Carruthers was beginning to see the advantages of being kidnaped. For a short while — or as long as he could possibly drag it out — there was no reason for him to return to beer and cucumber sandwiches. Time enough for that when the sad state of his exchequer became more common knowledge. It was too bad, of course, that Timothy Briggs and Clifford Simpson could not share equally in the beneficence, but as Harold Nishbagel undoubtedly would have put it, that was the way the ball crumbled.
“You mean — hard liquor?”
A terrible, frightening thought came to Carruthers. He swallowed. It occurred to him that upon entering the farmhouse he had seen no sideboard.
“This Clarence of yours,” he asked, “is not an abstainer, is he? He does not, for political reasons, refuse to look upon the wine when it is red?”
Harold stared. “Huh?”
“I said, your Clarence does not remove his hat and stand at attention when the name of Volstead comes into the conversation? He is not a follower of Carry Nation and her crowd?”
“Naw! He’s a Protestant.”
“I mean,” Carruthers said firmly, determined to get to the bottom of this most important matter, “is there liquid refreshment of an alcoholic nature in the house? Does this Clarence imbibe? Partake? To put it in a word — or three, to be exact — does he drink?”
“Oh!” Harold said, finally understanding. “Sure, Clare takes a drop now and then, though he ain’t a lush by no means. You mean, is there hard stuff in the house? Sure, lots of it, and good stuff, too. I know, I ran bad stuff long ago.” He looked uncomfortable. “Only Clare don’t like for me to be drinkin’ when he ain’t around, especially when I’m supposed to be keepin’ an eye on you.”
“I see. Well, I certainly should not wish to go against the rules of the house,” Carruthers said, vastly relieved that his first fear had been unfounded. “In that case, let me offer a solution. Why don’t I have the brandy and champagne, and you have the tea?”
“Say! Yeah! That’d work!” Harold said, pleased that a practical answer to the problem had been found, and also pleased that his first opinion of the old man’s brain power had been vindicated. Then he paused again, frowning. “But — is it good for you to be drinkin’? I mean, at your age? If somethin’ was to happen to you, Clare would be sore. He’d be climbin’ the walls—”
“If you mean that Clarence would be angry, which in your quaint way with words I suspect you do,” Carruthers said, “may I hasten to add that if something unpleasant should happen to me, I should probably be equally perturbed, if not more so. However,” he added philosophically, “at my age eating and drinking are about the only pleasures left. And the telly, I suppose.” He considered that statement a moment. “On second thought, forget the telly.” He looked around. “You do have a television set, I imagine?”
“Yeah,” Harold said gloomily, “we got a TV in the other room, but Clare said to leave it off.” He was at the cupboard over the sink; by opening one cupboard door a vast array of excitingly labeled bottles was revealed, and Harold was engaged in taking a few of them down.
“I begin to feel a kindred spirit with this Clarence,” Billy-Boy said, and watched as Harold gingerly began to pour a few drops of brandy into a tiny glass. “Here,” Carruthers said in a kindly fashion, “better let me do that. I’ve probably had more experience.” He relieved Harold of the bottle and noted it to be of excellent quality. His opinion of Clarence rose. He replaced the tiny glass with a much more substantial one, poured himself a healthy dollop, took a small sip, nodded with appreciation, set the glass down and then wandered across the room. “And this, I gather, is the fridge?” Harold nodded. “With the ice?” Another nod. “And surely,” Carruthers added, “your good cleaning woman will forgive me the loan of this bucket? There!”
He nestled the champagne bottle in ice in the bucket and settled down at the kitchen table, well pleased with his progress in injecting a more civilizing note into what had started out, at best, to be a rather graceless affair. He sipped his brandy, waiting for the champagne to cool, and watched Harold prepare his tea. When his large companion had finally managed the delicate task and came to join him at the table, Carruthers was feeling quite at home.
“I say,” he said curiously, “what do your usual victims do to while away the hours until their ransom is paid — or is not paid, as the case may be?”
“We ain’t got no usual victims. We ain’t never kidnaped nobody before,” Harold said, thus explaining his lack of knowledge on the subject. Then he paused, wishing to be factual with this kind-faced, fatherly figure. “Oh, yeah. I pick up a guy once when I’m workin’ in Chicago, but we don’t hold him for no ransom.” He gave his imitation of a strangling beagle; for a moment Carruthers wondered in alarm if there had been something in the tea. He was about to come to his feet and pound Harold on the back when he realized it was just the large man’s guffaw. “Only this character don’t have time to get bored,” Harold went on, his plastic grin in place, “because we drop him off the Clark Street bridge with a pair of concrete galoshes that same night.”
Enough of this gibberish was understandable — for Carruthers had often frequented the foreign cinema in his more affluent youth — to make Billy-Boy suddenly reconsider the hominess of the ambient. When all was said and done, not only was the man across from him formidable in appearance but he had just admitted to a deed that the most sanguine could scarcely call a prank. Billy-Boy swallowed. Harold saw the swallow as well as the look that had crossed the elderly man’s face. He hastened to reassure him.
“That was different, pops. That was completely different,” he said earnestly. “This clown is practically committin’ suicide. He’s musclin’ in on the boss’s territory, not to mention makin’ a play for Maisie, who is the boss’s broad. You ain’t done nothin’ like that. All you done is come into some dough. And,” he added, almost as if expecting praise, “we ain’t goin’ to ask for it all. Only half.”
An old Euclidean — or Newtonian, he wasn’t sure which — principle came back to Carruthers, stating that half of nothing is equal to nothing. He feared that with time and enough forehead-wrinkling, even Harold could come to understand that simple fact, while without a doubt this Clarence — apparently the brains of the outfit and from the quality of the brandy, a person of some perspicacity — would see the point at once. For the first time the thought of escape came to Billy-Boy Carruthers, but he put it aside sternly. Not only had he given his word, but escape to what? To beer and watercress salads? To glances of pity from a few at the club at their strangely reduced circumstances, and the gleeful sniggers from Potter and the others of his coterie? To the deadliness of lonely nights in his small rooms? For the time being, at least, he was doing much better than that.
And as to the future, what had Matthew said in the Bible? Take therefore no thought for the morrow, for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Unfortunately, Matthew had not been content to leave well enough alone, but had to add; Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. He had been doing just fine, in Carruthers’ opinion, until that word evil; and disposing of a kidnaping victim with or without concrete galoshes, to the most liberal interpreter, would definitely fall into that category.
And even had he not given his word, Billy-Boy had to admit sadly to himself that Clarence and Harold had selected well when they chose him over Tim or Cliff for their victim. The picture of him attempting to slip from a window — or even a large door — not to mention trying to outrun Harold, or even the absent Clarence, assuming him not to be on crutches, was enough to make him smile despite his predicament. The smile came as a great relief to Harold, who was already mentally kicking himself for ever having mentioned Chicago, let alone the Clark Street bridge.