Hostage For A Hood (13 page)

"A shame?" The woman looked positively alarmed. "Well, I mean of course when you were expecting your other guests. The men you told me were going to be here with your husband ... "

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course."

Miss Abernathy had left soon afterward, but not before finding out that the dog belonged to the nurse and that Mrs. Brown's father would be around for an indefinite stay. She thought it was most peculiar—a nurse with her own dog. It couldn't be very good for a sick man.

And now Mr. Brown was back home and he had one of his guests with him. She watched the two men as they parked the car in the old barn in back of the house and returned to the side door. She imagined Mr. Brown would get a bit of a surprise when he found his father-in-law staying with them.

They certainly were strange people.

* * * *

"Get rid of that damned dog!"

It was the slender dried-up one, the one with peculiar eyes, who was talking. The bony fingers of his nervous, clawlike hands incessantly played with each other as he sat across the room from her, in the overstuffed chair. His emaciated, evil face jerked on the scrawny neck in an oddly savage way as he emphasized his remarks, indicating the dog which sat still and alert at her feet.

Joyce was downstairs now, in what had been the parlor of the old mansion. They'd brought her down, after allowing her to get dressed, soon after the others had arrived.

"They wanna ask you some questions," the girl had told her. But they hadn't asked questions. They'd just talked among themselves. They were all there, all but the girl. She was probably preparing the evening's meal.

There was Cribbins, the one who had forced her at gunpoint to drive to the house. He was over on the couch under the drawn shades of the window and he was in his shirt sleeves. There was a cigarette in his thin, hard mouth and he'd removed his shoes and sat in his stocking feet. The gun which he never seemed to be without was strapped to his chest, and he wore the holster under his left armpit.

Next to him was the third man, the one who had arrived with the slender man. They called him Luder, and he was the only one who seemed even partially human. He was a big man, slightly gone to seed. He didn't speak at all; only the other two talked. The horrible part of it was the way they went on speaking to each other as though she weren't there in the room with them at all.

It was this cold indifference to her, more than anything else, which frightened her the most: the complete lack of reticence with which they discussed their plans—get rid of the dog. Would they go on from there? Would the next thing be: Get rid of the girl?

Joyce Sherwood shuddered and for a moment she almost lost the iron control which she had been exerting in an effort to fight off hysteria.

"We can't," Cribbins said. "It's too late for that." The others looked at him quickly.

"Too late?"

"Yeah. Some old busybody across the street saw us arrive. She came over to see Paula and Paula gave her a song and dance. But she saw the dog. I don't want to do anything now to create curiosity. Anyway, we won't be here long. The heat's bound to die down within a few days. Then we can blow."

"The dog won't cause any trouble," Luder said. "He won't be talking to anyone."

"Anything can cause trouble," Santino snarled. He looked at Joyce and then his eyes went to the dog. She felt the hidden menace in his words.

"We're all right just as long as we sit tight," Cribbins said. "We just can't do anything now to create suspicion. People know I'm here. They know she's here—" his head nodded to where Joyce sat. "We just have to lay low and sit it out for another few days. By that time Mitty should show. I can contact Goldman, and then we can blow. The way we planned it."

"You think Mitty is going to be okay?" Luder asked.

Cribbins shrugged. "How do I know?" he said. "You can bet he won't crack. The cop doesn't live who can make him talk. And they got nothing on him. Just an attempt to steal the car. He was stupid about that—but he won't talk."

"And suppose they keep on holding him?"

"He'll make bail. Sooner or later he's got to. He'll have been in touch with Goldman. He'd know enough to do that, once they let him get to a phone. And Goldman will spring him. Don't worry about Mitty."

"I worry about everything," Santino said. Once more he looked at Joyce out of his yellow, jaundiced eyes.

Cribbins stood up and stretched. "You worry too damned much," he said. "Come on, we'll go and get some grub. Paula will have something ready."

He walked to the door of the room and then turned back. "You stay here," he said to Luder. "Keep an eye on things. I'll have Paula bring you something."

Santino followed him out of the room and Luder went to the door and closed it after him. Joyce watched him with wide, frightened eyes. He seemed to feel her eyes on him and turned to her and half smiled.

"Don't fret, lady," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you." He tried to make it reassuring.

"What are they going to do with me?"

Joyce's words came in a tight whisper.

He dropped his eyes and half turned away. "Don't worry," he repeated. "Just don't make any trouble. Do what you're told to do." He wanted to change the subject. "That's a cute pup," he said. "A real cute dog. I had a dog a little while ago myself," he added, almost as an afterthought.

He held out his hand and snapped his fingers.

"You say his name's Flick? That's a good name for a poodle." He hesitated a second and then said, rather aimlessly, "You know, I'm a family man myself."

Once more he snapped his fingers at the dog. "I'll take him for a walk after we eat," he said.

* * * *

Lieutenant Parks waited until Sims finished speaking, and then sat for several minutes before looking up. When he did, he looked directly at Bart Sherwood.

"I'd give it to the papers," he said slowly. "You got nothing to lose and it might help. I'm sorry about that other thing. When Sims tipped me off about the phone call, I thought we might have something. Thought it might help."

"Well, it helps this much," Sims said. "We know why she drew out the twenty-six hundred dollars." He looked at Bart. "We know she was planning to surprise you with a new car for your birthday. We know that she didn't disappear voluntarily, anyway."

"I knew that all along," Bart said. "My God, I told you ... "

"We have to make sure," Parks said, his voice conciliatory. "You're positive this guy Hartwell was telling the truth?"

Sims spoke up quickly. "I'm sure," he said. "You should have seen his face when we caught up with him after tracing the call. He explained why he hung up on Mr. Sherwood like he did. He said Mrs. Sherwood told him the car was to be a surprise birthday present and that naturally, when she didn't show to take delivery, he called up to see if she'd changed her mind. When Mr. Sherwood answered he didn't give his name for fear it would tip off the surprise. No, his story stands up all right."

Parks played with the letter opener on his desk and looked thoughtful. At last he shook his head and looked up. "Well, as I say, I think we better give it to the press. Tell them that we suspect foul play."

He held up his hand as Bart started to speak.

"I know," Parks said. "I know. I hate to worry you, hate even to suggest anything could have happened. But if we give it to them that way, at least they'll use it. Play it up. It may turn up some kind of a lead. Right now we have absolutely nothing at all to go on. Nothing. Publicity may not be pleasant, but we have to try to turn up something. Maybe your wife got amnesia. Maybe she—well I don't know what could have happened, but maybe someone or other saw her. Someone must have seen her. A woman and dog and a car just can't simply disappear. If the newspapers give the story a play, it might possibly help."

Bart nodded miserably. "God knows I want to try anything at all which will find Joyce," he said.

"We'll do everything we can. I know it's stupid of me to say so, but just try to hang on to yourself, try not to worry, try and get some ... "

The ringing of the telephone interrupted him and he quickly reached for the instrument. He listened for several seconds and then put the receiver back on the hook.

"They sprung Mitty on bail," he said. "Not that it matters, I guess. One more day like this ... "

Sims walked over and put his hand on Bart's shoulder. "You better go on home and get some rest," he said. "I'll take care of the newspapers."

Bart looked up at him dumbly. "Maybe if I offered a reward—" he began and then he suddenly realized that there was no money for a reward. All the money in the world which he and Joyce had was in a certified check which she carried with her. He hoped to God she still had it with her. He didn't want to think about what might have happened to her if she didn't.

Fifteen minutes later Bart Sherwood slowly walked away from the Brookside police station. He didn't wear a hat and his hair was disheveled. His necktie was loose at his throat and his shoulders were sagging, giving him the appearance of an old man.

It was after ten o'clock, on Wednesday evening. Joyce Sherwood had been missing for more than sixty hours.

* * * *

A couple of miles to the south, in a small, one-story development house on which there was still a mortgage of more than seventy per cent of its outrageous sale price, a sad-faced woman sat with her two young children and tried to fight back the flow of tears which periodically drowned her rather pretty, soft, dark eyes. Her husband, Red Kenny, one time armored-car driver, had been dead for two days.

* * * *

Wednesday was the day Flick disappeared, and it was also the day when Santino and Cribbins had their showdown …

It was the business about Paula which probably planted the germ which was to grow rapidly and spread until the ultimate explosion came.

They'd argued about the money, down there in the kitchen after Joyce had been returned to her room and locked in. The three of them sat around the table and Paula had wanted to stay, but they'd sent her to the front part of the house on the pretext that they wanted her near the door in case anyone came.

It was Santino who'd insisted they bring the three canvas bags into the house and check the contents. Cribbins had argued against it, saying first that they should do nothing until Mitty arrived. He lost that argument, but he'd gone on to insist that no division should be made until the money had been exchanged for the bills which Goldman was bringing up. But Santino had insisted.

"Divide it now," he said. "What difference does it make? You can hold out Mitty's share. When Goldman comes, we just each turn over our individual shares. But it should be counted and divided now, in case something should happen and we should have to lam suddenly."

Luder was on Cribbins's side, of course, but they had finally given in rather than risk a fight over it.

That was the first thing and it had angered Cribbins, even though he privately admitted to himself that Santino had logic on his side. But he had shrugged it off and given in and the money had been brought into the kitchen and the bags opened. It had taken a long time to count it.

The loot totaled something over two hundred and thirty-eight thousand dollars. The trouble began then.

"As long as you insist," Cribbins said, "we'll cut it up. Three-tenths to me, the way we agreed. Two-tenths to each of you and to Mitty and one-tenth to Paula for arranging the hide-out."

"Put her tenth in with mine," Santino said.

Cribbins, who'd been arranging the bills, stopped, his hands still on the table, and looked at the other man.

"That's right," Santino said. "Paula's cut and mine together. I'll handle hers."