Ed McBain: King's Ransom

“Up yours,” Carella said.

“But what of those behind the scenes?” Meyer asked grandiosely. “What of the mysterious woman known only as Kathy? What of the man who shouted her name into the transmitter microphone in that lonely deserted farmhouse? Where are they now? You might well ask,” Meyer said, “because even the intrepid star reporter doesn’t know.”

“Out of the country is my guess,” Carella said. “I wish them luck.”

“What the hell for? Kidnapers?”

“Kids are like puppies,” Carella said. “If Jeff Reynolds refused to bite somebody’s hand, that hand must have been kind to him. That’s the way I figure it. Who the hell knows what was behind all this, Meyer? Barnard isn’t telling, and he never will. He’d rather get the chair than the mark of a squealer. His silence makes him a big man at Castleview Prison, the hoodlum the cops couldn’t break. Okay, give the louse his day of glory. Maybe everybody’s entitled to his day of glory.” Carella paused. “Kathy. That’s a nice name.”

“Sure. She must be a nice girl, too,” Meyer said. “She only took part in a kidnaping.”

“We don’t know the facts,” Carella said. “Maybe she deserved what Jeff Reynolds gave her. Who knows?”

“Steve Carella’s flintlike eyes softened,” Meyer said, “for beneath the crusty exterior of this star reporter’s breast there beat the heart of an old washerwoman.” Meyer sighed. “Who do we whitewash next? Douglas King?”

“He got his lumps,” Carella said.

“He brought them on himself. You know what the bastard was most pleased about after all this was over? The fact that his damn stock deal went through and that he’s going to be president of his lousy shoe company. Now how about that, Steve? Just how about that?”

“Some guys always pick up all the marbles,” Carella said. “His wife went back to him, you know that, don’t you?”

“Sure. Why do the louses of the world always get the rewards?”

“While the good die young,” Carella finished for him.

“I ain’t dead yet,” Meyer said.

“Neither is King. Maybe nobody got ransomed in this damn case, or maybe everybody did.”

“How’s that again?” Meyer asked.

“Give the man time. He didn’t have to stick his neck out against that switchblade.”

“Just because a guy has the guts to face a knife,” Meyer said, “it doesn’t necessarily mean he has the guts to face himself.”

“Pearls, pearls,” Carella said. “Give him time. He figures he can’t change. I figure he has to change, or he’s dead. Why do you think his wife went back to him? Because he helps old ladies across the street?”

“Because she’s got an investment in the louse, that’s why,” Meyer said.

“Sure. But not in Granger Shoe, though. Her investment is in Douglas King. And she struck me as the kind of woman who knows when to sell a stock that’s falling.”

“Careful or we’ll switch you to the financial pages,” Meyer said.

“Whoo!” Andy Parker said from the gate in the slatted rail divider, slapping his arms at his sides, stamping into the room. “If it gets much colder out there, I’m leaving for the South Pole.”

“What’s the street like?”

“Cold.”

“I mean…”

“Who knows? You think I look for crime on days like this? I look for warm candy stores, that’s what I look for.”

“Everybody changes, huh?” Meyer said. “The day Andy Parker changes is the day I become a street cleaner.”

“You’re a street cleaner already,” Parker said. “Where’d you get that coffee, Stevie?”

“From Miscolo.”

“Hey, Miscolo!” Parker bellowed. “Bring in the joe!”

“He’ll have to pay it one day,” Carella said thoughtfully.

“Huh? Who’ll have to pay what?” Parker asked.

“King,” Carella said. “Hisownransom.”

“Idon’t like riddles on cold days,”Parker said.

“Then why’d you become a cop?”

“My mother forced me.” He paused. “Miscolo, where’s the goddamn coffee?”

“Coming, coming,” Miscolo yelled back.

“I hate to file this,” Carella said, studying the report.

“Why?” Meyer asked.

“Maybe because I feel the case is still open. For a lot of people, Meyer, it’s still open.”

Meyer grinned. “You only hope it is,” he said, and the coffee came into the room, Miscolo staggering under the load of the cups and the huge pot, the aroma assailing the nostrils. The men poured and drank and told their dirty jokes.

Outside the squadroom, the city crouched.