by S. T. Joshi
Franklin’s only response was to fire a gun in my direction. The bullet came surprisingly close, nearly grazing my ear. Franklin may have been out of the force for a decade or more, but he was a good shot.
I had told Joseph that it was essential we take him alive. As I suspected, Lizbeth was not here, so there must be even more people involved in this kidnapping conspiracy. With Franklin dead, we’d have no chance of finding her. But Franklin clearly wasn’t going down without a struggle.
In the pitch darkness, it was nearly impossible to make out what was going on in that grimy bedroom of his. It appeared he had flopped behind the bed so that it was between us and him. From my vantage point behind a Morris chair, I could barely make out the top of his head. Joseph was behind a couch, eyes goggling with adrenalin. It was a standoff.
I shouted: “There are two of us, Franklin! You’ll never make it!”
“What the hell are you doing, Scintilla!” he screamed. “Are you insane, breaking into my house? Get the fuck out of here! I don’t know nothin’!”
“Don’t give me that bull!” I shot back. “We know you were put up to kidnap Lizbeth, so if you know what’s good for you—”
“You’re crazy!” he said, aiming another shot in my direction.
In reply, I shot a hole into the wall near his head. But the last thing I wanted to do was to make a direct hit. So one more time I hissed some instructions to Joseph. Giving him some cover by aiming several shots in Franklin’s general direction, I saw him dart out of the house.
In a matter of seconds, the glass of one of the bedroom windows crashed inward, showering Franklin with shards and making him shriek with terror. At that moment I moved rapidly forward so that I was just to the right of the open door leading into the bedroom. With Joseph now pointing his weapon directly at Franklin’s back, I shouted:
“Give it up, man! We have you covered! Throw down your weapon—we just want to talk.”
For a few moments Franklin sat cowering on the floor near his bed, irresolute. Then, with something of a whine, he threw his gun on to the bed and raised his arms.
“Get up—slowly,” I said in a quieter voice.
He lumbered to his feet. He was wearing nothing but his underwear. In spite of the cold, his face was covered with sweat, and his large frame shook all over.
“OK, shamus,” he said in wearied defeat. “Go ahead and kill me if you want to. I don’t care anymore.”
“Come off it, Franklin,” I said. “Just sit down and let’s talk.”
I snapped up his gun from the bed, and he sat down on one corner of it. Not long thereafter, Joseph came back in the house, standing in the doorway of the bedroom with his automatic extended somewhat awkwardly. I told him to put it down, and he did so grudgingly.
“Franklin,” I said, turning back to the ex-cop, “we know what’s gone down. Helen Ward Crawford has had her granddaughter kidnapped, for reasons I don’t quite understand. We know you were involved. Better spill the beans.”
I was fully aware that all this was a conjecture, but I had to put on a guise of certainty to get Franklin to cough up what he knew—if anything.
Franklin peered at me for a moment as if he were trying to read my mind. After a time, he collapsed within himself and said:
“OK, you win.”
I had to smile a bit to myself, because if I’d been wrong, I suspect I’d have had to look for another line of work.
“But she’s not here, Scintilla,” Franklin went on hastily.
“Where is she?”
“I tell you, I didn’t even do the job myself. . . . There’s a couple nearby . . . they owed me big-time . . . I saved them from the chair after a robbery that went wrong . . . he was an old high school pal of mine . . . he got off with just eight years . . .”
Franklin seemed to be lapsing into some kind of reminiscence of his past life, but I put a quick end to that:
“Enough of that, Franklin. Just tell me where Lizbeth Crawford is.”
Franklin looked at me pleadingly. “I don’t know for certain, shamus. . . . I guess she must still be in their house somewhere—but maybe they moved her . . .”
“Well, we’re going to find out,” I said with resolution.
He didn’t quite understand what that “we” signified, for he sat there on the bed, gaping up at me.
“Get up,” I said, “and get some clothes on. We’re going for a ride.”
The address Franklin had given was about half a mile from his house—in a section of town even worse, if possible, than his own. Every other house seemed either boarded up or about to tumble down upon the ears of its sorry denizens; all kinds of paraphernalia—from kids’ toys to a kitchen sink to a bicycle without wheels—littered the yards, and the cars on the streets or driveways seemed about as dilapidated as the houses. If there was any area that could pass as the very symbol and image of the Depression, this was it.
Before we left Franklin’s own unsavory abode, we tied him up with some twine from his kitchen and bundled him into the car. Joseph looked at me in surprise as I started binding Franklin’s arms and legs, but I quickly explained that I wasn’t taking any chances on his tipping off his pals—a couple named Jake and Effie Nolan—before we showed up; and if he was lying altogether about Lizbeth’s whereabouts, then I wanted him right under our nose so I could use various methods of persuasion to make him cough up the truth.
This whole business of Lizbeth’s kidnapping had produced a slow burn in me. I wanted to knock someone’s head off, and was rapidly ceasing to care whose it was. I knew I had to get a grip on myself.
We again parked more than a block away from the Nolans’ house. The rain had mercifully let up a bit, but the cold still penetrated into our bones, making even the least motion a source of pain. As we approached the house, we saw a rattletrap of a jalopy—an ancient 1925 Nash—in the gravel driveway. I hated the thought of Lizbeth being crammed into that odoriferous vehicle even for a moment. As Joseph and I exited our own vehicle, we had no choice but to leave Franklin tied up in the back seat. Making sure that his bonds were secure, we got out and approached the house.
It was larger than Franklin’s, but not by much. However, there was a back door, which Franklin’s own house lacked.
There was also a basement, as I could see from two very narrow windows placed at ground level in the back of the house.
The house was pitch dark and dead quiet. If anyone was in there, they weren’t publicizing the fact.
Those basement windows were so grimy, on both sides, that it was nearly impossible to look through them. I moistened my hand on the wet grass and tried to clean the central pane of one of the windows. The effect was still like looking through gauze, but I saw enough.
In a tiny clearing amidst a vast and confused mass of clutter, a woman in her nightgown was tied up to a straight-backed wooden chair. She was slumped over, either asleep or unconscious.
Once again I had to get a grip on my emotions. It would be insanity just to burst in there, pistols firing, before I knew exactly where the Nolans were. If one or both of them were in the basement somewhere, standing guard, any sudden hostile act could spell the end of Lizbeth Crawford. The Nolans weren’t going to go down easy, and I didn’t want to prod them into taking desperate measures.
Taking a few deep breaths, I surveyed the back of the house. I couldn’t tell where the stairs to the basement were, but the back door was only a few feet away. A quick check showed not only that it was locked, but that a deadbolt was in place.
I was, however, prepared for that.
Out of a bag I got my suction-cup device and quickly—and silently—began cutting a circular hole into the glass pane of the door nearest the deadbolt. As Joseph looked on in amazement, I completed the circuit, pulled out the suction-cup with the glass now attached to it, reached my hand in, silently unlocked the deadbolt, and then turned the doorknob from the inside. The door began to yawn open, but a slight creak caused me to halt abruptly. Howe
ver slowly I opened that door, the creak continued to sound. At this point I whispered some instructions to Joseph, who stayed just outside the door, automatic ready for use, while I pulled the door open just enough to let myself in.
I was in the kitchen, which was ferociously untidy and stank of stale cooking and alcohol. Luckily, the basement stairs directly faced the back door, so that it was the work of seconds for me to begin my descent. So far as I could tell, my entry was undetected.
The basement stairs, inevitably, creaked also, no matter how lightly I trod on them. It seemed a century before I descended those thirteen steps to the basement floor, after which I had to navigate a baffling maze of cartons, old toys, decrepit furniture, and other objects of a less comprehensible sort. The basement was sizeable, but seemed smaller because of all the debris cluttering it.
It wasn’t long, however, before I made my way to Lizbeth Crawford.
She was tied firmly with thick twine to the chair—her hands and ankles tied together, and a rope that wrapped around her midsection and proceeded to the back of the chair. There was also a dirty red bandana gagging her mouth. Her hair was mussed, her nightgown was torn and rumpled, and dried tears had streaked her face. She made no movement as I approached.
I gently lifted her head, which had slumped over to one shoulder. With a penknife I rapidly sliced through the bandana, which fell to the floor. Taking precautions, I covered her mouth with my hand.
That was a smart move, for my actions had caused her eyes to pop open, and a shrill moan or scream began working its way out of her throat.
I tightened my grip on her mouth and hissed into her ear, “Shhhh! Be quiet. I’m going to get you out of here.”
Her entire frame, which had clenched in shock and fear, relaxed abruptly, almost as if she were a balloon that someone had let the air out of. She looked at me with such a mixture of relief and gratitude that it wrenched my heart.
But I had work to do.
I quickly cut the ropes tying her to the chair. I gestured to her not to try to get up too quickly, as I suspected that she would need to restore blood circulation to her legs and arms before she could become ambulatory. She had nothing but slippers on, and they—and her thin, wispy nightgown—would have to do to protect her from the elements until we got to my car.
If we made it that far.
It seemed inconceivable that the Nolans had not been aroused by this invasion of their wretched abode. Could they really be such heavy sleepers? Could they be so careless of their prize after committing a serious felony? Was it possible they weren’t even in the house?
I got the answers to all my silent queries when a gunshot exploded out of the dark and whizzed past my ear.
At once I flung Lizbeth to the ground and fell directly on top of her, to shield her from any more bullets. In spite of the clutter in the basement, there was nothing substantial behind which we could take refuge, so all I could do was fire blindly in the direction where that gunshot had lit up the area for a fraction of a second. The only thing that happened in response was a ferocious volley of shots that lit up the basement like freakish little pellets of lightning. Most of them went wildly astray.
But one got me in the left shoulder. It seemed to go all the way through, for only a few seconds after my own grunt of pain, I heard Lizbeth emit a little squeal. My right arm was, however, unaffected, and I returned fire as best I could, firing upward toward the top of the stairs.
Without warning, a heavy body tumbled down those stairs and landed violently on the floor. After an initial groan, it was motionless and silent.
Suddenly the lights blazed on, and I took in the scene quickly: The body on the floor must be Jake Nolan, although in overall girth he looked not unlike Franklin. At the top of the stairs was Joseph, beaming with pride and holding his automatic out in front of him like Wyatt Earp after a showdown.
But he celebrated a bit too soon. Out of nowhere behind him, a middle-aged woman, shrieking like a banshee, barreled into him with her arms extended. Before he had a chance to turn around, she had thrust him violently down the stairs. If he hadn’t reached spasmodically for the rickety banister, he would have tumbled to the floor. As it was, he was forced to let go of his weapon, which clattered on to the floor of the kitchen above. Seizing the opportunity, the woman snatched up the weapon and leveled it at Joseph, teetering on the stairs while clutching the banister for dear life.
Before she could fire the weapon, I went into action. Forcing myself into a roughly sitting position in spite of the pain in my shoulder, I aimed my own automatic—not at her, but at the gun in her hand. I hit it squarely, and it flew out of her hand and tumbled down the stairs, landing not two feet from the recumbent form of her partner in crime.
She shrieked with pain and turned tail. I hastily crawled over the basement floor, picked up Joseph’s weapon, and pocketed it. Nolan seemed unconscious, maybe dead, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Only a few seconds later, I heard a car door open, then slam shut. There was a grinding of gears, a shriek of brakes, and then a motor revved up to full speed. In less time than it takes to tell, the sound of a speeding car receded into the distance.
The fleeing Effie Nolan was the least of my worries. A little weak-kneed, I made my way back to Lizbeth. I saw the back of her nightgown covered with blood and was momentarily alarmed; but her expression, while fearful and apprehensive, had little of pain in it. I began to realize that most of that blood was probably my own. As I looked down at my shoulder, I both saw and felt more than a trickle of blood emerging from the entry and the exit of the bullet.
I staggered to the very chair that Lizbeth had been tied up in. As she rose to her feet, she cried out in alarm, “Joe! You’ve been hit!” and stumbled over to me. There was little she could do except pass a hand gently over my face. There was nothing within easy reach to stanch the flow of blood—that dirty red bandana would not have served the purpose—so all she could do was coo at me.
Meanwhile, Joseph had staggered to his feet and made his way down the stairs. He stood looking at the body of Jake Nolan, now almost petrified that he had been the cause of someone’s injury or death.
“How is he, Joseph?” I managed to breathe.
“I . . . I don’t know, sir,” he stammered. “I think he may be dead.”
I saw a gunshot wound in his lower back, and a small pool of blood emerging from under his belly.
“Turn him over,” I said. “Let’s see what gives with him.”
With extreme reluctance, Joseph took Nolan by the shoulder and tried to roll him over. His size—and Joseph’s distaste—made the task difficult, but he managed it in the end.
We were rewarded by a low groan from deep within Nolan’s throat. The front of his shirt was doused in blood, and he could do little but moan in pain.
“Better call the police, Joseph,” I managed to say, “and an ambulance.”
Then I passed out.
Chapter Seventeen
I awoke to find myself in a room in the only hospital in Pompton Lakes. As I opened my eyes, I found Lizbeth slouched half-asleep in an uncomfortable chair near my bed. I was propped up in a half-sitting position, and my left shoulder was heavily bandaged. Aside from that, I seemed fine.
But as I shifted my body to get into a more comfortable position, a shooting pain went through my shoulder and down my back. I groaned heavily and fell back on to the bed.
My cry startled Lizbeth awake, and she sat up sharply, half surprised and half fearful. Then, as if suddenly remembering where she was, she sat back, exhausted. She looked all in. I hated to think that she had spent the entire night—or what was left of it after our escapade—in that dreadful chair.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” I managed to croak.
Lizbeth was hardly capable of speaking herself.
“There’s so much to tell,” she said wearily. “After you . . . um . . . fainted, Joseph managed to get to an all-night drugstore and call the police. I stood guard ove
r you”—she smiled at the memory—“holding your gun. . . . The police came and took both you and that horrible man—”
She shuddered at the memory.
“Nolan?” I said. “Jake Nolan?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s his name,” she went on. “Anyway, they brought us all here. It seems Mr. Nolan just got a flesh wound...but I guess he’ll go to jail. They’re still looking for that wife of his.”
“What about Myron Franklin?”
“Joseph said he was still in your car—he was slouched over on the back seat, all tied up, and sleeping. The police have him too. I think he spilled the beans about the whole business. . . .”
“What do you mean, exactly?” I said sharply.
“Well . . .” she seemed reluctant to speak further. Finally, in a rush:
“They’ve arrested Grandma.”
“Have they now?” I said with a grim smile. “So Franklin squealed on her?”’
“I guess so,” she said in a small voice.
“Well, that makes things a little easier,” I said. “Where’s Joseph now?”
“He went back to Thornleigh after the police finished questioning him.”
“What about you? Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting here all night?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I had to be here. I wanted to make sure you were OK.”
“So what’s the prognosis on me?”
“I think they said you’d be all right. The bullet went all the way through you, but no bones were broken. I think it grazed me a bit . . . they put a little bandage on me also.”
She seemed proud to have endured her share of suffering during our rescue of her.
“So what happens now?” she went on.
“What happens now,” I said heavily, as I struggled to get up out of the bed, “is that I have it out with your father. Maybe not today—I need to rest up a bit. But I have to get him to tell me what he knows about all this.”
“You’re just going to get up and leave?” she said in alarm. “But you’re wounded! You have to wait till the doctors say it’s OK to go . . .”
