Goldengirl

As his taxi headed up the Van Wyck Expressway, Dryden sorted through the theories his reeling brain supplied. A kidnaping might appeal to the police, but it seemed likelier Goldine had arranged her own disappearance. At the first opportunity, she had slipped Serafin’s leash and hidden herself in New York like any teenager on the run. She had talked about doing it that evening in La Jolla, hooking off to join a commune somewhere. At that time she had rejected the idea, but the pressures had mounted since. The urge to escape, go into hiding until the Olympics were over, could have overwhelmed her.

A more devious, but possibly more credible explanation was that this was a try-on. The next round in her power game. She was getting back at Serafin and the consortium, making them suffer a little. She would lie low for a few days to make them aware how much they depended on her. When she reappeared, she would have the gratification of seeing how relieved they were, knowing they dared not antagonize her. It was perverse, but so were some of the things she had said in her room in Eugene.

Then he remembered Sternberg and Valenti. They had wanted to pull stunts, stir up press interest in Goldine. When it had come up, he thought he had squashed the suggestion with Cobb’s help, but they could have decided later to stage something of their own. He could imagine Valenti crowing over the idea of a kidnaping.

There remained the theory the police were working on. If they were right, and it was a kidnaping, a genuine one, disturbing possibilities were raised. Professional crooks didn’t kidnap amateur athletes on the off chance that some sports-loving millionaire would put up. The chances were high that somebody had got wind of the money involved in Project Goldengirl. They knew the consortium would pay heavily — perhaps up to a million — to get Goldine back. Some ugly questions had to be faced. Not only did the kidnapers know about the stake in Goldine; they must have learned she had transferred from California to Cleveland. In the consortium, only Serafin and Dryden knew about Cleveland. The only others who could have leaked the information were Klugman, Lee or Melody.

By the time the taxi dropped him at the Roosevelt on Madison Avenue he had dismissed the kidnap theory. This had to be Goldine playing games of her own. A porter carried his cases inside. The desk clerk recognised him from previous visits.

‘Mr. Dryden, sir. How nice to see you. We have a message for you to call your office. Urgent, they said.’

‘My office here?’

‘That’s right, sir. The booth over there is free, if you’d care to use it.’

This signified some kind of emergency. The New York office knew his time of arrival, of course, but they weren’t expecting to see him before tomorrow. After the flight from L.A. he always spent the evening relaxing.

The switchboard operator stammered her apologies. ‘I wasn’t sure what to do when I took the call, Mr. Dryden, so I asked Mr. Helpern, and he said as it was personal, I should leave a message for you at the hotel.’

‘Fair enough. Who was the caller?’

‘That’s why I was doubtful, sir. The lady wouldn’t give her name. Just said she wanted to contact you urgently, and it was personal. She asked if you were in New York, and I said you were expected late this afternoon. I hope I didn’t do anything wrong, but she was very insistent.’

‘A young lady? I suppose you couldn’t tell.’

The pause at the other end of the line was palpable with embarrassment. ‘She sounded like she was my generation, sir. I’m twenty-two.’

‘Lucky for you. Did you tell her where I’m staying?’

‘Most certainly not, sir! I wouldn’t do that. Not to a caller that wouldn’t give her name.’

‘So what did she do — ring off?’

‘She gave me a number you can call.’ Another diffident pause. ‘Would you care to take it down, sir?’

He noted it, and assured the girl she still had a job. In return he got an unsolicited promise that nobody else in the agency would hear about it.

In his personal appointment book were the phone numbers of two girls he occasionally met on his visits to New York. The numbers he had just written down were different from either.

Goldine? If it was, he had a few things to say to her.

He dialed the number and waited.

‘Who is this?’

‘Jack Dryden.’

‘Hi, lover boy,’ said Melody. ‘So sweet of you to call.’

Eighteen

He met Melody in the main cocktail lounge of the Century Paramount She was on a stool at the bar in a jade-green cheongsam. Dryden ignored the leg show. He wasn’t there for a sexual encounter. She had told him she had news of Goldine. If that was just a come-on, he wasn’t staying.

She was drinking tomato juice, and asked for another. He ordered a straight scotch for himself.

‘Surprised to find me in New York?’ she asked. ‘I guess you must feel flattered, being paged to call me the moment you check in.’

‘Surprised, I’ll give you,’ said Dryden, measuring his response. ‘What brings you here — orders from Dr. Serafin?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t follow you.’