He jumped as the phone rang. He was staring at it with his jaw loose. A muscle twitched under his left eye.
“It’s only three o’clock,” I said. “Answer it.”
He unbent an elbow at the handset and got it to his ear. There was an obstruction in his throat and he cleared it out before saying, “Hello.”
I could hear the diaphragm rattling in the receiver. The unintelligible words were squeak-edged and feverish, like a wire recorder running backwards at high speed. The blood dropped out of George Richardson’s face and he spoke in a hoarse, urgent voice.
“Listen, Irene. Do as I say. Sit tight. Don’t call a soul. Say nothing. I’ll be right home. Understand? Sit tight.”
He hung up slowly, automatically, and lifted his eyes. They were stunned.
I said sharply, “What is it?”
His fist landed hard on the desk. “They’ve done it. They’ve taken Andy.”
“How?”
“Nursery school.” He swallowed painfully. “They claim I phoned and said I was sending my car and chauffeur. I haven’t got a chauffeur. The man picked him up an hour ago. When my wife got there, Andy was gone.” He surged upright. “I must go to her.”
“It’s time for the FBI,” I said.
“No.” His voice was flat and emphatic. “I’ll pay first. We’ll call the FBI after Andy comes home.”
“It’s your decision,” I said. “Only make sure you’re at the telephone by six o’clock. Which nursery school did Andy attend?”
He told me the name and gave me the address. He had a tight grip on the briefcase and was buttoning his coat when I left.
A spinster named Matilda Kane was the school supervisor. There was nothing wrong with her that twenty-five pounds, properly distributed, and the companionship of an enthusiastic male couldn’t cure. Irene Richardson had instructed her to say nothing about the incident, so she phoned the Richardson apartment for a green light before talking. Then she looked at me, her eyes gravely troubled, waiting.
“Did you see the man who called for Andy?”
“Yes. He wore a thin black mustache, horn-rimmed glasses, and a chauffeur’s cap.”
“And the car he was driving?”
“A Chrysler convertible, light green, the same car Mrs. Richardson usually drove. He must have stolen it.”
“Could you identify the man if you saw him again?”
“Yes, I — think so.”
“How about Andy? He must have known his father didn’t have a chauffeur. Wasn’t he reluctant to go along?”
“Andy is a very trusting child.”
“Intelligent?”
“No more so than other four-year-olds.”
I started to leave. “Thank you, Miss Kane.”
“Will you let me know what happens as soon as possible?”
“Of course. But don’t blame yourself for lack of omniscience. You had no way of knowing.”
She shook her head, looking helpless. “I had spoken to Mr. Richardson several times on the phone. The kidnapper must have been someone who knew him well. He did a wonderful job of imitating Mr. Richardson’s voice.”
“The whole operation was neatly planned.”
But was it? Was it really planned as neatly as it looked? There seemed to be a flaw in the caper, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The letter I’d read kept bothering me.
I scouted the neighborhood, trying to find someone who might have seen a light green Chrysler convertible, chauffeur-driven. But cars are a familiar commodity and it had gone unnoticed.
Shortly after six, I phoned George Richardson and got through to him at once. He sounded grim. “I had my call, Jordan. The kidnapper demands action. Holding Andy is too much of a problem. He wants the money tonight.”
“What are your instructions?”
“He told me to walk slowly through Riverside Park at three A.M., carrying the money in a paper parcel. I’m to use the outer path between 72nd and 86th Street. His accomplice has the area under surveillance now, watching for anything suspicious. He’ll keep his eye on me all the time. If nobody is staked out along the route, if I’m not being followed, if no cars are around, he’ll make contact. If anything goes haywire, his partner will take care of Andy and blow. If the plan runs smoothly, we can expect Andy to be released within the hour somewhere in Manhattan.” He paused while static crackled over the wire. “Well, Jordan, what do you think?”
“I think you’d better follow instructions to the letter.”
“Of course.” There was no doubt in his mind that it was the only course.
“In the meantime,” I told him, “I suggest that you stay at your apartment and wait for my call.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. There isn’t anything we can do, except sit tight and see what happens.”
“I agree. Andy’s safety is paramount.”
“How is your wife?”
“Frightened. She wants me to thank you for any help you may render.”
“I’ll do my best.”
After we broke the connection, I decided to go home. The next shift might run till dawn or later and I needed rest. I wanted to feel fresh and alert. But closing my eyes failed to erase the picture from my brain. The picture of a four-year-old boy, violently snatched out of safe and familiar surroundings, petrified with fear, held by ruthless men.
They must have evaluated risks and consequences. The enormity of their crime was clear to them. Could they really be trusted to return Andy safe? Andy, an intelligent lad who might some day be in a position to identify them. How simple it would be to eliminate this danger! How easy to wipe away their tracks by killing the boy!
I sat up and abandoned the sofa. I walked stiff-legged around the apartment, feeling impotent, angry with frustration. I thought of the FBI. They had the men, the facilities, the organization. I almost reached for the telephone, but swallowed the impulse, because the scales here were too delicately balanced. We were dealing with jittery and desperate men, their nerves honed to a fine edge, and a single misstep might tip the weights. Kidnapping, a Federal offense, is punishable by death. They had nothing more to lose. Anything might blow the cork, cause them to dump the boy and haul freight.
It was shortly after midnight when I presented myself at the Richardson apartment, on Beekman Place overlooking the East River. I found Irene Richardson to be a tall slender patrician woman with anguished eyes in a drawn face lacking color, fighting to keep herself under control. The muscles in her neck were pulled taut, like the strings of a badly tuned cello. She leaned heavily on her husband’s arm, not trusting her own voice. Then it came, in a broken appeal, pleading for help and assurance.
“Do you think Andy is safe?”
I caught a warning glint from the man at her side. An hysterical woman on our hands at this time would be a needless handicap.
“Yes,” I said.
“He must be so terribly frightened.”
“Children are very resilient, Mrs. Richardson. He’ll forget all this fast enough once he’s home safe.”
She closed her eyes as if in prayer. “Dear Lord, I hope so.”
She permitted her husband to lead her out of the room. He reappeared a moment later, his jaw set. “All right, Jordan,” he rumbled. “Let’s go.”
I shook my head. “It’s too early. If your apartment is being watched, it may make them suspicious.”
He nodded and began wearing out the rug, pacing restlessly, champing at the bit, a man driven to the limits of his endurance. He paused at a mirror-covered bar, poured a stiff brandy, and tossed it off, not offering me any. Because of the strain he was under, I forgave his lapse of manners. I would have refused anyway, since alcohol and emergencies don’t mix well.
A pack of cigarettes later, I glanced at my strap watch and said, “It’s almost time. I don’t think we should be seen leaving together. I’ll go out first. Follow me in about twenty minutes.”