Forte nodded, then looked at Malone. “You don’t want to be bothered by them, do you?”
“No. I don’t think they’re interested in me, anyway.” Then he stopped.
“I’m not offended, Inspector. If anyone has the right to be offended, it’s you.” Again there was the glance of recognition between them, then Forte looked back at Pearl. “What else is happening, Manny?”
“I’ve taken some phone calls for you. A few people, some organizations. Gerry Farrelly called with a message from the Knights of Columbus. He read it out as if he was saving the price of a telegram. We shall pray for you today and vote for you tomorrow. I thanked him on both counts.”
“I’m a lapsed atheist,” Forte told Malone; for the first time he showed a trace of humour. “You might say I’ve been reconverted by three million Catholic voters - they got me back into the Church quicker than the Vatican ever could. With a name like Malone, are you a Catholic?”
“My Old Lady says I am. Until I married, when she still did my ironing for me, she used to damp my shirts with holy water.” But Malone grinned this time and Forte learned a little more about the man opposite him: at least he seemed to have a sense of humour. “I don’t know that she pressed much faith back into me. Except in the last hour and a half I’ve noticed I’ve been doing some praying.”
“Me too.” As if to relieve the slight embarrassment of his confession, Forte looked up at Pearl and smiled. “Manny is trying to get me on the side of Judaism, too.”
“Over a million voters in New York alone,” said Pearl, but he couldn’t manage a smile and he gave up. “Sorry. It’s not funny, is it? Jokes aren’t gonna help.”
Malone wondered if Lisa, wherever she was, was finding anything funny. He tried to remember how she had looked when she had gone out of the hotel: he could not remember what she had been wearing, but yes, she had been smiling, but it had been with love not humour. Abruptly he said, “Christ, do we have to sit here and do nothingV
“What can we do?” But Forte got up and illustrated his own frustration by moving restlessly about the room. “I have to stay here for that next phone call. Did you cancel all my appointments for this afternoon, Manny?”
“Not all.” All his life Manny Pearl had had an adjustable focus on the world: sometimes you took the long view, but you also played every moment as it came. Nothing was ever gained by cancelling appointments well in advance that
could be cancelled at the last moment. “I’ve cancelled everything up till four o’clock. At four you are supposed to shake hands with the United Nations delegation that is looking over City Hall - “
“Jesus, do I have to do that?”
“It seemed to me the least demanding of your appointments. It will show you are carrying on with your job.”
“Always the goddam image! You disappoint me sometimes, Manny.”
“I’m sure I do,” said Pearl, unruffled; and went on, “At four-thirty you were supposed to start touring the campaign offices, thanking your workers for what they’ve done for you. I’ll just send out a message to each of the ward captains in your name. I hate to say it, but we can’t postpone the election tomorrow.”
“I could withdraw my name - ” But the threat was halfhearted and Forte knew it. So, too, did Malone and Manny Pearl.
“What’s the point, Mike?” Pearl suddenly stepped out of the role of personal assistant, became a friend, looked twice as worried. “Sylvia could be back with you this evening-and your wife, too, Inspector -” Pearl was not being diplomatically polite when he glanced at Malone; his sad eyes were too full of honest sympathy. “I think we have to be optimistic - “
Sharp at three o’clock the phone rang. By then Sam Forte, Hungerford and Cartwright had returned. They came in individually, with the air of men come back to hear a doctor’s diagnosis that they feared. Michael Forte took the phone.
“Who are you? It was a woman who called this morning.”
“We’re partners - don’t worry which one of us makes the calls, Mr Forte.” There was a chuckle at the other end of the line, almost a giggle. The woman this morning had been soft-voiced, almost polite; but this man’s voice had a ragged edge to it and Forte heard danger. “The message is the same, you hear? We want those five guys outa The Tombs soon’s
you like to let ‘em go. You made up your mind what you gonna do?”
“I can’t release them at once - there’s a legal procedure we have to go through.” Hungerford, listening on an extension, gestured to him to keep talking. In the outer office police technicians were taping the conversation and trying to trace the call. Forte tried to keep talking, to keep the kidnapper on the line: “You gave us till nine o’clock tomorrow morning. How is my wife - can I speak to her?”
“No, man, you can’t.” There was a note of grating satisfaction in the man’s voice. He’s already chewing on small triumphs, Forte thought: how is he going to celebrate if this thing goes through to the climax he wants? The question, unanswerable, had its own terror. “Is that guy Malone there with you? Let me talk to him.”
Forte motioned to the Australian, handed him the phone.
“Malone here.”
“Your wife says you’re a cop. Right? I’d sooner deal with someone else, but this time I’m not gonna hold it against you. You’re just lucky, man, you ain’t American - but pigs are the same all over. Listen - you tell the Mayor he’s not gonna see his wife again and you’re not gonna see yours, unless he lets those guys outa The Tombs. Right? That’s all for now. There’ll be just one more call from us.”
“What time? Where - here?”
There was a chuckle, a gritty sound Malone did not like. “We’ll find you. Nobody’s gonna be more available than you and the Mayor. You just expect to hear from us. And pass on that message to the Mayor. We don’t want to hurt your missus, but we got her and she’s in the same boat now as Mrs Forte. It could get awful rough for her.”
Chapter Three
The room was small but comfortably furnished; Lisa knew, from what Scobie had told her, that prison cells were a good deal less comfortable than this. Yet this was her and Sylvia Forte’s cell. There was a white carpet square on the polished floorboards, two Colonial-style single beds, a chest of drawers and a dressing-table in the same style, a built-in wardrobe with louvred doors, two easy chairs with blue denim covers and an electric convector heater that stood against one wall. It was a room that Lisa guessed was similar to thousands of others all over America. Except for two things: the window was boarded up from the inside and three pictures had been removed from the walls, leaving oblong shapes that were slightly cleaner than the rest of the white wallpaper.
“We’re in a cottage of some sort, I think,” said Sylvia Forte. “I used to have a room very much like this in a house we had on Fishers Island.”
“I wonder why the pictures were taken off the walls?” “I don’t know. Unless they were pictures that would have identified those two outside.”
They had been in the room an hour and they had become accustomed to their surroundings. At first, recovering from delayed shock at what had happened to them, they had hardly spoken. After their initial words to each other in the back of the delivery truck, they had fallen silent as they had slowly begun to appreciate the frightening potential of their predicament. Their growing apprehension had not been slowed by the sullenness of the girl in the back of the truck with them. As she had stared at them it seemed to Lisa that behind and below the dark glasses the girl’s face had hardened into a mask that showed no hint of mercy for them.
After three-quarters of an hour’s travelling the truck had slowed, turned and pulled up. Lisa and Sylvia heard the driver get down, then a few moments later he came back, got into the truck and drove it into a garage or large shed. Lisa had found herself listening for sounds of identification that she had never taken notice of before: the amplification of the noise of the engine as the truck drove up a narrow driveway between two houses, the opening and then the shutting of garage doors, the sudden silence in the garage as the engine was shut off, and then the shouts of children somewhere outside.
The back doors of the truck were opened and Abel, smiling widely, looked in at Carole. “So far so good. You make the phone call, while I look after these two.”
Carole got out of the truck, stumbling a little as she stretched her cramped legs. Abel steadied her, looking at her solicitously. “Careful.”
“I’m all right.” She kissed his cheek, put her gun back in her handbag and slipped cautiously out of a side door of the two-car garage. As Abel had said, so far so good. But the real reward was going to be from now on.
Abel gestured to Sylvia Forte and Lisa. They got out of the truck, both of them stumbling a little as Carole had done; but Abel made no attempt to steady them, just pushed them up against the side of the second delivery truck, a black one, parked in the garage. He wanted to spit on the two women, to humble and degrade them, but he feared that might only provoke an argument with Carole. And that he could not bear.
He opened the back doors of the black truck, took out two white hoods. “Join the Ku Klux Klan.”
Lisa and Sylvia took the hoods, hesitated, then slipped them over their heads. There were no eyeholes, but a hole had been cut in the material at mouth level and Lisa found she was able to breathe quite easily. The young man moved close to her, tightening the slip-cord round her neck. She could feel the heat of his body, from excitement or anger,
and when his hand touched the skin of her neck she felt the sweat on it. She tried to pull away, but he tightened the cord round her throat.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Abel said gently. Carole had taught him how to be gentle with a woman and there were odd moments when a sort of rough charm, that he himself had never suspected he had, came out of him. “You just behave and we’ll get along fine.”
He moved away from her to Sylvia Forte. The latter was standing quite still, but as soon as Abel touched her her hands flew up to push him off.
“Keep still!” There was no gentle charm in him now; his voice was a hard snarl. “It wouldn’t take much to make me pull this cord real tight!”
Lisa put out a hand, groping blindly, found Sylvia’s hand and held it. They clung to each other, strangers who suddenly needed each other.
They were bundled into the back of the black truck, then they heard the girl come back into the garage, closing the side door after her.
“I spoke to him,” Lisa heard her say. “The next call to him is three o’clock this afternoon. You can make that.”
“It’ll be a pleasure. Let’s go.”
The girl got into the back of the truck and the doors were closed. A minute later they were back on the road, moving more quickly now as if there was less traffic to hold up the truck. Lisa, sitting close to Sylvia Forte, felt the other woman reach for her hand again, felt the fingers digging into her palm.
“Don’t worry, Mrs Forte.” Carole sat watching the women with cold amusement. For the past hour she had felt uneasy; she had never done anything like this before, never even broken the law in a minor way, and it was not in her nature to get a thrill out of what they were doing. She had planned the whole project right down to the smallest detail, but because she could remember every detail she knew how many things could go wrong if there was the slightest accident. The
only accident so far had been Mrs Malone, but she might prove to be a bonus. The climax of the operation had been reached when she had spoken to Mayor Forte himself and told him her terms. From now on the show was to be enjoyed, for she had no doubt that the Mayor would agree to her demands. He had no alternative.
“I’m suffocating in this thing - “
“No, you’re not. Just relax and you can breathe quite easily through that hole. I tried it myself.”
“It’s not the breathing. I suffer from claustrophobia - ” Lisa could feel the nails digging into her, knew Sylvia’s growing panic was not faked.
“You’ll just have to put up with it,” said Carole. “I’d have thought a woman in your position would be accustomed to claustrophobia. All those hangers-on you find in politics -don’t they crush the life out of you?”
Sylvia made a strenuous effort to relax; Lisa could feel the paradoxical tension in the hand in hers as the Mayor’s wife tried to regain control of herself. “They don’t try to blind one-”
“That’s a debatable point,” said Carole. “But in our case it’s necessary. When we get out of this truck you’re going to be out in the open for a moment or two - I don’t want you to recognize where you are.”
“Ami likely to?”
Carole smiled to herself; though they could not see her, both Lisa and Sylvia heard the smile in her reply: “Probably not. It isn’t your territory, Mrs Forte. But I can’t take any chances.”
Sylvia was silent; Lisa could feel the tension slowly draining out of the other woman’s hand. Then: “I heard you say you had spoken to him. Was that my husband?”
“Yes. I told him our terms and if he agrees to them you will be back with him by tomorrow afternoon. Maybe before.”
“What are your terms ? How much are you asking for us ?”
“Money, you mean? None at all. All we want are five
other people in exchange for you, that’s all. Two for five, that’s a bargain in these inflationary days.”
“Who are the five people?”
“Five men held in The Tombs. Parker, McBean, Fishman, Ratelli and Latrobe - ” Carole knew the names as well as she knew her own, even the one name among them that she knew was an alias.
Lisa felt Sylvia’s hand stiffen again, but she made no reply. The truck sped along; faintly through the partition that backed the driving compartment there came the sound of a radio. It was the housewives’ hour, a time for romance and nostalgia: Perry Gomo, a voice from the past, sang of the past: housewives dreamed with him over their kitchen sinks and their unmade beds. All one had to do, an everyday feat, was catch a falling star.
Then at last the truck had arrived at its destination. As they had got out of the truck Lisa had felt a rising wind, smelled salt on the air. They had been hustled out of the garage into which the truck had been driven and quickly across a small yard into the cottage; Lisa had felt sand and short spiky grass beneath her shoes. But she had heard no sound of traffic, no cries of children, no radios playing. Wherever they were, their surroundings seemed to be deserted.
When they had been pushed into this room where they were now, they had been enclosed in the hoods for almost two hours; when the hoods had been removed it had taken them almost half a minute to accustom themselves to even the dim, shaded light hanging from the ceiling. Lisa had felt giddy for a moment and had sat down on one of the beds.
“You all right?” She had been surprised at the sudden solicitude in the girl’s voice.
She nodded. “I’d like a glass of water.”
The girl went out, locking the door behind her, and Lisa, all at once weak and frightened, lay back on the bed. Sylvia walked once round the room, almost like a woman trying to make up her mind whether to stay or to leave; then suddenly
she stopped by the other bed and fell on it, face down. Lisa turned her head, but said nothing. For the moment the two women were separated by a greater gap than the distance between the two beds; each was concerned only with herself, afraid and selfish for her own safety. Pity was suddenly one’s own mirror.
Then Carole came back with two glasses of water. “I’ll make you some lunch soon. It won’t be much, but then this isn’t Gracie Mansion.”
Sylvia did not move, continued to lie face down on the bed. Lisa got up, took both glasses of water and put them on the dressing-table. Carole stared down at Sylvia, then abruptly she went out of the room, slamming the door hard and locking it again. As soon as she was gone Sylvia rolled over and sat up.
Lisa handed her one of the glasses of water. “Do you think we are going to gain anything by ignoring her?”
“I’m trying to get myself straightened out. I’m afraid just now that I’ll try to hit her if she speaks to me again. And that might be dangerous for us - for you as well as me.”
Lisa looked at her with interest. “Despite the red hair, vou don’t strike me as the sort of woman who’d have a temper.”
“Oh, I have,” said Sylvia. She sipped the water, seemed to be much more relaxed now. “Or had. I’ve been controlling it for years - though there have been times when I’ve been tempted to let fly. At some of those hangers-on that girl mentioned.” For the first time Lisa saw her smile; it was an attractive smile that took some of the cool severity out of the beautiful face. “I was a brat as a child. My daughter has the same temper - though I hope she is not a brat.” The smile died and her eyes appeared to cloud over. “I hope she and Roger, that’s my son, don’t worry too much.”
“They will,” said Lisa. “So will our husbands. Poor Scobie, he will - ” Then she turned away, almost on the point of tears: she felt the pain of love as tangibly as if she had just been hit a solid blow.
The door opened again and Carole came in with the two women’s handbags. “I had to check you had nothing lethal in them. I’ve taken out your nail files, but everything else except your cigarettes and lighters is there. I’m afraid there’ll be no smoking while you’re here, just in case you get some ideas about burning the house down.”
“A cigarette would help steady my nerves,” said Sylvia.
“I didn’t think you had any,” said Carole. “Try a little yoga or something. Aren’t you president of the Make America Healthy movement?”
Lisa turned round, recovered again. “I’d like a wash. I feel sweaty and dirty after being in that hood.”
“Later. But don’t start asking for too much, Mrs Malone. I’m not your servant.”
“I didn’t suggest you were.” Lisa felt more composed, though still apprehensive; it was not going to help her own or her captors’ nerves to be at loggerheads with them all the time. “Mrs Forte and I will be more satisfied -guests, if you like to call us that - if we can feel clean and comfortable.”
Carole twisted her lips beneath the dark glasses, then smiled ruefully. “You have your nerve, Mrs Malone. Do Australians always demand such service when they’re -guests?”
“I’m only Australian by adoption. It’s the Dutch in me that you’re talking to now.”
“The Dutch were imperialists, just like the British. Those days are over, Mrs Malone.” Carole turned quickly and went out of the room.
“I’ve been accused of a lot of things,” said Lisa, “but never before of being an imperialist.”
“I’m of Dutch extraction. My family came here in 1660.”
Lisa made no comment, but she thought that the extraction by now must be pretty tenuous; she wondered if the American Pretoriouses, if there were any, looked back that far to Marken, the island village where the name was still heard and respected.
“Where do you think we are?”
“I think we’re on Long Island somewhere, probably a long way out. I smelled the salt air as we came in.”
“Are they likely to find us here? The police, I mean.”
“I doubt it. Unless we try to attract attention somehow - ” She looked inquiringly at Lisa.
Lisa shook her head. “I don’t want to be a heroine - not yet.”
“Neither do I,” said Sylvia, and sounded relieved. “But I’m worried for my husband. I hope he believes I’m still all right.”
Lisa suddenly sat down on the bed. Did Scobie know by now that she had been kidnapped? She looked at her watch; he would be back at the hotel, waiting for her, wondering what had happened to her because she was always so punctual. She lay back on the bed, sick for him and afraid, as if he were in more danger than herself. The two women lapsed into silence and it was another half-hour before they spoke to each other again. It was then that Lisa, still lying on the bed, had made a comment about their prison cell.
“Do you think this might be that girl’s home?”
“Her summer home, perhaps.”
“What about the boy?”
“He has me puzzled. He’s not her - class, if you like. Would you think so?”