James Chase - Not My Thing

In this ransom note you left, you say that unless the ransom is paid, my wife will be killed. Don’t you see, you stupid hunkhead, that’s what I want.

Kling’s fingers moved and the voice stopped.

‘Marvellous, don’t you think, Mr Jamison? Electronics. New inventions. I always carry this little gimmick around with me. When we had our interesting talk about the bomb, I had it working. I have a good tape of our conversation.’

Jamison sat motionless, stunned, then he thought of the .38 revolver he kept in his top drawer of his desk. In frustrated fury and alarm, his hand moved to the drawer.

‘No, Mr Jamison. Don’t try that,’ Kling said gently. ‘Look!’

As Jamison stared at him, an ugly-looking Beretta appeared as if by magic in Kling’s hand.

‘Before you even touch your gun, Mr Jamison, you’re dead,’ Kling said. ‘Now, relax. Put your hands on your desk.’ As Jamison obeyed, Kling returned the gun to its holster. ‘Okay, now we can talk. You are way out of the big league, Mr Jamison. Okay, you are great when dealing with prize suckers, but not with professionals like me. Let’s take a long look at the setup. I have promised to get rid of your wife. I’ll do that, because in my racket when a killer fails it gets known, and that’s bad for my business, so I get rid of your wife. In return, you pay into my Swiss bank five million dollars. I know to a piker like, you, Mr Jamison, parting with money like that hurts. Now, if I were dealing with prize suckers as you do, I’d think this bastard was bluffing. If he gives his tapes to the cops, he would be in the same shit as I would be, so he’d be bluffing.’ Kling smiled evilly. ‘That would be wrong thinking, Mr Jamison. Let me spell it out. If you don’t pay five million dollars into my Swiss bank, I am going to the DA and tell him a story. My story will be you hired me to murder your wife and offered to pay me three hundred thousand dollars. Now, I tell the DA that money means something to me, so I conned you. I’ll tell the DA I had no intention of murdering your wife, but every intention to get your money. So the DA listens to the tapes. When he knows who you are, he will fall over himself to nail you. When you are as big as you are, you have many enemies, Mr Jamison. You have a wolf-pack behind you, waiting to pull you down. Then the press get hold of it, and they’ll crucify you. Here is one of the richest men in this country, planning to get rid of his wife by murder! Man! Won’t the press have a ball! So what happens? You’ll be arrested and thrown into the slammer. Then, because you have lots of clout and money, you hire the best attorneys who will work like crazy to get you off the hook. But Mr Jamison, I will be willing to testify against you. When a jury hears me, you don’t have a hope to beat the rap. Right. Now, first the Judge will consider me. I will have admitted to kidnapping your wife, but have returned her safe and sound. So he’ll send me away for a couple of years. Then he’ll take a long look at you. You will go away for at least fifteen years, Mr Jamison, and you will be ruined. Right. Now when I get sentenced, my Mafia friends will appeal and get my case – not yours – before a Mafia judge who will shake his head, fine me two thousand dollars, and I’m free again, but not you. This is the result of being a professional. Get the photo?’

For some minutes, Jamison sat still, knowing he had been completely outsmarted, then with a shrug he said, ‘You don’t expect me to raise five million dollars at once, do you?’

‘I’ll give you ten days from tomorrow,’ Kling said, getting to his feet. ‘If I don’t hear from my Swiss bank by the eighteenth of this month, then I go visit the DA.’

‘You’ll get the money,’ Jamison grated. ‘In return, I will be rid of my wife?’

‘Of course. That’s no problem. Pay up, and I guarantee you’ll be rid of her.’

With an airy wave of his hand, Kling walked out onto the terrace and disappeared into the darkness.

The Good Eatery restaurant offered the best value for money in the city.

With glistening eyes, Frederick Whitelaw surveyed the mountain of spaghetti, smothered in tomato and onion sauce, that had been set before him. He smiled contentedly as he fingered Chief of Police Terrell’s ten-dollar bill. He had ordered chicken drumsticks in a curry sauce to follow.

As he began to attack the spaghetti, the restaurant door opened and Sydney Drysdale wandered in. He had completed his column, and had decided to have a light snack before returning home to watch a TV programme that interested him, and then go out again for his usual three course dinner.

He looked around hopefully to see if there was anyone interesting in the restaurant from whom he could get an item of news for his next day’s column. He spotted Frederick Whitelaw, cramming his mouth with spaghetti.

This lad, Drysdale reminded himself, was the son of one of the influential men in the city. Even kids get to hear things, so he waddled over to the fat boy’s table.

‘Hello, Freddy,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘That looks good.’

‘It is good,’ the fat boy mumbled, and forked more spaghetti into his eager mouth.

‘Don’t you usually eat at home, Freddy?’ Drysdale asked casually. ‘Are you celebrating or something?’

‘I sure am.’ The fat boy smirked. ‘The Chief of Police gave me ten bucks so I thought I’d give me a decent meal instead of the junk my mum gives me.’

Drysdale became immediately alert.

‘Is that right? Now why did the Chief of Police give you ten bucks?’

‘That’s a secret, Mr Drysdale.’ The fat boy looked sly. ‘I had some information, and he parted with the money.’

‘He’s a nice, kind man,’ Drysdale said, his smile oily. ‘But ten dollars isn’t a fortune. I also buy secrets, Freddy. Do you want to do a deal?’

The fat boy finished his spaghetti and sat back with a calculating expression on his face.

‘That depends, Mr Drysdale,’ he said after a moment of thought. ‘I could sell you my secret for three hundred dollars.’

‘Like father, like son,’ Drydale sighed. ‘This must be a big secret.’

‘It sure is. It’s the biggest and the most sensational secret you’ve ever heard.’

At this moment an elderly waitress arrived and took Drysdale’s order for grilled sardines on toast. She removed the fat boy’s plate and slapped down the chicken drumsticks, the curry sauce and a pile of French fried.

‘You have a healthy appetite,’ Drysdale said wistfully. ‘It’s great to be young. I’d go to one hundred bucks, but I would want to know what the secret is about.’

‘Three hundred, Mr Drysdale,’ the fat boy said firmly as he piled the French fried onto his plate. ‘I’ll tell you this. It is to do with Mr Sherman Jamison.’

Drysdale reacted as if he had been stung by a wasp.

‘Mr Jamison?’

‘That’s right.’ The fat boy cut off a bit of chicken, smothered it in curry sauce and conveyed it to his mouth. He nodded his approval. ‘This is good.’

‘What about Mr Jamison?’ Drysdale asked, trying to sound casual.

‘Well, not exactly him, but Mrs Jamison.’

‘You went to the Chief of Police and told him about this, Freddy?’

‘That’s right. I felt I should. I was reporting a major crime.’

Drysdale began to breathe heavily.

‘What major crime?’

The fat boy attacked the pile of French fried.

‘It’s a secret. The Chief told me to keep my mouth shut, but for three hundred dollars my mouth need not remain shut.’

Drysdale didn’t hesitate. After all, this wasn’t his money. His editor expected him to spend money to get news. He took out his wallet and produced three one-hundred-dollar bills which he folded.