Ed McBain - King's Ransom

“I don’t believe that, Mr. King.”

“It’s true.”

“I…I have no right. I know I have no right. But where else can I go? Who else can I turn to?”

“Do you know what you’re asking me to do?” King said. “You’re asking me to ruin myself. Am I supposed to do that? Goddamnit, Reynolds, I wouldn’t ask that of you!”

“I have to ask!” Reynolds said. “Is there a choice for me, Mr. King? Is there someplace I can go, someplace to get five hundred thousand dollars? Where? Tell me. I’ll go. I’ll go. But where? No place.” He shook his head. “I’m coming to you. I’m asking you. Please, please…”

“No!”

“What do you want me to do, Mr. King? Name it. I’ll do it. Anything you say. I’ll work for the rest of my life, I’ll…”

“Don’t talk nonsense. What can you possibly… ?”

“Do you want me to get down on my knees, Mr. King? Shall I get on my knees and beg you?”

He dropped to his knees, and Carella winced and turned away. Separated by forty feet of broadloom, the men stared at each other, Reynolds on his knees, his hands clasped, King standing with one hand in the pocket of his robe, the other hand holding a trembling cigarette.

“Get up, for God’s sake,” King said.

“I’m on my hands and knees, Mr. King,” Reynolds said. “I’m begging you. Begging you. Please, please, please…”

“Get up, get up!” King said, and his voice was close to breaking. “Good God, man, can’t you—”

“…save my son.”

“Reynolds, please.” King turned away, but not before Carella saw him squeeze his eyes shut tightly. “Please, get up. Please, man. Please. Could you… could you leave me alone? Could you? Could you please do that? Please?”

Reynolds got to his feet. With great dignity, he dusted off the knees of his trousers. He did not say another word. He turned and walked stiffly out of the room.

Humiliated, Douglas King stared at the door.

“Does it make you feel like a big turd, Mr. King?” Carella asked.

“Shut up!”

“It should. Because that’s what you are.”

“Goddamnit, Carella, I don’t have to listen to—”

“Oh, go to hell, Mr. King,” Carella said angrily. “Just go to hell!”

“What’s the matter with you, Steve?” Byrnes asked, coming down the steps. “Let’s cut that out.”

“I’m sorry,” Carella said.

“I was just on the phone upstairs,” Byrnes said. “I checked our list of stolen cars and, sure enough, there she was. A gray 1949 Ford. Teletype’s going out on it now. I don’t suppose the license plate’ll still be the same as on that list, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Now just cut it out, Steve,” Byrnes said.

“Cut what out, sir?”

“The slow burn.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were, and don’t lie to me, remember that we’ve got a job to do here, and we’re not going to get it done if everybody goes around with his ass being—” He cut himself short. Liz Bellew was coming down the steps, one hand clutching a valise, the other holding Bobby King’s hand.

“Good morning,” she said. “Any word yet?”

“No, ma’am,” Byrnes said.

“Daddy?” Bobby said.

“What is it, son?

“Is Jeff back yet?”

“No, son. He isn’t.”

“I thought you were getting him back.”

There was a long uncomfortable silence. Carella watched them and devoutly hoped he would never see the look that was on Bobby King’s face at this moment on the face of his son, Mark, in years to come.

“Bobby, you should never throw questions at a tycoon so early in the morning.” Liz said breezily. “He’s coming over to my house for now, Doug.” She winked. “It’ll work out.”

“Where’s Diane?”

“Upstairs putting on the finishing touches.”

“Did you… ?”

“I talked to her.” Liz shook her head. “It’s no go. But give her time.” She turned to Byrnes. “Do I get a police escort, Lieutenant?”

“Darn right you do.”

“Make it the tall redheaded cop,” Liz said. “The one with the white streak in his hair.”

“Detective Hawes?”

“Is that his name? Yes, him.”

“I’ll see if I can.”

“He’s just outside the door, Lieutenant, getting some air. I saw him from the upstairs window. Shall I tell him his services are required?”

“Yes, yes,” Byrnes said, a look of puzzlement on his face. “Yes, please tell him.”

“I shall tell him. Come along, Bobby, we’re going to meet a handsome policeman.” She walked him toward the front door. At the door, Bobby turned.

“Aren’t you getting him back, Dad?” he asked, and Liz pulled him through the open doorway and shouted, “Yoo-hoo! Detective Hawes! Yoo-hoo!”

The door closed behind them.

“I feel I should make my position clear to you gentlemen,” King said clearing his throat. “I know that on the surface my refusal…”

The telephone rang.

King stopped speaking. Byrnes looked at Carella, and Carella rushed to the wiretap equipment.

“You’d better get on the trunk line, Pete!” he said, and Byrnes ran to the other phone and picked up the receiver, ready to speak.

“Go ahead, Mr. King,” Carella said, “answer it. If it’s our man, keep him on the line.”

Over the ringing of the telephone, King said, “What…what shall I tell him?”

“Just keep him talking. About anything. Keep him on the line.”

“And… the money?”

“Tell him you’ve got it,” Byrnes said.

“Pete…”

“It’s our only chance, Steve. They’ve got to think we’re playing ball with them.”

“Answer it, answer it!”

King hesitated a moment and then lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mr. King?”

The voice was not the one King had heard before. A frown crossed his forehead. “Yes, this is Mr. King,” he said, “Who’s calling, please?”

“You know who’s calling,” the voice said. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice,” King said, and he nodded to Byrnes, who instantly said into the trunk line phone. “He’s on the other wire now. Get moving.”

Sitting at the wiretap equipment with the headphones over his ears, Carella watched the spools of tape revolving as they recorded the conversation. Scarcely daring to breathe, he listened to the voice on the other end.

“Have you got the money, Mr. King?”

“Well…”

“Yes or no? Have you got it?”

“Keep him talking,” Byrnes whispered.

“Yes, I have it. That is, I have most of it.”

“What do you mean, most of it? We told you…”

“Well, the rest should be here momentarily. You specified small bills, didn’t you?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“And no consecutive serial numbers. Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money, you know. And there wasn’t much time. The remainder is being counted out at the bank now. It should be here within the half hour.”

“All right, fine. Now here’s what you’re to do. Do you have a wrist watch, Mr. King?”

“Yes. Yes, I have one.”

“I want you to set it so that it’s synchronized with mine. Take it off your wrist now.”

“All right. Just a moment.”

“Keep him talking,” Carella said. “Keep him talking.”

“You got it, King?”

“Yes, I’m getting it.”

Into the trunk line phone, Byrnes said, “What’s happening there? For God’s sake, I told you he was on the line!”

“How about it, King?” the voice asked impatiently.

“All right.”

“My watch says exactly eight-thirty-one. Set yours for the same time.

“All right.”