But the beauty of the Hudson only saddened her. In that beauty she would find nothing more than what she saw. She would not find the love she had dreamed of. That love didn’t exist and, chasing it, she had almost made herself into a traitor. She was ashamed of herself.
She gazed out of the window, admiring the beauty of river and sun and haze. She told herself that she was going back to her husband, and that she was going to have a baby even though she didn’t love him. She continued to gaze out of the window, a wan and wistful and dreamy look on her face.
Self-Defense
by Harold Q. Masur
Richardson was a powerful man, Scott Jordan knew. And Jordan found out that powerful men scare just as easily as anybody else...
George Richardson was no assembly line product. He had a long straight body, compelling eyes, a precise mouth, a crisp voice, and the confident assurance of wealth. His hair was silver-grey, though he couldn’t have been more than forty-five years of age. He wore his clothes like a college boy and carried himself like a Senator.
He had emerged from his private office to give me a personal convoy. His handshake was quick, firm, and nervous. “Mr. Jordan,” he said. “Glad you came. I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted to see you.”
I nodded. I was not only wondering, I was damned curious, because the outfit that usually handled his law business was a firm of attorneys five names long, with two whole floors in a Wall Street skyscraper. Compared to them, my operation was peanuts.
“Sit down, Mr. Jordan.”
I sat in a wide leather chair and took in the surroundings. His office was paneled in Phillipine mahagony, with an original Gaugin on the wall and a priceless Sarouk on the floor. Anyone who thought the layout a little too fancy for a crass business enterprise would be right. George Richardson was not in business. His ancestors had saved him the bother. He maintained this office for the sole purpose of keeping an eye on his investments.
He planted his feet in front of me and I could see that he was under pressure. “Are you free to handle something for me, Jordan?” His voice was tight and so were his jaws.
“Why me?” I asked. “Why not your own lawyers?”
He shook his head impatiently. “Because they’re specialists; corporation law, probate, contracts. This is way out of their league.”
I sat back. “Tell me about it.”
“Here. Read this. It’s self-explanatory.”
He handed me a piece of paper. I unfolded it and read the message. The writer had used a pencil, printing in block letters.
Mr. Richardson, sir,
Your wife will need a black dress unless you play ball. Andy is too young to die. You can prevent it by coughing up a hundred grand. You can accelerate it by talking to the cops.
Use your head and follow instructions. Tonight, six o’clock. Stay near the telephone.
I looked up at George Richardson. He was biting the bottom corner of his lip. “Andy is the son of your second wife?”
“Yes. I adopted him legally when I married Irene.”
“How old is he?”
“Four.”
“Where did you find this note?”
“In the morning mail.”
“May I see the envelope?”
He found it in the center drawer of his desk. The address was printed in pencil, same as the letter. It carried yesterday’s postmark and had been mailed somewhere in the Grand Central area. I wondered about the postmark. It was a new switch — since Andy was, apparently, still safe.
“What am I supposed to do, Jordan?”
“You’re supposed to notify the FBI.”
“I know... I know...” He was rubbing the creases in his forehead. “Can we afford to risk it? A boy’s life is at stake.”
I had no words for a moment, thinking it over. I didn’t like the responsibility of making a decision. Kidnappers are mean, vindictive, and inhuman. When a life is gone, nobody can bring it back. Resurrection is only a word in the Bible, unrecognized by the medical profession. George Richardson was watching me anxiously.
“Suppose we wait for the telephone call,” I said. “We can make our decision then.”
He nodded quickly. “I hope you don’t think I did wrong. I became a little panicky when I received the letter this morning and I gave into my first impulse. I went to the bank.”
“For the money?”
“Yes. I withdrew it in small denominations. Mixed serial numbers.”
“Where is it?”
He pointed to a bulging briefcase leaning against a corner of his desk.
“May I see it?”
“Certainly.”
One glance was enough. All that currency, neatly arranged and squared away, gave me an odd sensation. Pieces of engraved paper, that’s all, but what they represented was something else, a catalytic agent for most of the crimes committed on God’s green footstool.
I put it down. “I’m a lawyer, Mr. Richardson, not a private detective. Why did you pick on me?”
“Because of the way you handled the divorce for my first wife.” He managed a smile, half bitter, half wry. “Five hundred dollars a week alimony. That’s quite a bite, counselor. My own lawyers couldn’t cope with you. All right. I paid but I checked. I know your background, the kind of work you do. You have a talent for situations of this kind. I need your help.”
It sounded logical enough. I had nicked him plenty for Lydia, the beautiful, restless, petulant creature he had plucked out of the Copa line and married. Why he married her, I don’t know. She must have played her cards right. Probably it was the only way he could get her. The episode was brief but tempestuous, lasting six months. I got her the divorce and five hundred a week. Enough to maintain a penthouse, a convertible, and a boy friend.
The boy friend was Neil Corbin, a far more suitable mate. Lydia was out with him the night she died. Corbin had just brought her home after an extensive tour of the bistros along Fifty-second Street. He let her out at the front door and drove her car to the basement garage. Once upstairs, Lydia apparently went out to the terrace and lost her balance. It was fourteen stories down to the rear courtyard, paved in concrete. It seems she had misgauged her alcoholic capacity. The medical examiner found enough bourbon in her brain to float a ferry-boat.
The cops raked Neil Corbin over the coals. He had a very shady record and no visible means of support, except Lydia. But he stuck to his story. He didn’t know about the accident until after he reached the apartment.
It was water under the bridge now, almost a year old.
George Richardson broke into my thoughts. “Will you handle the money part of it for me, Jordan?”
“If you like. But I’m against paying off on the basis of threats alone. Make it that easy and he’s liable to try again, on you or someone else.”
“I can’t help it.” His jaw was out, bulldog stubborn. “I’ll worry about that when it happens. Right now, Andy’s safety comes first.”
“Have you thought of sending him away?”
“What good would it do? His home is here. I can’t keep him away forever.”
“Have you spoken to your wife about this?”
He gave me a startled look. “Of course not. She’d go to pieces.” He searched my face anxiously. “Do you think I should?”
“Let’s see what happens. In the meantime I’ve got some work to do. I’ll be at my office. Phone me as soon as you get your call. If it—”