“I shall never forget it,” Clarence said soothingly. “What I shall be doing is first composing the ransom note, and then dropping it in the mail. That’s a basic move in all kidnapings, you know.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure, I forgot,” Harold said.
“And another basic thing in kidnaping,” Clarence went on, “is to make sure your captive has no idea where he is being held. So when you get near the farm, make sure you blindfold him. Understand?”
“Oh, sure.”
“And another of the usual procedures is to make sure your victim doesn’t walk out of the door when you turn your back, or go to the john, or something. When you have him inside, handcuff him to something, a chair or a bed. Understand?”
“Sure,” Harold said, almost disdainfully. He had seen as many snatch movies as the next guy, and more than Clare, he bet. Then he frowned. “Only I ain’t got any handcuffs.”
“Then tie him up, or sit on him, I don’t care which. Just make sure he’s still there when I get back.”
“Oh. Sure.” He suddenly grinned. “Hey, Clare, how much we goin’ to ask for him, huh, Clare?”
“That’s another thing I have to do in town,” Clarence said. “I shall also be determining the size of the award they received. A phone call to a newspaper ought to handle that, I imagine.”
“We ain’t goin’ to ask for all of it, are we, Clare?” Harold said in a worried tone. “We don’t want to leave them broke. We don’t want no old men to starve, do we, Clare?”
“If the award they got is as big as it sounded,” Clarence said, “half should do nicely.” He looked at his watch and then up at Harold significantly.
“I get you,” Harold said. At times he could exhibit almost human intelligence. “You mean you want to leave now, Clare?”
“If we’re going to leave at all,” Clarence said rather pointedly.
He watched the huge man leave the farmhouse and walk lumberingly toward the barn that served as their garage. Clarence was still not quite sure how he had conned Harold into believing the kidnaping was his idea, and it bothered Clarence a bit not to be able to pinpoint the exact words he had said that had triggered the desired response in Harold’s brain. It might have proved useful in some future con. Still, he supposed it didn’t really matter. Like his namesake in the matter of the sunken road at Waterloo, C. Wellington A. was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Chapter 4
Flight No. 129 from Gibraltar’s North Front airport to Heathrow in London made the passage quite routinely, with no skyjacking, no illegal sale to passengers of duty-free brandy and champagne purchased in Gibraltar, no filching of soap, or towels, or electric razors from the aircraft’s washrooms — or, for that matter, any last-minute flight insurance forms being hawked in the aisles. The reason for the absence of these transgressions, at least to the mind of Billy-Boy Carruthers, was that he had placed Briggs in the window seat on the right-hand side of the 707 jet, had located Simpson in the middle despite the crowded condition suffered by his legs and knees, and had plugged the outlet by seating his almost eighteen stone on the aisle.
But he really need not have worried. Briggs, on his first flight ever, was completely enthralled by the view and kept his bright little eyes glued to the window, while Simpson, also on his first flight, with his greater height was easily able to crane over Briggs and also enjoy the view. And, in time — as these things happen — they had come in over the mouth of the Thames and were flying lower and lower over the heart of the great city, with the broad river snaking its way beneath them, directing them generally to the west and the airport somewhere in that direction. Suddenly Briggs pointed.
“Hoy! Right there! The club!”
He could not, of course, actually see the small building where the Mystery Authors Club was located, since it was hidden behind a huge insurance company building which had been erected after the founding of the club and which now interjected itself between their tiny edifice and Swan’s Park. But the park itself was easily distinguishable, as well as the large electric sign atop the insurance company, offering wondrous benefits to any policyholder sufficiently avaricious as to die; double if he did so painfully in an accident.
Carruthers, denied the view but preferring his role as the stopper in the bottle, smiled as he saw the club in his mind’s eye. The three of them had founded the mystery writers’ organization more years before than he cared to remember, and he could picture the northeast corner of the club’s lounge where the three worn but comfortable arm chairs were located, flanked by small tables capable of holding — now that they could afford it — their brandy and champagne glasses, and their beer mugs in those past days when they could not. It was a protective alcove safe from the inane chatter of the younger members, and the intrusive presence of Potter, the secretary. In a short while Carruthers supposed the three of them would be there, leaving their luggage temporarily in the custody of the hall porter, and settling down for the remainder of the day before going their respective ways in the evening, each taking his bags with him, to face another lonely night, each in his own small rooms.
His smile faded. Seen in that light, the prospect was not exactly enchanting. In a way Tim Briggs was right. It was rather sad, after all the adventures they had enjoyed over the past months, to return to the dullness and purposelessness that had characterized their previous existence. While he could not condone Briggs’s attempted ploy with the insurance forms, he could understand it. Still, what could be done? They were not getting any younger, and that was an even sadder fact. And there were undoubtedly younger and more ambitious miscreants around London in greater need of illegal funds, for at least the three of them were fortunate enough not to be suffering the penury that had been their unfortunate lot before the Murder League and the unexpected Jarvis award had freed them from poverty’s clutches.
With this slender fact to give him what little cheer he could garner from it, Carruthers picked up the journal that had been handed him when his luncheon tray had been removed, and prepared to while away the final moments of the flight in the educational pursuit of reading and catching up on the news. He noted the headlines, bit back a yawn, and turned the page.
And received the greatest shock of his life.
Their stocks had crashed! Their investments were worthless!
Carruthers gripped the newspaper tightly while he read the story. The Namibian Chartered Mines, Ltd., according to the article, while basically as honest as most gold-mining companies, had had the misfortune of running out of the product which they had been formed to exploit. That vein of the precious yellow stuff which the entrepreneurs had hired others to excavate had inexplicably disappeared, and had there been value in barren rock they might have survived, but since this was not the case, the company had only sympathetic noises to make to their unfortunate shareholders. A penny on a pound, it was estimated by the director being quoted, might eventually be realized in liquidation, but it could not be promised.
Carruthers read the article a second and then a third time, wetting his lips, his hand unconsciously stroking the bulge that represented the money belt and the now worthless stock certificates. But no amount of repetition could alter the tragic facts. He glanced quickly over at his two friends. They were still intent upon the rapidly foreshortening view, this one gleefully pointing out that, that one merrily pointing out this, and generally acting as Columbus had probably acted upon sighting the New World. Should he reveal the disastrous news to them now, and ruin the small pleasures they were relishing at the moment? No, he thought sadly; they’ll know in time enough!