Ed McBain - King's Ransom

Hastily, King pushed a button in the base of the phone, switching to another line. “Funny,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” Diane asked.

“Pete’s on the other line,” King said. There was a puzzled look on his face. “I could’ve sworn he was talking to…” He shrugged, dialed the operator and waited. “Think you can get me Oscar Hanley at the Hotel Stanhope in Boston?” he said. He listened for a moment. “All right, call me back, will you?” He hung up and turned toward his wife. “In the meantime, my dear, how about a little drink to—”

The front door burst open. The Creeks were returning. Or at least one of the Creeks.

“Bobby, don’t come barging into the house like that!” Diane shouted at her son as he charged up the steps to the bedroom area.

“Sorry, Mom! I forgot my powder horn! Where is it, Mom?”

“Upstairs in the toy chest, where it usually is.”

“Help me find it, will you?”

“You know where it is.”

“Yeah, but I’m in a hurry,” Bobby said. “Jeffs already got a head start, and I—hey! There it is! Hanging on my doorknob!” He let out a wild whoop and stomped down the corridor, to return a moment later with the powder horn slung over his shoulder. “So long!” he yelled. “I got to find myself a tree, Dad!” and he stormed out of the house again.

“Wait,” Diane said reproachfully, “and then pounce.”

* * * *

The man in the bushes was waiting to pounce.

He was dying for a cigarette, but he knew he dared not light one. From his hidden vantage point, he could see the windowless side of the King house and the entrance to the garage. The long black Cadillac was parked in the driveway, and a chauffeur was running a chamois cloth over the sleek hood of the automobile. The man in the bushes glanced at the chauffeur, and then at his watch, and then at the sky. It would be dark soon. Good. Darkness was what they needed.

He wished for a cigarette.

He wondered if Eddie was still with the car. He wondered if everything was okay at the house. He wondered if the whole thing would work, and, wondering about it, he began to worry about it, and his palms got damp and he wanted a cigarette more than ever.

He heard a noise in the bushes, and he felt fear crackle up his spine to explode inside his skull like a yellow skyrocket.

Cool, he told himself. Cool.

He forced his hands to stop trembling by clenching them tightly. He squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them again, and then saw the figure coming through the woods, and his heart gave a sudden lurch. It was the boy.

He wet his lips.

When his voice came from his mouth, it came as a hoarse cracked sound. He swallowed hard and tried again.

“Hi, sonny,” he said. “What you doing? Playing cops and robbers?”

* * * *

Dusk was beginning to shoulder its way into the city.

In October there is a special feel to dusk, the softness of a cat’s muzzle, and it is accompanied by the smell of wood smoke even in the heart of the city where people do not burn wood or leaves. The smell is something ingrained on the race memory of man, and it lends a quality of serenity to October which no other month can claim. The street lamps go on a little before darkness really falls. The sun stains the sky with a brilliant red, interlaced with the solemn purple of a vault of clouds wheeling heavenward. The bridges span the city in bold silhouette, suspended cables backdropped by the stain of purple dusk, green lights winking in the coming darkness like strung emeralds.

The pace quickens a little, the step becomes a little lighter. There is a briskness on the air, and it bites the cheeks and stings the teeth, and the store fronts are coming alive with light now, like beckoning potbellied stoves, cherry-hot. There is a calm to the night because autumn is a time of stillness, and even the callous city respects the death of summer. Coat collars are lifted higher, hands are blown upon, hats are tilted lower. The wind is the only sound in the streets, and the citizens walk hastily because they are anxious to get indoors, anxious for the smell of cooking food, and the attacking force of steam heat hissing in radiators, anxious for the arms of loved ones.

Dusk is upon the city.

It will be dark soon.

It will be good to get home before it grows dark.

* * * *

4

In the Douglas King living room, the telephone rang. King crossed the room quickly, picked up the receiver, and said, “Hanley?”

A voice on the other end said, “Who?”

“Oh. Oh excuse me, I was expecting another call,” King said. “Who is this, please?”

“All right, Mac,” the voice said. “I’m going to make this short and—”

“There’s no one named Mac here,” King said. “You must have the wrong number.” He replaced the phone and turned toward the steps. Cameron was standing there, watching him.

“Not Hanley?” Cameron said.

“No. Somebody got the wrong number.” King snapped his fingers. “About wrong numbers, Pete.”

“Yeah?”

“Were you talking to George Benjamin a little while ago?”

“On the phone do you mean?” Cameron asked.

“Yes.”

“As a matter of fact, I was.”

“Why’d you call him?”

“To tell him I wouldn’t be around tomorrow. He wanted to discuss that sales letter on the new Far Eastern Brocade line.”

“You didn’t tell him you were going to Boston, did you?”

“Why, no. Should I have?”

“Hell, no. What did you tell him?”

“Just that I’d have to skip the meeting because I was going out of town.”

“But you didn’t mention Boston?”

“Is Boston that important?” Diane asked. “Can Benjamin smash your deal if he knows where it is?”

“I doubt it. But he’d give his eye teeth to know who I’m dealing with—or even that there is a deal cooking. You know, once this thing goes through, I’ll be in a position to…”

The telephone rang again.

“There it is now,” King said, and he walked quickly to the phone.

“I’d better call for Bobby,” Diane said. “It’s beginning to get dark.”

“Honey, wait until I take this call, will you? I don’t want you yelling in the background.” He lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Ready on your call to Boston,” the operator said.

“Okay,” King said.

“Go ahead, sir. Your party is on the line.”

“Hello, Doug?”

“How’d you make out, Hanley?”

“It’s all set,” Hanley said wearily. “I got that five per cent for you.”

“Great! On margin? You got it on margin?”

“Just the way you wanted it, Doug. How soon can you get that check up here?”

“I’ll send Pete immediately. Reserve a room for him. Pete, what’d you find out about those planes?”

“Flights leaving Perry Field every hour on the hour.”

“Good.” King looked at his watch. “Can you make a nine o’clock plane?”

“If you say so,” Cameron said. Hanley,” King said into the phone, “he’ll be on the nine o’clock plane. I don’t know what time it arrives. You check with the terminal there.”

“Right.”

“And Hanley?”

“Yes, Doug?”

“Good work, boy.” He hung up. “Now we move!” he said excitedly. “Pete, call the airline and get that reservation right away!” He snapped his fingers, pushed a button in the face of the phone, lifted the receiver, paused a moment, and then said, “Reynolds, get over here, will you? On the double.”

“Is everything all set now?” Cameron asked. “Can you tell me about it now?”

“Now that it’s in the bag, I’d even tell Benj—No, no, I guess I wouldn’t.” He began chuckling. Quickly he walked to the bar and poured himself a drink.