Stolen Away

“I took him downstairs, to the basement, and took the cardboard box of money from its hiding place and piled the bills on a table. I let him examine them for himself. He was pleased right off the bat that the denominations were small and the bills old and worn, the serial numbers nonconsecutive. In other words, Eleven, the Fox is convinced that you’re going to play fair. He counted the money twice, and was delighted to find it totaled precisely one hundred thousand dollars.”

I spoke again. “Where’s the money now?”

“No longer in my home,” Means said irritably. “Locked in a safe, pending further developments.”

“Inga,” Evalyn said, sensing Means’s growing irritation with me, “get Mr. Means some coffee.”

Inga did.

“That’s ‘Hogan,’ Eleven. Always Hogan.” Means sipped his coffee with great satisfaction, saying, “We should have delivery of the book any day now. As soon as the Fox and his people are convinced the police are not watching us.”

“The book?” I asked.

“The baby,” Evalyn reminded me.

Means looked at me sharply; his eyes, which usually twinkled Santa Claus-style, narrowed and grew colder than the room, and the room was an icebox. “You ask a lot of questions for a chauffeur,” he said.

“I used to be a cop,” I said.

Evalyn blinked.

“Mrs. McLean thought,” I said, “her new chauffeur ought to be something of a bodyguard, as well as a driver, considering current circumstances.”

“I see,” Means said, his puckish smile returning, but his eyes remaining ice-cold. “And where were you a police officer?”

“You ask a lot of questions yourself, Hogan,” I said.

Means looked at me with bland innocence. “It’s the way I learn things, Fifteen.”

“I’m Fifteen,” Inga said crabbily.

“I’m Sixteen,” I said. I smiled at him. “And never been kissed.”

He beamed at that. “I like you, Sixteen. I really do. We’re going to be great friends.”

“That’s peachy. Have you seen the baby?”

“No—but by tomorrow this time, with God’s help, we all will.”

Evalyn splashed coffee from the cup in her hand.

“Or the next day,” Means said, with a shrug. “The Fox promises delivery soon.”

“What about the money?” I asked.

“What money?”

“That’s code,” I said, “for one hundred thousand dollars ransom in a cardboard box.”

“Oh, yes,” Means said. “I’ve told the Fox he will not receive his booty until the book is safely in Eleven’s arms.”

“And he accepts those terms?” I asked.

“Certainly. He trusts me implicitly. I was his cellmate, remember.”

Means stood; he was as big as a grizzly bear, and every bit as dependable. “I leave you to your vigil.”

With that, and a tip of his homburg before placing it on his big bald head, Means slipped out into the cold night, where the wind howled, shaking the brittle trees like a faithless wife.

19

The furniture in my corner room was sparse—bed, nightstand, small table, dresser. There were faded places on the wallpaper where framed photos, paintings, mirrors or whatever had once hung. Wind rattled the boarded-up windows, fighting to get in, somewhat successfully. Cozy it wasn’t, but the bed had clean sheets and sufficient blankets, so I thanked God and Gus the caretaker for small favors. I stripped to my underwear—wishing I’d worn long johns—and settled in. I had a lot on my mind, but it had been a long, strange day, and sleep took me quickly.

I awoke just as quickly, when—how long after, I’m not sure—my door creaked open and a small female figure stood there; light from the hall made a shapely silhouette through a sheer nightgown, a nicely top-heavy silhouette that I recognized, even sleep-dazed, as Evalyn’s.

“Nate,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Sure,” I said, sitting up. Actually, I was awake—the kind of wide awake you can be when you’re startled into it.

She shut the door and the room went nearly black. I could barely make her shape out in the darkness; she was standing next to me, next to the bed, but I sensed her more than saw her. For one thing, she smelled good, cloaked in a perfume that suggested night-blooming jasmine. Then light flashed—a match—as she lit a red candle on my nightstand, a nightstand incidentally that bore no lamp.

In the flickery light from the candle, she stood before me with her beautiful breasts outlined under the sheer black nightgown, their rosy tips staring at me like wide eyes. Speaking of which, Evalyn’s eyes were themselves round and staring—in a pale, haunted face.

“Nate,” she said, “forgive me for this intrusion.”

I threw back the covers. “You’re forgiven.”

She climbed in bed and I threw the covers back up over her, and me. She was shivering.

“You’ve caught a chill,” I said.

“No,” she said.

“What is it then?”

“You’ll think I’m foolish.”

“No I won’t.”

“I…I was in bed, almost asleep. I heard footsteps on the stairs. I wondered who might be coming up. First I thought it might be Inga, but the sounds went right by Inga’s room and came toward mine.”

She pulled the covers around her, tighter. I slipped my arm around her; she was trembling like a frightened deer.