There was no name signed.
“How’d it come?” MacBride said.
“Special Delivery.”
She showed him the envelope. He folded the letter and inserted it in the envelope, on which name and address had been printed.
“At least,” the skipper said, “he’s safe. Who’ll you send?”
She thought. “All of our friends are one way or another connected with politics. Except Manuel Figueroa.”
MacBride blinked.
She looked at him. “Cort thinks so much of him. He’ll do anything for me, Manuel will. I’ll... call him.”
“Wait. Can you get the money?”
“I’ve a small checking account. But Carl Davenport told me not to worry. He said as soon as I heard I should call him and he’d turn over the proper amount.”
MacBride went to the phone and made a call. “Mr. Davenport, this is MacBride... Can you come right over to Wayne’s place?... Can you bring fifteen thousand in centuries?... Good. Yeah, right away.”
He hung up and turned to find Corrine regarding him. “Now if you’ll call Mr. Figueroa...”
She put the call through.
They went back into the drawing-room and she sank exhausted into the divan. “I hope everything will work out.”
He could see her profile. His lips drew tightly across his teeth and relaxed when she turned towards him.
He said: “Everything’ll be okey.”
“Oh, I hope so... I hope so.”
Davenport arrived first, breathing heavily. The maid tried to take his overcoat but he detoured around her and went straight into the drawing-room, doffing his hat.
“Mrs. Wayne. Captain.”
“The letter came through,” MacBride clipped and passed it to Davenport.
Davenport put on pince-nez and read, his lips moving silently. “Well,” he said, “it is bitter medicine, but nothing compared with the assurance of Cort’s safe return. I trust, Captain, that there will be no interference.”
“I gave you my word.”
“Who is going?”
There was the sound of footsteps and Figueroa strode quickly into the room, stopped short, made a curt bow.
Corinne was saying: “Manuel, you’ve got to do something for us, if you will.”
“Of course...”
His dark eyes shot from MacBride to Davenport.
“Manuel,” she went on, “we have a letter from Cort’s abductors demanding fifteen thousand. We... Mr. Davenport has the money. Will... will you take it?”
Figueroa squinted. “What?”
“Will you take the money to the place they specify in the letter?”
A flush seemed to creep over his dark cheeks, his eyes appeared to become dazed.
“Manuel, will you?”
“But... but—”
MacBride cut in. “Mrs. Wayne thought you’d be only too glad to do this for her.”
Figueroa started to draw his handkerchief from his breast pocket. He didn’t. He fussed with the cuffs of his coat, twisted his neck in his collar.
Davenport was leaning back on his heels, looking for all the world like a fat critical prelate. But his eyes were narrow-lidded, his lips a little tight.
Figueroa coughed. “Yes... yes of course. Only too glad to... to do whatever I can.”
Davenport beamed and his voice came heavy-timbered: “This is very fine indeed.” He drew a long brown envelope from his inside pocket.
MacBride was saying: “You’ll take your car, Mr. Figueroa. Hit the Old West Road out of town. Two miles beyond Sandy Crossing, where the railroad’s built an underpass — two miles beyond there you’ll see the ruins of a farmhouse on the right. Check by your speedometer. In front of the house is one of those old R. F. D. boxes. Slip this package in there and drive on. Don’t wait. Drive like hell once you’ve planted the money.”
Figueroa’s dark eyes were glazed. “I see. Had I better go armed?”
“No. Absolutely no.”
“I see. Will you... will the police cover me?”
MacBride shook his head. “No. We want to get Cortland Wayne back whole. If police followed you there might be a jam and he might get hurt.”
Figueroa’s voice had become a whisper. “At what time?”
“Reach there at about ten. Leave here at nine-thirty.”
Figueroa straightened, moistened his lips. “Of course,” his whisper said.
Manuel Figueroa entered his studio apartment, kicked the door shut with his heel, scaled his hat clear across the room, heaved out of his swanky polo coat. Stopping short, he stood erect, very tall; placed a hand at either temple and then drew the hands backward over his ebon hair. His lips were set in a tight ironic line, his dark eyes were alive with crossfires of thought.
“So, Manuel, old fellow!” he said aloud.
He used a key to unlock a closet door. From the closet he drew a bust of Corinne Wayne. He used a hammer to chip away any likeness. He opened a trunk, took out six photographs of Corinne Wayne. In a fireplace where embers still glowed he burned the pictures, knelt and watched the paper become waferlike ashes.
Rising, he stood spread-legged and massaged his palms slowly together. From his inner pocket he drew the long brown envelope. He crossed to his desk, sat down and carefully counted the bills. Exactly fifteen thousand.
He went out and down to a corner drug-store, entered a telephone booth and called the ticket office at Union Station.
“Reserve for — ah — Courtney Blaine a drawing-room on the nine-fifty p. m. train for New York. That reaches New York at eleven-fifty, doesn’t it?... Yes, I want a reservation on the fast express.”
He hung up and thumbed the telephone book. He made a call to a local agent for a transatlantic steamship company. “Can I get a stateroom on the Magnetic leaving New York at twelve-thirty tonight?... Well, please arrange and see. I shall drop by at four o’clock... Mr. Figueroa.”
He caught a taxi outside and went to a luggage store. He carried two suitcases to the Hotel Ardmore and checked in as Louis Massara. He went out again and took a cab to his bank, where he withdrew seven hundred dollars, leaving a hundred and six dollars and forty-three cents.
It took him an hour to buy two new suits, a sports outfit with knickers, shirts, socks, underwear and shoes. He specified that these articles be delivered at his hotel not later than five o’clock. Then he picked up his reservation at Union Station; went to the steamship ticket agency and found he was able to secure a stateroom to Le Havre, France. When he arrived back at his apartment he had eighty dollars in cash — sufficient to get him to New York and aboard the Magnetic.
Into a gladstone he threw odds and ends; shaving articles, slippers, a silk robe, his passport. And in one of the compartments he stuffed the packet containing fifteen thousand dollars.
He mused aloud, “And when that is gone there will be women abroad eager to support a handsome young man. Ah, yes, Manuel!” He chuckled liquidly to himself.
He left the paraphernalia of his profession. He left his trunk, a large valise, some objects of art. He left three suits in the closet, and an overcoat. He left four pairs of shoes. Going out with the gladstone, he left the door unlocked. His car was in a garage up the street, but he did not take it. A taxi carried him to the Hotel Ardmore.