A Dog's Ransom

by Patricia Highsmith

  Again Clarence repressed his urge to ring up the Reynoldses’ apartment. But maybe Rowajinski hadn’t dared ask for the second thousand. But if so, how was he going to get the dog to the Reynoldses? Or was the dog alive?

  Marylyn wasn’t coming back to her apartment, but was going directly from an afternoon job to Brooklyn Heights. She’d be back before midnight, she had said, and she expected him to be there, but he wrote a note around seven to her, saying.

  Darling,

  Am worried about tonight and the Reynolds situation. I don’t know what will happen. I will call you between 11 and 12. I bought Ajax. Message by telephone for you.

  All my love XX

  Clare

  He left the note on her pillow. The telephone message was from a woman who had a rental service in the Village. She needed a typing job.

  Clarence walked up Eighth Avenue to 23rd Street, had a hamburger and coffee, and went to a film on the same street, mainly to kill time. It was after eleven when he came out. He went to a sidewalk telephone booth and rang up the Reynoldses.

  A woman’s voice, not Greta Reynolds’s, answered. “Who is this, please?”

  “Patrolman Duhamell. Can I speak to Mr. Reynolds if he’s there?”

  “Oh—you’re the policeman who came to see them? . . . They’re not here now. I expect them back—after midnight.”

  Clarence knew what that meant: the Pole had made the date and the Reynoldses had kept it. “I’d like to see them,” Clarence said painfully but with determination. “Can I phone again—after midnight?”

  “Yes. Sure.”

  “They went to get the dog, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” Clarence said. “I’ll ring again.”

  The woman hadn’t sounded very friendly.

  Clarence walked west to Eight Avenue, then uptown. It was raining slightly, and he was wearing his overcoat, not his raincoat, but he didn’t care. At ten of twelve, he telephoned Marylyn. She was in.

  “Honey—you saw my note? . . . Are you all right?”

  She was all right. “What’s with the Reynolds situation?”

  “They made the second date—apparently. At eleven tonight. I’m only hoping the dog is delivered at midnight. I want to find out.”

  She understood. They had a date tomorrow evening. To see a play. No, Clarence wouldn’t forget.

  “Where are you? . . . Are you coming down later?”

  “I don’t know. Can I leave it that way?”

  “Sure, darling, sure. Look out for yourself.”

  Clarence was grateful. She understood. He went into a bar for a beer, and to go to the toilet. And to kill time. He killed time until a quarter to 1 a.m. Now, he thought, he could telephone the Reynoldses. Either they had their dog or they hadn’t.

  Again the strange woman’s voice answered. “They’re not back yet. Greta phoned around twelve—a little after. They were going to wait a while.”

  Clarence sank. “All right, I’ll be up. Tell them I’ll be up—now.” He hung up before she could protest.

  Because he saw an uptown bus at once, Clarence took it. What was the hurry? Now, Clarence thought, the thing to do was face Mr. Reynolds, admit he’d done the wrong thing in consulting him and giving Rowajinski a chance to escape, and do his best to put things right—to find Rowajinski and get the dog, if she were still alive somewhere, and hopefully get most of the money back, too. By 2 a.m., Clarence thought Mr. Reynolds might agree to let his precinct open up on the case, alert all the cops in New York to look for Rowajinski, not to mention looking for his sister.

  A white doorman at the Reynoldses’ apartment house opened the glass front door with a key. Clarence gave his name and said he was expected by the Reynoldses.

  “Yeah, they just came in.” The doorman picked up the house telephone.

  “Did they have their dog with them just now?” Clarence asked, unable to repress the question.

  “No.—The dog? The dog’s lost.—Mr. Reynolds? There’s a Mr. Dummell—Okay.”

  Clarence took the elevator.

  Mr. Reynolds opened the door. “Come in.”

  “Thank you. I just spoke with the doorman. You didn’t get your dog.”

  “No.”

  There were two other people in the living-room besides Mrs. Reynolds—a tall man with gray hair, and a slender dark-blond woman of about forty, who Clarence supposed was the woman who had answered the phone.

  Greta Reynolds introduced them. “Lilly Brandstrum. And Professor Schaffner. Eric. Officer Duhamell.”

  “How do you do?” said Clarence. “Mrs. Reynolds, I am sorry.”

  Mrs. Reynolds said nothing. She looked about to weep.

  “You left money again?” Clarence asked Mr. Reynolds.

  “Yes, and it was taken again. I waited about an hour after midnight.”

  “I told Ed he should have allowed the police to be there,” said the tall man, who was standing, restless, by the front windows.

  “Well—Mr. Duhamell—he’s a policeman,” Ed said. “He wanted the police there, Eric. The kidnapper said no police.”

  “When did Rowajinski speak with you?” Clarence asked Ed.

  “Last evening around—after seven. After you called me. He made arrangements for the money. I couldn’t get anything else out of him.” Ed gave a shrug.

  “I found out Rowajinski has one sister named Anna Gottstein. She lives in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, not in Long Island. But I can have the Pennsylvania police look her up and search her house. The dog might be there. Rowajinski, too. Did it sound like a long-distance call?”

  “No,” said Ed. “All right—” He felt hopeless and tired enough to drop. “What’s there to lose? But I’m pretty sure our dog’s dead. Meanwhile—can I offer you a drink? What’ll it be?”

  “This creep,” the blond woman said, looking at Clarence. “If you knew his name and what he looked like, is it so difficult to find him in New York? He’s even got a limp, I hear.” She looked at Clarence with obvious hostility and contempt.

  Clarence shook his head at the scotch bottle Mr. Reynolds was holding. “No, thanks, sir.” Then to the blond woman, “It shouldn’t be difficult now. I couldn’t put my precinct on to it, because Mr. Reynolds was afraid the dog would be killed if the man was picked up.”

  “That dog is dead,” Lilly said.

  “All right, get the police on to it,” said Ed, as if Clarence weren’t the police, or not very good as one. “He may do the same thing to someone else—with this success.”

  “How anyone,” the blond woman said, “could find where the guy lives even and then let him escape like that beats me. And what a great dog Lisa was! She didn’t deserve this.”

  “I can’t say how sorry I am,” Clarence said to her. “My mistake was to leave this fellow yesterday for one minute—for twenty minutes while I spoke to Mr. Reynolds. That’s when he got away.”

  “Yes, I heard the story,” said Lilly.

  “In this city, anything can happen,” the tall man contributed. He was still on his feet like Ed, like Clarence. “What a life! Nobody is safe. And yet on the street, in stores these days, all you see is policemen!”

  “Isn’t it true!” said Lilly.

  “No, Lilly, I don’t think it’s his fault—Officer Duhamell’s,” said Greta. “He told us we had no guarantee that Lisa was still alive. We just took a chance. And we lost.”

  “Oh, it’s not the money, let’s forget that,” Ed Reynolds said. “It’s the goddam shame of it, the unnecessary—”

  “Sit down, Eddie,” said his wife. “Sit down, Mr. Duhamell.”

  “Thank you,” said Clarence, not sitting down. “If I can use your telephone, Mr. Reynolds—”

  “Go ahead.”

 
Clarence telephoned his precinct. “Captain MacGregor, please. Patrolman Duhamell here.” MacGregor was available, and Clarence said, “I would like to start a search—put out a search for Kenneth Rowajinski, sir. I can give you—”

  “The one Santini said you were talking about at noon? Come in tonight if you’re all steamed up about it. Where are you?”

  Clarence said he would come in tonight.

  “Well, that’s something at least,” said Lilly, who was plainly feeling her drinks.

  Clarence looked from Greta to Mr. Reynolds. “If I—If you don’t mind, sir, I think it wouldn’t hurt now to try the sister in Doylestown. Of course if she’s got the dog—” She might kill it at once, Clarence thought. But he was curious. More than curious, he wanted to accomplish something, round them up, get the Pennsylvania police on to it at once, if necessary.

  Ed Reynolds again made a casual gesture towards the telephone.

  Clarence fumbled out his paper with the sister’s telephone number on it. He dialed the number, preceded by a 215, and the others in the room began talking again while Clarence waited for the telephone to answer.

  “H’lo?” said a sleepy male voice.

  “Hello. I would like to speak with Mrs. Anna Gottstein, please.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Patrolman Clarence Duhamell, New York Metropolitan Police.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. May I please speak with your wife?”

  “Just a minute. It’s a hell of an hour—”

  Now the others in the room had begun to listen, and absolute silence surrounded Clarence.

  “Mrs. Gottstein? I am sorry to be calling so late. It’s about your brother.—Have you had any news from him lately?” Behind him, Clarence heard Lilly groan with deliberate disdain.

  “My brother? Paul?”

  “No, Kenneth. In New York.”

  “Is he dead? What’s he done now?”

  “No, he’s not dead. Do you know anything about a dog?”

  “Whose dog?”

  “When did you last hear from Kenneth, Mrs. Gottstein?”

  “Listen, is this a joke? Who’re you?”

  Clarence identified himself again, and repeated the question.

  “I haven’t heard from Kenneth in more than two years. And I don’t expect to hear from him. He owes us money. He’s a good-for-nothing. And if he’s done anything wrong, it’s not our responsibility.”

  “I understand. I’m—” But she had hung up. Clarence put the telephone down, and turned to the room. “I really think she knows nothing about it. Hasn’t heard from her brother in two years.”

  Mr. Reynolds nodded, uninterested.

  Clarence did not dare now to extend his hand to Mr. Reynolds. “Good night, sir. I’m going direct to the precinct house.” With difficulty, Clarence faced the woman called Lilly and said, “Good night,” and also said it to the tall old man, and with less difficulty to Greta. “Good night, ma’am. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

  “Oh, why bother?” Lilly said.

  “Lilly!” Only Greta was kind enough to walk with Clarence to the door.

  Clarence felt awful. Catch the bastard Pole, he thought. That would make it up a little bit. He could show the Reynoldses that he cared, at least, that he wasn’t like what they thought the majority of the New York police force was like. But like Lilly, Clarence had no real hope for the dog’s life.

  MacGregor was at his desk, neat and alert at 2 a.m. Manzoni was also in the office, in civvies, maybe just going off duty. Manzoni was always smirking, and Clarence hated to tell his story in Manzoni’s presence.

  “So what’s up?” MacGregor asked. “That Rowinsk—What’s he done exactly?”

  “He’s the one who kidnapped the dog of Edward Reynolds. If you remember Saturday, sir. Mr. Reynolds came in to see us. Well, I found the man Monday and he got away.”

  “Got away?” asked MacGregor. “With the dog?”

  “I don’t know where the dog is, sir. Mr. Reynolds paid a ransom—”

  “Oh, yes! The thousand-dollar ransom. You found the man how?”

  “I was looking for odd-looking people in this neighborhood. I happened to hit it right. I asked him to print something, so I know he’s the fellow who printed the ransom notes. But he—”

  “Got away how?”

  “Well, sir, he told me he wanted another thousand from Mr. Reynolds before he’d produce the dog. He said the dog was with his sister, but he wouldn’t give me her address. I went to check with Mr. Reynolds who lives just a couple of blocks away, and Mr. Reynolds agreed to pay another thousand, but when I went back to Rowajinski’s room, he’d cleared out. This was Monday around seven p.m.”

  MacGregor frowned. “Why didn’t you bring the guy in right away? We could’ve got the sister’s address out of him.”

  Clarence had known MacGregor would say this. “I was afraid the dog would be killed, sir. Mr. Reynolds told me he cared more about his dog than the money.”

  MacGregor shook his head. “Dummell—Clarence—you’re a cop, you’re not with the A.S.P.C.A. And you let the guy get away? He just left his pad poof?—Where does he live?”

  “He had a room at a Hundred and third and West End.” MacGregor wasn’t reaching for a pencil, Clarence noticed, though he had Rowajinski’s West End address with him. Manzoni was listening.

  “So he collected more money?”

  “Tonight at eleven. I mean a couple of hours ago. Mr. Reynolds insisted that we have no police on the scene.”

  MacGregor seemed amused now. “Who is Mr. Reynolds? Is he running the force? He brings his complaints here and doesn’t let us follow up? You should have followed up, Dummell, if you were so interested.”

  “I realize, sir, I’d like to do what I can now—at least. This Rowajinski is probably hiding out in a cheap hotel, or maybe with a friend. He’s got a definite limp.—If I can write a detailed description, I’d like to get a search going.”

  MacGregor motioned to a typewriter. “Next time, Dummell—communicate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But MacGregor seemed already thinking of something else, and he looked down at a paper on his desk.

  “Tsch-tsch,” said Manzoni, and clicked his tongue at Clarence.

  Clarence had to look in another office for the right form. He typed out a description of Kenneth Rowajinski, approximate height, weight and age, color of hair and eyes, a limp in right foot, pink cheeks, lips and nose. Last known address. Clarence added: paranoid type, anonymous letter-writer, furtive, aggressive manner, kidnapper of black female French poodle “Lisa” owned by Edward Reynolds, etc. in Riverside Park 14th October at 7:30 p.m. Extortioner of $2,000 ransom. From his notebook Clarence got Rowajinski’s Social Security number and added it for good measure.

  By 5 a.m. Clarence was in Astoria, Long Island. He had drunk another beer in Manhattan, debated going to his own apartment on East 19th Street, then decided to go out and see his parents. He had got off at the Ditmars Boulevard elevated stop. Clarence had spent his childhood in this neighborhood, and whenever he arrived at Ditmars, he had a flash of recollection of himself at ten or twelve—a gawky blond kid riding a bicycle or roller-skating, bringing home now and then a live miniature turtle that cost thirty-five cents from a pet shop on Ditmars that no longer existed. He’d had a happy childhood with plenty of outdoor life here, plenty of chums, mostly Italian and tough. That was all right, aged twelve. Clarence thought of Santini and Manzoni now. Neither liked him, Clarence felt. Manzoni was a patrolman like himself, but thirty years old and with the cynical, realistic attitude the cops ought to have, Clarence supposed. Manzoni had probably been a cop for six or eight years. Maybe even promotions didn’t interest him.

  On Ditmars Boulevard now a few
trucks were unloading—fish in open boxes of salted ice for a restaurant, and boxes of fresh lettuce, eggplant, and tomatoes for a supermarket. Men in dirty white aprons shouted to each other, wooden beer barrels bumped the pavement, and a garbage truck chewed away noisily. The neighborhood hadn’t changed much since he was a kid. But whatever his parents believed or wanted to believe, his old pals in the neighborhood (not that there were many, because to an amazing extent the young people had left Astoria) didn’t like to have a beer with him any more, even if he wasn’t in uniform, and he never was in uniform off duty. The atmosphere was different because he was a cop, a little as if he’d become a priest and might therefore be passing judgment on his friends. “To be a policeman is surely nothing to be ashamed of,” said his mother, “or what’s New York coming to?” But that wasn’t quite the point.

  Now Clarence was walking down Hebble, his street, past still sleeping two-story houses with projecting glass-enclosed sunrooms at the front of almost every one. The dawn was starting. His subway-elevated trip had taken ages.

  His parents’ house was white, trimmed in yellow, with a sunroom in, front, and a patch of lawn bordered by a low hedge. Clarence opened the wooden gate gently and went up the short front walk. Through the sunroom’s windows he could see the old red leather sofa, the cluttered coffee-table with copies of Time, McCall’s, and Popular Mechanics. Clarence suddenly realized he hadn’t his key. It was in his apartment in New York. He hesitated, immediately thought that his mother wouldn’t mind what the hour was, and he pressed the bell briefly.

  Finally his mother emerged in the dimness of the living-room doorway, wearing what looked like a bulky terrycloth robe, and peered across the sunroom. Then recognizing him, she broke into a big smile and flung the door open.

  “Clary! Hello, darling! Come in, sweetie! How are you?” She seized his shoulders and kissed his cheek.

  “Fine. As usual. Everything okay?”

  His mother started coffee in the kitchen—already primed in an electric percolator, so she merely had to plug it in. Questions. They hadn’t seen him for six weeks, wasn’t it? The red cuckoo clock opened and a bird announced 5:30. The kitchen was smallish, immaculately clean, and full of yellow Formica. And what about his girlfriend, Marion, wasn’t it?