Ed McBain - King's Ransom

The Ford’s headlights probed the blackness of the road, swept the gray farmhouse, the beam swinging around as the car took the curve and then came to a full-braked halt. The engine died. The lights went out. The door on the driver’s side opened and a young man in his late twenties stepped into the darkness and ran toward the front door. He knocked gently, three times, and then waited.

“Eddie?” a woman’s voice asked.

“It’s me, Kathy. Open up.”

The door opened wide. Light splashed onto the frozen earth. The girl looked out into the yard.

“Sy?” she said.

“In the car. He’ll be here. Ain’t you gonna kiss me?”

“Oh, Eddie, Eddie,” she said, and she threw herself into his arms. She was a woman no older than twenty-four, nor was she a woman who could conceivably be called a “girl” of twenty-four. For whereas there was a delicate loveliness to her face, the beauty had been overlaid with a veneer of hardness, the look of shellac worn thin, marred by years of use and misuse. Kathy Folsom was a woman of twenty-four and perhaps, perhaps she had even been a woman of twelve at one time. She wore a straight black skirt and a blue sweater, the sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Her hair was obviously bleached, showing dark at the roots and at the part, but on Kathy it somehow did not appear cheap, it only seemed untended, uncared for. She held her husband to her with a desperation that had been mounting ever since he had left the farmhouse that afternoon. She kissed him longingly, her arms wrapped around his waist, and then she drew away from him and stared up into his face, and she smiled with a tenderness that was embarrassing even to herself, and then, to cover her embarrassment, she touched his cheek quickly and said, “Eddie, Eddie,” and then, sharply, “Are you all right? Did everything go all right?”

Everything went fine,” Eddie said. How about here? Any trouble?”

“No, none. I was sitting on pins and needles. I kept thinking, This is the last one; please, God, don’t let anything go wrong.”

“Well, everything went just the way we figured it.” He paused. “You got a cigarette, honey?”

“In my bag. On the chair there.” He crossed to the chair quickly and rummaged in her purse. She watched him as he lighted the cigarette, a tall good-looking man wearing dark slacks and sports jacket, a white shirt open at the throat, a maroon sweater over the shirt.

“I was listening to the radio,” Kathy said. “I thought they might mention something. I mean, after all, a bank and all.” She paused. “It went all right, didn’t it? There was no trouble?”

“No trouble.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Only, Kathy, you see… well… we didn’t exactly…”

She kissed him again, swiftly, as if unable to keep her lips from his a moment longer. “You’re back,” she whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

“In here, kid,” the voice said, and there was a push in the voice and a physical push in the hands of the man owning the voice. Jeff Reynolds stumbled into the room, and the man behind him chuckled and then slammed the door behind him, and then said, “Ah, home again! How do you like it, kid? It ain’t much, but it reeks, don’t it?” He chuckled again. His laugh seemed to match his appearance. He was forty-two years old, nattily dressed in a dark suit, though badly in need of a shave. There was a curious air about him, the air of a man who is enjoying himself at the firm’s annual picnic.

“Where’s my gun?” Jeff said, and Kathy turned at the sound of his voice and then looked at him in bewilderment. He did not seem at all frightened, a little wide-eyed perhaps, slightly upset by the strange surroundings, but otherwise content.

“The boy wants his gun,” Sy said, smiling. “Where’s the gun we promised him?”

Kathy kept staring at Jeff. “Who… who the hell… ?” she started, and Sy’s grin expanded into a chuckle and then a gust of exuberant laughter.

“Ahhhh, look, Eddie, look at that beautiful piece of surprise on her face. Oh, man, this tickles me!”

“Let me handle this, Sy,” Eddie said.

“Where’s the gun?” Jeff said. “Come on, I have to be getting back.” He turned to Kathy. “Have you got the gun?”

“Wh-what gun?” she answered automatically, and then she shouted, “Who is this kid? Where… ?”

“Who is he?” Sy said, grinning. “What a question to ask. Where’s your manners, doll? We bring a guest home, and right away you get personal.”

She whirled on her husband instantly. “Eddie, who… ?”

“Permit me, please,” Sy said, bowing from the waist. “Son, this is Kathy Folsom, nee Kathy Neal, pride of the South Side. Beautiful, ain’t she? Feast your eyes. Kathy, this is King—” he paused, reaching, and then said—“of the wild frontier!” exploding into a fresh gale of laughter, convulsed by his own humor.

“What’s he talking about, Eddie? Where’d you get this boy? What’s he doing here? Why… ?”

“I’ll bet you haven’t got a gun at all,” Jeff said.

“We ain’t, huh?” Sy answered, “Kid, we got enough artillery here to start a second Civil War. If General Lee had himself so many guns, we’d be asking your old man for Confederate bills right now.” He laughed again, a laugh of defiance which he tossed at Kathy as if challenging her intelligence. The challenge was unnecessary. The reference to bills had not escaped her. The meaning was instantly and shockingly clear. She turned to her husband and said, “Eddie, you haven’t…”

“Come on, kid,” Sy said. “Let’s get that gun.” He showed Jeff to the door leading from the large parlor-kitchen of the farmhouse to one of the bedrooms. “The gun and trophy room is right this way,” he said. “All the comforts of home, huh?”

She waited until the door closed behind them. Then she said to Eddie, “All right, tell me about it.”

“It’s what it looks like,” Eddie said. His voice was low. He would not raise his eyes to meet hers.

“Have you lost your mind?” she asked. “Have you gone completely out of your mind?”

“Relax now, will you? Just try to relax a little.”

Trembling to maintain control, Kathy walked stiffly to her purse, opened it, shook free a cigarette, which fell instantly from her fingers, managed to keep one in her hand while she lighted it, and then said, “All right. I’m listening.”

“It’s a snatch,” Eddie said simply.

“Why?”

“Whatya mean, why? There’s five hundred grand involved here.”

“You said…”

“Do you need more reason than that? For Christ’s sake, this is—”

“You said a bank. That was bad enough, but at least…”

“I was lying. It never was a bank. I only said that. We didn’t go anywhere near a bank.”

“No, I see you didn’t. Don’t you know how serious this is, Eddie? Kidnaping is a Federal offense! You can get the electric chair for this!”

“Only if the kid ain’t returned before the case goes to trial.”

“You’re already in the courtroom and this is the first I’m even hearing of it! How long have you been planning this thing?”

“About…about six months now.”

“Whaaat?”

“Now look, calm down. There’s no sense getting excited.”

“Who is he?”

“Bobby King.”

“And who’s Bobby King?”

“His old man is a big wheel in Granger Shoe. You know the company, hon. They put out these expensive shoes for dames.”

“Yes, I know the company.” She was silent for a moment. Then, very softly, she said, “Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning?”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d go along with it. I figured…”