Ed McBain: King's Ransom

“Now don’t jinx it,” King said smiling. “I don’t like to talk about anything until it’s all set. I’ll tell you all about it in due time, but not until I’m sure, okay? Meanwhile, you get on the phone and find out how the flights are running to Boston. Use the upstairs phone. I want to leave this line clear for Hanley.”

“Sure, Doug,” Cameron said, and he started for the steps. He stopped, turned toward Liz and said, “You won’t leave without saying goodbye, will you?”

Liz looked up from her Martini. “Darling, I always linger over my farewells,” she said.

Cameron smiled and went up the steps. King clapped his hands together once, sharply, and began pacing the room.

“Oh, are those vultures going to be surprised! They think they’re circling a dead body, but watch their faces when the body stands up and smacks them in the teeth! Asking me to go in with them, can you beat that, Diane?”

“Excuse me, Mr. King,” a voice said.

The man who had come in at the other end of the living room could not have been more than thirty-five years old, but at first glance he appeared much older. It was, perhaps, the way he stood hesitantly in the doorway to the living room, his shoulders hunched, the chauffeur’s uniform adding somehow to his posture of demeanor. His name was Charles Reynolds, but he was called simply Reynolds by everyone in the King household, and perhaps a man reduced to his last name is a man driven to his last retreat. Whatever the case, there was an almost tangible weakness about the man. Watching him, you felt you could reach out to touch a substance at once sticky and gelatinous. And watching him, too, you felt an extreme sympathy, a sadness. Even if you did not know his wife had died not a year ago, even if you did not know he shared the rooms over the King garage with his young son, raising the boy with the awkwardness of bereavement—even unaware of this, you felt sympathy for the man, you felt he was one of the world’s strays.

“What is it, Reynolds?” King asked.

“Excuse me, sir, I don’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding,” King said. There was a gruffness to his voice. Fond of the man as he was, King could not abide weakness, and weakness was this man’s strength.

“I only wanted to know, sir… is my son… is Jeff here, sir?”

“That’s Mrs . King’s department,” King said.

“He’s upstairs with Bobby, Reynolds.”

“Oh, fine. I hope I’m not bothering you, ma’am, but it’s turned a little chilly, and I figured he might need a coat if he goes outside to play.”

Diane studied the overcoat in Reynolds’ hands with a practiced mother’s eye. “I think that might be a little heavy, Reynolds. I’ve already given him one of Bobby’s sweaters.”

Reynolds looked at the coat as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh…”He smiled sheepishly. “Well, thank you, ma’am. I never can seem able to decide what…”

“You’ll probably be driving Mr. Cameron to the airport, later,” King cut in. “Plan on that, will you?”

“Yes, sir. When will we be leaving, sir?”

“That’s not definite yet. I’ll buzz you when we know.”

A bloodcurdling scream erupted from someplace upstairs, followed by a second more chilling one, and followed immediately by the thunder of elephant hoofs on the stairs. Bobby King, wearing a blue sweater, his blond hair hanging over his forehead, charged down the steps with Jeff Reynolds in hot pursuit. At first glance, the boys seemed to be brothers. They were both blond, both of the same height and build, both carrying toy rifles, and both screaming in the same high voices. They were, however, both eight years old and did not really resemble each other in the slightest except for their build and coloration, ergo the brother concept was instantly shattered unless one admitted the possibility of their being fraternal twins. Whooping and yelling, they headed for the front door, ignoring everyone in the living room.

“Hey!” King shouted, and his son pulled up an imaginary horse.

“Whoa, boy, whoa!” Bobby said. “What is it, Dad?”

“Where’re you going?”

“Outside to play,” Bobby said.

“How about a goodbye?”

“Goodbye,” Liz Bellew said, rising and rolling her eyes. “This is beginning to resemble my menagerie.”

“We’re in an awful hurry, Dad,” Bobby said.

“Why? Where’s the fire?”

“There’s no fire, Mr. King,” Jeff said, “but we’ve got a game to play.”

“Oh? What kind of a game?”

“Creeks,” Jeff said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s what I’ll be up unless I get home soon,” Liz said.

“It’s Injuns,” Jeff explained. “Creeks are Injuns, don’t you know?”

“Oh, I see.”

“We take turns bein’ Creek,” Bobby said. “We got to find each other in the woods. When I’m the cavalry…”

“Oh, God, this is really all too familiar,” Liz said. “I must go.”

“… and Jeffs a Creek, I got to find him. When I capture him…”

“Is that what all the artillery’s for?” King asked, indicating the toy rifles each of the boys carried.

“Sure,” Bobby said solemnly. “You can’t go in the woods unarmed, can you?”

“I should say not.”

“Don’t go too far from the house, Bobby,” Diane said.

“I won’t, Mom.”

“Who’s the Creek now?” King asked.

“I am!” Jeff said, and he let out a war whoop and began dancing around the room.

“Jeff!” Reynolds cried sharply, embarrassed.

“I’m doin’ the ceremonial,” his son explained.

“Don’t shout so. And take good care of the sweater Mrs. King loaned you.”

“Oh, sure,” Jeff said, glancing at the bright-red sweater cursorily. “He won’t catch me, Dad, don’t worry.”

“I don’t care whether he catches you or not, just so—”

“Oh, won’t he now?” King interrupted. You’d better catch him, son. The family name’s at stake.”

“I’ll get him,” Bobby said, grinning.

“What’s your strategy?” King asked.

“Huh?”

“Your plan.”

“Just chase him and catch him, that’s all.” Bobby shrugged.

“Never chase the other fellow, son,” King advised. “That’s no way to do it. I can see you need help.”

“Oh, Doug, let them go play before it gets dark,” Diane said.

“I will,” King said, smiling, “but the boy needs assistance from a professional scalp hunter, can’t you see that? Come here, Bobby.” He took his son aside so that Jeff could not hear the conversation. Whispering, he said, “Climb up a tree, see? Watch him from up there. Watch everything he does. You’re holding all the cards that way because he doesn’t know just where you are. Then, when you’re certain of what he’s about to do, beat him to the punch. Pounce!”

“Doug!” Diane said sharply.

“You weren’t supposed to be listening, hon,” King said.

“But climbing trees is against the rules of the game, Dad,” Bobby said.

“Make your own rules!” King said. “So long as you win.”

“Doug, what in the world are you telling him?” Diane said.

“Only the facts of life, I’d suspect,” Liz answered.

“All they want to do, you know, is get outside and start their game.”

“How come I don’t get any help?” Jeff said, turning to his father. “What should I do, Dad?”

Reynolds, caught by surprise, obviously embarrassed in the presence of his employer, said, “Well… uh… you can lie flat behind a rock. He’d never find you that way.”

“Unless you move, Jeff,” King said. “Then, brother, watch out!”