No man who owns five newspaper chains, sundry television stations and magazines in half the countries of the world dares remain for more than a very short time out of touch with one or another of his deputy money-makers, so it was a matter for no great surprise when the managing editor of the London Sunday Herald was summoned in the middle of his evening meal to take a telephone call from Tahiti.
Mr Oscar Murphy wanted to be assured, before he went back down the beach for a clam ’n’ yam bake, that somebody had remembered to raise by two per cent the classified advertisement rate in the north-eastern and Scottish circulation areas.
Richardson said yes, this had been done, and, hold on, sir, there had arisen a problem of great urgency, on which the immediate ruling of Mr Murphy would be much appreciated. The paper’s star columnist had been kidnapped. Clive Grail.
“What for? Money?”
“Yes, sir. Partly, anyway.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen thousand pounds.”
“What do we pay Grail?”
“Twelve, sir, I believe.”
“Wrong—it’s twelve and a half.” A brief pause. Richardson fancied he could hear Pacific surf, but it doubtless was something to do with transmission. “OK. Pay up.”
“There is another condition, Mr Murphy. For Grail’s life being spared, I mean.”
“Namely?”
“We cancel a piece of his that was to have been published in the next issue.”
“Set already, I suppose?”
“Substantially, sir.”
“Costed yet?”
Oh, God. “I could get a figure first thing in the morning.”
“Any secondary rights sold?”
“None,” declared Richardson, confident of approval.
“Should be. This crap’s a commodity, not a sacred relic.”
There was a further short interval. Then Mr Murphy signified that the kidnappers’ terms should be met, provided that there were reasonable grounds to suppose their threat serious. He stipulated, however, that somebody would have to make a detailed report to him at the end of the week of what arrangements had been made within the editorial account to recover the costs of the affair.
Richardson ate no more dinner. He returned at once to his office and rang Flaxborough.
Lanching answered. No, he was sorry, but Miss Clemenceaux had just left to fetch food from a restaurant in the town. Could he take a message?
“She can eat at a time like this?”
Lanching told him that the housekeeper had been called away.
“That’s damned suspicious. Don’t you think that’s damned suspicious?”
It would bear thinking about, Lanching admitted.
“Tell Miss Clemenceaux that Mr Murphy has personally given the all clear ransom-wise. I’ll see what can be done tonight on actual cash-raising. Grail’s damned lucky he works for a boss with heart. Don’t you think he’s lucky?”
“Most fortunate, Mr Richardson, as are we all. I think we should leave this line free now, though, or it may be suspected that we are in touch with the police.”
From the Yellow River Chinese Take-away in Spoongate, Birdie bore a large carrier bag containing Special Recommended Dinner “E” and made the return journey to Miriam Lodge swiftly but carefully.
“Warm some plates under the hot tap,” she instructed Becket. She began to unlid the containers, sniffing rapturously. A nest of crispy noodles was revealed. “Blissikins!” murmured Birdie. To Lanching she said: “Go up to the Prisoner of Zenda, will you, Ken, and ask him if he wants both King Prawn Balls and Sweetsour Lobster Fries; there aren’t all that many of either, and I... No, hang on a minute...” She stared at the containers, as if wrestling with a conscience. Then she shook her head, decisively. “No, to hell with it. What he doesn’t know about, he won’t miss. He can have extra chicken and almonds instead. Lucky lad.” She held out her hands for the plates which Becket had been drying clumsily.
After the meal, Birdie found Grail in a more relaxed mood than she had expected. He had eaten all his food. She eyed the plate. “Good,” she said, sounding rather like a nurse. She picked up the tray. “Give me five minutes to get a tape recorder fixed up, and there’ll be a little treat for you.”
He regarded her quizzically.
“You’re coming for an airing,” she said. “To a telephone box a couple of hundred yards down the road. It’s set back in some shrubbery and I noticed just now that the light isn’t working.”
“Ten to one the telephone isn’t, either,” said Grail.
But it was.
Becket answered, after Birdie had dialled by touch in the dark.
“For God’s sake,” Birdie admonished him, “don’t put any of this through the recorder before Clive starts talking. We might have to play the tape back to London before there’s a chance to vet it. So no balls-ups, as you value your sweet life. If you’ve any doubts, say so.”
Becket said no, everything was fine.
Birdie told him: “When I say ‘now’, start the tape. Clive will begin about five seconds after that. OK?”
“Sure.”
“Right...Now.”
She handed the phone to Grail. He seemed to have difficulty in locating it. She caught his hand and guided it.
Grail spoke into the phone. Slowly, hesitantly, he delivered words as if he had been without sleep for days. In the darkness, Birdie nodded approval.
“This...this is Clive here. Clive Grail...I don’t know where I...where I am, but you’re not to...not to try and find me. I’m...serious about that. These people... These people do mean...what they say...”
Great, Birdie breathed to herself. She reached and gently patted Grail’s arm encouragingly.
After quite a long pause, Grail took two or three deep breaths and went on: “Nothing has happened...to me...up to...nothing has... Oh, God, I’m ...”
His voice was being made to sound weaker. A plaintive note had crept in. Don’t ham it, boykins, for Christ’s sake, Birdie urged silently.
“Nothing’s ... oh, God, I... oh, God, I...”
Speech now was petering out altogether. Birdie felt Grail’s knees pressing harder and harder against her within the narrow confines of the kiosk.
“Please, I.. oh, God...please...”
She heard the phone clatter down against the glass panels. “Clive! What is it?” She clutched his arm and tried to hold him upright, but he continued his slow, frightening collapse until he lay jammed diagonally across the floor of the box.
For what seemed to the girl a very long time, there came from the dark bundle at her feet a sound like the spasmodic tearing of canvas.