“Treffpunkt Las Vegas,” she said. “By Erle Stanley Gardner.”
“What’s it called on this side of the Atlantic?” ‘
“Las Vegas Rendezvouz, I guess. Did you ever read it?”
“No, but I think I saw it on TV. What’s for dinner?”
“I haven’t decided. But I won’t start it for another hour. What would you like?”
“I don’t care. Have we got any beer?”
“You drank the last can last night.”
“I’m going to go out and get some.”
“Come right back. I got some ideas about how the kidnappers took the money, and I want to tell you while they’re fresh in my mind.”
Hector Mendoza walked the two blocks to the Ace High Bar, grumbling. He loved his wife, but sometimes she really bugged him. She had a thing about detective stories. She read one or two mystery novels a month and subscribed to Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine. In Germany, where they met, it amused him.
She knew a good deal about U.S. cities from reading Rex Stout, Brett Halliday, Erle Stanley Gardner and others, and her gangster slang was quite good. She read the books in. French, German or English — whichever language they were available in and, when she found one she really liked, she read it in all three languages. On many of their dates he took her to see detective movies, and on their honeymoon in London they saw Agatha Cristie’s Mousetrap twice.
When his enlistment was up, they settled in Tucson, where he had spent most of his life. He had planned to return to his old job working for his father, who was a construction contractor, but she talked him into taking the civil service patrolman’s test. He passed the test and got the job, and in her mind he was on the first step of a career ladder that led to the ultimate job. His next step would be police sergeant, after that detective, then head of detectives, then chief of police. Finally could come the job — private detective!
Mendoza didn’t mind discussing detective stories with her. He read many of them to please her although he preferred non-fiction about the Southwest. He didn’t mind discussing police work with her, cluing her in on the workings of a metropolitan police force. But when she started talking about his work in terms of a detective story, then he minded it.
“Detective fiction,” he once told her, “has as much to do with law enforcement as Zane Grey has to do with what really happened here in the Southwest!”
At the Ace High, a friend was having a draft beer. Mendoza joined him in a beer, then in a few games of eight-ball. When he returned with a six pack, dinner was almost ready. Mrs. Mendoza was angry. “Er kommt gelaufen, geritten!”
“Aw, Helma, knock it off. You I sometimes run into an old buddy at the Ace High. Besides, supper isn’t ready yet.”
Helma Mendoza said nothing.
“Well, I’m going to have a beer. Do you want one?”
Helma said nothing.
“What’s on TV?”
Nothing.
“Okay, then. How did the kidnappers take the money?” Hector Mendoza decided to open lines of communication.
“Well, the kidnapper who was to pick up the ransom had a package addressed to himself in care of General Delivery in some town where he planned to be. He took the money out of the bag, put it in the package and dropped it in a mailbox. There’s one a block away from the school. I called the post office today.” Helma’s eyes were shining, and her face was flushed.
Mendoza decided to humor her. “How could he get it wrapped so fast? And get it weighed? And get the right postage on it? You know we nailed them both at the motel a short time after Koertz and Mr. Caldwell dropped the money off. And he had to drive all the way to the motel.”
“Let’s take them one at a time, Hector,” Helma said, beaming. “He had the package completely wrapped except for one end. As soon as he had the money, he put it in and sealed the end with a big piece of masking tape. How did he know how big the package would be? He did what you and the bank clerks did. He cut pieces of paper up, put them together and got a package to fit them.
“How did he know how much the package would weigh? Do you know that ink blotter we once got from the bank — the one that told you your height or weight in dollar bills? He looked on a chart like it and got the right weight. Then he found the correct postage — any almanac would tell you that. He bought the stamps a day, a week, a month before. He was ready.
“When he told Caldwell to get the money together he insisted on tens and twenties. He had it figured. The size and weight even determined the amount of the ransom. Otherwise, why didn’t he ask for more? Ask yourself why the amount was thirty thousand.” Helma rested her case.
“I can’t really argue with your details,” Hector said hoping for a truce and also getting hungry. “As you’ve described it, a guy could mail thirty thousand in a minute or so. But look at the other side of it. We’ve got them. Whatever happened to the money doesn’t change that. We’ve got fingerprints on the ransom note, on the telephones, on the Caldwell mailbox. We’ve got an eyewitness identification — Mrs. Caldwell. We’ve even got voiceprints.”
“Voiceprints aren’t admissible evidence,” Helma said.
“I know that,” Hector said. “But with everything else, they convince the Federal Attorney he’s got the right men. He doesn’t need the money to get a conviction. Knowing he’s got the right men, he’s going to push as hard as he can. Returning the money could only help the kidnappers get a lighter sentence. And they wouldn’t have to incriminate themselves. Any one of the reporters would be glad to bring in the money for the headlines — and claim the right to protect his sources. No, Honey, the kidnappers didn’t get the money.”
“Then you’re saying the police took the money — or some creepy peeping Tom!”
“I didn’t say that,” he replied
“There’s no other possibility.”
“Not necessarily.”
“That’s what you said this morning.”
“That’s what I’m saying tonight.”
“Then what are the other possibilities?”
“That’s for you to come up with, sweetheart.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because, as a reader of detective stories, you know all the weird solutions to all the baffling problems. I’m just a patrolman, grade one. I don’t believe the kidnappers got the money. The only cops who could have taken the money are the obvious suspects. I know them well enough to know they aren’t that stupid. An unknown person coming on the money? Well, I just can’t accept that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know— But somehow it doesn’t fit.”
“Is that all?”
“No, I’ve got two other things to say. Let’s eat — and let’s talk about something else!”
They ate. The meal was wiener schnitzel with spaghetti. On a breadboard were diagonal slices of french bread. In the center of the able was a bottle of cheap but good chianti. A vinegar and oil salad had preceded everything. Hector ate with gusto. He couldn’t have had a better meal at Maxim’s and he told Helma so. She thanked him and she knew he was right.
The next day in detectives’ hall Hector Mendoza was discussing the case with Detective Lindblade. Helma’s question came to his mind and before he could check it, it came out of his lips. “Why was the amount 30,000?”
“Well,” Lindblade said, “I guess the kidnappers must have thought that anybody who could afford a one hundred thousand dollar house must have at least thirty thousand in the bank.”
“Did he have thirty thousand dollars in the bank?”
“Why ask me? You were the one at the bank.”
“I didn’t care what he had. If he had only ten cents, I still would have got the fake stuff ready.”