1963 - One Bright Summer Morning Page 8

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  One of the telephones on Jay Dennison's desk buzzed urgently. He reached out and scooped up the receiver and growled, “Federal Field Office here. Inspector Dennison talking.”

  “Chief . . . this is Tom.” Dennison recognized his future son-in-law's voice. “I'm sorry, but I've lost Kramer . . . just this minute. I guess he knew I was on his tail. I had Abe with me, but Kramer was too smart for both of us. He just dissolved into space.”

  Dennison's mouth tightened in anger. He was silent for a long moment while he bit back angry words that jumped to his tongue, then he said, “Well, okay, Tom: come back in and fast,” and he hung up.

  Ten minutes later the telephone buzzed again. This time it was Special Agent Harry Garson.

  “Sorry, Chief, but we've lost Zegetti.”

  “I know,” Dennison said savagely, “he just dissolved into space,” and he slammed down the receiver. He leaned back in his chair and as he began to fill his pipe, the door opened and Tom Harper came in.

  “Zegetti too,” Dennison said. “So these two must be up to something . . . but what?”

  Harper hooked a chair towards him and sat astride it.

  “He was on to us, of course,” he said, “but I didn't imagine he could pull such a vanishing trick. He went into the lobby of the . . .”

  “Forget it,” Dennison broke in impatiently. He got to his feet. “We're going for a ride.” He slapped his hat on the back of his head and strode to the door. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside the long drive that led to Kramer's house.

  “I bet he won't be home,” he said, looking at the imposing wrought-iron gates, “but with any luck his wife will be. One time, she used to be a nightclub singer. I haven't seen her for years. From what I hear she's gone respectable. A visit from Federal Officers could scare her out of her girdle.”

  Tom got out of the car, opened the gates, then got back into the car.

  “Sort of lives in style, doesn't he?” he said enviously as they drove through the park and towards the big house.

  “So will you when you make your first million,” Dennison said sourly. “He's made four.”

  A fat, pleasant-faced negress opened the front door.

  “Mr. Kramer,” Dennison said.

  “Mr. Kramer ain't at home,” the negress said, eyeing the two men with alert suspicion.

  “Then Mrs. Kramer will do. Tell her it's Inspector Dennison, Federal Bureau.” Dennison moved forward and the negress gave ground. The two men walked into the big, pleasantly furnished lobby.

  Helene Kramer was coming down the broad stairs. She paused at the sight of these two men. Her hand went uneasily to her throat.

  “Evening, Mrs. Kramer,” Dennison said heavily. “We're Federal Officers. Mr. Kramer isn't in, I understand?”

  Helene felt a cold sick emptiness form inside her. Federal Officers! Her hand tightened on the banister rail. This was a moment she had always been dreading since Jim had retired. She remained motionless, staring at the two men, panic in her eyes, then making an effort, she came down the stairs, waving Martha to the kitchen.

  “Yes, Mr. Kramer is away,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “What is it?”

  “I wanted to see him. I'm Inspector Dennison.” Dennison glanced at the open door leading into the lounge. “We can talk better in here,” and he walked heavily into the big room, followed by Harper.

  Helene hesitated, then followed them into the room.

  “I don't understand . . . what is it?”

  “I want to talk to him . . . it's police business. Where is he?”

  Helene flinched. The two men watching her saw her hands turn into fists.

  “New York. I - I don't know exactly where he is staying. He - he has gone up there on business.”

  Dennison stared for a long moment at her. He remembered the way she had looked fifteen years ago. She was rather faded now, he thought, and she was certainly in a panic.

  “Isn't it a fact, Mrs. Kramer,” he said in his cop voice, “that a man called Moe Zegetti, an ex-convict and a known criminal, visited this house a couple of weeks ago?”

  Helene walked to a chair and sat down.

  “Yes, he did. He is an old friend of my husband's. He was looking for a site to open a restaurant in Paradise City,” she said slowly. “As he happened to be passing through, my husband naturally invited him to lunch. They have been friends for years.”

  Dennison rubbed the side of his face, an inquiring, sarcastic expression jumping into his eyes.

  “Zegetti starting a restaurant? Did he tell you that?”

  “Yes, that's what he told us,” Helene said.

  “Would it surprise you to know that Zegetti has been a third-rate waiter in a fifth-rate restaurant for the past months and he hasn't a dime to call his own?”

  Helene closed her eyes, shivered and then looked anxiously at Dennison.

  “I know nothing about the man,” she said. “Only what he told my husband.”

  “Look, Mrs. Kramer,” Dennison said, “we have nothing against either you or your husband. Your husband was one of the top racketeers in the business. He had the sense to pull out before we caught up with him. I have an idea he is coming out of retirement. I hope for your sake and his, he isn't. I hope for my sake he is. If you contact him, tell him I'm on to him. Tell him if he is starting something, he is heading for trouble. This is a friendly warning: you won't get another. Understand?” He jerked his head at Harper. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

  When the two men had driven away, Helene put her hands to her face and burst into tears.

  While Inspector Dennison had been talking to Helene, Jim Kramer arrived by taxi at the Lake Arrowhead Hotel, a plush, de luxe hotel which, at this time of year, was crowded with rich visitors.

  He signed the register in the name of Ernest Bendix. The previous week he had taken the precaution to telephone for a reservation and he was shown immediately to a comfortable suite with a balcony overlooking the lake.

  He was feeling pleased with himself. The way he had shaken off those two Feds proved to him that he hadn't lost his touch. He hoped Moe had been as successful.

  After unpacking his bag, he went out on to the balcony. He sat there, admiring the view and smoking a cigar until a little after seven o'clock, then he went into the sitting room and put through a call to Twin Creek Tavern. He asked to be connected with Mr. Marion: the name under which Moe had registered.

  The two men talked briefly. Anyone chancing to listenin would have gained no information from their conversation, but Kramer gathered all was well and the Cranes had arrived.

  “Call me tomorrow when you have the safe delivery of the package,” he said and hung up.

  He wondered if he should call Helene, but decided against it. He had told her he had urgent business in New York concerning Solly Lucas's death and for her not to worry if she didn't hear from him for a few days. He was a little uneasy at Helene's look of worry when he left. He knew she was no fool, and it irritated him to realize that she probably didn't believe his story. It would be dangerous to call her, he decided. She might easily have his call traced, and then she would know he wasn't in New York.

  He had an excellent dinner served in his room and he spent the evening on the balcony, smoking and drinking whisky and listening to the crowd milling around on the terrace below.

  He remained in his room during the following morning.

  A little after eleven o'clock, Moe telephoned. He sounded short of breath and there was a quaver in his voice that Kramer didn't like.

  “We have the package,” Moe said, “but there are complications.”

  “Where are you?” Kramer demanded, an edge to his voice.

  “At Lone Pine. I'm calling from a booth.”

  In the hotel lobby there were a number of telephone booths that Kramer knew didn't go through the hotel switchboard.

  “Stay right where you are. Give me your number. I'll call you back,” he said.
>
  This he knew to be dangerous. One of the switchboard operators might be listening in, but he had to know what the complications were.

  Moe gave him the number and hung up.

  Kramer took the elevator down to the crowded lobby of the hotel. He was lucky to find a telephone booth unoccupied. Shutting himself in, he called the number Moe had given him. Moe answered immediately.

  “What is it?” Kramer demanded. “What's gone wrong?”

  Moe told him about the speed cop.

  “If the job turns sour,” Moe said uneasily, “the cop will have a description of Chita. He got a good look at her. It was bad luck, but this girl drove like a lunatic.”

  Kramer thought quickly.

  “It won't turn sour,” he said. “That's the trick of this thing. The cops won't come into it. Relax. How's the Van Wylie girl behaving?”

  “Chita is handling her . . . no trouble there. The acid scared the hell out of her. I thought you should know about the cop.”

  “Yeah. Okay, Moe, you get off. You'll be at Wastelands in another hour. I'll call you there at twelve-thirty. Crane was told to put the line out of order. Get it going again as soon as you arrive. When I know you've got there, I'll talk to Van Wylie.”

  Moe said he understood and he hung up.

  Kramer returned to his suite and went out on to the balcony. One never knew for certain with any job, he thought uneasily. The speed cop disturbed him. If he was one of those who stuck his nose in other people's business, he might just possibly report to headquarters that the Van Wylie girl was travelling with a girl out of her class. The chances were he wouldn't, but he might.

  Slightly less sure of himself, Kramer tried to relax in the sunshine. He found he was continually looking at his watch. Finally, a few minutes to half past twelve, he went down to the lobby and put a call through to Wastelands.

  There was some delay, then the operator said, “I'm sorry, but the line is out of order. Our engineer is on his way out there now. If you will make your call again in about an hour, I should be able to connect you.”

  His face suddenly like granite, Kramer thanked her and hung up.

  Now things weren't going his way. It was possible the hairdresser might call Van Wylie to tell him his daughter hadn't kept her appointment. Van Wylie might wait until lunchtime and then inquire at the Country Club, knowing his daughter always lunched there after her hairdressing appointment. When they reported not seeing her, the chances were he would call the police and then the fat would be in the fire.

  Our engineer is on his way out there.

  Would Moe be able to handle the situation? What would the engineer think when he found the telephone lines cut? Would he report back? Would his report go to the police? Everything now depended on how Moe handled it. Kramer suddenly became aware that his collar was too tight. He dug two thick fingers down the collar band and eased it. His mind worked swiftly. He would have to assume that Moe and Chita had got the Van Wylie girl to Wastelands. He had to call Van Wylie before Van Wylie alerted the police.

  He took from his pocket a small notebook. In it, among many other telephone numbers, he had noted down Van Wylie's number.

  As he began to dial the number, he suddenly hesitated and cut the connection. He had very nearly made a mistake!

  A man like Van Wylie would draw a lot of water in this district. He could very easily get this call traced to the hotel and that could be fatal if there were an investigation.

  Leaving the booth, Kramer hurried out into the hot sunshine.

  He flagged a taxi and told the driver to take him to Main Street, a few minutes later, he was in the General Post Office and dialling Van Wylie's number.

  A man said, “Mr. Van Wylie's residence.”

  “I want to talk to Mr. Van Wylie,” Kramer said. “It's urgent . . . to do with Miss Van Wylie.”

  “What is the name, please?”

  “He won't know me. I am a friend of his daughter. Mannikin's my name.”

  “Will you hold on for a moment, please?”

  John Van Wylie had just returned from his routine morning ride. He was in his study, a double Martini on his desk and he was flicking through a big pile of mail. Fellows, his manservant, knocked and came in. He told Van Wylie that a Mr. Mannikin was on the telephone.

  “He says, sir, he is a friend of Miss Zelda's.”

  John Van Wylie was a short, heavily built man with a broad flat face, small hard eyes with fleshy bags, a large thin mouth and a square aggressive jaw. He looked what he was: the son of a wagon driver and a man who could turn one dollar into ten and care little how he did it. He looked for a long moment at Fellows, his eyes becoming slits. Not once could he remember any friend of Zelda's calling him up. He moved to the telephone and with his left hand, he switched on a tape recorder hooked up with the telephone and with his right hand he picked up the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Van Wylie?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is to do with your daughter. You have no reason to be alarmed . . . yet,” Kramer said, speaking quickly, not certain if Van Wylie had some means of getting the call traced. “Your daughter has been kidnapped. She is perfectly safe and will be returned to you within a few days unharmed. However, if you attempt to go to the police or do anything you're not told to do, then you won't see the girl again. We are a big organization and your house is being watched: your telephone line has been tapped. Do nothing, say nothing and wait. You'll be hearing from me again tomorrow. Again I warn you if you want to see your daughter again, wait and do nothing.” He cut the connection and leaving the booth, he walked quickly over to the taxi rank and told one of the drivers to take him back to the hotel.

  John Van Wylie stood for a long moment motionless, the telephone receiver clenched in his big, powerful hand. His face had lost a little of its colour, but his mouth was suddenly an ugly, cruel line. He replaced the receiver and turned off the tape recorder.

  “Get Andrews,” he said in a curt, hard voice.

  Fellows went quickly away. A couple of minutes later, Merrill Andrews, Van Wylie's secretary, a tall, bronze, hard-bitten Texan wearing a sports shirt and blue jeans, came into the room. Van Wylie was talking to the telephone supervisor.

  “The call was made from the General Post Office, Mr. Van Wylie,” she said in a flutter to be talking to one of the richest men in the world. “One of the public booths.”

  Van Wylie thanked her and hung up. He turned to Andrews who was looking at him expectantly.

  “A call has just come through saying Zelda's been kidnapped,” Van Wylie said. “Get the hairdresser's and the Country Club. Find out if Zelda's been there.”

  Andrews stepped to the telephone as Van Wylie walked to the window. Van Wylie stared out, his hands gripped behind his back. Andrews talked quickly and efficiently. After a few minutes, he said, “Miss Zelda didn't arrive at the hairdresser's. She hasn't been seen at the club. Shall I call the Federal Agents?”

  “No,” Van Wylie said, a snarl in his voice. “Say nothing to anyone about this! Now, get out! I have some thinking to do!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Riff stood on the veranda of Wastelands, a cigarette dangling from his thick lips. He watched the approaching car as it came up the long winding drive and he fingered the butt of Dermott's automatic that he had thrust into the hip pocket of his leather trousers.

  It was a few minutes past noon. Riff had locked the Dermotts and their baby in the front room. The windows were open, but there was no other exit. From where he stood he could see the windows and he had no worry that they could escape. By hitting the man so hard, he had knocked the guts out of him and also out of his wife.

  But Riff was savagely uneasy. He had killed the Vietnamese. This, he told himself, was the result of moving too fast from small-time into big-time. He cursed himself for hitting the little man so hard. A man of Dermott's build could take a crushing blow, but a shrimp like the

  yellow-skin just couldn't. Well, it
was done now. Riff had decided to say nothing to Moe about the Vietnamese. He had come to realize during his short association with Moe that clever as this Wop was supposed to be, he was soft. If he knew Riff had killed the Vietnamese, he was likely to flip his lid.

  The car pulled up a few yards from him. Moe was driving. Chita and the kidnapped girl sat at the back. Riff looked curiously at the girl, letting smoke drift down his thick nostrils. He was disappointed. He had hoped for something more glamorous, but when she got out of the car, he saw her broad hips and his eyes narrowed. Maybe she mightn't be so bad after all, he thought, as he walked down the veranda steps, deliberately exaggerating his rolling swagger.

  “Okay?” Moe asked anxiously as he got out of the car.

  Riff raised a dirty thumb.

  “Nothing to it . . . and you?”

  “Yeah.” Moe paused, then looked at the car. “I had better get it under cover. Where's the garage?”

  Riff pointed.

  “Lots of room in there.”

  Moe got into the car and drove it over to the garage. Riff looked at Chita who was standing beside Zelda. He lifted his eyebrows and she nodded. He then looked at Zelda who was eyeing him curiously. She had got over her scare now and was relaxed. From what Moe had told her, she hadn't anything to worry about. It was just a matter of how long it would take her father to pay out the ransom.

  This dirty-looking man in the shabby black leather uniform with his scarred face intrigued her. He was the kind of thug she so often saw on the movies: the type who sent hot blood through her body and gave her erotic dreams.

  Riff saw the hot flush that stained her face and the way her eyes darkened. He knew he had set off a spark in her.

  He leered at her.

  “I'm Riff,” he said. “What's your name, baby?”

  “Zelda Van Wylie,” Zelda said. Her flush began to recede. For her age, she was pretty self-possessed. This could be fun, she was thinking. God! What a hunk of a man! If only he were a bit cleaner! Those shoulders! Those brutal hands! “You in this too?”