A wiseacre, winking at a confrère, said: “Any pungent supplement to add to that, Captain?”
“Maybe a punch in the kisser for smart Alecks like you,” MacBride said, and went out.
When he strode into his office Ike Cohen was sitting on the desk.
“So you got back,” MacBride said. “Well?”
“Figueroa’s a young sculptor. Like Mrs. Wayne, he’s still a member of the Amateur Art Theatre. He’s got a studio on West Walnut Street. He owes two months rent there. He owes his tailor three hundred and ten dollars. Owes his bootlegger a hundred and twenty-five. Has a balance in his bank of eight hundred and six dollars and forty-three cents.”
“Where’d you find all this?”
“I went around to art museums first thing this morning. I saw one of his figures. I got his address there. I went over and he wasn’t in. I got the door open and fanned his studio. I busted open a trunk — fixed it again — and found six photographs of Mrs. Wayne. He’s also modeled a bust of her — from the waist up. It was locked in a closet. I saw letters from an insurance company reminding him he was two hundred bucks in arrears. There was also a letter from an auto finance company reminding him he was four hundred in arrears. I didn’t find a bill marked ‘paid’ in the whole place. I found a lot of photographs, all locked up, of other women with tender sentiments on the backs. I also found — this.”
He drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, passed it to MacBride. It read:
Dear Manuel,
Please accept this, darling. I hope it will tide you over till better times. I shan’t be able to get over until Thursday afternoon at three. Please arrange to have no one there. Love, love.
MacBride looked up. “Oh, yeah?”
“Uhuhn.”
“Where’d you find this?”
“On the floor back of his desk. It must have fallen down.”
MacBride folded the note carefully, tucked it into his wallet, looked keenly at Cohen. “Keep this to yourself, Ike.”
“Sure. What do you think?”
“What do you?”
Cohen shrugged. “Maybe I’m naturally bad-minded.”
“Well, I’m not. And I think with you.”
“That makes Corinne Wayne a nice girl then.”
“Yeah, swell.”
“And Figueroa a gigolo.”
MacBride said: “I’ve got an old-fashioned word for that guy.”
“What’s that?”
“Since I joined the Boy Scouts I promised not to swear.”
Cohen yawned. “On the eve, so to speak, of the governor-elect’s inauguration. And umpteen reporters with their teepees pitched downstairs.”
“There’s one thing we’ve got to do, Ike.” MacBride squared off in front of Cohen and chewed on his lip. “We’ve got to keep Cort Wayne’s name as clean as we can.”
“You’re my boss, so what now?”
“Okey, Ike. Pound your ear a while and come up smiling.”
Number 48 West Walnut Street was a three-storied stucco building with a broad skylight on the north slanting roof. The broad glass hall-door was open. MacBride climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of the top apartment. Figueroa opened the door. Cigarette smoke made blue-gray skeins across his face.
“Oh, yes — Captain MacBride.”
“Hello,” MacBride said.
Figueroa let him in, closed the door. A small cubicle served as a reception hall. Off to the left was a living-room. Beyond, a broad airy studio. Figueroa regarded the back of MacBride’s bony head as the skipper strode into the living-room.
“Nice place,” MacBride offered.
“Won’t you sit down?”
“Thanks.”
“I have some rather fair Scotch—”
“No thanks. Never touch it till I’ve had lunch.” He crossed his legs, regarded the inside of his derby. “I see you’re an artist...” He gestured towards the studio.
“Sculptor.”
“Busy?”
“Moderately so.”
MacBride turned his hat around and looked at the crown. “You act too, don’t you?”
“Just as an amateur. I’m a member of the Amateur Art Theatre.”
“That’s right. You’ve played with Mrs. Wayne there, haven’t you?”
“Quite a bit.”
“I take it you’re a friend of the family.”
“Yes. Yes, indeed.”
MacBride nodded. “Yes, I noticed you ran right over to see if you could help Mrs. Wayne. Cort’s an old friend of mine. Great guy. I’ve got a hunch he’s very much in love with his wife. She’s a very good-looking woman. Should make a swell hostess at the capital. I believe in that. I’m old-fashioned that way. I believe a wife should help her husband in every way she can; stick by him; do nothing that might embarrass him — or even ruin him. It’s her duty. Don’t you?”
“Why, yes. Why, yes of course.”
MacBride had been stuffing his pipe. He lit up. “Have you any other source of income besides what you get out of your profession?”
“No, none.”
MacBride puffed. “We’ve been checking up on all of Cort’s friends and so-called friends. We happen to know exactly how much you have in the bank. I hope you don’t mind. It’s just a sort of precautionary measure. We’ve done the same on lots of others. You don’t, do you?”
“Well — I’d never thought about it. But if — if that comes in line of police routine — why, of course, I can’t help minding.”
MacBride stood up and looked at the inside of his hat. “You kind of catch on then how tough it would be on you if, say, in a day or a week or a month or so your bank balance jumped a number of thousand dollars.”
Figueroa stepped back. “I don’t quite see—”
MacBride put on his hat. “Think it over.” He walked to the door, opened it. “Good morning, Mr. Figueroa.”
He went out.
Corinne’s hand shook and that made the plain white sheet of paper shake and rustle. She dropped on to the divan and read the message over again. She looked at the clock on the mantel. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. She sat staring at the message and, after a while, not seeing it. Her eyes filled and a few tears rolled down her cheeks.
She rose with a little outcry followed by a sob which she muffled in her handkerchief. She stood for a moment staring at a sunlit window and sobbing softly. Her tall body shook. She went by fits and starts across the room, into the reception hall. She sat down at a telephone table. She read the message again. She unpronged the receiver and put it to her ear. The hand that held it trembled.
“Please... Police Headquarters.”
While she waited she blew her nose softly and used the knuckles of her hand to wipe her eyes.
“Captain MacBride, please... Hello... hello. Captain MacBride?... This is Mrs. Wayne. Will you come right over?”
The receiver going back into the prong made not a sound.
It took MacBride twenty minutes flat to get over. He came in like a clean blast of wind bringing some of the cold outdoors with him.
“Yes, Mrs. Wayne.”
She gave him the letter. He read it:
Dear Mrs. Wayne:
Your husband is safe and sound. To keep him this way and to have him returned safely, you will have to give us $15,000 in $100 bills. On the Old West Road, two miles beyond Sandy Crossing, is the Bullock house that was burned down three months ago. In front, on the road, is an old R. F. D. mailbox. Place the money in this box. Do not come yourself. Send a man who isn’t connected with politics or the police. If these orders aren’t carried out your husband will be killed. And no tricks, either. The road will be watched a mile on either side of the house. Send it at ten tonight.