Росс Макдональд - Meet Me at the Morgue

“What I said is true. I married money, I thought I was one of the lucky ones. I was. They single out the lucky ones for terrible blows like this. They’d have left us alone if we were poor. I wish I was poor again. I’d give everything I have.” Her eyes ranged the lofty room, the paneled walls, the costly furniture. “Money is a curse, do you know it?”

“Not necessarily. Poor people have their bad times, too. I spend most of my working-time with poor people in trouble.”

Her glance lighted on my face and stayed. The green eyes had cleared, and seemed to be seeing me for the first time. “Who did you say you were?”

“Howard Cross. I’m County Probation Officer.”

“Abel’s mentioned you, I think. Aren’t you with the police?”

“I work with them, but under a different code. I’m a sort of middleman between the law and the lawbreaker.”

“I don’t think I understand you.”

“I’ll put it another way. The criminal is at war with society. Society fights back through cops and prisons. I try to act as a neutral arbitrator. The only way to end the war is to make some kind of peace between the two sides.”

“I’m not a service-club luncheon,” she flared out. “Is that how you feel about this case? Neutral?”

“Hardly. There’s no probation on a kidnapping conviction. It carries the death penalty, and I think it should. On the other hand, I feel as you do, it’s dangerous to jump to conclusions. My office helped to keep Fred Miner out of jail, and I may be prejudiced. But I don’t think he’s the type. It takes a cruel mind to plan and execute a kidnapping.”

“That’s what’s driving me crazy. I can’t imagine what happened. Why would he take Jamie away like that, without even telling me?”

“I can’t guess his reason, though I’m pretty sure he had a reason, or something that appeared to be a reason. Fred’s not very bright, you know.”

“He’s not a genius. But he is goodhearted, and responsible. At least I’ve always believed that he was, in spite of his – accident.” She ended on a vague and questioning note. “What is your opinion, Mr. Cross?”

“I have none.” The possibilities that occurred to me, another accident, or foul play, would only add to her worry. “Whatever happened, we’re wasting time. I think you should call the police.”

“I’ll show you why we haven’t.”

Moving quickly and rather blindly, she crossed the room to a table in the corner and brought me a folded sheet of typewriter paper.

“The ransom note?”

She nodded. I unfolded the letter, which had been printed in block capitals with a pencil:

MISTER JOHNSON. WE HAVE YOUR BOY. NO HARM WILL COME TO HIM IF YOU OBEY ORDERS. FIRST NO CONTACT WITH POLICE REPEAT NO POLICE IF YOU WANT HIM BACK ALIVE. SECOND THE MONEY. FIFTY THOUSAND IN BILLS FIFTIES AND SMALLER. PURCHASE SMALL BLACK SUITCASE. PLACE MONEY IN SUITCASE. PLACE SUITCASE OUTSIDE NEWS STAND AT PACIFIC POINT RAILWAY STATION BEHIND OUTSIDE NEWSPAPER RACK BETWEEN RACK AND WALL. THIS TO BE DONE BY YOU PERSONALLY AT 2 MINUTES TO 11 THIS SATURDAY MORNING. SAN DIEGO TRAIN LEAVES STATION AT 11:01. YOU LEAVE ON IT. ANY ATTEMPT TO SPY ON SUITCASE WILL BE FATAL TO BOY. TREAT US RIGHT WE TREAT HIM RIGHT WILL RETURN HIM TODAY.

“Miner didn’t figure this out,” I said.

“I know he didn’t.” She flung herself into a low square-cut chair. “The question is, who did. It reads to me like a letter from hell.”

“A professional criminal or more likely a gang of them. It’s very carefully cased and set up. The lettering was done with a ruler, to minimize handwriting characteristics. The whole thing shows experience.”

“You mean they’ve done this before, and got away with it?”

“I doubt that. Kidnapping’s a pretty rare crime since the federal law was passed. Successful kidnappings are practically unheard of. I mean that you’re dealing with hardened criminals. And I strongly urge you to call the police.”

“I daren’t. I promised Abel.”

“Let me, then. The F.B.I. has the organization and equipment to find your son. Nobody else has. Jamie has a better chance of coming home safe with them than he has any other way. Why do you think they’re so insistent about not bringing in the law?”

She shook her head rapidly. For a moment her face was a white blur under whirling red hair. “I don’t know. I can’t make any decision. You mustn’t ask me to. If Abel comes home and finds officers in the house, it might kill him.”

“Is he that vulnerable?”

“He’s quite ill. The doctor expressly warned him about emotional shocks. You see, Abel had a coronary thrombosis in 1946. I didn’t even want him to go to town this morning. But he was bound to do it himself.”

I looked at my watch: it was half past twelve. “He’ll be in San Diego by now, if he got that train.”

“No, Larry was going to follow the train in his car. It stops at Sapphire Beach, about ten miles down the line.”

“Larry?”

“Larry Seifel, my husband’s lawyer. We got in touch with him right away.”

“He defended Miner on the hit-run charge, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” She shifted uneasily. “I wonder what’s keeping them. Abel said he’d be back by noon.”

I held the ransom letter up by one corner. “Mrs. Miner told me this came in the morning mail. What time was that?”

“About half past nine. We were just sitting down to breakfast. I’d been calling Jamie, and got no answer. Jamie always wakes up so early. I’m afraid I fell into the habit of letting Fred look after him in the mornings.” Guilt pulled at the corners of her mouth and made her grimace. “They seemed to get along so well.”

I brought her back to the point: “They didn’t give your husband much time. From nine thirty to eleven is only an hour and a half. Where’s the envelope, by the way?”

“The one that came in? I’ll get it.”

She rose and fetched a plain white envelope from the table. It was addressed in the same square penciled letters to Mr. Abel Johnson, Valley Vista Ranch, Ridgecrest Road, Pacific Point. The postmark was: Pacific Point, 6.51 P.M., May 9 – the previous day.

The implications of the postmark struck me suddenly. The ransom letter had been composed and mailed at least fourteen hours before the actual kidnapping. Someone had been very sure of his timing.

“Excuse me.” Leaving the letter and envelope on the table, I went back to the kitchen. At the table, Mrs. Miner was arranging a plate of sandwiches, and Ann was mixing salad in a wooden bowl.

“Where was your husband last night, Mrs. Miner?”

“I don’t know. He went out. He had to drive the Johnsons into town.”

“What time did he leave here?”

“I’m not sure. Some time after seven, it must have been. I gave him supper a while before he left.”

Mrs. Johnson spoke from the doorway behind me: “It was seven fifteen. We had a dinner engagement, and I asked for the car at that time. Before that, he was in the patio all afternoon cleaning the pool. Jamie helped him. So he couldn’t have mailed the letter. I thought of that.”

“Who stayed with Jamie last night?”

“I did,” said Mrs. Miner. “Poor lamb.”

“And your dinner engagement, Mrs. Johnson?”

“It was with Larry Seifel and his mother. Why?”

Ann dropped a fork on the enameled steel tabletop. We all looked at her. She was blushing helplessly, for no reason I could see. Then wheels churned the gravel in the drive.

There were pounding footsteps outside . Mrs. Johnson brushed past me and ran to open the back door. A man’s voice, breathless and thin, cried: “Has he come back, Helen? Is he here?”