Chita wiped her sweating hands on the skirt of her dress. Her quick, animal intelligence told her at once that now they were in real trouble. Steadying her voice, she said, “What have you done with him?”
“Buried him out there.” Riff pointed to the sand dunes.
“If they ever find out he's dead,” Chita said slowly, “Kramer won't be able to keep the cops out of this.”
“Think I'm dumb?” Riff snarled. “I've thought of that. I tell you it wasn't my fault! I just hit him too hard.”
For a long moment, Chita fought against a rising panic, Kidnapping! Now murder!
“You'll have to take food to the cabin every day,” she said finally. “Suppose you tell Zegetti that the yellow-skin had seen you, but there's no need for him to see him or me. The less faces he sees the safer for us all. Zegetti will fall for that line. That'll give us a couple of days to see how it works out.”
Riff thought about this. It made sense to him and he nodded.
“But I don't see how we fix it in the end,” he said. “The punk's dead and I killed him.”
“I'll think about it,” Chita said. “Could be we could push the killing on to Zegetti. The cops know him. They don't know us.”
“Oh, wrap up!” Riff snarled. “They'll know when he sparked out. Moe wasn't here until fifteen hours after I hit the punk. These cops are smart.”
“I'll think about it,” Chita said again. She paused, then, “Riff . . . leave that girl alone.”
Riff stared at her, his narrow eyes glittering.
“I'm fixing her good,” he said viciously. “No — talks that way to me! You keep out of it! I'm going to fix her and I'll fix her good!”
Chita got to her feet.
“You touch her and you'll be sorry,” she said. “You want to use your head. We're in bad trouble enough now, but if you interfere with her, we'll be up to the neck in it. Can't you see . . . we're in real trouble already?” It was typical of the Cranes to share the responsibility of each other's mistakes. “Get your mind off her. What is she anyway? All she has is a fat behind . . . nothing else. You start thinking about the yellow-skin. I want to leave here with ten thousand dollars which I can spend!”
She went away, leaving Riff scowling out across the moonlit desert.
Vic and Carrie lay side by side in one of the single beds in their bedroom. Carrie wanted to be as close as she could get to her husband. The cot in which Junior slept peacefully had been moved to within arm's reach of the bed. Neither of them had been able to sleep. Carrie began again on the subject they had already discussed and discussed.
“You can't do it, Vic,” she said. “You can't act as this man's go-between. You can surely see that, can't you?”
Vic moved impatiently.
“I don't give a damn about the Van Wylies,” he said, pulling her close to him. “I have to do it for our sakes. He wasn't bluffing. Carrie . . . I'm pretty sure Di-Long's dead.”
Carrie stiffened.
“Oh, no!”
“Well, if he isn't dead, then he's badly hurt. I picked that blood up on my shoe in his cabin. That thug hits!” He touched his aching face. “If he hit Di-Long . . .”
“Don't Vic!”
“These people mean business. I don't know who the fat man is, but you can see for yourself, he is just as big a thug as the young one. If I don't do what he says, he could take it out of you and Junior. He's not bluffing. I have to do it.”
“But, Vic, you aren't going to leave me alone with them?” Carrie said, her voice jumping a note.
“They aren't looking for trouble,” Vic said quietly. “They only want the money. They won't harm you . . . unless I fail to get the money for them. I'm sure of that.”
“I wish I was as sure. You really mean you're going off tomorrow and leave me with these awful people?”
Vic drew in a long, slow breath.
“Unless you have another suggestion, Carrie, that's what I have to do.”
“Suggestion? What do you mean?”
“What else do you want me to do?”
“I keep telling you! Stay here with Junior and me of course!”
“You want me to tell that man I won't do what he asks?” Vic said quietly.
They were back where they had started. They had gone over this again and again. Vic understood how Carrie felt to be left alone with these thugs, but he realized that if she and Junior were to remain safe there was no other alternative.
“I have to go, darling,” he said.
Carrie closed her eyes. She clung closer to him, fighting back the tears that tried to escape through her tightly closed eyelids.
Moe Zegetti lay in the comfortable bed in the fourth guest room. Although he hadn't been so comfortable in years, his mind was uneasy. He was thinking of his mother. It was now two weeks since he had seen her. He had had no news of her since he had left Frisco. He knew she was pretty bad, but he had great faith in her toughness. When this job was over, he would be worth a quarter of a million dollars!
Big Jim had said so and when Big Jim made a promise, he stuck to it. With that kind of money, Moe told himself, no matter how bad his mother was, he would be able to fix anything for her.
But he hadn't the money as yet. He worried about the speed cop. He worried too about Riff Crane. That boy was bad . . . really bad. Moe didn't like the way he had looked at the Van Wylie girl. There was trouble ahead with those two: he was sure of that. And Riff had Dermott's gun. That was bad. A punk like Riff with his kind of nature should never have a gun.
In the room next to Moe's, Zelda lay awake. She wondered what her father was doing right at this very moment. She moved her long legs under the sheet and smiled into the moonlit shadows. He must be laying square eggs, she thought. She had no doubt he would pay up and pay up fast. Really it was a pity that it would be over so soon for she was frankly enjoying herself. The first moment of shock when that girl had squirted acid on the Jag door and she had seen the way the leather had just peeled away had terrified her, but once she was over the shock and she realized she was in no danger, this affair had begun to amuse and excite her. After all, she was in luxury. No one could complain about the room in which she was. Then there was this man with the scarred face. Zelda felt a hot rush of blood through her at the thought of him. He was an animal, but what an animal!
Her hands went under the sheet and she closed her eyes. The image of Riff filled her mind. She began to breathe unevenly and heavily: soon she was panting, her legs tightly pressed together.
Later still, she fell asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kramer sat in a lounging chair, a cigar gripped between his teeth. Behind him stood Moe Zegetti. Opposite him, in another lounging chair, sat Vic Dermott.
From where he sat, Vic could see through the window across the patio to the garage. The garage doors were open. Riff was working on Vic's Cadillac. He had already replaced the sparking plugs. He was now removing the licence plates and replacing them with plates Kramer had brought with him.
The time was some minutes after nine o'clock.
Kramer said, “You'll reach Van Wylie's place around eleven o'clock. You know what to say. You have to convince him that if he doesn't pay up without fuss he'll never see his daughter again. I'm not fooling. If something turns sour, I'll bow out and leave you all to the Cranes. Understand?”
“I understand,” Vic said.
“He'll try to find out who you are,” Kramer went on. “If he does find out and traces you here, there'll be a massacre.” He leaned forward and pointed a thick finger at Vic. “The Cranes don't surrender. They'll kill your wife, your baby and the Van Wylie girl and then they'll fight it out to a finish.”
Vic didn't say anything.
“So it is up to you to convince Van Wylie to give you the cheques. When you have them, you will drive to San Bernadino. You'll go to the Chase National Bank and cash the first one. You will then drive to Los Angeles and go to the Merchant Fidelity Bank and cash the second chequ
e. You'll put up for the night at the Mount Crescent Hotel. I've reserved a room for you in the name of Jack Howard. At eleven o'clock, I'll telephone you. If there are no snags you will go to the Chase National Bank in L.A. and cash the third cheque. From then on you'll drive up the coast, cashing cheques from the list you have. You will finally arrive at Frisco. I'll be waiting for you at the Rose Arms Hotel. You'll hand over the money to me and then you are free to return here. By the time you get back, Miss Van Wylie will have been released and the rest of my people will have gone. From then on, you say and do nothing. To you, this has never happened. But if you start acting smart and imagine you can give us away to the Feds, one day someone will arrive at your home and he will wipe you, your wife and baby out. That's a promise. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” Vic said woodenly.
“Well, that's it . . . don't say you haven't been warned.” Kramer got to his feet. “The car's ready. It's time you got off.”
Vic stood up.
“My wife is afraid of being alone. What guarantee have I that nothing happens to her while I am away and while you're not here?”
“My dear fella,'' Kramer said with his expansive insincere smile, “you have nothing to worry about. He's here.” He waved to Moe. “The Cranes may be a little wild, but our friend here can control them. Anyway, so long as you do as you're told and Mrs. Dermott doesn't attempt to run away, there is no possible danger to her or your baby.”
Vic had to be content with that.
His bag was packed and he was ready to go. He dreaded saying goodbye to Carrie but when he walked into the bedroom, he found her calm and she even managed a smile.
“It's all right, Vic,” she said putting her arms around him. “I'm over my fright now. I know it's the only thing for you to do. Don't worry about me. I'll manage.”
“I'll get back as soon as I can,” Vic said, fondling her. “It'll work out all right. This is something we'll talk about for the rest of our days.”
Kramer came to the door.
“Ready to go, Mr. Dermott?”
Vic kissed his son, kissed Carrie, looked long and earnestly at her, then pulling away from her and picking up his bag, he followed Kramer to the front door.
Lifting Junior from his cot, Carrie sat on the bed, her heart cold and frightened, and hugged the baby to her.
* * *
On the highway leading to Arrow Lake, Kramer, who had been following Vic's Cadillac in his hired car, tapped his horn button, waved his hand, then branched off on to the secondary road that led to his hotel. Vic saw him go in the driving mirror and continued on his way until in his turn, he turned off the highway and headed for the Van Wylies estate.
Ten minutes later, he pulled up the electrified gate, got out of the car and went across to the telephone box. A man's voice answered as soon as he had lifted the receiver.
“A caller here for Mr. Van Wylie,” Vic said. “He's expecting me. It is to do with Miss Van Wylie.”
“Come right on up,” the man said curtly.
As Vic replaced the receiver, he heard a click and saw the gate swing back. He got in his car and drove up the twisting drive until he finally reached the main entrance to the big house.
Merrill Andrews was waiting at the top of the steps. He and Vic regarded each other as Vic came up the steps. Andrews was startled to see such a man as Vic. He was expecting some thug: not only surprised, but puzzled as he had a sudden idea he had seen this man somewhere before.
“My business is with Mr. Van Wylie,” Vic said.
“This way,” Andrews said and strode across a big lobby, through a room lined with books and out on to a paved patio where John Van Wylie was waiting.
As Vic came into the strong sunlight, Van Wylie, dressed in a white shirt, black riding breeches and polished knee-high boots, turned to stare at him. With a flick of his hand, Van Wylie dismissed Andrews, then walking to the garden table, he took from a box a cigar which he lit before saying, “Well? Who are you and what do you want?”
“You and I, Mr. Van Wylie,” Vic said quietly, “are in the same position. We both have people we love in danger. My wife and baby are in the hands of the men who have kidnapped your daughter. I am more concerned with their safety than I am with your daughter's.”
Van Wylie studied Vic for a long moment, then he waved to a basket chair. “Sit down . . . you talk. I'll listen.”
“These people have picked on me to persuade you to part with four million dollars,” Vic said, sitting down. “Yesterday, they arrived at my house with your daughter and took over. If I don't get the money from you, they intend to murder your daughter, my wife and baby. These people don't bluff. I have seen them . . . you haven't. There's a young thug with them who could be capable of any cruelty. I think he has already murdered my servant.”
“Where is your house?” Van Wylie asked.
“I have been warned that if I tell you who I am and where I live, my wife and baby will suffer,” Vic said. “This is no idle threat. I can tell you nothing about myself: all I can tell you is that if you want your daughter back unharmed, you must give me ten certified cheques for four hundred thousand dollars each cheque.”
Van Wylie turned away and walked to the end of the patio, blowing a stream of cigar smoke through his nostrils.
Vic waited. After a few moments, Van Wylie turned and came back.
“I guess you realize you're making yourself an accessory to a capital crime?” he asked, standing over Vic and glaring at him. “When this is over and the police move in, you could land up in the gas chamber.”
“I don't give a damn if I land up the middle of the Pacific,” Vic said quietly. “All I'm concerned about is keeping my wife and kid safe.”
Van Wylie was now staring at the livid bruise down the side of Vic's face.
“How did you get that?” he demanded, pointing.
“From the young thug I told you about,” Vic said. “He wraps a bicycle chain around his fist and then he hits you . . . it's some sock.”
Van Wylie took the cigar from his lips, stared at it in disgust and then dropped it into the ashtray.
“This thug,” Vic went on, “is capable of driving his chained fist into my baby's face or into my wife's face or even into your daughter's face. You have plenty of money. So let's have it! Ten certified cheques for four hundred thousand. I don't see any reason, except pride, why you are hesitating. If your daughter gets a punch in the face from this thug, she won't have much face left. I'm not just talking, Mr. Van Wylie, I am giving you the stark facts.”
“How do I know, if I give you the money, I'll get my daughter back?” Van Wylie asked, putting his blunt, powerful hands on the table and leaning forward to stare at Vic.
“You don't know: as I don't know when I get back, I won't find my wife and baby dead,” Vic said, “but that's the way it is. You have plenty of money. If you want to gamble on getting your daughter back, you have the answer.”
“I haven't the answer,” Van Wylie said and sat down in a basket chair opposite Vic's. “I can give you the money, but I still don't know what I'm buying.”
Vic made an impatient movement. He didn't say anything.
After a pause, Van Wylie said, “You have seen my daughter? She's all right?”
“Yes, I've seen her, and as far as I know right now she is all right.”
“Tell me about these people who have kidnapped her. How many are there?”
“My business with you is to persuade you to give me the ransom money,” Vic said. “I have been warned to give you no information. All you have to do is to decide whether you are paying up or whether you are going to leave your daughter in the hands of these people. That's all.”
Van Wylie stared at him, his hard eyes probing, then he nodded and got to his feet.
“Wait here. I'll fix it.”
He walked quickly across the patio and into the study where Andrews was waiting.
Van Wylie issued his orders and Andrews got busy on the
telephone. He spoke to the manager of the California and Merchant Bank. The manager, sounding a little startled, said he would have the certified cheques ready in an hour.
“This guy isn't one of them,” Van Wylie said as Andrews replaced the receiver. “They are using him as their stooge . . . smart. He has a wife and baby. They've moved into his house with Zelda. He has to collect the money. If there is a slip up, they'll take it out of his family.”
“I've seen him before,” Andrews said. “I'm trying to remember who he is . . . someone: a personality. I think he's to do with the theatre.”
Van Wylie sat on the edge of the desk. His small hard eyes were bleak as he looked at Andrews.
“They've knocked him around. Did you see the bruise on his face? These punks aren't made of custard.” He leaned forward. “Where have you seen him before?”
“I don't know,” Andrews said. “But I'm sure I have seen him. He's someone who's been in the news.”
“That helps a lot, doesn't it?” Van Wylie said, a snarl in his voice. “You think! I want to know who he is!”
Andrews walked over to the window and stared out.
Where had he seen this man before? Why did he connect him with the theatre? Was he an actor? He was still standing there, digging into his memory when Van Wylie with a snort of impatience went back to where Vic was waiting.
* * *
Moe was like a flea on a hot stove. He couldn't relax: he couldn't concentrate: all he could think about was his mother. What was happening to her? he kept asking himself. Was she any better? Was she dying? From time to time, he looked longingly at the telephone, longing to pick up the receiver and call the hospital, but he knew such a call could spell disaster. If by chance Van Wylie had alerted the Feds and they traced the call to Wastelands, his chance of gaining a quarter of a million dollars would go up in gunsmoke.
But he had to know!
Zelda and Carrie were together with the baby in the bedroom. He could hear them talking. The Cranes were lolling in the sun, drinking Cokes and looking through the comics
1963 - One Bright Summer Morning Page 10
