Still, there had to be some real purpose in his having been selected and picked up at the airport. It was not impossible that there were two William Carrutherses in the world, but the giant beside him had seemed to recognize him, as well as know his name, and the giant had also stated that his two friends were to meet him at the club and had also known that the club had something to do with writin’. No, it appeared he was the William Carruthers referred to in the index, and the burning question was, why? Billy-Boy Carruthers had always been curious by nature, and the present problem intrigued him. Besides, as he had been thinking on the plane, life had promised to be dull, and this strange encounter — even should it eventually prove to be nothing more than a matter of mistaken identity, or a weird desire on someone’s part to collect fat men named William Carruthers — should still provide conversational manna with his friends in the barren wilderness of the dull days ahead. He glanced from the car window and found confirmation of his growing suspicion that all was not as it should be.
“I say,” he said a bit apologetically, “we’re heading away from the city.”
Harold had been prepared for this for some time and was proud to have thought of a good answer without Clarence’s help.
“Short cut,” he said succinctly.
“Obviously,” Carruthers said, agreeing. “But where to?”
Harold swallowed. “Television—” he began, and then fell silent.
Carruthers frowned. It was highly dubious that there were any television studios on the road they were taking, much before Birmingham, if there. No, the television studio and the purported interview were tales, nothing more, and he was not unhappy about it. The bright lights would have made him blink for hours, and besides he suffered terribly from stage fright. But, then, what other reason could there possibly be for being here in this car with a driver whose conversation seemed to be largely limited to the word “television”? A possible — although highly improbable — explanation came to him. He looked at Harold speculatively.
“I say!” he said. “You wouldn’t be kidnaping me, would you?”
Harold looked at him, startled, almost losing control of the car.
“You wasn’t supposed to know about that until I got you at the farm!” He glanced swiftly at the road and then back again to the portly man beside him. “Don’t go tellin’ Clare that I said anythin’, because I didn’t! You guessed it yourself!”
“Clare?”
“Clarence.”
“And just who is this Clarence?” Carruthers asked, always liking to keep track of the cast of characters.
“My partner. Well, he’s really the boss,” Harold admitted. Another thought came to the large man as he reviewed the damage done by Carruthers’ lucky guess. “You ain’t goin’ to make a fuss, are you?”
“Fuss?” The question was patently puzzling. “Why should I make a fuss? And, to be truthful, being wedged in like this, exactly how would I go about making a fuss?”
“Good!” Harold said, greatly relieved. He would not have wanted to use muscle on the old man. Carruthers looked just as Harold had always hoped his father might have looked, rather than the front-view, side-view, post-office portrait his mother had kept on her dresser and which was as close as he had ever come to knowing his sire.
Kidnaped! Carruthers mused. In a way it was flattering. Not very many people his age had ever had the distinction of being kidnaped, and certainly very few people — if any at all — had been kidnaped who were in his financial straits. Then, like the thorough chap he always tried to be, he stopped to consider the other side of the coin. He eyed Harold with a touch of apprehension. The man was certainly large and rough-looking, and the denouement in some of the kidnapings he had read about had not always been sweetness and light.
“I say,” he asked with a combination of curiosity and apprehension, “you wouldn’t really harm me, would you?”
“Once your pals chip in, you’ll be free as air, pops,” Harold said positively. “What the hell — pardon me — but you and that midget Briggs did it for that Simpson guy, didn’t you? I read all about it in the papers. So why shouldn’t they do it for you?”
“Well, for one reason—” Billy-Boy began, and then realized that this was probably not the best time for financial confessions. “I gather,” he said, changing the subject, returning to one more important in his mind, “that in that case I’m to be kept in reasonably fit condition?”
“Fit?” Harold asked, puzzled.
“I mean, you could scarcely expect my friends to pay for a dead man, could you? Not very much, at least.”
“Dead? Who said anything about dead?” Harold asked, shocked. He knew, of course, that some unscrupulous snatchers polished off their victims even after being paid off, but he hoped that he himself was above such treachery, and particularly in the case of a sweet old man like the man beside him. “Don’t worry your head about a thing, pops,” he said reassuringly. “Not a thing.”
As if to prove there was nothing to worry about in a mere case of kidnaping, Harold swung the wheel of the car, sending them from the highway into the lane leading to the farm barn, cutting ahead of a speeding cab-and-trailer, narrowly missing two bicyclists as he bumped over the curb, barely skirting two trees, and coming to a halt with the front wheels inches from the edge of a deep, water-filled ditch. He squeezed himself from the car and went around to open the other door for his guest.
“Made it!” he said triumphantly. “Well, here you are, pops, your home away from home for a couple of days.” Suddenly he remembered something. “Hey! I forgot to blindfold you! Clare will have a fit! You wasn’t supposed to see where you was at!”
Carruthers gazed about with a faint air of distaste. “I can understand why,” he said, and then put himself in the large man’s shoes. “However, I promise not to say anything if you don’t.”
“Hey, pops, that’s swell of you,” Harold said, beaming. Then his face fell. “I hate to do this to you, especially after you been so nice, but when we get inside, I got to handcuff you to a chair, or a bed, or somethin’.” He frowned, remembering. “Only I ain’t got no handcuffs, so it’ll have to be a rope, if I can find any...”
“To prevent my escape, I imagine.” Carruthers sighed. “It’s a shame, though. I really hate being immobilized in any fashion, you know. A minor form of claustrophobia, you see; I even wear my clothing rather loose.” He thought a moment. “Suppose I were to give you my word of honor that I would not attempt to get away?”
“Yeah,” Harold said thoughtfully. “I guess that ought to fix it. Your word ought to be good.” He smiled, pleased with the solution. “You and me, we’re goin’ to get along fine, pops...”
“Bloody idiot!” Briggs said, fuming. He and Simpson were riding the bus into the city, their luggage on an empty seat before them. Simpson was fingering the stub of his Corona-Corona, unwilling to light it and taste the fine taste for what he knew would be the last time. Briggs raved on. “Maniac! Imbecile! Going through our bags like that! And then making us undress!”