Charles Williams - Man on a Leash

The bar was removed then, and they were taken from the car. Romstead’s hands were cuffed behind him again, and they were covered by the ever-vigilant Tex with the shotgun while Kessler photographed something on the floor of the car behind the front seats, using flash bulbs this time because the floods couldn’t be brought to bear. When he had two shots to his satisfaction, he nodded to Tex.

“All right, show it to him.”

Tex gestured with the gun and nodded. Romstead hobbled forward and looked in around the front seat, which was tilted forward. There was enough peripheral light from the surrounding floods to make it out, though except for one chilling item, none of it made much sense to him. A square aluminum-cased piece of electronics equipment that was obviously homemade because it bore no manufacturer’s nameplate was mounted on foam rubber and strapped in place on the floor on the far side. On this side what appeared to be a whole bank of batteries was likewise secured in place, and in between were several interconnecting cables lying loose on the floor. The dynamite was just barely visible, but he was sure that Kessler had framed it in the picture exactly as he wanted it.

There were two bundles of it, one under each seat with only the ends protruding. There were seven sticks in each, strapped together and somehow secured to the floor, and the center stick was armed with a detonating cap whose bare copper wires were connected to some of those running across the floor.

“Just for the pictures,” Kessler said behind him. “We’ll disarm it until you’re on station.”

The great-hearted nobility of that, Romstead thought, was somewhat diluted by the fact that one of them would also be in the car to that point, to drive it. He’d be shackled and blindfolded. They had now raised the lid of the trunk, and Kessler was photographing the interior with flash bulbs. The second shot appeared satisfactory.

“All right,” he said. “Let him see it.”

Tex gestured with the shotgun. Romstead duck-walked around in back. There was more arcane electronics equipment foam rubber mounted and lashed in place around the peripheral areas of the trunk, again homemade and interconnected with lengths of insulated wire and cables, but it was the chest or box that immediately caught his eye and was in its own way as ominous as the dynamite. It took up most of the space in the trunk and was large enough to hold two big suitcases, constructed of welded quarter-inch steel plates lined with asbestos. There was a hinged lid, also of steel plate and asbestos, and a heavy latch on the front of it.

“You see?” Kessler asked.

“Sure,” Romstead replied bleakly. “So why should we go?”

“You’re misinterpreting it. We just want you to know we’re not bluffing; we’ll blow it if you force us to. You’re a dangerous man, Romstead; we admit it. You’re too much like that old son of a bitch to begin with, and we’ve learned a little of your background. If you thought we’d hesitate for a minute in sending it up because we’d also be blowing the money all over half the state, you’d take the chance. So we took the temptation away from you. If you force us to make it jump, as the French put it, that’s too bad, but the money’s still safe.”

Romstead said nothing, but his face, largely concealed under the blindfold, was intensely thoughtful as they were herded back to the house and into the bedroom. Apparently even a genius could make a small mistake now and then, and maybe if he boasted and embroidered long enough, he might make a bigger one.

* * *

He lay stretched out on the bed looking at the passbook and withdrawal slip from the Southland Trust and listening to Kessler’s voice on the intercom. At the moment it was addressing Paulette Carmody.

“—just so you won’t waste any of our time hoping we don’t know what we’re talking about and trying to bluff, I’ll give it to you fast, chapter and verse. Your husband left an estate of just a little over three million dollars after taxes, all of it to you. About seven hundred thousand of this is real estate, a house in La Jolla, the one in Coleville, some waterfront in Orange County, and the tax-shelter ranch near Elko. About a half million is stock in the land development company he founded in 1953. The rest, pretty close to a million nine hundred thousand, is in bonds, some tax-free—municipals, school district, and so on—some industrials, and some government. The executor of the estate was your husband’s younger brother, Jerome Carmody, a La Jolla attorney who’s also your attorney.

“The ransom note is addressed to him, to verify the phone call he’s already received. It goes out tonight airmail special delivery from some place we’ll just say is north of the Tehachapis, along with the pictures to prove we’re not lying or bluffing. We want a million eight hundred and thirty thousand from you. It’s not his money, so there’s no strain. That’s what makes this a rather unique kidnapping—you’re both paying your own way.

“He’ll get the note early tomorrow morning, and he can do the whole thing in one business day. We want delivery of the money day after tomorrow. There are two ways he can do it. He can either mortgage all your holdings for that amount, or he can sell the bonds—”

“Forget it,” Pauline Carmody interrupted. She was sitting on the other bed, smoking a filter tip. “The bonds are in my name, and nobody can sell them except me, so he couldn’t if he wanted to. And a mortgage form has to be executed before a notary—”

“Nice try,” Kessler’s voice interrupted in turn. “But we happen to know he has your power of attorney.”

Romstead saw her wince a little at this, but she recovered fast. “Which is void the minute I’m dead,” she replied. “And as a graduate of Stanford Law School he might conceivably know that.”

“But you’re not dead, and we’ve just taken some pictures to prove it. But you will be if we don’t get that money, so let’s get on with it. He’s to deposit it in the Southland Trust and make arrangement for it to be available in cash by day after tomorrow at noon. These things can be expedited when there’s an emergency and enough big-money clout behind them.

“And now, Romstead. We want a hundred and seventy thousand. All you have to do, naturally, is sign that withdrawal slip. It’s not the bank’s money; it’s yours, and what you do with it is your business. We’ve already contacted your friend Carroll Brooks there by telephone—.”

“No.” It was Romstead’s turn to interrupt. “The signature doesn’t mean a thing. The bank is obligated to turn the money over only to me or somebody I’ve designated as my authorized agent.”

“Which is exactly what the bank is going to do. Deliver it to you personally.” Kessler’s voice was smug. “Along with Mrs. Carmody’s, since she’ll be there too. Carroll Brooks is going to do it.”

So now he’s made the second one, Romstead thought, but he kept his face impassive, knowing he was being watched through the mirror. “It’ll like hell be Brooks,” he said scornfully. “You know as well as I do it’ll be a special agent of the FBI. You don’t think they’re going to hold still for this, do you?”

“Oh, I don’t doubt the wires to Washington are red-hot right now. But it won’t be an FBI agent. That’s taken care of.”

“Look, use your head, will you? It’ll be D, B. Cooper all over again, and if they let you get away with it, every lamebrained creep in the country who can change the batteries in a flashlight is going to become an electronics supercriminal, demanding millions and blowing people up all over the place. This time they’re going to get the first one, believe me, if it takes every man in the bureau, and they’re going to skin him very slowly with a dull knife and nail his hide on every front page in the country before the imitators can start crawling out of the woodwork.”