“Okay,” Cameron said.
Alone in the living room, Cameron lighted a cigarette and then walked quickly to the steps, looking upstairs. He crossed the room rapidly then, looking over his shoulder toward the kitchen, walked directly to the telephone. He dialed with quick flicks of his forefinger, his eyes never leaving the steps leading to the upstairs wing of the house. Impatiently, he tapped on the telephone table.
“Hello?” he said at last. “May I speak to Mr. Benjamin, please.” He paused. “This is Peter Cameron. Yes, I’ll wait, but please hurry.” He glanced nervously toward the steps. The hand with the cigarette stopped its tapping, moved to his mouth. He sucked in on the cigarette, blew out a steady stream of smoke, looked toward the kitchen again, and was ready to hang up when the voice came onto the line.
“Hello?”
“George?”
“This is George Benjamin.”
“Pete Cameron. I’ve got to make this fast. Do I still get Doug’s job?”
“I offered it, didn’t I? I’ll put it in writing, if you like.”
“I’d like. The Boston thing I called you about earlier—it is a stock deal. Doug’s cornering nineteen per cent of the voting stock.”
“What!”
“And he already owns twenty-eight per cent himself. You underestimated him, George.”
“Twenty-eight…” There was a long silence on the line. “Then how can we vote him out? How the hell can we?”
“You can’t,” Cameron said. “Unless you tell the Old Man that Doug is finagling a deal behind his back. Get the Old Man on your side temporarily. It’s the only way.”
“What good will that do? If Doug’s stock deal goes through, he’ll be sitting with forty-seven per cent of the stuff! Even with the Old Man’s stock, we couldn’t outvote him. Hell, he could get rid of us.”
“If the deal goes through. Have you been listening to the radio?”
“This kidnaping nonsense?” Benjamin said. “What’s that got to do with—”
“It has a lot to do with it.”
“It isn’t even Doug’s son!”
“No, but they’ve asked him for the ransom, anyway. If he pays, his Boston deal goes out the window.”
“Will he pay?”
“No question about it. But in the meantime, I’m trying to find out whom he’s dealing with in Boston. Maybe we can beat him to the punch.”
“You’re all right, Pete,” Benjamin said admiringly.
“I know I am,” Cameron answered. “Do what I advised, George. Get to the Old Man and clasp hands with him. If Doug’s deal folds and you still want him out, you’re going to need a bigger club than you’ve got now.”
“I’ll do that. And I won’t forget this.”
“I’m banking on that. I’ve got to hang up now, George.”
“All right.”
There was a click on the line. Smiling, Cameron replaced the receiver and lighted a fresh cigarette. He was still smiling when the doorbell chimed. He looked up at the steps, shrugged, and went to the door, opening it. A small man wearing a black overcoat and derby stood there. A black umbrella was slung over the man’s arm. There was an air of secrecy about the man, the look of a Scotland Yard operative who had worked on the Jack the Ripper case. The man was easily sixty years old, perhaps older.
“Yes?” Cameron said.
“Mr. King?”
“No. I’m Mr. King’s assistant.”
“I would like to see Mr. King, please. On business.”
“What sort of business?”
“Personal business. You may tell him that Score is here. Adrian Score.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Score. I’ll see if he’s free. Have a seat, won’t you?”
“Thank you,” Score said. He walked into the living room, holding his umbrella clutched in both hands like a timid batter facing a no-hit pitcher. He studied one of the chairs as if he suspected some wild animal had befouled it, and then sat daintily on its edge. Cameron went to the steps and called, “Doug!”
“What is it?”
“A Mr. Score to see you. On business.”
“I don’t know any Mr. Score,” King answered.
“Tell him it’s personal,” Score said over his shoulder.
“Says it’s personal, Doug.”
“Okay, I’ll be right down,” King said.
“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Score,” Cameron said, walking into the living room.
“Thank you, I will. This is a lovely home.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Score repeated.
King came down the steps. “Now what is it, Pete?”
Cameron shrugged. In a whisper, he said, “Says it’s personal. I’d better go get a cup of coffee.” He started toward the kitchen.
“That phone hasn’t rung again, has it?”
“No. Bobby asleep?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Cameron said, and he went out.
“Mr. Score?”
“Mr. King?”
“Yes.” King extended his hand.
Score rose, shook hands briefly, and nodded curtly. “Adrian Score, sir,” he said. “The man who always knows the score, eh?”
“Sit down, Mr. Score,” King said. Score sat. “Now then, what’s on your mind?”
“Business, Mr. King.”
“It’s a little late for a business call, isn’t it?”
“It’s never too late for business, is it, Mr. King?”
“Well, that depends. What sort of business did you have in mind, Mr. Score?”
“Kidnaping, Mr. King.”
The room went dead silent.
“What…what about kidnaping?”
“Do you want your son back, Mr. King?”
“My son wasn’t kidnaped,” King said.
“Ah-ah, Mr. King,” Score said, wagging the umbrella, “let’s be honest with each other, eh? We are both businessmen, are we not? Very well then. You can tell the newspapers what you wish, but you are now dealing with Adrian Score. Honesty, eh? I asked you a question.”
“And I gave you an answer.”
“That’s what I like, Mr. King. Hardheaded business. Who is this Adrian Score, you are undoubtedly asking yourself. Who is this man who comes into my house in the middle of the night and asks me if I want my son back? And you’ve every right to ask that, Mr. King, every right in the world. Sound business tactics.” He paused, nodded, put the umbrella between his legs and said, “Well, I will tell you who Adrian Score is. Adrian Score is the man who’s going to get your son back.”
“You know where the Reynolds boy is?” King asked.
Score chuckled and put a finger alongside his nose. “All right, sir, never argue with a client, that’s Score’s motto. If you prefer, he’s your chauffeur’s son, and a very clever ruse indeed, if I may be permitted to say so. But we both know the truth, don’t we, eh? In any case, you do want the boy back?”