‘That’s a serious crime, isn’t it?’
‘Sure. Kidnapping, huh?’ Lepski lifted his hat, scratched his head and replaced his hat. ‘Now listen, sonny, if you’re wasting my time, I could make it rough for you. Are you serious or are you trying to be smart?’
The fat boy regarded Lepski with bored eyes.
‘Do you want my statement or don’t you? I have to get home for dinner. If I’m late, my father moans. If there’s one thing I hate more than another it’s when my father moans.’
‘Okay. Sit down and tell me,’ Lepski said, pushing his hat further back. ‘Who was kidnapped, when and where?’
The fat boy looked around, pulled up a chair, settled his bulk on it and rested his chubby hands on his still more chubby thighs.
‘To save time, shouldn’t you get out a form, know who I am, where I live, and then take my statement?’
Lepski made a noise like a buzz-saw hitting a knot of wood.
‘My father makes noises like that,’ the fat boy said. ‘He has digestive problems.’
‘Yeah.’ Lepski produced a pad from his desk drawer. ‘Okay, sonny. What’s your name?’
‘Frederick Whitelaw, and I would be glad if you didn’t call me ‘Sonny’. My friends call me Fat-ma, but you’re not a friend.’
Lepski began to drum on his desk.
‘That’s right, Freddy Whitelaw, huh?’
‘Yes. My father is Hubert Whitelaw who owns the Whitelaw chain of self-service stores,’ the fat boy said complacently.
Lepski became attentive. Hubert Whitelaw was one of the more important citizens of Paradise City.
‘Yeah,’ he said, and wrote on his pad. ‘You live at Villa Verbena, on Ocean road… right?’
‘That’s where I live.’
Lepski wrote the address down.
‘Okay. What’s this about kidnapping.’
The fat boy stuck his forefinger up his right nostril, moved it around, but found nothing to interest him.
‘I am a bird-watcher, Mr Lepski.’
Lepski leered.
‘I’d have thought you were a bit young to start that.’
The fat boy sighed.
‘Feathered birds, Mr Lepski. The ones that fly. Not those who would interest you.’
A real smart little alec, Lepski thought, drumming his fingers on his desk.
‘So you’re a bird-watcher, huh?’
‘Yes. Every morning at seven, I climb a tree in our garden. I’ve built a hide up there, and I watch birds. I see all kinds of birds: mocking-birds, cardinals, painted buntings…’
‘Okay, okay,’ Lepski interrupted. ‘I have the photo. What’s this about kidnapping?’
‘This morning, at a few minutes to eight o’clock, I was in my hide and saw Mrs Sherman Jamison kidnapped.’
Lepski reacted as if he had been goosed by a red-hot iron.
‘Mrs Sherman Jamison?’ he bawled, half starting out of his chair.
The fat boy nodded complacently.
‘That’s right. They live across the road. Snobs. I’ve no time for them. They’re too rich.’
‘You saw Mrs Jamison kidnapped at eight o’clock this morning?’ Lepski said, speaking slowly and distinctly.
‘That’s correct.’
‘How do you know she was kidnapped? Now listen, Freddy, if this is your idea of a joke, you’ll be sorry.’
The fat boy stuck his forefinger up his left nostril and still found nothing to interest him.
‘I can’t do more than tell you, can I?’
Lepski’s mind began to race. Sherman Jamison’s wife kidnapped! Jesus! This would set Paradise City right back on its rich heels!
‘Okay, Freddy. So what happened?’
‘I was in my hide. Looking across the road, I saw a car pull up right outside the Jamisons’ gates. A man got out and lifted the hood as if the car had broken down. This interested me, so I watched.’ The fat boy regarded Lepski. ‘Are you getting all this down?’
‘Not yet,’ Lepski said, controlling his temper. ‘Keep going.’
The fat boy shrugged.
‘Okay. So I saw Mrs Jamison drive down to the gates. She always goes to church at this time. Because this other car was blocking the gates, she got out of her car and walked to the driver to ask him, I guess, to move his car out of the way. While they were talking, a little guy came out of the stalled car and caught Mrs Jamison around the throat. She collapsed. This little guy carried her to the stalled car, threw her in the back, and the two of them raced off. It took less than half a minute.’
‘Right,’ Lepski said. ‘The time, according to you, was before eight in the morning. Now here you are reporting this incident at 18.00. Ten hours after this happened.’
The fat boy nodded.
‘Yes. I was sitting for an important exam. I couldn’t get to you before. I spent all day in the exam room, then I had to walk to you.’
Lepski suppressed a snort.
‘Okay, Freddy. Exams are more important to you than a kidnapping, huh?’
‘They sure are. I have to look to my future.’
‘I get the point. So you saw two men kidnap Mrs Jamison. Tell me about these men.’
‘I was in my hide. It wasn’t easy to see much of them. It happened fast. One of them was tall and thin. The other was small and thin. Both were wearing big sun-hats so I couldn’t see their faces. I was looking down on them, but I did get the number of their car.’
‘That was smart of you,’ Lepski said. ‘What’s the number?’
‘PC 766880.’
‘Hold it a minute.’ Lepski snatched up the telephone. ‘Charlie?’
‘Who else?’ Tanner growled.
‘Trace car number PC 766880 fast!’
‘That number rings a bell. Hang on.’
Lepski drummed on his desk while he waited, then Tanner said, ‘That car was reported stolen early this morning.’
‘Who owns it?’
‘The Reverend Owen.’
‘Car been found?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Okay, Charlie, put out an emergency alert. We want this car found, and when it’s found it’s to be impounded for fingerprints. It could be a kidnap car. Okay?’
‘So at last we’re in business,’ Tanner said. ‘Leave it to me,’ and he hung up.
The fat boy was listening to all this and he nodded his approval.
‘You sure are the best detective on the force,’ he said. ‘Can I go now? I’ll be late for dinner.’
‘You’ll have to stay a while, Freddy. Do you want to call your parents?’
‘I guess I’d better.’
‘Okay. Now, listen, Freddy, if this is a kidnap job, don’t say a thing. Understand? Tell your dad you have met friends and you won’t be home.’
The fat boy frowned.
‘How about my dinner? I’m hungry.’
‘I’ll fix that,’ Lepski said, containing his impatience. ‘How about a nice juicy cheeseburger? I’ll tell someone to bring it to you.’
‘I’d rather have a double hamburger and plenty of onions.’
Lepski felt his blood pressure rise. He snatched up the telephone receiver.
‘Charlie! Send up a double hamburger with lots of onions and, for God’s sake, don’t make a thing of it!’ and he slammed down the receiver.
While the fat boy telephoned his home and explained he wouldn’t be back for dinner, Lepski listened, ready to snatch the receiver from him if he said the wrong thing, but the fat boy’s performance was convincing. As he hung up, he said, a little sadly, ‘My ma doesn’t really care. My pa cares less.’
‘That’s the way the cookie crumbles, Freddy,’ Lepski said, suddenly sorry for this fat boy. ‘Now, let’s get down to business.’
Lepski listened to the boy’s description of the two kidnappers: one wearing a white suit, the other wearing a T-shirt and dark-green slacks. More than that he couldn’t say.
Mrs Sherman Jamison, the wife of the richest and most powerful man in the city, kidnapped! The FBI would have to be notified, but first Chief of Police Terrell who was probably in his garden, tending his roses. Then Beigler must be notified. He regarded the fat boy uneasily. If this kid was conning him! But he didn’t think so.