1972 - You're Dead Without Money (9 page)

‘Mr. Elliot . . . I’m so ashamed,’ she said, looking straight at Elliot. ‘It seemed so easy . . . we want money terribly badly. It was Vin’s idea. When he heard I’d met you, he said it would be easy to kidnap you and you’d pay to be freed. It didn’t sound bad the way Vin put it. He promised not to hurt you. As you are so rich, my father and I felt you wouldn’t miss the ransom and we could make a new life for ourselves. Now, of course, I see how wrong it was. Please forgive us.’

Elliot gaped at her.

‘Ransom? What were you going to ask?’

Cindy looked at Joey for guidance and Joey nodded.

‘Fifty thousand dollars. With all your money, Mr. Elliot . . . you wouldn’t have missed that, would you?’

Elliot burst out laughing. While Joey and Cindy stared at him and Vin glared savagely, Elliot laughed until he had to mop his eyes with his handkerchief.

‘What’s so funny about it?’ Cindy asked nervously.

‘Funny? It’s the best joke of the year! My poor, misguided people, I bet I’m as broke as you are. All I have in the world is my car, a suitcase of clothes and nine thousand dollars in cash - and the money doesn’t belong to me. I’m getting out of here before my creditors catch up with me. You certainly picked the wrong victim. What’s the matter with you three? Didn’t you ask around? Don’t you know you should never take anyone on face value?’

‘He’s bluffing,’ Vin said and made to get out of his chair.

Elliot dropped his hand on the gun.

‘I wouldn’t, pal,’ he said. ‘Even with a tin foot I can handle you.’ There was a look in his eyes that made Vin sink back in the chair.

‘You mean you really haven’t any money . . . you’re not rich?’ Cindy asked. ‘But the Rolls and that marvellous villa! You can’t expect us to believe that!’

‘The Rolls went back to the agent a few hours ago. The villa doesn’t belong to me. I’m on the run, baby. I’m washed up.’

‘Yeah? No one’s washed up with nine thousand dollars,’ Vin said.

‘How long will that last? When it’s gone . . . that’s it. I’ve no way of making a living. I’m through.’

‘But all that money . . . you could live on it for at least two years,’ Cindy said, thinking how little they managed to live on.

‘Lots of people could live on it for years, but not me,’ Elliot said. ‘I either keep my standards or I don’t want to go on living.’

There was a pause, then Joey, speaking for the first time, said, ‘I don’t think that’s right thinking, Mr. Elliot, if you’ll excuse me saying so. We live on two hundred dollars a week and we get by.’

‘I don’t want to get by,’ Elliot said. ‘I want to live. If you were so satisfied living on two hundred a week why stick your neck out on a kidnapping rap?’

Joey flinched.

‘I didn’t want to do it,’ he said earnestly. ‘I wouldn’t have done it, Mr. Elliot.’

‘He’s right,’ Cindy said. ‘Vin and I persuaded him. We want money! I’m sick of living like this! I’m sick of stealing every day. I want a big sum of money so I can enjoy myself and not go out dipping into people’s pockets.’

Elliot lifted his eyebrows.

‘Is that what you do?’

‘Yes! Daddy does the same! Every day! And all we get out of it is a mingy two hundred a week.’

‘And what does he do apart from waving guns at people?’ Elliot asked, nodding towards Vin.

‘That’s my business!’ Vin barked. ‘You keep your mouth shut, Cindy! You’re talking too much!’

‘He’s a burglar,’ Cindy said, ignoring Vin.

‘An interesting trio.’ Elliot smiled at them. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you. In my better days, I might have been tempted to give you fifty thousand, but you’ve arrived a little late.’ He got to his feet. ‘I must be on my way.’ He left the gun on the arm of the chair and moved to the door. ‘Take my tip . . . layoff the kidnapping racket. I don’t think you’re in that league.’

‘You’re right, Mr. Elliot,’ Joey said. He paused, hesitated, then blurted out, ‘You’re not planning to make trouble for us? I mean . . . the police?’

‘Of course not,’ Elliot said. ‘Who knows? In a little while the police may come looking for me.’ He had said this jokingly but the truth of it suddenly struck him. He realized with a sense of shock that he was no better than these three professional thieves. They stole in a small way, but he had been stealing in a big way. By walking out like this he was stealing from the bank and his creditors. The nine thousand dollars in his hip pocket was stolen. The clothes on his back and in his suitcase were stolen. Goddamn it, he thought. I’m a thief! I’m as dishonest as these three are! Then into his mind came the memory of Louis de Marney as he said, ‘
You have the opportunity of getting the stamps - how you get them is no business of ours - we will accept them from you, ask no questions and give you two hundred thousand
.’

Elliot studied the three as they sat looking at him. Maybe with their help, he could get hold of these stamps. Suppose he paid them fifty thousand? That would leave him with a hundred and fifty. With that kind of money he could really have a ball before he called it a day.

The idea caught fire in his mind.

‘If you three really want fifty thousand,’ he said, ‘how about earning it?’ He came back to his chair and sat down. ‘How would you like to do a job with me?’

Vin eyed him suspiciously.

‘What kind of job?’

‘In your line.’ Leaning forward, Elliot told them about the Russian stamps.

Four

A
s Louis de Marney was winding down the steel grille that protected the window of the gallery, he saw Elliot coming down the street from the parking lot. He nipped into Kendrick’s room to warn him.

Kendrick, who was preparing to go home, smiled his oily smile.

‘I was rather expecting him. Show him in, cheri, and stick around. I might just need you.’

As Louis returned to the gallery, Elliot opened the door and entered.

‘Why, Mr. Elliot! How nice!’ Louis gushed. ‘Did you want a little mot with Claude?’

‘Yeah,’ Elliot’s eyes were hard and his face tense. ‘He hasn’t gone yet?’

‘Just on the very point, but I know he’ll see you. You go right on ahead, Mr. Elliot.’

Elliot found Kendrick pouring himself a whisky.

‘My dear Don! What a nice surprise! Have some of this poison with me? It’s so bad to drink alone and Louis, the stupid dear, has given it up. All he thinks about is his figure.’

‘Thanks.’ Elliot closed the door, walked over to a chair and sat down.

Kendrick brought his drink, set it on a side table, then went behind his desk, folding his bulk into his chair.

‘What’s brought you here, cheri?’

Elliot lit a cigarette.

‘Tell me about these Russian stamps you’re interested in, Claude.’

‘If you can get them, Donny boy, I will . . .’

‘I know all that, Louis made it clear. Let’s have the dope about them and don’t, for God’s sake, call me Donny boy!’

‘So sorry . . . a slip of the tongue.’ Kendrick smirked. ‘Well . . . these stamps. They have an amusing history. About two years ago one of the Russian top shots - no names, of course, dear Don - thought he was entitled to have his face on a postage stamp. Let’s call him Mr. J. Well, at that time Mr. J. was powerful enough to persuade the merry gang to agree and the order went ahead to print the stamps. Mr. J. had a jealous enemy who suddenly and unexpectedly produced proof that Mr. J. wasn’t, after all, a loyal comrade but a thieving capitalist. The merry gang were horrified, stopped the print run of the stamps and ordered them all to be destroyed. It was inevitable, of course, that in the process Mr. J. also got himself destroyed. The merry gang realized that by stopping the print run of the stamps, the stamps already printed would be of tremendous value in the capitalist world. Fifteen thousand stamps had been printed. They were checked and eight were found to be missing. It was assumed that one of the printers had smuggled them out of the country for they turned up very briefly in Paris. A French stamp dealer approached a wealthy client of his, but before the client had time to make an offer, the French dealer was murdered and the stamps stolen. Since then, they have vanished but it is certain someone and not the Russians have them. A client of mine is ready to pay a substantial sum for them. For the past year he has made searching inquiries. Every big collector has been approached. They have, without exception, been frank about the approach, saying if they had the stamps they would accept the deal offered. My client is satisfied that they are being truthful. The one and only important philatelist who ignores my client is Larrimore. This seems to us to indicate that he has the stamps and won’t part at any price, but we could be wrong. He just might be bloody minded. As you are a friend of his, we think it’s possible for you to make certain he does have the stamps.’

‘All this fuss about eight stamps?’ Elliot said, staring at Kendrick. ‘And all the same stamps? Just how much is your client willing to pay for them?’

Kendrick removed his wig, looked inside it as if he expected to find something growing in there and then replaced it.

‘That we needn’t go into, dear Don. All that is necessary for you to know is what we are going to pay you.’

‘But why me? I’m an amateur. If your man is so keen to get the stamps why doesn’t he hire experts to break into Larrimore’s house and steal the stamps? Why me?’

Kendrick finished his whisky, blotted his mouth with a silk handkerchief and smiled.

‘My dear boy! Larrimore owns around 300,000 stamps. How could a burglar find the wanted stamps among all those? What you need to find out is how he classifies his stamps. In what case he keeps his Russian stamps and how to get at them quickly. Without this knowledge, it would take weeks to find them.’

Elliot considered this.

‘Yeah. Suppose I get near them? How do I know they’re the stamps you want?’

‘That is a good question.’ Kendrick opened a drawer in his desk, took from it a steel box, found a key and opened the box.

‘Here is a photostat of the stamp. It’s nothing to look at and as you will see it is easily identified.’ He passed the Photostat across the desk.

Elliot examined the stamp. As Kendrick had said it was nothing to look at: the head of a man with the face of a charging bull and CCCP in the right hand corner.

‘Well, okay . . . I’ll see what I can do,’ Elliot said, putting the photostat back on the desk.

‘You must be careful how you approach Larrimore,’ Kendrick said quietly. ‘He has already been offered a very large sum of money for the stamps and he has ignored the offer. If he has the stamps and if he becomes suspicious he might come under pressure, he could put the stamps in a bank vault. If he does that, then the operation will be sunk. So caution is the word.’

Elliot nodded.

‘This is really a shot in the dark,’ Kendrick went on. ‘Although we feel it is highly likely that Larrimore has the stamps, we don’t know for certain. As I have told you, my client has approached every likely collector and has drawn a blank, but there might just possibly be some little collector and not Larrimore who has the stamps. So, first, you must find out if Larrimore has them. If he has them, you must find out where he keeps them.’ Kendrick paused, then went on, ‘I’ve been thinking, dear Don. It might be wiser if you got me this information - that he has the stamps and where he keeps them - and for me to pass this information on to my client for him to take action himself. We would still pay you the two hundred thousand and you would run no risk. What do you think?’

Elliot relaxed a little.

The thought of breaking into Larrimore’s house, even with Vin to help him, had bothered him. If it was only information that Kendrick wanted, then the set-up looked much more reasonable.

‘I’ll go along with that. Okay, Claude, you leave this to me.’

Kendrick got to his feet.

‘I have to run, cheri. A dreadful cocktail party looms ahead but it is good for business. One must sacrifice oneself. If there is anything further I can do to be helpful, do ask. I can rely on you to be most careful?’

‘Sure . . . I’m in this for the money . . . same as you.’ Elliot got to his feet.

Kendrick waited until he heard Louis shut and lock the gallery door after Elliot, then he picked up the telephone receiver, dialled a number and waited. When the connection was made he said, ‘The Belvedere Hotel? Please connect me with Mr. Radnitz. This is Mr. Claude Kendrick calling.’

* * *

Barney broke off to blot his eyes with the back of his wrist.

‘These sausages, Mr. Campbell, have a kick like a mule, but they are good for the digestion. You have one.’

I said a mule and my digestion were things apart and I would rather not.

Barney shrugged his immense shoulders, rinsed his mouth with some beer, collected his thoughts which apparently had been disturbed by the last sausage and settled down to his story again.

‘Now, I bring upon the stage yet another character,’ he said. ‘Herman Radnitz.’ He paused and blew out his cheeks. ‘Radnitz comes to this City from time to time and rents all the year round the penthouse at this hotel, the Belvedere. Let me tell you the penthouse costs a lot of solid bread, but Radnitz is rich. I’ve seen him two or three times, and frankly, if I never saw him again, it wouldn’t put me off my beer. Let me give you a photo of him. Imagine a short, square-shaped man with hooded eyes that would shame a bullfrog and a thick, hooked nose. I am told he is one of the richest men in the world and to my thinking looks the meanest sonofabitch I’ve yet seen and that, mister, is saying a lot.

‘I’m told he is internationally known for his financial machinations, has power over Foreign Embassies, has fingers in any international deal worth more than five million dollars, is a power behind the Iron Curtain and is on first name terms with the political top shots throughout the world.

‘This is the man who wanted Mr. J.’s stamps. He has a vast organization of slaves who work for him and - so some people whisper - kill for him. He had instructed these people to find the stamps and after a year of systematic digging the gap had been narrowed to Larrimore.