Ransom Game (19 page)

Pete shook his bead silently.

“Chris,” I asked, getting the feeling that the party was almost ready to break up. “You ever hear of a private operator named Handler?” Savas sneered and exchanged a short look with Pete.

“Luke Handler? How did he get his feet into this barrel of cement?”

“He's snooping for Ashland. What do you know about him?”

“He used to get paid by the Hamilton police force. A big guy, quick with the muscle. Didn't like that part of the police manual that said he was essentially a peace officer. Liked to cut up a lot. He quit and went private, working out of Hamilton, He put his neck in a sling when he broke into a lawyer's office to see what kind of case was being prepared against his client. A judge called ‘foul' on that and the last I heard he was suspended. If he's snooping without a licence it better be as a friend of the family.”

“He's a lefty, Benny. If he takes a poke at you, watch his left hand,” said Pete. “A better tip is not to get involved.” I nodded thanks to both of them grimly. That's all I needed in this case, a little sadism and brutality.

We all squeaked our chairs away from the table at precisely the same moment, like we'd rehearsed it that way. I muttered a syllable or three by way of thanks at Savas, who waved it away with his big hand. “The guy that runs this place is a cousin of a cousin of mine.” We were sent off into the street with a Greek benediction, and the three of us parted on Academy Street. Pete shouted after me that I could pick up my car at the police garage. I'd have to pay for the window they fixed, but I could collect most of that on my insurance. Before they were out of hearing, I thought I heard Savas tell Pete Staziak, “The peeper's okay.” It was nice to hear. Nice to know I hadn't wasted my days working the divorce grind, getting rained on and sworn at, and generally feeling like I was looking at the world through orange peels and egg shells. I shouted after them not to fix too many tickets before knocking off for the day. I wondered: would my mother prefer me to be a cop in uniform, or just one of those people they wouldn't give one to.

I paid an arm and a leg to get my car away from the mechanic at the police garage, and signed the papers that would put me back on the road again. As soon as I got back to the office, I checked my calls. There were three from Jennifer Bryant, all from different numbers. Before I got a chance to try any of them, the phone rang and it was Pete Staziak.

“Well, to what do I owe this?”

“Benny, Savas and I feel crummy about something, and we decided on the way back to tell you about it after all.”

“You've got Johnny Rosa locked up in the drunk tank?”

“No, but we do have an apple off the same tree. We found out that Eddie Milano drinks nothing but a certain kind of booze. It's a calling card with him.”

“Crown Royal, right?”

“You son of a bitch,” Pete sputtered, “I'll bet you knew it all the time!”

TWENTY-TWO

I tried all of the numbers that Jennifer Bryant left in reverse order and got nowhere. I wondered what was so important. I hadn't exactly covered myself with glory on Knudsen's behalf. He'd been gone for about thirty-six hours and I hadn't done anything except tell the girl to keep her chin up and babble to Savas about the Mounties. Once again, I put both Knudsen and his girl out of my mind. I phoned the Warren place. I was getting used to the tender-flaky upper-crust.

“Hello? The Jarman residence.”

“Helen?”

“Benny. I hoped you'd phone. Are you all right? Did you find out who shot at us last night?” I was glad to hear her, and she seemed to be having a good time too.

“I don't have anything now, but I might have later in the day. I'll call. Promise. Meanwhile, I need to talk to your boss. Is she taking calls?”

“No, but I'll put you through.” There was a dead sound as I went on hold.

“Mr. Cooperman?” It was Gloria Jarman. I heard Helen on the extension as well.

“Yes, Mrs. Jarman. I wanted to know whether noon came and went without incident.”

“I don't understand.”

“You said the message from Johnny Rosa talked about noon tomorrow. Well, noon's long past. Nothing dire going on?”

“Nothing remotely dire, Mr. Cooperman. How nice of you to call.”

“I was wondering whether you might have figured out the place that Rosa meant? A place known to you and to no one else?” There was a middle-sized pause at her end.

“I'm afraid not,” she said at last. “I've been racking my brain but nothing's jelled. I'm sorry.”

“Remember, Mrs. Jarman, when you were telling me about growing up. Something in what you said about how you, Russ and your grandfather were often at odds with the others in the family. You spoke of a place where you leaned to smoke cornsilk cigarettes and your grandfather kept a store of old Scotch.”

“Pop's hole! I never thought of that. He did say ‘hole.' But no, it couldn't be there. It's impossible.”

“Why?”

“Well, it's family; it's at the farm. It's part of a secret that nobody knows about but me. Both Pop and Russ are dead. I've never told anyone where it is. I haven't been there since well before Pop died.”

“Think a minute. Could that be the place?” I held my breath, I even muttered a prayer.

“Mr. Cooperman. Pop's hole
could
be the place. But I can see no reason why it
should
be. How would Rosa know about it? The whole thing frightens me more than that phone call. What does it mean?”

“Let me untangle that. As soon as I can tell one end from the other, I'll let you in on it. What you can do is tell me more about Pop's hole. Where is it for a start?”

“It's on Gillingham Creek, Swayze Township, third line. I think the sign's still in Uncle Henry's name. We never got around to having it changed. It's about halfway between Effingham and St. John's.”

“I'll find it. Now the details.”

“I told you about Pop. He was an alcoholic. He tried all the cures. He endowed a treatment centre in town, but he grew to hate the place. He really liked his Scotch. And out at the farm he didn't hurt anybody with his drinking. But his wife, my grandmother, ‘didn't hold with it.' She was always after him. When he was on a tear at the farm, he used to keep a cache of drink in an old root cellar under the ramp that goes up to the big barn doors. The entrance is on the lower floor, where the cows and work horses used to be. He covered the entrance with boards and put a tack-mending bench in front of it. The door opens when you pull the bench away from the wall. Russ and I used to play in there when we were little. Even after he died, we kept Pop's secret.”

“What's the farm being used for now?”

“Why nothing. It's just ours. Daddy loved it, we all loved it, and maybe I'll get it going again. It's part of the family, Mr. Cooperman. Why, the day before Daddy died, he went out there just to look around.”

“And at the time of the kidnapping what was going on?”

“I don't understand.”

“I mean, was it being worked? Who was living there?”

“Oh, nobody was there that summer. When Pop died, the farm went to my Uncle Henry. Then Uncle Henry had a stroke and was in the nursing home at Hatton. He didn't get on very well with my father. He didn't get on with anybody, really. So there was no-one living at the firm after he had that stroke.”

“Is there a watchman on the property?”

“Mr. Lyon has a shack on the land. He doesn't live there any more but he keeps half an eye on things. The place is boarded up. I don't think that anything of value's been left there.”

“I think I may drive out there this afternoon.”

“Good. What time do you expect to be back? I'm asking because I'd like you to drop in later. My husband and I would like to see you again. Perhaps the two of us together will be able to persuade you to accept a retainer. Is that the word? If it is, I must have learned it on television.”

“Sure, I'll drop in. I want to ask your husband a few questions about the kidnapping from his point of view.”

“Certainly. Could you come around seven, then?”

“If I don't get stuck in the hay mow.”

“I'm sure you're far too clever for that, Mr. Cooperman. Goodbye.” I heard one click on the wire and before a second one, I heard Blackwood say, “Be careful, Benny.”

I still wasn't finished on the telephone. I couldn't get the thought of Jennifer Bryant out of my head. I thought I could smell bacon cooking somewhere. I knew I'd have to do something about it, or the smell would follow me all day.

Although I'd shot my mouth off to Savas and Pete about the Mounties, I didn't have anything more than an itch at the back of my knees to go on. But I have very intuitive knees. I smelled horseballs in this from the beginning. I dialled the number of the RCMP and asked for the Criminal Investigations Division. A corporal answered and identified himself.

“Hello, this is Barney Reynolds from the
Beacon
. We've just had an anonymous tip that you've got Rolf Knudsen in for questioning on the Johnny Rosa case. Our information is that he was picked up late last night at his farm, witnessed by his girlfriend—just a minute, ah, here it is: Jennifer Bryant—and that he has been in custody for about thirty-six hours. I wonder whether we can get a confirmation or denial there, Corporal?” I hoped that the real Barney Reynolds wouldn't mind my borrowing his name this once.

“Can you hold the line please, Mr. Reynolds?”

“Sure.” I waited a minute until a deeper voice came on the line. It was deep enough to be Renfrew himself but going under the name Richard Blackie. I repeated what I had said to the corporal.

“Well, Mr. Reynolds, we are not making any statement about that one way or another at this time.”

“Okay, let me just check to see that I've got your name spelled right. I guess you've got your belly full of this Rosa disappearance, eh? We had to dig up all our old files on the Warren case. And me, allergic to dust. So, officially speaking, you're not saying anything. Off the record, which way do you think it's going to go?” I was trying to sound like George Harmon Coxe's
Flashgun Casey
as best I could.

“Well, strictly off the record, we don't have anything to say, either.”

“Come on, Sergeant, give us a break. The old musical ride isn't doing for your image like it used to.”

“Mr. Reynolds, I don't have authorization to say anything about the Rosa case.”

“Have it your way. No sweat to me either way. I pick up my check Thursdays whatever happens. But the word around the paper is that Rosa got out on parole pretty early for a guy who hadn't told where he held the money in safe-keeping. They figure that you Mounties have been shadowing him since he got out in hopes of being led right to the promised land. The guess is that Warren and all he stands for applied a little pressure on the Attorney-General, and the Attorney-General used his powers, unofficially, of course, to obtain the early release of Johnny Rosa from Kingston, with the assurance that you boys in red would be skulking in the shrubbery close at hand. Now that's all talk. I don't put much faith in it, but I don't hear any alternative theories either, so …”

“Look, Mr. Reynolds, your paper had better not print any of that.”

“Who said anything about printing? We've got a watching brief on this, that's all. You know who owns the
Beacon
as well as I do. Well, it's been nice talking to you.”

“Just a minute. You know, Mr. Reynolds, that we try, through our different agencies, to maintain a good relationship with the press. It's damned hard to do sometimes, what with Royal Commissions and inquiries of all kinds, manufacturing charges. So, have a heart, eh? We're only human.”

“Well, a couple of humans picked up Rolf Knudsen at his farm the other night. There hasn't been an arraignment, no charges laid, no statements to the honest toilers of the fourth estate.”

“Okay, off the record, understand, I will look into the unsubstantiated rumours that you've reported. I doubt if there's any substance to them, right, but I'll check them out. How's that?”

“Wonderful, Sergeant. Much obliged.” For some reason, my suitcoat was sticking to me like it was the middle of a heat wave. I felt the little spiders of sweat walking down my sides from my armpits. If anybody ever asked, I could say I fought the good fight this fine day. At the same time, I hoped they hadn't tried to trace the call. Next time I feel that brave, I'll be brave on a pay phone.

I was just sitting there looking at Dr. Alekhine's
My Best Games of Chess,
which I hadn't opened in two months, when the phone rang. I jumped up faster than light, checked the frosted glass of the door for shadows and the window for a fast way out. When the Horsemen move, they don't fool around. I answered the phone in a voice I'd used in a high-school play twenty years ago. It was high and adenoidal. Jennifer Bryant was on the line.

“What's the matter?” I said in my own voice, as soon as I'd found it.

“Benny, a man came to the farm! He asked a lot of questions. I told him to leave me alone, so he left. But he's been following me. I can't shake him. What shall I do?”

“Where are you?”

“There's a fish and chip store across from the Lincoln Theatre …”

“I know the place. It's just up the street from me. Sit tight and don't move.”

“He's outside. He keeps looking in the window at me.”

“Order yourself a chocolate malted. I'll be right over.”

“Yuk! Goodbye.”

I pulled my coat off the rack and hurried down the twenty-eight stairs two at a time. A freezing wind was blowing down St. Andrew Street. It caught me in the pit of my stomach as I tried to move as fast as I could along the curve of the main drag. I cleared Dunn's Tailors, the Radio Lunch, Leon's Furniture, the Capitol Theatre, the old Fire Hall and the Palace Theatre. From about the Murray Hotel, I could see the tall sign of the Lincoln clearly ahead. It was about eight blocks in all and the front of my shins were calling “uncle.”