May had carried her mask up with her, and Murch’s Mom had borrowed her son’s; they put them both on now, before taking Jimmy’s mask off. May said, “This is where you’re going to live for the next day or two. Until we get the money from your father.”
Jimmy looked around. Vaguely in the beams of the two flashlights he could see the cot with pajamas laid out on it, and the folding chair piled with half a dozen comic books. The two windows were both covered with boards on the outside. “It’s cold in here,” he said.
“There’s lots of blankets on the bed,” May told him. “And I’ll bring you up some hot dinner pretty soon.”
The two women started to leave, and Jimmy said, “May I keep one of the flashlights? So I can read the comic books.”
“Sure,” May said, and gave him hers. Then she and Murch’s Mom went out to the hail and took their masks off again. They locked the door, left the key in the lock, and went downstairs.
Murch had lit the three kerosene lanterns he’d stashed here, and the living room looked almost livable. Wet clothing now hung from the nails and hooks left in the walls. Kelp was sitting at the card table in his undershirt, playing solitaire, and Dortmunder was wringing out his shirt. The smell of wet cloth mixed with the odor of kerosene smoke; combined with the boarded up windows and the exaggerated shadows on the walls and the darkness beyond the interior doorways, it was more like being in a cave underground than in a house.
Dortmunder said, “The kid okay?”
Murch’s Mom said, “He’s in better shape than we are.”
“I’ll get us something to eat,” May said, and went over to the stone fireplace in the corner of the room. Murch had brought out charcoal and a hibachi, two large cans to boil water in, and some field rations nicknamed Lurps; officially Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol Rations, they were dry rations in plastic bags, which converted into casseroles like beef-and-rice or pork-and-beans when hot water was added. There were also instant coffee, cream, and plastic cups and dishes.
Dortmunder said to Murch, “You drive your mother to a phone booth now. You can find one, can’t you?”
Murch was astonished. “Go out now? In that rain?”
May, her hands full of Lurps, said, “You’ve got to let the boy’s father know he’s all right.”
“Sure,” Dortmunder said. “There’s also the little matter of the ransom.” To Murch’s Mom he said, “You know what to say?”
“Why not?” She patted her jacket pocket. “I’ll just read it to him out of the book.”
“The book,” Dortmunder said sourly. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
“And when you come back,” May said, “I’ll have some nice warm dinner for you.”
“Hah!” shouted Kelp, and slapped a card down on the table with such force that everybody jumped and stared at him. “I got it out!” he said, and gave everybody a happy smile. At their frowning expressions, he explained, “That doesn’t happen very much.”
“It better not,” Dortmunder said.
16
USING THE flashlight sparingly, Jimmy pulled out the center double-page from one of the comic books, smoothed the crease in its middle by running it back and forth over the edge of the folding chair’s seat, and then slid it carefully under the ball door, directly beneath the knob. They hadn’t bothered to search him, so he still had his ballpoint pen, the inner cartridge of which was both thin enough and rigid enough to fit into the keyhole and slowly push the key out the other side.
Plink.
After that tiny sound, of the key hitting the comic book sheet on the hall floor, Jimmy waited, tense, his ear to the keyhole, until he was sure the sound had not been heard downstairs. Then, slowly, carefully, he drew the sheet of paper back into the room, and there was the key, athwart Jughead.
Operating now in darkness, the flashlight in his hip pocket, Jimmy unlocked the door and tiptoed out to the corridor. Could it really be this easy, or were they testing his resourcefulness, leaving one of them hidden on guard upstairs here, to see what he might do?
But apparently not. A little light showed from his right, and when he moved that way he could hear the voices downstairs. He already knew there were five of them, and when he reached the head of the stairs and looked down all five were there. One of the men and the older woman were putting on coats. The other woman was fiddling with a hibachi in the fireplace. The second man was playing solitaire at a card table (and from the looks of things cheating), and the third one was prowling back and forth, holding a wet shirt out and shaking it as though to hurry its drying.
Five. They were either underestimating him or overestimating themselves; probably both. He waited till the couple with coats on went out and then, turning away from the staircase, he went exploring.
It took ten minutes to discover that all the windows up here were boarded, and that there was no second staircase down. He also discovered, in that time, a wire coat-hanger, an eight-inch-piece of galvanized pipe, and a hall-full squirt can of 3-in-i oil.
But the big finds were in the attic, which he gained access to via a trapdoor in a bedroom closet. In the mountain school in Switzerland last summer he’d learned the chimney climb, going up funnel-type openings by pressing one’s back against one side and walking one’s feet up the other. He went up the closet walls that way, got into the attic, and made both finds almost at once. In an old metal toolbox were several rusty abandoned tools: a hammer, a screwdriver, pliers, a long slender tweezers. And off in a corner, behind several stacks of Grit, was a good long coil of rope.
Pleased with himself, Jimmy used the rope to lower the toolbox, then dropped the rest of the rope down after it and walked his way back down the closet walls. It took two trips to carry everything back to his room, and on the second trip he paused at the head of the stairs again to see how his kidnappers were doing. The woman was now boiling water on the hibachi, and the two men were playing rummy. From the looks of things the woman would be bringing him food pretty soon so he shouldn’t stand around here wasting time.
Going back to his room, he put the key in the lock on the outside, went into the room, and pulled the door shut. Then, using the tweezers from the toolbox, he carefully turned the key from inside; one revolution all the way around and the lock clicked into place.
Now, to work.
17
HANGING UP the phone after talking with the kidnapper, Herbert Harrington said, “Well. I can’t say I cared for that at all.”
“Let’s listen to it,” the head FBI man said, and they all waited in silence while the technician ran the tape back to the beginning again.
Herbert Harrington plucked his white handkerchief from his suit coat’s breast pocket and patted the tiny beads of perspiration that gleamed on his pale high forehead. A calm, methodical, successful corporation attorney of fifty-seven, he was used to emergencies and crises that ran at a Wall Street pace: weeks of gathering storm clouds, spotted with occasional conferences or public rumor denials, then a flurry of phone calls, a massing of capital along the disputed border, and then perhaps three days or a week or even a month of concentrated buying, selling, merging, bankruptcy declarations and the like. Drama with sweep to it, emotional climaxes as carefully grounded and prepared for as in grand opera.
But this. They kidnap the boy at four o’clock in the afternoon, and by nine o’clock the same night they’re demanding one hundred fifty thousand dollars for him. In old bills. In an equivalent situation on Wall Street, it would be three or four working days before anybody even admitted the boy had been taken. Then, there’d be a period of weeks or months when the kidnappers would publicly maintain the posture that they meant to keep the boy, had no interest in selling him, and wouldn’t even consider any offers that might come their way. This logjam, assisted by continued denials from Herbert Harrington or his spokesmen that (a) he was interested in negotiating a repurchase, (b) that he was in a cash or tax position to make such a repurchase possible, or (c) that in fact he had ever had such a son at all, would eventually be broken by tentative feelers from both sides. Dickering, threats, go-betweens, all the panoply of negotiation would then be mounted and gone through like the ritual of High Mass, and it would be even more weeks before anything like a dollar amount was ever mentioned. And in fact dollars would be the very least of it; there would be stock options, rebates, one-for-one stock transfers, sliding scales, an agreement with some meat on it. Instead of which— “All set,” the tape technician said.