“Uh-uh.”
“Why not? I thought . . .”
“The kid’s gone, that’s enough. Seeing the room won’t do any good. I don’t have the equipment to fool around with clues, York. Fingerprints and stuff are for technical men. I deal with motives and people.”
“But the motive . . .”
I shrugged. “Money, probably. That’s what it usually is. Let’s start at the beginning first.” I indicated the chair and York settled back. I drew up closer to him. “When did you discover him to be missing?”
“Yesterday morning. At eight o’clock, his regular rising hour, Miss Malcom, his governess, went into his room. He was not in bed. She looked for him throughout the house, then told me he could not be found. With the aid of the gardener and Parks we searched the grounds. He was not there.”
“I see. What about the gatekeeper?”
“Henry saw nothing, heard nothing.”
“Then you called the police, I suppose?” He nodded. “Why did you think he was kidnapped?”
York gave an involuntary start. “But what other reason could account for his disappearance?”
I leaned forward in my seat. “According to all I’ve ever read about your son, Mr. York, he is the most brilliant thing this side of heaven. Wouldn’t a young genius be inclined to be highly strung?”
He gripped the arms of the chair until the veins stood out on the back of his hands. The fire was in his eyes again. “If you are referring to his mental health, you are mistaken. Ruston was in excellent spirits as he has been all his life. Besides being his father and a scientist, I am also a doctor.”
It was easy to see that he didn’t want any doubts cast upon the mind of one he had conditioned so carefully so long. I let it go for the time being.
“Okay, describe him to me. Everything. I have to start somewhere.”
“Yes. He is fourteen. In appearance he is quite like other boys. By appearance I mean expressions, manners and attitudes. He is five feet one inch tall, light brown hair, ruddy complexion. He weighs one hundred twelve pounds stripped. Eyes, brown, slight scar high on the left side of his forehead as the result of a fall when he was younger.”
“Got a picture of him?” The scientist nodded, reached inside his jacket pocket and came out with a snapshot. I took it. The boy was evidently standing in the yard, hands behind his back in a typically shy-youth manner. He was a good-looking kid at that. A slight smile played around his mouth and he seemed to be pretty self-conscious. He had on shorts and a dark sweater. Romping in the background was a spotted spaniel.
“Mind if I keep it?” I asked.
York waved his hand. “Not at all. If you want them, there are others.”
When I pocketed the snap I lit another cigarette. “Who else is in the house? Give me all the servants, where they sleep, anyone who has been here recently. Friends, enemies, people you work with.”
“Of course.” He cleared his throat and listed the household. “Besides myself, there is Miss Malcom, Parks, Henry, two cooks, two maids and Harvey. Miss Grange works for me as a laboratory assistant, but lives at home in town. As for friends, I have few left that I ever see since I stopped teaching at the university. No enemies I can think of. I believe the only ones who have been inside the gate the past few weeks were tradesmen from town. That is,” he indicated the gang in the room with a thumb, “outside these, my closest relatives. They are here and gone constantly.”
“You are quite wealthy?” The question was unnecessary, but I made my point.
York cast a quick look about him, then a grimace that was half disgust passed over him. “Yes, but my health is still good.”
I let the ghouls hear it. “Too bad for them.”
“The servants all sleep in the north wing. Miss Malcom has a room adjoining Ruston’s and connected to it. I occupy a combination study and bedroom at the front of the house.
“I work with no one and for no one. The nature of my work you must be familiar with; it is that of giving my son a mind capable of greater thought and intelligence than is normally found. He may be a genius to you and others, but to me he is merely one who makes full use of his mind. Naturally, my methods are closely guarded secrets. Miss Grange shares them with me, but I trust her completely. She is as devoted to my son as I am. Since the death of my wife when the child was born, she has aided me in every way. I think that is all?”
“Yeah, I guess that’ll do.”
“May I ask how you will proceed?”
“Sure. Until we get a sign from whoever kidnapped your son I’m going to sit tight. The ones that grabbed the kid must think they know what they’re doing, otherwise they wouldn’t pick someone like your boy who is always in the public eye. If you wanted to you could have every cop in the state beating the bushes. I take it there was no note . . .”
“None at all.”
“. . . so they’re playing it close to see what you’ll do. Call the cops and they’re liable to take a powder. Hold off a bit and they will contact you. Then I’ll go to work . . . that is if it’s really a snatch.”
He bit into his lip and gave me another of those fierce looks. “You say that as though you don’t think he was kidnapped.”
“I say that because I don’t know he was kidnapped. It could be anything. I’ll tell you better when I see a ransom note.”
York didn’t get a chance to answer, for at that moment the butler reappeared, and between him and the luscious redhead they supported a bloody, limp figure. “It’s Parks, sir. Miss Malcom and I found him outside the door!”
We ran to him together. York gasped when he saw Parks’ face then sent the butler scurrying off for some hot water and bandages. Most of the gore had been wiped off, but the swellings were as large as ever. The desk sergeant had done as I told him, the hour wasn’t up yet, but somebody was still going to pay for this. I carried Billy to a chair and sat him down gently.
I stepped back and let York go to work when the butler returned with a first-aid kit. It was the first good chance I had to give Miss Malcom the once-over all the way from a beautiful set of legs through a lot of natural curves to an extraordinarily pretty face. Miss Malcom they called her.
I call her Roxy Coulter. She used to be a strip artist in the flesh circuit of New York and Miami.
Chapter 2
But Roxy had missed her profession. Hollywood should have had her. Maybe she didn’t remember Atlantic City or that New Year’s Eve party in Charlie Drew’s apartment. If she did she held a dandy deadpan and all I got in return for my stare was one of those go ahead, peek, but don’t touch looks.
A peek was all I got, because Billy came around with a groan and made an effort to sit up. York put his hand against his chest and forced him down again. “You’ll have to be quiet,” he cautioned him in a professional tone.
“My face,” his eyes rolled in his head, “jeez, what happened to my face?”
I knelt beside him and turned over the cold compress on his forehead. His eyes gleamed when he recognized me. “Hello, Mike. What happened?”
“Hi, Billy. They beat up on you. Feel any better?”
“I feel awful. Oh, that bastard. If only I was bigger, Mike . . . damn, why couldn’t I be big like you? That dirty . . .”