The Kidnapper Read online

  That’s what they always say at funeral parlors. “She looks just like she was sleeping.” I tried to think about something else. The first step now was Mary.

  I dumped out the milk and the hamburger, closed the car door, turned out the light, went outside. I made sure the garage was locked tight.

  Then I came back into the kitchen.

  “Where’s Shirley Mae?”

  “I just finished feeding her. She fell asleep right away. The poor kid’s plenty bushed, I guess.”

  “But aren’t you going to bring her in and put her to bed?”

  “She’s fine right where she is. Got a blanket over her and everything.”

  “Hadn’t I better make sure?”

  “You sit right there.” I pushed her down in the chair. “How often do I have to tell you before you get it through your head? She mustn’t see you or hear you. So you don’t go out there, see? And you don’t bring her in here, either. That way there’s no chance of a slip-up.”

  “But the poor little thing—”

  “She’s fine, I tell you! You’ll be the one to feel sorry for, if they ever heard her say you were out here.”

  “All right, Steve. Here, eat your meat.”

  “I’m not hungry. Guess I’m too tired.”

  Tired wasn’t the word for it. But I didn’t want to eat, and I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to think. I’d have to do a lot of thinking between now and tomorrow noon when I called Specs.

  She cleared away the dishes and I sat there, smoking.

  “Gee, it’s quiet out here in the country.”

  “Don’t bother me—I’m trying to think.”

  She came over and stood behind my chair and put her arms around my neck.

  “Poor lover. He’s so tired.” For a minute I almost felt good again; it was sort of like having your old lady around when you’re a kid and hurt yourself.

  Then I wanted to laugh, or cry or something, because she said, “Don’t worry, Steve. I know how you feel, but everything’s going to be all right.”

  That was a hot one. Now she was cheering me up! If she only knew—

  But she mustn’t know. Not yet. It’d drive me nuts, spending the night out here with her alone, if she knew. I had to keep her busy. And then I remembered.

  “Holy cow!” I jumped out of the chair. “Now I know what I was trying to think of. We almost forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “That letter. You got to write a letter, right now. To the Warrens. For me to send to New Orleans to be mailed. Remember?”

  “Yes. You got any paper, envelopes and things?”

  “Sure. I brought some in my suitcase. You can use your pen. Wait, I’ll go get you the stationery.”

  I found it and came back to the kitchen.

  “Oh, Steve, I don’t know what to write.” She made a face. “I’m no good at writing letters, anyway. And I’m afraid they’ll figure out it’s a lie.”

  “Not if you’re careful. That’s the whole reason for doing it in the first place—so they won’t suspect you. Now sit down there and get your pen out. I’ll tell you what to say.”

  She spoiled three or four sheets of paper, but we finally got it done. This is how it read:

  Dear Mrs. Warren:

  I am writing this so you won’t worry about me. You know what happened the other day. It was just awful. One minute we were walking along and the next minute this car pulled out of the alley near the school and a man pointed a gun at me and said to get in or he’d shoot.

  Maybe I should have yelled or tried to run, but I was afraid he might really do something and hurt Shirley Mae. So I got in and then he hit me over the head with the gun and I guess I passed out.

  The next thing I knew we were riding along somewhere and he pushed me out of the car and said to get going and if I told anybody I’d be killed.

  I was so sick and dazed I couldn’t think straight. He let me out way uptown, near the bus station there, and all I could think of was I had to get away. I am so ashamed now, but that’s what I did. You paid me in the morning, so I had $45 and another $30 of my own in my purse. I just went in the bus station and asked when the next bus left going south.

  There was one in about ten minutes, so I took it as far as Chicago, and then I took another bus to New Orleans. By the time you get this letter I will be moving along. Maybe to California, where my aunt lives.

  I am sorry now I ran away, but I just couldn’t stand coming back and telling you what happened, or getting mixed up with the police.

  I sure hope Shirley Mae is back home safe by now. I will read the papers and see what happened. In case they have not caught the man who did it, here is what I remember and you can tell the police.

  He was driving a blue Ford with white sidewalls. He was dark complected and bald headed, about fifty I guess, and he talked sort of broken English. But he did not look mean or cruel and I don’t think he will hurt Shirley Mae. I think he just wants money. Anyway I sure hope they catch him.

  Mrs. Warren, I am sorry about everything. You folks always treated me nice, and I loved your little girl so much. If whoever did it wants a ransom, I have $500 in Downtown Savings and Loan. Take this letter and tell them to let you have the money and you can put it toward the ransom if that will help. Maybe some day when it’s all over I will come back just to see Shirley Mae. I hope you are not angry and realize this was not my fault.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mary Adams

  I had quite a time getting Mary to put in that stuff about how it happened.

  “Shirley Mae will tell them it wasn’t a blue Ford,” she said. “And she saw Specs—she knows he isn’t bald or old like you said.”

  I calmed her down. “That all helps to get them confused,” I told her. “And the more confused they are, the better.”

  Then I put her letter in an envelope and had her address it to the Warrens. I put an airmail stamp on it. After that I got a sheet of paper and stuck two bits to it with Scotch tape. I took her letter and the paper and put it in another big envelope, to go to this box number in New Orleans where they mail stuff out again for you. I had the ad clipping in my pocket.

  “Let me see, now,” I said. “If this goes out tonight it should get to New Orleans on Monday morning. They mail it right back, airmail, and the Warrens’ll have it Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday morning at the latest.”

  “But you can’t mail it tonight!”

  “Why not?” I asked. “There’s a box right down at the crossroads. I saw it when I came in.”

  “You wouldn’t leave me here alone with Shirley Mae, I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Shirley Mae’s asleep in the back seat. I’ll just take her with me. Only be gone ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “Steve, let me come with you. I’m scared to be alone.”

  I took her by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Mary. You and I been through a lot of things together already, and one thing I’ve noticed. You’re not chicken. That’s why I go for you. So don’t spoil it now. In the first place, nothing’s going to happen while I’m gone. And I don’t want to risk the kid seeing you—I’m just thinking of how to protect you.”

  “You’re sure it won’t take long?”

  “Positive. You just sit tight, read one of those magazines I brought you till I get back. The house’ll be locked.”

  I walked over to the door. “Maybe I’ll bring you back a surprise,” I said. “So don’t worry if I’m gone a few minutes longer.”

  She nodded. I went out and locked the door behind me.

  Then I went into the garage.

  All of a sudden it had come to me, what I could do about the kid. It had come to me fast, and I knew I had to do it, fast.

  Reading up on all these cases in the library had helped. One of the big mistakes I noticed all along was what they did with the bodies, most of them. Like burying them out in the woods, or under cement, or just tossing them in the lake or something. Sooner or later the cops always find
them, and there’s always clues. That’s how kidnapers get caught.

  The worst part about finding the body is that then they know for sure the kid is dead, and the heat is really turned on. Everybody goes crazy: parents, police, the FBI, and the whole damn country. The way the papers play it up, you’d think kids weren’t getting killed every day by reckless drivers and stuff. Anyhow, they start a real manhunt then, and that makes it tough. If they find the body.

  But if they don’t find it, there’s always some hope left. And they’re a little more careful what they say or do.

  That would help, if I could get rid of the kid so they wouldn’t run across her.

  If I did it now, Mary wouldn’t see her, and that would help, too. Sooner or later she was going to have to know, but I could handle her. Just so she never saw the kid. I knew how sick it had made me, and I could just imagine what it would do to Mary.

  So I was glad I’d thought of a way. And right now was my chance, if I could find what I was looking for.

  I went out to the garage, closed the door, and I found it.

  A twenty-gallon oil drum, sitting in the corner.

  I pried the lid off. It was on tight, and that was good. The drum was dry and empty, in good shape. I kicked the sides in, dented it up all I could without folding it.

  Then I went around to the back seat of the car.

  It was awful, getting her into that drum. The drum was big enough, but her arms and legs wouldn’t fit. And I had to do it. I had to do it, and I did it.

  By the time I finished I was sweating, my clothes were wringing wet, and my hands shook so I could scarcely jam the lid back on. I looked around until I found a wrecking bar and I pounded the lid tight shut, bending the edges.

  Then I put the drum in the back seat and drove off. I hoped Mary wouldn’t notice how long I took before I got the car out, or hear the pounding. But it couldn’t be helped.

  Nothing could be helped now, and I had to keep going. I had to keep going the right way, all the way. If I stopped, they’d catch up to me. And that meant the rope.

  I drove ninety to the crossroads, parked next to the box and dropped off the letter.

  Then I climbed back in and headed up the highway. I didn’t put her up past fifty, now, because I was looking for something.

  The night was dark and there wasn’t any traffic to speak of. That suited me perfect. But it made it hard to see. I had to go four or five miles before I found what I’d been hoping to find.

  It was back off the highway on a little gravel road, maybe half a mile. Near the town of Richmond. Just a big old abandoned gravel pit of some kind, heaped up with stuff inside and all around. The town of Richmond dump.

  I drove in, cutting my lights, and turned around so I wouldn’t have to back out. Then I got out and lugged the drum over to a pile right on the edge. I wedged it in between a rusty bedspring and some busted fenders and stuff nobody would ever come looking for. I didn’t shove it down into the pit because it might come open. Besides, I read somewheres that the best way to hide things is to leave them right out in the open, where you wouldn’t expect to find them.

  The beat-up old can looked plenty natural lying there, so I left it and drove away.

  Then I came back to the crossroads and stopped at the tavern there. I picked up a bottle of whiskey and a bunch of cokes. There was a big Friday night crowd at the bar and nobody paid any attention to me.

  I was back and parked in the garage in twenty-seven minutes, flat.

  Mary was standing at the door when I unlocked it.

  “Steve, I was so worried—everything all right?”

  “Perfect. I mailed it. The kid slept through it all and nobody spotted us.”

  “What took you so long?”

  “I had to get this.” I held up the whiskey and the bag full of coke. “I told you I’d bring a surprise. You and I are gonna forget all about worrying the rest of tonight. Get out some glasses and let’s have a party.”

  We had our party.

  She still wasn’t used to drinking, and it didn’t take much to get her going. The liquor loosened her up, and I kept her glass filled. She began talking about what we’d do in Florida, and after a while she got high.

  That’s what I wanted to see, because she forgot her troubles then.

  But I didn’t forget. Even liquor wouldn’t help me, now, and I only had a few to keep her going.

  Pretty soon she was sitting on my lap and pawing me, but I kept telling her to wait awhile and I kept feeding her more drinks.

  Finally she passed out and I carried her into the bedroom. That was what I wanted. I couldn’t have had anything to do with her tonight, the way I felt.

  I just lay there in bed, thinking about tomorrow. I had a lot to think about, and I didn’t want to go to sleep anyway because I was afraid of what might happen if I slept.

  Along about the time it was getting light outside I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I dozed off, and sure enough, it happened just like I’d been afraid it would.

  They’d been waiting for me all along. I was too smart for them as long as I stayed awake, but when I slept they could find me. Find me and catch me.

  They came after me, then, all of them. The cops and the sheriff and the FBI men and then the prosecuting attorney and the jury. They were bad, all of them were bad. But the worst guy was the last one, the man with the rope.

  Chapter Eleven

  After the dreams, I really slept. The first I came to was when Mary started shaking me.

  “Steve, wake up! Wake up, it’s almost noon!”

  I opened my eyes. She was sitting on the side of the bed. Her hair was all messed and she looked like hell.

  “How do you feel?”

  “My head aches.”

  “Hangover. I’ll fix that. Let me get you some coffee.”

  “After a while. But you better go look after Shirley Mae, first.”

  I jumped out of bed. “You’re right, I forgot! I’ll take her some milk.”

  “Eggs, too. And change those handkerchiefs and things. The poor little thing, I’ll bet she’s scared stiff. Let me go with you. Steve, please.”

  I shook my head. “It’s tough, Mary, but we can’t take the chance. I’ll look after her. She’ll be all right.”

  I went out and fried up a couple of eggs and got out some more milk.

  “Here, you fix for us,” I told Mary. “I won’t be long.”

  Then I went to the garage. This time I looked over the car. The back seat was clean, but I turned the light on and brushed it out. Then the front seat. I got a rag and wiped the door-handles, everything. No sense slipping up on the details now.

  After that I dumped the eggs and the milk into a paint can. I’d make sure of getting rid of that later, too.

  Then I sat down in the car and had a smoke. I was feeling better because I had a hunch the worst was over. Not seeing the kid helped. Once she was gone it was almost as if she’d never been there, in a way.

  All I had to think about now was the money. But in order to get the money, I had to handle Mary. That part I didn’t look forward to.

  I went back to the house then. Mary had everything ready.

  “How is she this morning?”

  “Fine. I changed handkerchiefs. Her hands aren’t bad.”

  “Did she talk? Did she ask about me?”

  “No. She wanted to go home. I told her in a day or two.”

  “What’re we going to do, Steve? I’m worried about her staying all that time out there.”

  “Only a couple of days. It won’t hurt her.”

  “Did she go?”

  “What do you mean? Oh, yeah. In a can.”

  “Oh, Steve, that’s awful! That poor little—”

  “Drink your coffee and shut up. You’ll feel better.”

  “I can’t. What if she gets sick, what if something would happen to her?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “All right, what if something did?”
r />   “What do you mean?”

  “Well, let’s face it. Suppose the worst came to the worst and she died.”

  “Steve! Don’t even talk like that!”

  “I’m going to talk like that for a minute, Mary. This is important. You never know in things like this what might happen next. So let’s suppose something did happen to her.”

  “I’d never forgive myself, never.”

  “It would be tough, yes.” I walked around the table and put my hands on her shoulders. “But that’s not the problem, whether you forgive yourself or not. The problem is, nobody else is liable to forgive us whether she’s all right or whether she isn’t. Either way, if we get caught, we swing for it.”

  I felt her shudder all over. “Oh, I wish we’d never started this in the first place. I shouldn’t have listened to you, I must have been crazy—”

  “Think straight for a minute, will you?” I rubbed her shoulders. Looking down at her I could see the brown part at the roots of her hair. She’d washed and put on her makeup and she looked all right now, in one of the new slips I’d bought her. But I still didn’t feel like touching her—only I knew I had to. It was the only way.

  I kept talking. “You weren’t crazy. You went in on this deal because you love me, remember? And because we’re going to go away together. We’re going to be rich, you and I. We’ll make out. As long as you don’t go soft on me. If you do, we’re cooked.”

  “I won’t go soft on you, darling. You know that.”

  I ran my hands down over her neck and shoulders. “Whatever happens, just remember there’s the two of us. That’s what we’re doing this for, that’s the big thing.”

  I pulled her up out of the chair, held her facing me. My hands dug in. She looked up at me and came close.

  “Which reminds me. You still owe me something for passing out last night.”

  “Oh, Steve—”

  “Come on,” I said. My heart was pounding, my stomach was turning over, but this was the only way. Then maybe I could tell her and she’d take it.

  I made myself go ahead and grab her. Rough, the way she liked it. I kissed her so that she cut her lip, and then she closed her eyes and went limp.