“Where will you be?”
“At the midway mark. I’ll take up a position at West End and 79th, the northeast corner. Don’t come near me until it’s all over. Got that straight?”
“Yes.”
I said, “Good luck,” and left him chewing the inside of his cheek.
At three A.M., in that neighborhood, the streets were deserted. Overhead, the moon hung like an open porthole in the sky. Against it, the solid mass of buildings was a black silhouette, stretching endlessly. Each intersection was an island bathed in lemon-yellow light, with colored overtones from the traffic signals. An occasional car hissed past, tires humming.
A forgotten cigarette smoked itself between my lips. The luminous hands on my watch continued their slow arc. It was four A.M. and no sign yet of George Richardson.
I pictured him walking slowly and painfully along the outer path of Riverside Park, eyes piercing the darkness, nerves attuned to any interruption, while a boy’s life hung in the balance.
A car roared through the night. Twin headlamps came hurtling up the street. Tires screamed as the brakes were suddenly clamped near where I stood and a taxi ground to a jolting halt in front of me. The door opened and George Richardson beckoned.
I climbed in and settled beside him. He was wound up tighter than a dollar watch.
“Where to, Mac?” the driver said.
“Head downtown.” Richardson’s fingers curled around my arm. His eyes were burning and he spoke in a hoarse, barely controlled whisper. “The man came. He picked me up near 81st Street.”
“Was he alone?”
“I think so, yes. He pulled alongside in a car and called my name. I went over and he said, ‘Give me the package.’ I handed it to him and he stepped on the gas.” The fingers tightened on my sleeve, nails digging in. “I got his license number, Jordan. 6Y 46–07. Can you find out who he is?”
“Yes, when the license bureau opens, providing the car isn’t stolen.”
“We must get Andy back first.”
“That goes without saying.”
“What do we do now?”
“We wait and see if they keep their promise.”
He shook his head. “On the telephone, the man said they’d let Andy go somewhere in Manhattan. How do we know where to find him?”
“We don’t. Most probably some cop will pick the boy up and call your apartment.”
“Then let’s go back.” He leaned forward and gave the driver his address.
Irene Richardson was waiting for us. She got the answer from her husband’s eyes, took a shuddering breath, and went to prepare a pot of coffee. We commenced the vigil in silence. George sat with his eyes straight ahead, fixed and unblinking. The woman kept working her fingers together, jumping nervously at every sound, watching the telephone, as if willing it to ring.
By five-thirty the clutch was slipping. Suddenly she broke training and was on her feet, chin out of control. “I... I can’t stand it... Why don’t they call? Where is he? Oh, Andy... Andy—”
Her husband got her down on the sofa again, stroking her hands.
I said, “These things take time, Mrs. Richardson.”
But the delay bothered me. I didn’t like it. There was no reason for it, unless the kidnappers had decided on a double-cross. The same thought must have entered Richardson’s mind, for he threw me an angry look, bleak and cold.
Another hour and dawn crept through the window in a soiled gray smudge. Traffic noises began rumbling in the street below. The woman had her face in her hands now, sobbing quietly, shoulders convulsed.
At nine-thirty I went to the telephone and put a call through to a man I knew in the license bureau. I gave him the number and waited while he checked. He got the information and I thanked him.
George Richardson was beside me, gripping my sleeve. “Well?”
“A man named Steve Ballou owns the car. He lives on the west side, near Tenth Avenue. I don’t know whether the car was stolen or not.”
“Can you find out?”
“Yes.” I dialed Homicide West and got through to Detective-Lieutenant John Nola.
“Well, counselor,” he said, genuinely pleased. “A pleasure. Haven’t heard from you in several months. What cooks on the legal front?”
“The usual,” I said. “Will you do me a favor, John?”
“What?”
“I’d like to know if a certain car was stolen.”
“That’s not my department, but I’ll find out for you. Give me the registration number.”
“6Y 46–07.”
It didn’t take long and a moment later his voice was back in my ear. “Got it, counselor. No larceny reported.”
“One thing more, Lieutenant. Will you have someone check the files on a character named Steve Ballou? I’d like to know if he has a record.”
“Can do. Will call you back.”
George Richardson literally bit his fingernails in the interim. When the phone rang, he grasped the handset and said hoarsely, “Yes?” His face fell and he handed me the instrument.
It was Nola. “Here it is, Scott. Steve Ballou, four times arrested, one conviction, served a term at Sing Sing, released three years ago.”
“Known associates?” I asked.
“Seems to be a lone operator. His cellmate up the river was Neil Corbin. They roomed together for a brief time after Corbin was paroled. And that’s about it.”
“Thank you, John.”
“Good luck, counselor.” He broke the connection.
George Richardson said, “Did he — what is it, man? For heaven’s sake, what’s wrong?”
“A lead,” I said. “Ballou and Neil Corbin are friends.”
“Corbin?” His gaping eyes were bright with conjecture.
“Your first wife’s boy friend. The man who brought her home the night she was killed.”
“He took Andy?”
“One of them did.”
A nerve bulged and twitched in his temple. He swung decisively on his heel and stalked from the room. He came back jamming a loaded clip into the heel of an automatic. He handled it well, with a neat economy of motion.
“Took this from a dead German colonel,” he said. “Know how to use it, too.”
“Oh, no,” his wife wailed, “please, George...”
He ignored her. “All right, Jordan, let’s roll.”
“We ought to have some help on this.”
“No time for explanations. Let’s go.”
I followed him down and we took a cab to Ballou’s address. It was an ancient brownstone in a seedy neighborhood. Ballou’s apartment was on the third floor.
“All right,” George said, “here’s the program.” His voice was incisive, no longer irresolute, and I sensed a subtle change in our relationship. He was leading now, the bloodhound on a scent. “You stand back and to one side, Jordan. I’ll ring the bell. If he turns the latch, hit the door hard. We’ll take these goons by surprise.”
I nodded and we went up. There was a tiny peephole in Ballou’s door. I had a feeling the place was deserted, but I braced myself nevertheless. Richardson stood close and rang the bell. There was a long pause. No sound from within, no sound at all.
His finger depressed the button again. Then I heard the latch slide back. The door started to open and I hit it hard. I caught it squarely with my shoulder, almost tearing the hinges off. It struck the man behind it, slamming him back. He caught his balance with a frantic shuffle, eyes staring wildly in his head and I recognized him then, Neil Corbin. His angular face was white and desperate. Panic flooded his eyes.
I saw his hand flash under his lapel and heard Richardson’s shout, “Duck, Jordan, duck!”
But I wasn’t fast enough and the gun jumped into Corbin’s hand. It was a Smith & Wesson, caliber .38, and the gaping barrel looked like an open doorway to hell. I threw myself flat as it thundered and my ears were ringing instantly from the concussion.