King's Ransom

by Ed McBain

“No, I don’t,” Cameron said.

  “Then why are you so interested in the welfare of Jeffry Reynolds? When did you get so fatherly, Pete? I’m wondering when you got so ninety-nine per cent paternal?”

  “It’s for the boy,” Cameron said. “How can we stand by and let a young, defenseless—”

  “If you give me that young, defenseless child crap again, I’ll puke! What is it, Pete? What’s the real reason?” King paused. A crafty glint touched his eyes. “You got something of your own cooking? Is that it?”

  “What? Me? Someth—Me?”

  “Well, now,” King said. He moved a little closer to Cameron, a cold smile twisting his mouth. “Well, now. Now we’re getting close, huh? Now we’re…”

  “Doug, don’t be silly.”

  “Why’d you call Benjamin yesterday? And never mind the Far Eastern Brocade baloney! What are you planning with him?”

  “Me? Nothing. Doug, don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t plan anything with Benjamin.”

  “Who would you plan something with?”

  “Nobody.” Cameron laughed feebly. “Nobody, Doug.”

  “Did you tell Benjamin about this Boston deal?”

  “Boston? Why, no. No.”

  “Then why’d you call him?”

  “About the Far Eastern Brocade line. I told you, Doug. The sales meeting…”

  “Your secretary could have handled that! Why’d you make a personal call to Benjamin’s house?”

  “I…I wanted to tell him personally. I thought he’d be offended if I…”

  “Yeah? Go ahead.”

  “I…I just thought he’d be offended, that’s all.”

  King stared at Cameron silently for several moments. Then he went directly to the telephone and began dialing.

  “What are you doing?” Cameron asked.

  King did not answer. He stood with the phone to his ear, facing Cameron, waiting.

  “The Benjamin residence,” a voice said.

  “Get me Mr. Benjamin,” King said.

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Douglas King.”

  “One moment, Mr. King.”

  “Why are you calling him?” Cameron asked. “I told you…”

  “Hello?” a voice on the other end asked.

  “George?” King said sweetly. “This is Doug.”

  “What is it, Doug?” Benjamin answered.

  “How are you, George?”

  “I’m fine. It’s a little early in the morning, isn’t it, to be exchanging—”

  “George, I’ve been giving your proposition a lot of thought.” King continued staring at Cameron, who sat poised on the edge of his chair.

  “Have you?” Benjamin said.

  “Yes. It doesn’t sound half bad to me.”

  “Oh, doesn’t it?” Benjamin said smugly. “Well, well.”

  “I’m thinking I may throw in with you, George.”

  “Oh, you may, hey?”

  “Yes. After all, there’s more than myself to think about. There’re a lot of other people who’ve served me loyally over the years. This would mean a lot to them, too.”

  “You’re such a Good Samaritan, Doug.”

  “Well, I know I behaved badly yesterday, but, as I say, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Refusing your offer would simply be unfair to the people around me.”

  “You should have done your thinking a little earlier, Doug,” Benjamin said triumphantly. “You should have done your thinking before this kidnaping fouled up your deal in Boston!”

  King’s face changed. Studying Cameron, his mouth lengthened into a tight hard line and his eyes turned suddenly cold. “My deal in Boston?” he repeated, and Cameron stiffened.

  “Yes, yes, I know all about it, so don’t get innocent with me,” Benjamin said.

  “Well, that was just…”

  “That was just something that happened to fall through! Well, it’s too damn bad, Mr. King, but you played your cards and you played them wrong. My offer has been withdrawn. In fact, you might start looking for another job. You’re going to need one as soon as we can call a meeting.”

  “I see,” King said softly.

  “I hope you do.”

  “I guess I know when I’m over a barrel, George. But I hope this won’t affect your attitude toward any of the people who’ve worked closely with me. Believe me, Pete knew nothing about what I was planning. I’d hate to see him pay for my errors. He’s a good worker, George, and a bright—”

  “Don’t you worry about Pete!” Benjamin said, laughing. “We’ll take care of him.”

  “You’re not going to fire him, are you?”

  “Fire him?” Benjamin’s laughter grew louder. “Fire him? Fire your trusted, loyal assistant? Don’t be ridiculous, Doug.” The laughter trailed off. “If you don’t mind, I’m late for the links now. Goodbye, Doug.” There was a click on the line. Slowly, King put down the phone.

  “You son of a bitch,” he said to Cameron.

  “Yes.”

  “You told him about Boston.”

  “Yes.”

  “You gave him everything.”

  “Yes.”

  “Everything, you son of a bitch!”

  “Yes, yes!” Cameron said, rising from his chair with nothing to lose now, exploding with a vengeance. “Yes, I told him everything! And now you’re going out! Out!”

  “Oh, that’s what you think, sweetheart!”

  “That’s what I know, sweetheart. Benjamin’s got the Old Man on his team now. You’re going out, Mr. King, and I’m going in. Me! Take a good look. Me!”

  “I’m looking, you son of a bitch!”

  “Look long and look hard! The next look you get is from the bottom of the heap!”

  “I’m looking! I’m looking, you miserable…”

  “No more miserable than you, pal. I learned in your school. Did you expect me to bow and scrape forever? Did you expect Pete Cameron to be an assistant bottle washer for the rest of his life? Not me, pal. I learned. I learned fast!”

  “Oh, you learned! I ought to strangle you, you bastard!”

  “Why? What do you see, Doug? Yourself? Yourself ten years ago?”

  “Myself ten—”

  “Take another look. I’m not you ten years ago. I’m you tomorrow! Tomorrow you’re in the gutter. You’re out, and I’m in. Tomorrow!”

  “Not if this Boston thing goes through!’’

  “You haven’t got the guts to kill that kid!”

  “Haven’t I? But you have, huh, Pete? Then why not me? We’re alike, aren’t we? The same school, no? Blood brothers, no? Both sons of bitches, no?”

  He suddenly seized Cameron by the lapels of his suit and flung him across the room.

  “Get out of my house!” he yelled.

  “With pleasure, Mr.—”

  “Get out! Get out!”

  Cameron went to the closet and quickly pulled his coat from a hanger. He reached into his trousers pocket, took out King’s check, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it across the room.

  “Get out!” King screamed. “Get out, get out, get out!” The door slammed on his words, and still he shouted, “Get out, get out, get out!”

  * * * *

  11

  The boy was cold.

  She had given him her overcoat, but he still complained of the cold in the drafty farmhouse. He wanted cocoa, he said, something hot to drink, but there was nothing but coffee and evaporated milk in the house, and the boy sat on the edge of the bed as the sun stained the winter sky, and he shivered visibly and contained the sobs he would not release.

  The two street maps had been set up alongside the radio equipment, and the men arranged them now so that they were clearly visible and easily read. The first map was a detailed map of Isola with Smoke Rise and the King estate marked with a red circle. A red line was linked onto the streets leading from the estate, following a tortuous route crosstown and over to the Black Rock Span. Once over the bridge, the red line took to the highway
s that crisscrossed Sands Spit, proceeding past a spot marked with a blue star, and then continuing out to the farthest tip of the peninsula. There did not seem to be much direction to the aimless meanderings of the inked red line. It moved from Smoke Rise erratically and then swooped toward the bridge with the precision of an arrow, only to assume an erratic course again once it hit the Sands Spit highways. The red line continued to reel drunkenly until it had passed the spot marked with the blue star, after which it again straightened, rushing with direct purposefulness toward the ocean. Perhaps significantly, it steered a wide course around a dot on the map which was marked simply “Farm.”

  Sitting with her arms around the shivering boy, Kathy tried to make some sense out of the maps, the radio equipment, and the snatches of conversation she overheard between Sy and her husband. The radio equipment was a necessary part of their plan, she knew, but she could not understand how they hoped to utilize it. The maps, too, were important, but again she could forge no connecting link between the radio and the maps set up near the chair in front of the equipment. The radio equipment included the oscillators and the transmitter Sy had mentioned, in addition to a microphone, and a dial which seemed far removed from any radio equipment she had ever seen.

  She knew from the conversation that another phone call to King was in order, this one to ascertain that he had the money and to give him instructions about its delivery. After that, she knew, Sy was going to leave the house in the car while Eddie remained behind. More than that she did not know.

  The boy trembled in her arms, and she held him close, and she wondered for perhaps the fiftieth time how the man she loved could possibly have become involved in a crime she considered heinous. The word “heinous” did not enter her mind; it wasn’t even a part of her vocabulary. But she considered kidnaping something unspeakably horrible, something almost inhuman, and she wondered what it was in Eddie, what drive, what lust for money, what search for identity, that could have led him into this final shattering act. It was her fault, of course. She knew that instantly. She knew with the intuition of a Cleopatra detaining an Antony, a Helen launching the Trojan war. The affairs of men were governed by women. This she knew, as all women know, with infallible instinct. And if Eddie had taken part in a kidnaping, was now taking part in the final stages of the theft of a child, then she was in part responsible for it.

  She recognized in her own attitude about crime a peculiar dichotomy. She had, for example, sanctioned yesterday’s excursion because she presumed Eddie and Sy were going out to rob a bank. The concept was almost amusing. In the hands of skilled players, it could indeed become a hilarious satirical sketch. “Is this what you do to me?” the actress gun moll complains to the returning actor gangster. “After I’ve given you the best years of my life? You go out to rob a bank, and you bring home a kid instead?” Very funny. Ha-ha. It was not humorous to Kathy, because it happened to be true in her case. Believing he was about to rob a bank, she had in effect given him her blessings. Confronted with a kidnaping instead, she heaped upon him her scorn.

  Nor could she honestly say that she had exercised a great deal of effort over the years in pulling her husband away from crime. He had been in trouble as a youth, had been sent to reform school, where, under the skilled tutelage of tougher, more experienced youths, he had learned tricks he had never dreamed of. She hadn’t met him until he was twenty-six, and by that time crime was as much a part of Eddie Folsom as his kidney. Was it this about him which had first attracted her? This attitude of non conformity carried to its furthest extreme? This anti-social outlook which made the beatniks seem like members of a British soccer team? Perhaps, but she did not really believe so.

  Eddie Folsom, in the eyes of Kathy Folsom, his wife, was not a crook. It is probably difficult to understand that because the good-guy—bad-guy concept is a part of our heredity, drummed into our minds together with the knight-on-a-white-charger ideal, and the only-bad-girls-lay taboo, and the slit-dresses-are-sexy fetish. There are good guys and bad guys, damnit, we all know that. Sure. But does the bad guy ever think of himself as a bad guy? When a gangster watches a gangster movie, does he identify with the police or with Humphrey Bogart?

  Eddie Folsom, you see, was a man.

  Short and simple, sweet and easily understood. Man. M-a-n. Kathy knew him as a man, and loved him as a man, and thought of him as a man who earned his living through stealing. But this did not make him a crook. True, Kathy knew the difference between right and wrong, between law and anarchy, between good and evil. But this did not make her husband a crook. A crook was the man at the butcher shop who thumbed the scale when weighing out lamb chops. A crook was the cab driver who had shortchanged Kathy in Philadelphia once. Crooks were people in charge of labor unions. Crooks were hired killers. Crooks were men who ran huge corporations.

  And, unfortunately, crooks were people who planned and executed kidnapings.

  And perhaps this was why the job disturbed her so much. In a single day, in the space of several hours, Eddie Folsom had stopped being a person who earned his living by stealing and had begun being a crook. And if this were the end product, if a person as sweet and as kind and as full of love as Eddie could turn into a crook, was not his wife to blame? And if she was to blame, where along the line had she compromised the ideal, where had the good-guy—bad-guy concept ceased to have any real meaning, when had she decided that stealing was not a crime, it simply wasn’t the kind of life she wanted for her man?

  Wasn’t this why she wanted to go to Mexico? So that Eddie could stop stealing, so that he could have his radio and do with it what he wanted, so that the demands of every-day living—simple things like wanting to eat, and wanting to be warm, and wanting a roof over one’s head—could be satisfied with a maximum of security and a minimum of cold hard cash? A bank job, a last-time big splash. No more hiding, no more running. Mexico, and sun-washed streets, and skies as blue as Monday morning. Safety. Wasn’t this all she really wanted for herself and her man?

  Now, clutching a shivering eight-year-old boy to her bosom, Kathy Folsom felt something she had never in her life felt before. Holding a boy who was not her own, listening to the whispered plans of the men across the room, she wanted more than safety. She wanted the good to return and the bad to be over with. The trembling of the boy touched something deep inside her, a well-spring as old as Eve. She knew in that instant that the good-guy—bad-guy fiction was a legend designed not to fool but to inspire. And she knew why she was at fault in leading Eddie into his current dilemma. There was good in her man, a great deal of good. She had done a disservice to the good by casually accepting the evil. What she wanted to voice now was something spouted by every thief in every Grade-B melodrama. What she wanted to cry now were the words that poured from the mouth of the gangster as he lay bleeding in the gutter. What she wanted to sob out was the criminal’s straight-man dialogue designed as a setup for Jack Webb’s devastating closing punch line.

  “Give me a break, will you?”

  In the movies, the thief is instantly manacled and dragged bleeding to jail. On the television screen, the thief’s eyes are wide with pleading. “Give me a break, will you? Please. Give me a break.” And the taciturn spokesman for the Los Angeles Police Department answers, “Did you give him one?”

  There are no punch lines in real life.

  Kathy Folsom wanted a break, a lousy break, another chance.

  And she knew with intuitive female logic that many more lives than Jeff Reynolds’ depended on the outcome of this job.

  “Eddie,” she said.

  He turned from the transmitter. “What is it, hon?”

  “The boy’s still cold.”

  “Who cares?” Sy said. “What the hell are we running here? A nursery school?”

  “He needs something hot to drink,” Kathy said. “Would you go for something, Eddie?”

  “I will never—never in my life—understand dames!” Sy said, an amazed expression on his face. “The nearest store
is maybe ten miles from here, and God alone knows how many cops are roaming the highways, and you want to send him out for a hot drink! That takes the prize, Kathy!”

  “Will you, Eddie?”

  “I don’t know. I mean…”

  “One of you has to go out to make the call, anyway,” Kathy said.

  “Ahh, she’s been listening. That’s right, one of us does have to go out. But if it’s me, I ain’t running into any grocery store to buy something we can heat up.” He paused. “And you’re not either, Eddie. There’s too much risk involved.”