Not My Thing

‘Well, sir, Mrs Jamison left here for church at her usual time. Conklin observed her driving down the drive until he lost sight of her at the bend. At eight thirty, he walked down the drive and found Mrs Jamison’s car parked in the middle of the drive, near the gates which were closed, but Mrs Jamison was not in the car. Conklin telephoned me from the lodge and I immediately joined him. I found a piece of paper under one of the windshield-wipers.’

‘Get on with it!’ Jamison snarled.

‘On this paper, sir, was a typewritten message. I have it here,’ Smyth said, huskily.

‘Get on with it, for Christ’s sake!’

‘Yes, sir. The message reads, ‘Jamison, your wife has been kidnapped. If you want to see her alive, don’t alert the police nor do anything smart until you hear from us at eight o’clock tonight’. That’s all, sir.’

In his long life, Jamison had faced many tricky situations. His mind, trained over the years, was geared to cope with emergencies.

‘Right, Smyth!’ he snapped. ‘Do nothing! Understand? Move the car back to the garage and wait for my arrival.’ He had so often travelled to and fro from Miami to New York he knew the flight schedules by heart. ‘I will catch the eleven-thirty flight. Tell Conklin to meet me at the airport,’ and he hung up.

It would be a race to catch that flight. Without bothering to shave or shower, Jamison scrambled into his clothes, refusing to think what had happened. It wasn’t until he was seated in the aircraft, taking off for Miami, that he surveyed the situation.

A gyp!

He realized he had been double-crossed. His fists clenched. This is what comes, he thought, of dealing with a Mafia crook! Kidnapped! So now the price would be enormous. Well, he thought, I have all the money in the world, and I will pay, so long as I am certain that I will be free of Shannon. Any money paid out would be worth my being free!

The air hostess brought him a flacon of coffee. While he was drinking the coffee, his hard, ruthless face creased into an unpleasant smile.

Jamison, he told himself, you have been out-smarted. You stupidly led with your chin, and you’ve taken a sock, but not a knock-out sock.

He remembered a cliché so often used by his father: He who laughs last laughs best. Okay, Mr Kling, he thought. I’ll fix you, and I’ll fix that stinking creep, Lucan. First, I must examine the scene. I am not Sherman Jamison for nothing!

Then he thought of Tarnia. There would be no telephone call to her to tell her he was free. His mind shifted to the note that Kling had left in the car: If you want to see her back alive, don’t alert the police. The last thing he wanted was to see Shannon alive. All the same, he must keep the police out of this. First, he must know what ransom Kling would be demanding. He thought of Smyth and Conklin. He would have to convince them that he knew what he was doing. They were stupid, but devoted to Shannon, but he felt certain he could overawe them.

He poured himself another cup of coffee and relaxed back in his seat, his mind busy, as the plane winged him back to Miami.

***

Lepski sat at his desk, his eyes clock watching. In another ten minutes he would sign off and go home. He had promised Carroll to take her to a movie and then out to dinner. Why women wanted to be taken to some stinking movie and then eat out when it was much more comfortable sitting at home defeated Lepski, but that’s the way women are made, he told himself.

He was thumbing through a book of comics, having had a dull, uneventful day, when his telephone bell rang.

Reluctantly, Lepski lifted the receiver.

‘Charlie here,’ a voice told him. ‘I’ve a kid who wants to see the best detective on the force, so I thought of you.’ Charlie Tanner was the desk sergeant whose job was to sort out the goats from the sheep, and also supply Beigler with coffee. ‘Do you want to see him?’

Lepski looked at his watch. The time was now close on his checking-out time: 18.00.

‘What’s he want?’

‘He says he has an important statement to make, but he won’t talk to anyone but the best detective on the force.’ There was a suppressed gurgling sound as Charlie Tanner smothered a laugh. ‘Do I send him up?’

‘What are you sniggering about, Charlie?’ Lepski snarled. ‘If this kid wants to talk to the best detective on the force, then goddamn send him up,’ and Lepski slammed down the receiver.

The boy who walked up to Lepski’s desk was around ten years of age, remarkably fat, well dressed with a moon-shaped face, ornamented by big glasses.

‘You Mr Lepski?’ he demanded, his voice surprisingly confident.

‘That’s me,’ Lepski said, pushing his hat to the back of his head. He always made a habit of wearing his hat when at his desk. He imagined it gave him a tough, movie-like appearance.

‘The fink downstairs said you were the best detective on the force. Right?’ the fat boy said.

Lepski smirked.

‘That’s a fact, sonny. So what?’

‘I want to make a statement about a serious crime.’