The Manx Murders Page 8

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, it was risky leaving them like that. I don’t know what else you could have done, but I’ve known a lot of cops who wouldn’t see that.”

  “What could I do?” the chief demanded. “You know it yourself, the security out there is a sieve. The Pembrokes have always been popular in this town, but being loved is no defense. I can’t make a big show. Hell, if somebody saw me going out to the car for the fingerprint kit, Clyde Pembroke is already a dead man. I’ve got to regroup and handle this on the sly. God, I hope this isn’t one of those cases that takes weeks.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Oh, Gentry, one more thing. I need your gun.”

  “Don’t have one, Chief.”

  “Don’t try this, Gentry, I’m warning you.”

  “I’m not trying anything, I promise you. I just don’t happen to have a gun.”

  “Look, I’ll overlook your not checking in with my department, which you are supposed to do when you hit town—at least as a courtesy. But if you keep jerking me around, I won’t forget anything, understand?”

  “Chief, I hate guns. I don’t own one, never carry one, never fired one in my life.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “I know. I’m tempted to get one just so I don’t have to go through this all the time. Look, I’m a licensed PI. I could get a carry permit in New York State easily, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So check with Albany. They’ll tell you I don’t have a license at all.”

  “That wouldn’t prove you didn’t have a gun.”

  “Chief, do I really strike you as so stupid I would risk my entire career by doing without something I could easily get?”

  Viretsky thought it over. Ron didn’t find this especially flattering, but at least the chief came up with the right answer.

  “No. You don’t come across as stupid.”

  “All right, then.”

  “But I’m not sure I’ve got you figured out yet. You’re a tough one to figure.”

  “People keep telling me that.”

  Ron opened the door to the suite and yelled, “Maestro, we’ve got company, and we’ve got a problem.”

  Benedetti came out of his room. Usually, he painted in his shirtsleeves, but he had the whole set of tweeds on now, complete with his bow tie. He was ready for action.

  He bowed. “You must be Chief Viretsky,” he said. “I am pleased to meet you. You have come to question me about the latest complications in the case.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Mr. Henry Pembroke telephoned. His assumption was that since I was here at the behest of the Federal Government, I outranked you in this matter.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s your assumption?”

  “My assumption is that for all their business expertise, the Pembroke brothers have been isolated by their wealth from even a whiff of reality, and concepts such as jurisdiction are alien to them. I, ah, educated him, shall we say. He will not question your authority again. Of course, if you will be so kind as to let me assist you in this matter, I’ll be very grateful.”

  “I’ll bet. What if I say no?”

  Benedetti’s face was too lean to look like a Manx cat’s, but it was plenty feline all the same. “I will humbly obey.”

  “I’ll bet,” the chief said again. “Then, in twenty-four hours, the FBI comes in on the case, and you pull strings in Washington, and you’re in and I have my nose pressed against the window. I haven’t gotten any isolation from reality.”

  “It would be a disservice to all concerned to have a man of your perceptiveness pressing his nose to the window.”

  “Yeah. That’s the way I feel, myself. All right, why don’t you tell me what’s really going on with the brothers, as long as we’re working together.”

  “Ronald, haven’t you filled him in?”

  “Yes, Maestro.”

  “He filled me with something,” Viretsky said. “Am I supposed to believe this stuff about birds and cats? They’d really leave the rest of the United States choking bad air because of cats and birds?”

  “Foolish behavior, graz’ Iddio, is not my field, but it seems to me, human beings indulge in childish behavior until they are forced to stop.” Benedetti shrugged. “Clyde and Henry have never been forced to stop. Therefore, they behave as children. Therefore, they don’t weigh consequences. They just do what their wealth and whims allow them. Fortunately, they are a couple of benign specimens; this town is very like a dollhouse for them, and they try to make sure their toy is clean and well cared for.”

  “That’s it!” Viretsky said. “That’s exactly it! For years, these guys have gotten on my nerves, and you finally put the finger on why. We’re like pets for them.”

  Benedetti raised a palm. “Try not to upset yourself. Many pets are badly treated.”

  “I suppose so, but it’s galling.” The chief shook his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, you can forget all that bird crap now, if you’re going to help on the kidnapping.”

  “To the contrary. I agree that getting Clyde Pembroke back safely is the priority, if it can be done, but I have no intention of forgetting the incidents that brought me here. I am sure they are all part of a pattern.”

  “How can you possibly be sure of that, for God’s sake?” the chief demanded.

  Benedetti shrugged again. “Perhaps you are right. I am not logically convinced, but my intuition is strong. It is possible that after a peaceful and paternalistic lifetime, Clyde Pembroke might be kidnapped immediately after trouble with his brother over mysterious incidents concerning their primary boyish passions. I say it is possible; I simply do not believe it.”

  A quiet, high-pitched sound filled the air. “My beeper,” the chief said. “May I use your phone?”

  Benedetti gestured assent. The chief picked up the phone and dialed.

  Ron looked at his watch. “Geez, I almost forgot. I’ve got to get out to the airport and pick up Janet.”

  “Who?”

  “My wife.”

  “My other assistant.”

  Viretsky put the phone down and shook his head. “Not now. We’re going places. The ransom instructions have come in.”

  Eleven

  HARRY SWANTEK WAS CONTENT with his life. He made more money than three previous generations of Swanteks combined. He had a house and a lawn and a gardener to take care of it. He was married to his high school sweetheart, and four kids later, he was still crazy about her. He had hunting in the winter and golf at Blind Ridge Country Club in the spring and summer. He had the respect of the community, and the feeling he’d earned it, having paid his way through college with a football scholarship to Pitt and summers working at the Pembroke plant.

  The only thing he didn’t like about the job was working Saturdays. Especially in the fall. Saturdays were for football. Specifically, high school football, the Harville High Welders, for whom Harry himself had starred at tackle twenty-one years ago. There was a magic to the crummy old concrete stadium as tough kids from tough towns fought to realize their dreams.

  Home games weren’t so bad, these days. The plant closed down at 1:00 P.M., kickoff time. Harry was usually able to get there by the middle of the second quarter. Games out of town, though, forget it. Perversely, Harry, Jr., a fullback, had his best games on the road.

  Things would get even worse once the brothers got it all squared away and went into production on the smoke scrubber, Harry knew. The place would probably go into production seven days a week, and at least for the first couple of months, that meant Harry would have to be there. Harry Swantek took his responsibilities as vice president and plant and production manager very seriously.

  Sometimes he wondered if the brothers, for all that he owed them, felt the same way about things he did. Harry pushed the thought aside as unworthy.

  He supposed Saturdays wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t so damned boring. For the most part, the guys were happy to get t
he overtime, and were on their best behavior. Any problems that came up tended to be handled on the supervisor or, at worst, foreman level. All Harry had to do was sit around in his office, keep up-to-date on the technical material, and wait for the Big Emergency he hoped would never come up.

  He was reading Modern Industrialist when his phone rang.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Swantek?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Murphy at the front gate. Federal Express guy just came. Dropped something off for you.”

  “On Saturday?”

  “Yeah, they’ll do that if you pay extra. Anyway, the thing’s got ‘extremely urgent’ written all over it, so I thought I’d let you know.”

  “Sure, Murphy, I’ll come down to collect it.” He’d be glad to get a little air, anyway.

  Harry went down to the gate, collected the package, and strolled back to his office, wondering. What the hell was it? It was just a little cardboard envelope, after all. Maybe a delivery contract or something, though he couldn’t think of anything they had coming back, and he ought to know. There was nothing, at least, that merited this kind of urgency.

  He sat at his desk and pulled the tab. Inside the envelope was a loose sheet of paper and a manila envelope. The loose sheet was addressed to him. Made up of letters cut from newspapers and magazines, it said:

  Swantek:

  HERE ARE THE INSTRUCTIONS FOR HENRY TO GET HIS BROTHER BACK. SEE THAT HE GETS THEM RIGHT AWAY.

  Harry had an idea that he knew what this all meant, and he knew it was nasty, but he also knew how to follow instructions. He called Omega House.

  “Chip.” Harry felt a little funny calling the son and nephew of the Pembroke twins by his first name, but Mr. Henry Pembroke had insisted on it, and it did seem a little dumb for Harry to be “mistering” someone younger than he was, whom he’d known (at least known of) virtually all his life, and who had nothing to do with Pembroke Industries outside of being a Pembroke. So Harry had gotten to the point where calling the younger Pembroke “Chip” felt natural. Almost.

  “Get off the line, Harry,” Chip said. “I can’t explain now.”

  Harry heard fear in Chip’s voice, and maybe concern, but there was also a large trace of the whine of a spoiled brat. Chip was expecting a call from someone, got Harry instead, and was upset about it. Chip might have been an okay guy if he hadn’t been born with an entire silver service for twelve in his mouth. As it was, Harry could take him or leave him, but he’d rather leave him.

  “I don’t think you have to explain,” Harry said. He read Chip the pasted-up letter.

  “Oh, God,” Chip said.

  Harry asked, “Is this for real?”

  Harry could almost feel the heat of Chip’s hissed reply over the phone. “Of course this is for real, you jerk! Get over here right away with that information. And don’t tell anybody!”

  Harry controlled his temper. He always did. It was never easy, and the control didn’t always last longer than the temper did, but he always tried, thanks to his freshman coach at Pittsburgh. After another fight during a hot practice, the coach pulled Harry aside. Instead of chewing him out, the man said, “Son, if you don’t learn to control your temper, it’s going to control you.”

  So things that used to get him boiling now only bubbled him a little. What bothered Harry were the times he let go. His temper didn’t get out as often these days, but it was bigger. And meaner.

  “Look, Chip,” he said. “I know we have our differences, but I’m with you and your family all the way on this. I want you to believe it.”

  For ten seconds, nothing but a soft hiss came over the phone, and Harry could feel himself losing it again.

  Finally, Chip said, “I do believe you. Just tense. Get over here right away, all right?”

  “Sure thing,” Harry said. He grabbed the manila envelope, still unopened, and went.

  On his way out of the hotel room with the Professor, Ron was buzzed by the front desk, who told him the rental car he’d ordered had arrived, and the guy had some papers he wanted him to sign.

  “Okay,” Ron said. “I’ll be down in a minute.” He turned to the Professor. “Well, there’s a detail I forgot. It’s nice to know that when I finally get to pick up Janet, I’ll have a car to do it in.”

  “Yeah,” Viretsky said. “You’ll even have it with you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we’re taking your car. Let’s go.”

  Ron shrugged. Downstairs, the guy from the auto rental place got his signature, checked him out on the car, and off they went.

  “We’re going to stop at headquarters first,” the chief told them. “I’ve got to do a couple of things. Won’t take long.”

  One of the things, Ron assumed, was getting the lab started on the kidnap note and envelope. He hoped whatever else the chief had in mind would be as brief as promised. Janet was a woman of almost infinite virtues, but extreme patience was not among them.

  As expected, when they got to headquarters, an old-fashioned brick-and-whitewashed-wood building with glass globes alongside the front steps, the chief first stopped at the lab, then led Ron and the Professor to his office.

  “Wait here,” he said, then disappeared into another room. Ron could have sworn that as the chief went through the door, he was already whipping off his tie and glasses like George Reeves on the old Superman show.

  He was gone ten minutes. Ron spent seven of them drumming his fingers on the desktop.

  “Basta, amico,” Benedetti said at last.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Ron demanded. “The ransom note is sitting there, and he’s probably got the football game on now, to see if Notre Dame is covering the point spread.”

  “I doubt it, amico,” the Professor said. “I find Chief Viretsky an interesting man. His only flaw is a pride too easily bruised. He has to do things his own way, but I believe he gets satisfactory results.”

  “I don’t consider a fight with my wife, which is impending, to be a satisfactory result.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Ronald. Janet may be worried, but she won’t be angry. Perhaps you can phone the airport and leave a message for her.”

  “That’s a thought. The chief didn’t say anything about our not using the phones, did he?”

  Ron picked up and dialed information without waiting for an answer. Then he got the airport, learned that Janet’s flight was due any minute, left a message that he’d been delayed, and sat back relieved. A little.

  Ron looked at the old man, who was grinning happily to himself. He hated it when Ron drummed his fingers.

  Ron was just about to start doing it again when Viretsky returned. At least, he thought it was Viretsky. The mustache and the glasses were gone, as was the grease from the hair, which was now two shades lighter and parted in the middle. The uniform had been replaced with a suit of some soft material in tan, with a dark-aqua shirt and a purple tie. He looked like an English teacher at a private girls’ school.

  “Chief?” Ron said.

  Viretsky smiled. He looked fifteen years younger than he had before.

  “Halloween isn’t for another month and a half,” Ron informed him.

  “Yeah? Well, who’s to say which getup is the costume?” Even the voice was different, slightly softer, less tense.

  “I see,” Benedetti said. “The first note said no police—”

  “Right. So I’m giving them no police. In case they’re really watching. And I’ll be on the scene if that’s the way things work out. Now let’s go to Omega House.”

  “I’m not sure I know how to get there.”

  “I’ll give you directions.”

  Chief Viretsky, whatever he looked like now, was still very much the efficient cop. He had his valise with him, his razor knife, and his gloves and his tweezers, and he removed the contents of the manila envelope with the same care he had used before.

  The message began, “Henry Pembroke.”

 
“Typewritten this time,” the chief said sardonically. “We can try to trace this.” He looked carefully at the Pembrokes, father and son, as he said this, so Ron figured he had said it for psychological effect.

  That had to be the only reason he’d said it. Electric and electronic typewriters, let alone word processors and printers, had made typewritten evidence useless years ago. The electric motor meant there was no longer any eccentricity to a typist’s style. All keystrokes hit with the same weight. As for idiosyncrasies of the typewriter itself, all a kidnapper had to do was throw the daisy wheel and the ribbon cartridge in the furnace or the river, and no one would ever be able to trace the thing. Ron had a sneaking suspicion their kidnapper knew this.

  Ron looked over the chief’s shoulder. The next word was “Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Ron said. “What’s with this guy?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Henry said. “I’m just glad this isn’t going to be a drawn-out thing.”

  “Nevertheless,” the Professor said. “It seems to be an optimistic expectation that anyone could raise a million dollars in cash—I assume they want cash.”

  Viretsky looked at a later sheet. “Yep,” he said. “In used tens, twenties, and fifties.”

  “We can pay it,” Henry said. His voice was soft but determined.

  “How, Dad?” Chip demanded. “We don’t keep that kind of money around the house.”

  “No, but we’ve got it in the bank.”

  “Well,” Ron said. “You’re not going to get it from a cash machine in the side of the wall. Do you have enough pull with the owner of the bank to get him to open up for you to make a million-dollar withdrawal?”

  “Clyde is the president of the bank.” Henry sounded almost smug.

  “Oh,” Ron said.

  “I am the vice president. In Clyde’s absence, I’ll authorize the transaction myself. We have accessible accounts in that bank that will yield the right amount of money.”

  “Wait a minute,” the chief protested. “How do you know for sure they’ve got your brother? How do you know he’s still alive?”

  Henry shook his head in resigned impatience.