end of the room. King turned toward the dining room. “Ah, Reynolds, there you are,” he said. “I want you to drive Mr. Cameron to the airport.”

  “What’s the rush, Doug?” Cameron said. “I haven’t even got my reservation yet.”

  “Well, then get on it right away, will you?”

  “And I’d better get on Bobby right away,” Diane said. She went to the front door and opened it. “Bobby!” she called, “Bobby!”

  “We’ll have to wait until Mr. Cameron makes his reservation, Reynolds,” King said. “That shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Bobby!” Diane called. “Bob-by!”

  The telephone rang. King picked it up.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “King?”

  “Yes, this is Mr. King.” He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Pete. “Come on, Pete, get moving. There isn’t much time to lose.”

  At the same instant, the voice on the other end said, “Don’t hang up on me this time, King. We’re not fooling around here.”

  “What? I’m sorry,” King said. “What did you say?”

  “We’ve got your son, King.”

  “My son? What are you… ?” He turned quickly toward the door.

  “Bob-by!” Diane called. “Bobby, will you please answer me?”

  “Your son, we’ve kidnaped your son,” the voice said.

  “You… you have my son?”

  Diane whirled from the open doorway. “What? What did you say?”

  “My… my son?” King repeated blankly.

  “For the last time, we got your son Bobby. Is that clear?”

  “But that’s…that’s impossible.”

  “What is it, Doug?” Diane shrieked.

  “Your son was in the woods, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but—This isn’t a joke, is it? If this is a joke…”

  “This ain’t a joke, King.”

  “Doug, will you please, please tell me what…”

  He motioned for her to be silent as the voice on the phone droned on flatly. “Now listen and listen hard because I’m only going to say this once. The kid’s safe. He’ll stay that way as long as you do what we say. We want five hundred thousand dollars in unmarked—”

  “Just a minute, I want to take this down.” He reached over for a pencil and pad, snaring them from the desk top, the phone’s wire extended to its outermost limits. “Five hundred thou—”

  “In unmarked bills,” the voice said, “small denominations. You got that?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ve… Are you sure you haven’t harmed him?”

  “He’s okay. No consecutive serial numbers on those bills, King. Get the money by tomorrow morning, understand. We’ll call you then with further instructions. Don’t call the police, King.”

  “No. No, I won’t.”

  “You understand?”

  “Yes, dammit. I understand you completely.” Desperately, King’s mind searched for a means of trapping the caller. When the idea finally came to him, he executed it swiftly and suddenly, as if he were consummating a long-awaited business deal.

  “Okay then,” the voice said, “five hundred thousand dollars in…” and King brought his finger down on the receiver bar, cutting off the connection. He whirled from the phone and shouted, “Pete, get on the kitchen phone. Call the police first. Tell them Bobby’s been kidnaped and we’ve had a five-hundred-thousand-dollar ransom demand.”

  “No!” Diane screamed. “No!”

  “Then call the phone company. Tell them I hung up on the bastard—”

  “Why did you do that? You hung up on the man who has Bobby? You hung up on… ?” She could not complete the sentence. She rushed to the front door again and screamed into the gathering darkness, “Bobby! Bobby! Bobby!”

  “I hung up on the off chance that he’ll call back,” King said. “The phone company may be able to trace it—and in the meantime, I can think. I can…” He paused. “Reynolds, get my address book upstairs. There’s a private detective we used once, when Diane’s pearls were missing. Di Bari, something like that, his name is in the book. Call him and get him out here right away.”

  “Yes, sir.” Reynolds raced for the steps.

  Diane slammed the door and ran to where King stood in the center of the room. “Five hundred thousand, you said. All right, call the bank. Right away! Call them this minute, Doug. We’ve got to get the money to them. We’ve got to get Bobby back!”

  “We will get him back. I’ll give them whatever they want, a million if they want. I’ll raise it.” He took Diane into his arms. “Don’t worry, darling. Please, please, try to stop trembling. Try to…”

  “I’ll…be all right. It’s… it’s…”

  Cameron rushed in from the kitchen. “Police are on their way over, Doug,” he said. “Phone company standing by. Says to contact them on another line as soon as he calls again.”

  “Okay, get in the kitchen. When this phone rings, get the operator to work right away.”

  “Right!” Cameron said, and he rushed out of the room again.

  Reynolds came down the steps, a defeated expression on his face. “I can’t find that address book anywhere, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry. I looked through the telephone table, but…”

  “I’ll get it,” Diane said. With a visible effort, she pulled back her shoulders, moved away from King, and started for the steps. As she passed the front door, it burst open suddenly, startling her.

  “Were you calling me, Mom?” Bobby King said.

  She blinked her eyes in disbelief. “Bobby?” she said. And then the name bubbled into her throat with certainty—“Bobby, Bobby, Bobby!”—and she ran to him and dropped to her knees and pulled him close.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” Bobby said.

  King looked at his son in puzzlement. “How…” he started, and then he turned toward the phone and pointed a menacing finger at it and shouted, “Why, that rotten lying…”

  “I don’t want to play with Jeff any more, Mom,” Bobby said. “I went up a tree like Daddy told me, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t see him anywhere.”

  “What do you mean?” King said and there was sudden fresh alarm in his voice. He glanced at the phone sharply. “What do you mean, you couldn’t see him? Where is he?”

  “I’ll bet he left the woods,” Bobby said. “I looked all over, behind every rock. I don’t want to play with him any more. He’s not anywhere around. I don’t know where he is!”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. The name was on everyone’s lips, the truth was in everyone’s mind, but it was the boy’s father who finally spoke the word, the single word, the name that summed up simply and explicitly everything that had taken place in the woods outside, the name that explained the phone call from a stranger.

  “Jeff,” Reynolds said, and the name emerged from his lips as a thin whisper.

  In the distance, they could hear a siren coming closer and closer to the cloistered sanctuary that was Smoke Rise.

  * * * *

  5

  If there were two things that gave Steve Carella the willies, those two things were cases involving extreme wealth and cases involving children. He was not a product of the city’s slums and so he couldn’t attribute his money willies to a childhood of deprivation. His baker father, Antonio, had always earned a decent living, and Carella had never known the bite of a cold wind on the seat of a pair of threadbare pants. And yet, in the presence of luxury that screamed of wealth, in the drawing rooms and sitting rooms and studies to which his work sometimes took him, Carell
a felt uneasy. He felt poor. He was not poor, and he’d never been poor, and even if he’d had no money at all, he still wouldn’t have been poor, but sitting in the Douglas King living room, facing the man who could afford a layout like this one, Steve Carella felt penniless and destitute and somewhat intimidated.