1963 - One Bright Summer Morning Page 9

  “Sure, baby,” Riff said, eyeing her over. “We're all in it. Come on in and make yourself at home.” He took three swaggering steps forward and put his hand possessively on her arm. Now he was close to her, she could smell his dirt and see the grime on his neck, his black fingernails and the dust in his close-cropped hair.

  She jerked away from him, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

  “Don't touch me!” she said sharply. “Keep away from me! You - you smell!”

  Riff stood very still. The muscles of his face moved under his grey-white skin like the ripple of moving water. His eyes narrowed and his mouth turned into a white, thin line.

  Recognizing the signs, Chita said, “Cut it out, Riff! Hear me? Stop it!”

  The sudden vicious fury that now burned in the narrow eyes shocked Zelda who backed away.

  Chita exclaimed. “Riff! Cut it out! He's coming!”

  “Okay, baby,” Riff said softly, staring at Zelda. “I'll remember. Plenty of time . . . I'll remember.”

  Moe came up, wiping his sweating face with a soiled handkerchief.

  “What are you doing out here?” he demanded. “Get her inside!”

  Chita nodded to Zelda and the two girls walked up the steps and into the house.

  Riff stared after them. His eyes moved down the length of Zelda's back.

  “What's happened to the Dermotts?” Moe asked.

  Riff said nothing until the girls were out of sight, then he turned and stared at Moe.

  “Got 'em locked up in the front room. The guy got a little frisky and I had to tap him. They won't trouble us now.”

  “The dog?”

  “Nothing to it. I've buried it.”

  “The servant?”

  Riff jerked his thumb towards the staff cabin.

  “He's locked in there. I scared the crap out of him. No trouble with him now. He can't get out.”

  “You'd better repair the telephone line,” Moe said. “The boss will be coming through any time now.”

  Riff resented taking orders from anyone. He eyed Moe and then shrugged his heavy shoulders.

  “Can't be done,” he said. “I cut 'em, but there's no slack to fix 'em with.”

  “Look in the garage,” Moe said impatiently. “There may be some spare wire there. We've got to get the line repaired. Get going!” And he walked up the steps and into the house.

  Riff picked his nose thoughtfully. It was a little too soon for a showdown. Shrugging, he walked with lazy strides towards the garage.

  Vic Dermott, lying on the settee in his study, heard the car pull up. His head ached violently and he had extensive bruising down the right side of his face. He had been conscious for over three hours, but he was only now slowly recovering. Carrie sat by his side, holding his hand, anxiously watching him. They hadn't said much to each other. The blow had been so violent, Vic felt his brain had come adrift, but at the sound of the car, he attempted to sit up.

  “Stay still,” Carrie said, getting to her feet. She looked through the window to see Zelda and Chita confronting Riff. Then she saw Moe drive the car over to the garage.

  “There are three more of them. Oh, Vic! What is happening? Who are these people?”

  Gritting his teeth, Vic slowly sat up. For a moment the room spun around before his eyes, then everything came into sharp focus. He looked beyond Carrie through the open window.

  Riff was talking to Zelda. Vic looked at the girl, then at Chita before his eyes flicked back to Zelda.

  “It can't be,” he muttered and passed his hand before his eyes, then stared again. Zelda and Chita were now walking towards the house. “That girl . . . it can't be.” They were out of sight now and they could be heard moving through the lounge. “She looks exactly like that Van Wylie girl.” Vic touched the side of his face and winced. “You know . . . she's supposed to be one of the richest girls in the world. Zelda . . . isn't that her name?”

  Carrie said breathlessly, “Of course! I knew I had seen her somewhere before.” She looked at Vic. “They've kidnapped her!”

  “Could be and they are using this place as a hideout.” He reached for a sponge lying in a bowl of ice water, wrung it out and held it to his face. “Could be,” he went on. “It's a damn smart idea. Who would think of looking for them here?”

  “There's a car coming!” Carrie exclaimed. She pointed out of the window. Some miles down the dirt road they could see a cloud of dust that always heralded an approaching car.

  Vic relaxed back on the cushion. His head began to ache so violently that he suddenly didn't care anymore. Then Junior began to whimper and Carrie hurried over to him.

  Carrie hadn't been the only one to have seen the approaching car.

  Riff came quickly into the lounge where Zelda and Chita were sitting. Moe was making himself a drink at the cocktail bar.

  “Car coming!” Riff said. “Be here in five minutes!”

  Moe hurriedly set down his glass and went to the window. He stared at the approaching cloud of dust and his fingers nervously touched the butt of a .38 he had in a holster under his coat. His brain worked quickly. He turned to Chita. “You act the maid,” he said. “If they come here, go to the door and say the Dermotts are out. If there's trouble, we're right behind you.” He looked at Zelda. “You make a sound and you'll be sorry.”

  Riff grinned.

  “She won't. Will you, baby?” he said, staring at Zelda.

  She stared back at him and then looked away, her expression contemptuous.

  “You're cute,” Riff sneered. “Baby, there's a time coming for you. I'm . . .”

  “Shut up!” Moe barked. “Watch the Dermotts! Keep them quiet. I'll stay here.”

  Riff eyed him, broadened his sneering grin and went across the lobby, unlocked the study door and went in.

  Chita, who was looking out of the window, said, “It's a telephone repair truck.”

  Moe cursed under his breath.

  “They're checking the line. When they see it's cut . . .”

  “Oh, cool off!” Chita said sharply. “I'll fix them.”

  As the truck with a ladder on its roof and two young engineers in the cab pulled up outside the house, Chita crossed the lobby and opened the front door.

  * * *

  The doorman of the Lake Arrowhead Hotel touched his cap as Kramer came across the crowded lobby.

  “Your car's ready, sir,” he said. “It was only for two days, wasn't it?”

  “Yeah,” Kramer said and slipped a five-dollar bill into the doorman's expectant hand. “If I need it for longer, I'll let you know.”

  The porter conducted him to a Buick convertible that stood in one of the hotel's parking bays and opened the door.

  “Get you a car any time you want, sir,” he said as Kramer settled himself behind the driving wheel. Kramer nodded to the doorman, engaged gear and headed for Pitt City.

  Some minutes after three o'clock, in the blazing heat of the afternoon sun, Kramer drove up the dirt road leading to Wastelands. He pulled up at the gate, got out, opened the gate, drove the car forward, got out and shut the gate.

  The heat made him sweat and he was aware that the nagging pain in his left side had returned. As he drove up the winding road that led directly to the house, he felt a sudden loss of confidence. He was getting old, he told himself. If something should go wrong! If, after all those years in the rackets, he should suddenly find himself in a police cell! The pain in his side increased, and he put a big, fleshy hand to his chest. But there was no turning back now. He trusted Moe. The plan was right. It couldn't turn sour.

  When he pulled up outside the front door of Wastelands, he saw Riff lounging in a bamboo chair, his feet on the veranda rail. Riff stood up as Kramer got out of the car.

  Kramer said briskly, “Get this car out of sight. Where's Moe?”

  Riff stared at him, his narrow eyes probing. He jerked his thumb towards the front door and with a lazy movement, vaulted the veranda rail, got in the car and drove it towards the gara
ge.

  As Kramer came up the steps, the front door opened and Moe came out into the hot sunshine. The two men paused and looked at each other.

  “Well?” Kramer demanded, a snap in his voice.

  “It's okay,” Moe said. “The girl's here. There's been no trouble with the Dermotts. We had a telephone engineer out here because Riff cut the lines, but Chita handled him. He went away satisfied. We're in the clear.”

  Kramer drew in a long, slow breath. He showed his discoloured teeth in a sudden, wide grin of relief.

  “When you want something well planned you come to me, huh?” He moved into the house. “Where's Dermott? He's the guy I want to talk to.”

  Moe motioned him to the study door.

  “He's in there with his wife.” As Kramer began to move forward, Moe said, “Jim . . . just a moment. He got a little out of hand. Riff had to hit him.”

  Kramer stopped in his tracks. His fleshy face turned a dusty red as he turned to glare at Moe.

  “Hit him? What the hell do you mean?”

  Moe shifted uneasily.

  “Well, the guy tried to be a hero. Riff had to quieten him.”

  Kramer removed his Stetson hat and wiped his sweating head.

  “How bad is he?”

  “He's okay now, but Riff hits hard.”

  Kramer grunted, then went to the study door, turned the handle and walked into the big, airy room.

  Vic and Carrie were seated side by side on the settee. At the sight of this big, elderly man, Vic got slowly to his feet.

  “I have to apologize, Mr. Dermott,” Kramer said in his hearty, insincere business voice. “I hear one of my boys got a little excited.” He stared at the livid bruise that extended down the side of Vic's face. “I'm sorry.”

  “Who are you?” Vic said. “Just what are all these - these thugs doing in my house?”

  Kramer moved further into the room and sat down. He nodded to Carrie who was staring at him.

  “My respects, Mrs. Dermott. Sorry for all this, but it is unavoidable.” He looked at Vic. “Mr. Dermott, it is your misfortune to have rented this place. I hope you will be cooperative. If you'll sit down, I'll tell you exactly what it is all about and then you can decide for yourself whether or not you want to play along with me.”

  Vic and Carrie exchanged glances, then controlling his anger, Vic sat down. He reached for a cigarette, lit it as he eyed the big, red-faced man.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I'm in need of an explanation.”

  “I've been lucky enough to have kidnapped one of the richest girls in the world,” Kramer said, his face splitting into a wide grin. “I reckon she is worth four million dollars to her father. This place struck me as the ideal headquarters to negotiate the ransom and an excellent place in which to hide the girl. I am being as brief as I can, Mr. Dermott. I have picked on you to talk to the girl's father and to convince him to pay up without a fuss. You will also collect the money and bring it to me.”

  Vic stiffened. He began to say something but stopped as he saw Kramer's evil little eyes staring fixedly at Carrie.

  After a pause, Kramer went on, “I understand you have a baby . . . a boy?” He looked across the room where Junior was sleeping. “I like babies. The last thing I want is for kids to run into trouble. Know what I mean?”

  Carrie put her hand on Vic's. Her skin felt hot and dry.

  “I think so . . . if I don't do what you want,” Vic said evenly, “you'll take it out of the baby . . . that's it, isn't it?”

  Kramer smiled expansively.

  “I like dealing with a man like you, Mr. Dermott. You're quick, intelligent and reasonable. This fellow, Riff . . . he's dangerous, and he's a little out of my control. I'm afraid he pushed you around.” There was a threatening pause, then Kramer went on, “He doesn't give a damn who he pushes around: a man, a woman or even a baby.”

  Vic thought of Riff. He was one of those morons spewed up from the gutter capable of anything. All he was now concerned about was to keep Carrie and Junior safe.

  “If I think I can persuade Van Wylie to pay up, I'll try,” he said evenly.

  Kramer's eyes narrowed.

  “Who said anything about Van Wylie?” There was a dangerous snarl in his voice.

  “I recognized the girl,” Vic said impatiently. “She's a well-known personality. What do you want me to do?”

  “No, Vic!” Carrie said. “You . . .”

  Vic shook his head at her. The expression in his steady eyes brought her to abrupt silence. He turned once more to Kramer who was easing his bulk in his chair.

  “You won't have any trouble,” Kramer said. “All you have to do is to talk to Van Wylie and convince him that if he doesn't pay up, he's not seeing his daughter again. I have an idea he'll be pretty easy to convince. I want him to give you ten certified cheques for four hundred thousand dollars each. Signed by a man of Van Wylie's financial weight there'll be no difficulty in cashing cheques for that amount. It will be your job, Mr. Dermott, to go to various banks and cash these cheques. I'll give you a list of the banks: they are well spread out and you will have no trouble. Then you will hand the money to me. I will immediately release Miss Van Wylie and you will be free to get on with your play.” He grinned. “Not very difficult, is it?”

  “I suppose not,” Vic said quietly.

  Kramer stared for a long moment at him, his face a sudden ugly, hard mask.

  “If you fail to convince Van Wylie that he must pay up, that he is not to bring the police into this, that he will never see his daughter again if he tries anything smart, then your wife and baby will land in real trouble. I want you to understand this. The money is important to me. I need it. I am in a position that does not allow for any sentiment. I assure you if things go wrong whether through your fault or Van Wylie's obstinacy, the first persons to suffer will be your wife and baby.” Kramer leaned forward, his eyes bloodshot and cold. “I want you to imagine what a slob like Riff would do to a baby. He likes handling someone who can't hit back. You are a man of imagination. You should know what I am driving at. I assure you if we fall down on this plan, I will simply withdraw and leave you all to Riff. So be very careful, Mr. Dermott. Understand?” He got to his feet. “I'll leave you two to talk it over. Tomorrow morning I expect you to see Van Wylie. It will take you three days to collect the money. Then you will return here. If all goes well, you won't see us again. If there is trouble . . .” He shrugged his shoulders and started to the door.

  Vic said, “Wait. What's happened to my servant?”

  Kramer paused, his hand on the door handle.

  “Nothing's happened to him. He's all right.”

  “I don't believe it,” Vic said, getting to his feet. “There's blood in his sleeping quarters . . . he's disappeared.”

  Kramer's face hardened. He opened the door.

  “Riff!” His deep, heavy voice resounded through the ranch house.

  There was a moment's delay, then Riff lounged into the lobby. He eyed Kramer.

  “You want me?”

  “The Vietnamese? What's happened to him?” Kramer demanded.

  Riff jerked his thumb towards the staff cabin.

  “He's in there,” he said.

  “He's lying!” Vic exclaimed. “He is not there!”

  Riff grinned evilly at him.

  “You want another poke in your puss, palsy?”

  “Belt up!” Kramer snapped. He went out of the room.

  After staring at Vic for a long moment, Riff followed him.

  Out in the lobby, Kramer said, “What happened to the yellow-skin?”

  “He got excited,” Riff said casually. “I had to give him a little poke. He bled a bit, but he's okay now.”

  Kramer grunted. He had too much on his mind to worry about a Vietnamese servant.

  Moe came from the living room and Kramer beckoned to him.

  “I'll stay the night. There's room for me, isn't there?”

  “Sure,” Moe said. “There's plenty of
room.”

  “Where's the Van Wylie girl?”

  “Chita's taking care of her.”

  “No chance of her getting away?”

  “It's a fifteen-mile walk to the highway. No chance at all. This is the perfect setup.”

  As the two men walked into the living room, still talking, Riff wandered out onto the veranda and sat down. He stared bleakly at the spot, some hundred yards from where he was sitting, where he had buried Di-Long.

  It was not until after midnight that the Cranes got together alone for the first time since the kidnapping. Riff was sitting in the bamboo lounging chair at the far end of the veranda where he could watch all the windows of the rooms where the Dermotts and Zelda were sleeping. Chita came out of the shadows and joined him. She sat on the floor at his feet and took the cigarette he handed to her.

  “What's biting you?” she asked as she moved her head forward to light the cigarette from the match flame he had struck alight. “That girl?”

  Riff moved uneasily. It always irritated him that Chita could probe into his most secret thoughts. He made a sneering grimace.

  “Think she worries me?”

  “Yes . . . I think she might.”

  “Screw it! No skirt has ever worried me.”

  There was a long silence while they both smoked. Knowing something was wrong, Chita waited. Her brother always got around to his troubles in his own time. She never attempted to rush him. But after some ten minutes had gone by in silence, she said, “Well, I guess I'll turn in. Zegetti's relieving you, isn't he?”

  “Yeah.” Riff hesitated then as Chita began to move, he went on, “That yellow-skin. . .”

  Here it comes, Chita thought, as she sank back on the veranda floor.

  “Shouldn't we give him something to eat?” she said. “I've forgotten about him. He must be hungry.”

  “Think so? I don't.” Riff eased the neckband of his shirt with a dirty finger. “He's dead.”

  Chita drew in a quick startled breath. She remained very still, staring at her brother who scowled at the burning end of his cigarette. He flicked the butt over the veranda rail and immediately lit another.

  “Dead? What happened?”

  “He was going to yell. He took me by surprise. I tapped him too hard,” Riff said, scowling. “I had the chain on. His goddam face busted like a dropped egg.”