A Dog's Ransom Page 8

  “Yes.”

  “Any news about the dog?”

  “I found the guy who stole the dog and he got away. That’s the trouble.”

  “Got away?”

  “He moved out of his lousy joint—while I was speaking with the Reynoldses. Just cleared out.”

  “He’s got the dog?” Marylyn dropped her sewing in her lap.

  “He said the dog’s with his sister in Long Island. I don’t know whether to believe him. He wants another thousand. Mr. Reynolds is willing to give it. Tomorrow night. But now if I tell him the guy’s disappeared—”

  “You mean he’s supposed to collect another thousand tomorrow night?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s a blackmailer! I bet he hasn’t got the dog. What did you tell Mr. Reynolds to do?”

  “I didn’t tell him to do anything. I asked him—if he was willing, you see.”

  “Wow!” Marylyn shook her head. “So the guy’s loose! And you’re all looking for him?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone yet, I’m going to try to find him myself first. He’s got to communicate with Mr. Reynolds tomorrow to ask for the money. He only told me, not Mr. Reynolds. He’s got to go to York Avenue again to pick it up. We can get him then. On the other hand, he might drop the idea of the second thousand since he knows I’m on to him.”

  “Oof.—How’d you find him?”

  Clarence told her.

  Marylyn listened, and blinked. “He’s the type who carries a gun?”

  Clarence heard an anxiety in her voice. “No, not the type, I think.” Clarence smiled. “I looked over his pad. He’s just a creep. A nut.” Clarence sat down on the foot of the double bed, facing Marylyn. He felt that he had failed, and he had had to come downtown to Macdougal to tell Marylyn about that failure.

  “It seems to me it’s dangerous for you.”

  “Me?” Clarence said.

  “He might have friends. Aren’t you the only one who knows about him now? You and the Reynoldses? He might try to waste you, Clare.”

  Clarence was pleased by her concern. “I’m not worried. Don’t you worry.” He stood up. “I’d better take off, my sweet. On duty at eight.”

  “Cuppa before you go? Instant?”

  “No, but—Can I phone the Reynoldses? I ought to.”

  “Go ahead.”

  The Reynoldses’ number had gone out of his head, and he had to look it up. He felt Marylyn watching him.

  Mrs. Reynolds answered.

  “This is Clarence Duhamell. Is—is Mr. Reynolds there?”

  He was. He came on. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Reynolds. Some bad news. When I went back to Rowajinski’s house—just now—he’d cleared out. I don’t know where he is now.”

  “Cleared out?”

  “He may still telephone you about the dog, but of course I can’t be sure about that. Will you let me know at the station house if he tries to get in touch with you? I go on duty at eight tonight, but tomorrow, just tell the station house.”

  “Well—no. If he gets in touch, I don’t want the police in on it till I give it a chance with the dog. You surely understand that.”

  “Mr. Reynolds—we will do our best.”

  Edward Reynolds fairly hung up on him. Clarence felt awful. He turned to Marylyn and said, “Mr. Reynolds doesn’t want the police in on it, in case this guy contacts him. Jesus!”

  “Oh, honey!” Marylyn sounded sympathetic, but she didn’t drop her sewing, didn’t say anything more.

  She didn’t understand the importance of it, Clarence thought. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later, darling.” He meant after 4 a.m. “I’ll be quiet coming in.”

  “Don’t take it so hard, Clare! You act like it’s the end of the world!”

  7

  Kenneth Rowajinski, at twenty minutes to 6 p.m. on Monday evening, had lugged his suitcase up the steps of Mrs. Williams’s house, and treated himself to the first taxi he saw. “In trouble with the police! You’re a creep, a nasty old man, Mr. Rowajinski!” Mrs. Williams had screamed after him. The bitch had four days’ worth of his money besides, because his rent was paid through Saturday.

  Kenneth had thought there were some inexpensive hotels in the University Place district, so he told the driver to go to University Place and Eighth Street. This area turned out to look rather swank, so he walked uptown towards 14th Street, and at last found what he wanted in the Hotel George, a dark grayish corner building some seven stories high. Rooms were twelve dollars per night. Seventy-two dollars per week if one paid by the week, which was more than Kenneth had expected. He said he would pay by the day, because he was not sure he would be here more than two or three days.

  “Can we have the three days now?” asked the man rudely.

  “Two days maybe?” Kenneth could bargain as well as the next.

  The man accepted two days’ money, twenty-four dollars.

  “Want to fill this out?” He shoved a registration form towards Kenneth.

  Kenneth wrote after Name: Charles Ricker. Home address: Huntington, Long Island, a town that sprang to Kenneth’s mind for no reason that he knew.

  “Street address there? For Huntington?”

  Kenneth invented one, and wrote it.

  A colored bellhop took him to his room on the fifth floor and carried his suitcase. Kenneth did not tip. Service was supposed to be included.

  Then with his door closed, the extra button flicked so no one could open the door with a key from outside, Kenneth felt better, safe, even a trifle elegant. He had a private bath, a big white tub with shower, a clean basin with a little cake of soap wrapped in green paper. Kenneth opened his suitcase, made sure his money was still there, then he had a shower and shaved. He had nine hundred and twenty-odd dollars in his suitcase, and tomorrow he’d have a thousand dollars more. What was he worried about? That young cop? He’d shaken him.

  Kenneth was hungry. He’d have to go out for something. He thought of putting his roll of money in the bed, but would they open or do anything to the bed tonight before he came back? Kenneth pulled the dark red, not exactly clean bedspread back, and saw that the two pillows were fresh. Better here than in his suitcase, he thought, and he took the money and shoved it deep into a pillowcase, and replaced the bedspread neatly.

  At Howard Johnson’s on Sixth Avenue, Kenneth had a delicious hamburger with French fries and coffee. Then Kenneth went to a telephone booth on a corner and looked up Reynolds’s number. He’d looked it up for curiosity days ago and forgot it. He put a dime in and dialed.

  A woman’s voice answered.

  “Can I speak with Mr. Reynolds?”

  “Just a minute.”

  Kenneth could tell she knew who he was. “Hello, Mr. Reynolds. I’ve got your dog. Lisa.”

  “Where is she—please?”

  “She is in Long Island. Absolutely okay. Now Mr. Reynolds, I would like another thousand dollars. My sister insists on it, see? So tomorrow night at eleven, same place, same—small bills, all right? Then you will get your dog an hour later.”

  “All right.—But what guarantee can you give me? Can I speak with your sister? Where is she?”

  “In Long Island. No, you can’t speak with her. She wants nothing to do with this. And listen, Mr.—Reynolds, no one with you tomorrow night. No one following me. Okay? Because if that happens—you won’t get any dog. You understand?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I have your promise?”

  “Yes. —Where are you calling—”

  Kenneth hung up. He was smiling, feeling triumphant.

  The money was still in the pillow when he returned to his hotel room.

  The next morning around nine, Kenneth left his room with a hundred and eighty dollars in his pocket, and walk
ed to 14th Street in quest of clothing. His gray overcoat was pretty shabby, and he could afford to throw it away, he thought. Kenneth bought a suit for forty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents, and an overcoat of brown tweed for sixty-three fifty. He would have to come back in the afternoon for the suit, because the sleeves had to be shortened. Then he bought black shoes for eight ninety-five. The tweed overcoat was handsome, and stiff with newness. With his new coat and shoes on, his contempt for the people around him began to flood him again—a strong and reassuring emotion. They were all human cogs in a machine, never thinking about anything, just working, eating, sleeping, breeding. In another shop Kenneth bought a hat. He liked to wear hats and felt unprotected without one, and his old dark gray hat looked disgraceful in comparison with the overcoat.

  Kenneth bought the Times and the Post and returned to his hotel to read, perhaps snooze, until he became hungry again. But with the future in mind he had bought a frankfurter on a roll at a stand-up coffee-shop, slathered it with mustard and relish, and wrapped it in a couple of paper napkins. In the lobby of the Hotel George, Kenneth had looked around for a policeman—or the young cop in uniform or not. He saw no one who seemed interested in him. Maybe the young cop had torn up his old room at Mrs. Williams’s, looking for the money, looking for clues as to where he was. Lots of luck! And it would certainly annoy Mrs. Williams. Good! Then Kenneth realized that Mrs. Williams would have to forward his monthly compensation checks to him somewhere. Or should he give the government office his savings bank address? Time enough to think about that, another two weeks till it was due. But it was a problem. Awkward. Because the police could trace him if he ever stepped into his savings bank (where he kept his bank book), if the police had troubled to find out that he had an account at the Union Dime Savings at 40th Street and Sixth Avenue. The police could ask the bank to detain him, and there was always an armed guard in the bank. But fortunately there was not much money there, and he could live on the ransom money for quite a time.

  As the day wore on, Kenneth became a little nervous. Seven p.m. now. He wanted to leave his hotel, feeling that he’d be safer on the loose, walking around, and yet the walls of his room offered a kind of protection, too, and it was raining slightly. By five minutes to ten, Kenneth could stay in his room no longer, and he put on his old raincoat, which he had carried over his arm when he left Mrs. Williams’s. He had gone back to the clothing shop at 4 p.m. for his new suit, but because it was raining, he wore his old clothes.

  He imagined the young cop having to tell Mr. Reynolds—last night—that Kenneth Rowajinski had disappeared from his apartment. Mr. Reynolds must have known this when Kenneth spoke to him. If so, it hadn’t seemed to influence Edward Reynolds about coming up with the money. Kenneth took a crosstown bus on 8th Street to First Avenue, then an uptown bus. He got off at the 57th Street stop.

  The rain still dribbled. On York Avenue, Kenneth walked slowly, looking everywhere for enemies, as he had done on Friday night. But he didn’t think Reynolds would have allowed the police to come, really. Reynolds wanted his dog back. At 59th Street, Kenneth turned west, intending to make a circle to the north and approach the spot on York Avenue from uptown at, say, ten minutes past eleven. On 59th Street, Kenneth actually passed a pair of strolling cops. The cops paid him no mind.

  But now Kenneth imagined cops converging in a ring on the York Avenue spot. It wasn’t true, he told himself, but no harm in imagining, because it made him more cautious. If he saw a single figure that looked suspicious in that area, he intended to walk away.

  But so far no one looked suspicious. Kenneth could not trust his wrist-watch, so he peered into a bar, then a grocery store—closed but he could see the clock on the wall—and saw that it was five minutes past eleven. Kenneth crossed to the east side of York and walked downtown. The high fence, sunk into a cement base a few feet high, came into view, then Kenneth was walking along it, limping as little as possible. His small gray eyes darted in every direction. Reynolds should have come and gone. Kenneth tried to count the pikes off, but there was no need, because he saw the pale bundle from a distance of ten feet. He reached out and took it, not even coming to a complete stop. The bundle was thicker, perhaps because Reynolds had put more paper around it against the rain. Kenneth carried it with his right hand inside his raincoat. He crossed 60th Street, then 59th Street, looking for a taxi. He passed only two people on his side of the Avenue, a young man whistling and walking fast, a woman who did not glance at him.

  At 57th Street, Kenneth found a taxi.

  “Hotel George,” Kenneth said. “University Place. Just below Fourteenth Street.”

  He was safe. The clicks of the taxi’s meter were counting off the fractions of miles between him and the danger uptown. Kenneth put the bundle in his lap while he paid the driver, then put the bundle back under his raincoat. He walked into his lobby. Again all was tranquil.

  “You’ve been out in the rain,” said the black elevator operator as they rode up.

  “A little walk,” said Kenneth non-committally. Kenneth disliked chumminess.

  Kenneth went into his room and again double-locked his door with the button on the inside. Then he removed his shoes, also his socks, which were damp, and put on other socks. An idea had come to him in the last minutes, a protective idea. He could put the thumbscrews on the young cop, in case he ran into him again. After all, the cop had let him go, hadn’t he? Kenneth’s idea was to say the cop had agreed to let him escape, if he got some of the money of the second ransom payment. This idea was a bit fuzzy in Kenneth’s head, but he sensed that essentially it was sound. To make it sounder, Kenneth intended to burn some of the money, destroy it. Kenneth was staring at the damp bundle on the round wooden table as his thoughts jumped this way and that. He was also prolonging the moments before he had the pleasure of looking at the money. At last Kenneth washed his hands in the bathroom, dried them on a fresh towel, and opened his package. There it was again, stacks and clumps of greenbacks, all tens, five bundles of twenty tens each!

  He intended to burn five hundred dollars. It was a shocking thing and above all strange, but before he could think too much about it (because he was sure he was right), Kenneth slipped the rubber bands off two bundles and counted off ten ten-dollar bills from a third bundle. He tried it first in an ashtray, but it went slowly, and he decided on the basin.

  The bills were surprisingly resistant to fire, but at last he could get five or six going at once in the basin, and soon he had to pause and collect the ashes in pieces of newspaper. It took him nearly a quarter of an hour to burn them all, and it was curiously exciting, all that money, that power, that freedom going up in smoke, turning to nothing. He rinsed the basin, and opened both the window in his bathroom and the window in the bedroom to get the smoke out. He had been enjoying the smoke, but he didn’t want the hotel people to think a fire had broken out.

  This possibility made him rush to the remaining money on his table and stow it away with the other money in case anybody insisted on coming into the room. He had stuck the money now in a folded sweater in one of the drawers, since he thought women might come in to fuss around with the bed while he was out. But when he slept, he thought it wisest to keep the money in a pillowcase.

  Now it was five past midnight. He imagined Edward Reynolds waiting at York and 61st Street, waiting for the dog. In the rain. How long would he wait? Kenneth smiled a little, feeling no mercy at all. Let the snob buy another dog. He could afford to. Reynolds was really a dope to have paid two thousand dollars. That made Kenneth feel superior. He might not have as much money as Reynolds, but it was plain that he had more brains.

  8

  Clarence’s new 8 p.m. to 4 a.m. shift gave him Tuesdays and Wednesdays off for the next three weeks. Tuesday noon, he rang his precinct house to ask if there had been any message from Edward Reynolds. The Desk Officer, whose voice Clarence didn’t recognize, said no.

 
“Are you sure? It’s about a dog theft. A ransom.”

  “Absolutely not, my friend.”

  Clarence was at Marylyn’s apartment. She had gone out at 10 a.m. for a dictation job on Perry Street. He had no plans with her for the day, because she said she wasn’t sure she would have any time for lunch. Clarence made some scrambled eggs for himself. He walked around the Village, up to 10th Street, finally took a Sixth Avenue bus uptown, and stared out the window all the way, looking for a short, chunky, limping type like Rowajinski. Clarence rode to 116th Street, then walked to his precinct house. He asked what they had found out about a sister of Kenneth Rowajinski.

  A young patrolman whom Clarence had seen only once or twice before looked it up for him and said: “One sister named Anna Gottstein. Lives in Doylestown, Pennsylvania.”

  Clarence wrote down her address and telephone number which was under her husband’s name, Robert L. Gottstein. “Thanks very much,” Clarence said.

  Pennsylvania now, not Long Island.

  Clarence took the subway back downtown, looking over all the passengers, everywhere. What else could he do?

  He thought of ringing Edward Reynolds at his office around 4 p.m. to ask if he had heard yet from Rowajinski, but he was afraid Mr. Reynolds would think he was meddling too much: after all, Mr. Reynolds had made it plain that he didn’t want police in on the affair even if Rowajinski contacted him and asked for a second thousand.

  A little after four, Marylyn’s telephone rang and Clarence answered it.

  “My mother wants to see me tonight, Clare,” Marylyn said. “You know—I told you I might have to go out. I called her but I really can’t get out of it.”

  She meant she had to go to Brooklyn Heights. Tuesday evening was her regular evening to have dinner with her mother, so Clarence could hardly complain. But he was disappointed and felt cut adrift.

  At 6:30 p.m., Clarence rang his precinct house again. Lieutenant Santini was there, and Clarence spoke with him. Santini said there had been no message from an Edward Reynolds.