‘Three hundred, Mr Drysdale,’ the fat boy said firmly as he piled the French fried onto his plate. ‘I’ll tell you this. It is to do with Mr Sherman Jamison.’
Drysdale reacted as if he had been stung by a wasp.
‘Mr Jamison?’
‘That’s right.’ The fat boy cut off a bit of chicken, smothered it in curry sauce and conveyed it to his mouth. He nodded his approval. ‘This is good.’
‘What about Mr Jamison?’ Drysdale asked, trying to sound casual.
‘Well, not exactly him, but Mrs Jamison.’
‘You went to the Chief of Police and told him about this, Freddy?’
‘That’s right. I felt I should. I was reporting a major crime.’
Drysdale began to breathe heavily.
‘What major crime?’
The fat boy attacked the pile of French fried.
‘It’s a secret. The Chief told me to keep my mouth shut, but for three hundred dollars my mouth need not remain shut.’
Drysdale didn’t hesitate. After all, this wasn’t his money. His editor expected him to spend money to get news. He took out his wallet and produced three one-hundred-dollar bills which he folded.
‘So, Freddy, tell me the secret.’
The fat boy eyed the money, then attacked another drumstick.
‘Not until I have the money in my pocket,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘My old man told me always to get the money first. My old man is smart.’
‘Look, Freddy, if you’re conning me…’
‘Aw, forget it! I’ll tell you something, Mr Drysdale. I’m fat and look stupid, but I ain’t! I could get a thousand dollars just by getting on the phone and talking to the Washington Post, but I don’t want to be bothered. Do you want to do a deal?’
Drysdale pushed the folded bills across the table. The fat boy snapped them up and stowed them away in his pocket.
‘What about Mrs Jamison?’ Drysdale demanded.
‘Let me finish this first. My old man says it’s rude to talk with one’s mouth full,’ the fat boy said as he began to gnaw at the chicken leg. ‘This is good.’
Drysdale contained his impatience with an effort, but he felt his blood pressure rising. He sat back, trying to keep calm.
Finally the boy finished his meal and released a sigh of content.
‘Man! That was good!’ he exclaimed.
The waitress arrived bringing a plate containing six grilled sardines on two rounds of toast and slapped the plate before Drysdale.
‘Is that all you’re going to eat?’ the fat boy asked.
‘Never mind, Freddy, tell me the secret,’ Drysdale snarled.
The fat boy leaned forward and, in a whisper, told Drysdale what he had told Chief of Police Terrell.
For a brief moment, Drysdale went into shock. The wife of Sherman Jamison kidnapped! This was the biggest news, the biggest scoop that had ever dropped into his lap! This kid made sense, but he must check out his story. Before going into action, he must talk to Terrell!
Shoving back his chair, Drysdale blundered to his feet. He paused only long enough to pay for his untouched meal, then scrambled into his car and headed for Police headquarters.
The fat boy shrugged. Then he regarded the sardines. Pity to waste food, he thought. Pushing aside his empty plate, he reached forward to pick up the plate of sardines and began to eat contentedly.
This had been a rewarding evening, he thought.
Chief of Police Terrell replaced the telephone receiver and looked first at Beigler, then at Lepski. He grimaced.
‘Mr Jamison confirms that his wife has been kidnapped,’ he said, ‘and in very forceful language told me to keep out of it. He’s had the usual threat not to contact the police.’
‘Did he say how much the ransom is to be?’ Beigler asked.
‘No. Naturally, he wants his wife back alive, and a man of his wealth wouldn’t give a damn how much he has to pay.’ Terrell thought for a long moment. ‘Jamison carries a lot of clout. I think it would be unwise for us to start anything, but we must alert the FBI.’ He looked at Beigler. ‘Will you contact Howard Jackson and put him in the photo? Tell him we’re doing nothing for the moment, but will want his help once Mrs Jamison is returned safely.’
Beigler nodded, got to his feet and hurried from Terrell’s office to his own desk.
‘Okay, Tom,’ Terrell said. ‘You may as well get off home. I don’t think anything will develop for tonight.’
‘You staying, Chief?’ Lepski asked.
‘I guess so.’
‘Right. I’ll stick around also.’
Lepski left the office and sat at his desk. He remembered Carroll. Snatching up the telephone, he asked Charlie Tanner how Carroll had reacted.
Tanner gave a whimpering moan.
‘I swear to God, Tom, I’m never going to relay messages for you again! I’m still trying to recover.’
‘Thanks, Charlie,’ Lepski said with a crafty grin. ‘You’re a real pal,’ and he hung up.
Ten minutes later, the telephone bell sounded on Terrell’s desk.
‘Charlie here, Chief,’ Tanner said. ‘I have Syd Drysdale asking for you.’
Terrell grimaced. He knew Drysdale only too well.
‘What’s he want?’
‘To see you, Chief. He says it’s an emergency.’
Terrell stiffened. Was it possible that Drysdale had got wind of the kidnapping?
‘Okay, send him up.’
Breathing heavily, Drysdale came into Terrell’s office.
‘Stairs don’t agree with me,’ he gasped. ‘I guess I eat too much.’ He slumped into a chair by Terrell’s desk. ‘How are you, Chief? You are working late.’
Terrell regarded him, his face expressionless.
‘I’ve got a work load. What is it, Syd?’
‘I understand that Mrs Sherman Jamison was kidnapped this morning,’ Drysdale said with his oily smile.
So that fat little creep had shot off his mouth! Terrell thought. He knew it would be a waste of time to fence with a man of Drysdale’s experience.
‘That’s correct, Syd. Jamison has had a ransom note. The usual death threat if he contacts the police. He has told me in no uncertain terms to keep out of it. So I will ask you also to keep out of it.’
Drysdale nodded.
‘Yeah. Jamison carries too much clout. I don’t want to drop in the shit with him. When this breaks, Chief, I want your promise that I get the exclusive scoop. I also want to be kept au fait with how you are handling it. I take it Jackson of the FBI will be brought into this when Mrs Jamison is returned.’
‘Of course. Now, Syd, I can’t make any promises,’ Terrell said. ‘As soon as the news breaks, the press of the world will jump on the band-wagon.’
Drysdale scratched his fat nose.
‘I’ll give you a quid pro quo. You hold off the wolf-pack until I file my story, and I’ll give you a lead to who the kidnapper is.’
Terrell stared at him.
‘You know who the kidnapper is?’
‘I don’t know, but I can make a very close and sound guess. I just want your promise to get me the exclusive. After all, what have you got to work on? Suppose Jamison pays the ransom? Suppose he gets his wife back? The kidnapper will vanish. You have no lead to him, but I am pretty sure I have.’
Terrell hesitated. No threats of withholding evidence would bother Drysdale.
‘Okay, Syd, you get your exclusive. Who do you think pulled the kidnapping?’
‘Word of honour?’ Drysdale asked, his little eyes probing.
‘You’ll get your exclusive. Now tell me!’
Drysdale beamed. He leaned forward and said quietly, ‘I’m willing to bet my Sunday lunch that the man who fixed the kidnapping is Lucky Lucan.’
8
Kling strode into his cabin at the Star Motel, slamming and locking the door behind him.