“Well, there you are. It didn’t make any difference.”
“You’re right,” Hector said. “Then Helma’s question again came out of his mouth. But why thirty thousand?”
“What?”
“Why not twenty-five? Or forty? Or fifty?”
“You got some kind of theory, Mendoza?” the detective said.
“No, I was just curious.”
“The chief said he wanted us to think about the case and tell him any ideas we had, even if they’re out in left field. If you think there’s something funny about thirty thousand, tell him.”
“I will,” Hector Mendoza spoke thoughtfully.
And he did. “There was exactly thirty thousand, forty-three dollars and forty-one cents in the Caldwell account,” the chief said. “The kidnappers planned to clean them out.”
The chief lit a cigarette. “You’re the first officer to ask any questions about the amount,” he said. “Do you have some reason?”
“No, I was just curious.”
“Good! Keep being curious. That’s the only way we’re going to solve this case.”
“How,” Hector Mendoza asked, “did the kidnappers know they had that amount?”
The question coincided with the ringing of the chiefs phone. The chief talked for a long while to someone. While he talked Hector answered his own question. The kidnappers had asked for more but Caldwell told him he only had thirty thousand during the first of second phone call — before the police arrived.
When the chief was through on the phone he said, “You were saying something when the phone rang. What was it?”
“Oh, nothing, sir.”
“It wasn’t nothing. What was it?”
“Oh, just that it was a good thing he had the money.”
“Why?”
“Well, he got back his wife — and we got the kidnappers.”
“We didn’t need the money to get them. The paper you got together at the bank was all we needed. By the way, that was good work — what you did at the bank. If the kidnappers had been watching the bank — we know they weren’t — they still would not have known.” The chief lit another cigarette.
“Thank you, sir.”
“But did I answer your question about the ransom money? That phone call distracted me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re not holding anything back, are you?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
“Good! Keep thinking about the case. If there’s anything else about it that seems funny to you — no matter how wild it is — let’s talk about it. No conventional explanations seem to work.”
“Right, sir.” Hector Mendoza left the office of the Tucson Chief of Police.
He sat around detectives’ hall till noon, then went to lunch. On his way out Detective Lindblade invited him to lunch at the Downtown Deli. Hector said, “Thanks, but I’m supposed to meet a buddy.”
Hector wasn’t going to meet a buddy. He just wanted to get off by himself and think. He drove to South Tucson, to Mi Nidito’s, and ordered a hamburger and a glass of Coors. He was almost finished when the vice-president of Downtown Bank walked up to his table with three associates and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“How are you?” the vice-president said. “Men, I want you to meet Officer Mendoza. He’s the one I told you about who helped me get that fake money together so we could catch those kidnappers.”
Hector stood up and shook hands and forgot every name as soon as he heard it.
The vice-president and his associates sat down at Hector’s table. They ordered the Mexican specialties the restaurant was renowned for. They talked about the kidnapping, especially about the vice-president’s role in solving it. Hector listened politely, contributing occasionally to the conversation when it seemed necessary. He ordered his coffee, thinking he would have heard no more about the kidnapping if he had gone with Lindblade to the Deli and he would have saved on gas, too.
The vice-president was expounding on his role in the case when Hector, almost choking on his coffee, said, “What?”
The vice-president’s face wore the same expression it had when Hector had barged into his office on the day of the kidnapping. His only response was, “What?”
“What did you just say about the Caldwell account?” Hector asked.
“Why, I was just telling the guys about what a chance I took when I gave Mr. Caldwell the money.” The vice-president looked hurt as if Hector were in some way detracting from his glory.
“How were you taking a chance?”
“Well, if Mrs. Caldwell hadn’t signed the withdrawal slip later, the bank — that is, I — would have been in trouble.”
“Why?”
“Because the account was in her name only,” the vice-president said. He looked at his associates for some kind of support. One nodded. The other grinned foolishly. The third took a piece from the huge tostado that sat in the middle of the table.
Hector stood up. “Gentlemen,” he said, “It’s been a pleasure.” He shook the vice-president’s hand. He shook the hand of each associate, asking and remembering each name. In twenty minutes he was back in detectives’ hall.
He read every report on the Caldwell case. He went to the headquarters law library and read everything he could find on police searches and warrants for search. At four forty-five he went home.
After supper, Helma and Hector went to the movies. They saw Cabaret. They had a snack at Helsing’s and went home. Over a bottle of wine Helma expounded on how the film reflected pre-war Germany, according to what Helma’s mother had told her, and how it didn’t reflect pre-war Germany, according to what Helma’s mother had told her.
Hector tried unsuccessfully to lead the conversation around to the Caldwell kidnapping, but Helma wasn’t interested. The music was great and so was the cinematography. But did every nightclub in Germany before the war have to be something out of The Blue Angel? And couldn’t the film have been more conclusive? Hector gave up on the Caldwell case. Later they went to bed.
The next day, Saturday, Hector got up before Helma and drove to a hardware store on Sixth Avenue. He bought a BB gun.
The clerk said, “Will that be all?”
“No,” Hector said, “I’ll need some BB’s.”
“How many?”
“Oh, five should do it.” The clerk left and returned with five tubes of BB’s. He put the tubes on the counter.
“What’s this?” Hector said.
“Your BB’s.”
“I’m not trying to buy out the store. I just need five BB’s.”
“We only sell them by the tube,” the clerk said. “But there’s a hundred to the tube. And they’re only ten cents a tube.”
Hector took one tube and the BB gun and drove home. Next door, Norbert Hernandez was playing in front of his house.
“Hey, Norbert, ask your mother if you can go shoot some BB’s with me.”
Norbert ran to the back of his house and returned, saying, “She said okay.”
Hector and Norbert drove to the northern foothills section of the city and then up an arroyo that separated two rows of houses.
Hector put a rusty can on the bank of the arroyo, cocked the gun and handed it to Norbert. “See if you can hit it,” he said.
Norbert shot and missed. Hector cocked the gun and said, “Try again.”
Norbert shot and missed and put a BB through the window of a garage.
“Oh-oh!” Hector said. “I think we may have broken a window.” Hector went to the window and peered in, said, “We’ve broken it all right. I’d better see if we’ve done any other damage.” Hector entered the garage through an unlocked door. In a few minutes he came out.
“Well, we’ve done enough shooting, Norbert,” he said. “I think we had better make a phone call.” Hector put a dime in the pay telephone in front of a Circle K store and talked for a long time.