“Yeah. She said one of them wants to kill her so she won’t be able to identify them. Does that mean she’s seen all their faces? Or have they got her blindfolded but one of them wants insurance anyway? She knows their voices.”
Louise said, “What difference does that make?”
“Could make a lot, lady. If they keep her blindfolded and she don’t see their faces, maybe they really expect to let loose of her after it’s over. But if they never even bothered to blindfold her it’s a whole different enchilada.”
Oakley shook his head. “We’ll probably have to make our decision without the answer to that question. What about trying to trace the phone calls?”
Orozco’s fleshy dark cheeks sagged. “Maybe—maybe. First thing in the morning I’ll get a tap on the line. These new computer exchanges, sometimes you can get a real fast trace on a call if you’re ready for it. I can get a crew of operatives stand ready to move on signal. Beyond that I just don’ know. You people got to make your own decision about the ransom. I only say this—was it my daughter I wouldn’t take the chance Conniston was going to take. I’d play it by the book whether you bring in cops or not. They’d tell you to play it by the book, believe me.”
“You mean pay the ransom?” Louise asked.
“Yeah. I mean pay the ransom.”
Frankie Adams said, “Isn’t there any other way we could start trying to get a line on them?”
Orozco made a face. “Few honnerd thousand people in this half of Arizona. Where you going to start? That guy on the phone sounded too smart to give away any clues we could use. We got nothing to go on.”
Louise sat up straight. “All of you are forgetting one little thing.”
The determined quiet of her tone drew Oakley’s full attention. Louise looked from face to face; finally she said, “None of you is in any position to decide what’s to be done with Earle’s money. That money belongs to Terry and me. We’re his heirs.”
Oakley closed his eyes down to slits. “You’re saying you don’t want to pay the ransom?”
“I’m saying I think maybe Earle was right. Maybe we’ll stand a better chance by not paying—by frightening them instead.”
“In other words,” Oakley murmured, “Terry’s not worth half a million dollars to you.”
“You make me sound cold-blooded. You know I don’t mean that. The chances are if we pay the ransom we lose both Terry and the money. What’s the good of that?”
Oakley bounced to his feet; the backs of his knees knocked the big swivel-chair back against the wall. “Don’t even think about it, Louise.”
“Are you threatening me?” she demanded.
“If you like. I’ll remind you a criminal forfeits any right to the proceeds of his crime. If you’re found guilty of being accessory to your husband’s murder you won’t inherit a dime—regardless of whether Terry’s alive or dead.”
Her eyes popped at him. “Convicted of—? You can’t be serious!”
“Think about it. An able prosecutor smooth-talking a jury. The young wife of the old millionaire, the wife’s boy friend—both conspiring to murder the old man and live happily ever after on his millions. Strike a chord?”
“It was nothing of the kind.” Her face turned crimson; she looked down at her hands. “What you must think of me.”
Oakley said, “Don’t misunderstand. What I’m saying is that if the circumstances of Earle’s death ever become public knowledge the newspapers will wallow in it and the classic explanation I’ve just suggested is the first thing they’ll assume. You’ll be dragged through slime—it’s the kind of case that’ll be tried and judged by the press long before it ever gets near a courtroom. Is that what you want? Or would you rather none of it ever got into print? Would you rather be grilled mercilessly by a prosecuting attorney hell-bent on making a big reputation at your expense or get scot-free after a few perfunctory routine questions by a bored county official? Would you rather have Earle’s death dragged through the front pages as murder or manslaughter, or have it appear quietly in a black box on the obituary page as an accidental death? Yes, damn it, I am threatening you.”
She studied his face; she glanced at Adams and at Orozco; she said tentatively, “The penalty for blackmail is damned severe, Carl.”
“Ten to twenty years,” Frankie Adams said dryly. “Felony.”
Oakley shook his head. “Am I trying to extort a penny from you? Come off it. I’m trying to get Terry back and I believe the only way to do it is to pay the ransom. I’m using the only weapon I’ve got.”
Louise sank back in her chair. “I suppose I’ve got no choice.”
“Then you agree to meet the kidnapers’ demands?”
“If you think it’s best.” She had given up.
Orozco’s voice rolled between them abruptly: “This here weapon of yours looks to me like the kind of stick you use to beat dead horses with, Carl. Maybe this all hit you too fast to think it out, but how do you figure to raise the ransom money with Conniston dead? And who’s going to make contact with the kidnaper when he calls back and wants to talk to Conniston? He ain’t likely willing to talk to anybody else.”
“He won’t have to,” Oakley said.
Louise, full of acid, snapped, “I suppose you’re going to reincarnate him?”
“In a way. In the morning Earle Conniston’s going to call the president of Farmers and Merchants and arrange to have the cash ready for me to pick it up. In the afternoon when the kidnaper calls back Earle Conniston’s going to answer the phone.”
Looking past her astonished disbelieving face, he saw slow comprehension spread across Frankie Adams’ narrow features. Oakley said relentlessly, “I’ve heard you do Conniston’s voice. Nobody will know the difference, especially over a telephone. You’re going to be Earle Conniston.”
Adams shot bolt upright in his chair, ready to rise—but Oakley’s eyes jammed him back down in his seat.
“You’ve got to be out of your gourd,” Adams said.
“You can do it.”
“Count me out. Nuts.”
Oakley just looked at him patiently until Adams began to squirm, remembering the earlier conversation; Adams seemed to grow smaller and heavier in the chair. “Look, I’ll try it if I have to but I’m in no shape to do a convincing act. Besides, there’s too many holes in it—it’s no good. We can’t keep Conniston alive forever, can we? What happens when they find out we concealed his death?”
“I’ll take care of that. Nobody’s going to find out.”
“Maybe so. Maybe so. But Christ, I can’t even remember what he sounded like.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Conniston’s willing to coach you.” He ignored Louise’s sarcastic glance; he added, “If it matters you’ll be paid for the performance.”
“A bribe, you mean.”
“Enough to keep body and soul apart,” Oakley agreed with a thin smile. “Maybe it’ll encourage you to work on it. I want you to practice voice and delivery until you’ve got it letter-perfect.”
“Easy for you to say—but what the hell, when I got here I was just about ready to go out on the street with a tin cup, that’s no secret. How much I get paid?”
“I won’t haggle. Say ten thousand.”
Louise said, “Whose money are you slinging around like that?”
He didn’t answer her. Adams said, “Only one thing. I wish I could be sure I can trust you.”
“None of us can afford not to trust each other,” Oakley replied. “And don’t forget Terry. She’s got to trust us too.”
After a while Adams said abstractedly, “He talked like an obstacle race. Didn’t he? Left out articles and subjects of sentences. Voice a little like Gregory Peck, deep in the diaphragm. Christ, I guess I’ll have a hack at it.”
When the sun burst through the window Adams was practicing Conniston’s voice, listening to Oakley’s remarks: how to talk to the banker, the name of the banker’s wife about whom Conniston always asked, the ostensible reason for raising so much unmarked cash—a big under-the-table payment to secure the cooperation of key stockholders in a corporate takeover. Oakley took him over it a dozen times; when he left Adams with Louise and Orozco he had a taut feeling of expectant confidence. He went back to the bedroom to shower and shave and change into fresh clothes. When he checked his watch it was shortly after eight—ten o’clock New York time. He called a stockbroker in Phoenix and kept his voice low: “How many shares of Conniston stock do I hold? How many shares outstanding?… All right. Sell two hundred thousand shares short for me…. Never mind that. Do it through dummies—scatter it so it won’t look like a power play. I’m not trying to manipulate it but I expect it to go down a few points and I want to make a few bucks, that’s all. Breathe one word to anybody and I’ll make it hurt, Fred.”