Ransom Game (28 page)

With the two of us in the office, it felt smaller than it had the day the whole Abromovich family congregated in front of my desk, all twelve of them and all talking at once. I had a hard time looking at Helen without putting my arms around her. Every time she moved, my heart skipped a couple of beats. I went over to her and held her close.

“What's the matter?” I asked, and her eyes ducked mine.

“I just wish this whole thing was cleared up. I hate it. I hate it.” Her arms around me were strong, and she added emphasis to her words through them.

“Let's go get some coffee,” I suggested. Not a prizewinning offer, but apart from slipping the Yale lock closed and making a pallet of dead files, it was the best suggestion I could make.

“Why not come back to the apartment? You look all tense and knotted.” I accepted and we took her car. I settled deep into the passenger seat and tried not to concentrate on her driving. She did it well, moving the Volvo up the hairpin turns leading to the pillar-marked lane. From time to time she spared me a glance from the road and smiled.

We went in through the back way. It was clean and bright, with the last of the afternoon light making a pattern of rectangles across Gloria's doll picture hanging above the marble fireplace. Helen helped me out of my coat and took my jacket.

“Would you prefer a drink to coffee?”

“Coffee still sounds fine. But have a drink yourself.”

“You need to unwind, that's what you need.”

“My father used to go to the steambaths on Saturday night. He unwound on a regular weekly basis. Me? I never take the time.”

“Well you should. You're like most men. You don't look after yourself.” I heard the coffee grinder making a high-pitched electric hum for about fifteen seconds and then a minute or so later the kettle came to a boil. She brought me a cup of strong coffee and sat at the edge of the couch I'd fallen into. She had a drink in one hand and pulled the hem of her skirt down with the other. “I know what we should do,” she said with some excitement. “We should wash some of the city off us in the pool. I can borrow you a suit from Bob. He won't mind.”

“I don't know. I'm not much of a swimmer,” I said.

“It'll do you a world of good. Excuse me, I'll just get that suit. I think that you and Bob will wear the same size.”

“Yeah, if I bring a friend.”

“Go on. He's not that big. I'll be right back.” She disappeared into the rest of the house, and I remembered that I wanted to talk to Chris Savas about something. I put in the call while she was away, and sipped the coffee. She was back in less than three minutes with two bathing suits, both too big, but belted, so I might be able to manage something.

Helen excused herself and retreated into the bedroom, her hands already reaching behind her to unhook her dress before the door closed. She left me no other play. I pulled off my pants and tried on both pairs of trunks. The second felt like they would stay up as long as I kept my knees well apart. I folded my pants, underwear and shirt in a neat ball and placed them on the couch. Helen came out in a very trim bright red Speedo and a yellow terrycloth beach coat. She was carrying two towels that looked brand new and another beach robe of brown corduroy for me.

“See if these fit,” she said, and handed me a pair of Japanese thongs. I slipped them on and felt the skin between my first two toes protest. Feet hated change and so did I. Helen was frowning at me. Then she frowned at a bathing cap and a portable radio both of which she stowed in a vinyl beachbag.

“Sorry,” she smiled, “I always look cross without my lenses. You look like a fuzzy teddybear.”

“With his woolly knees knocking,” I said with some impatience. She gathered her bag and towels, then led the way through what looked like an empty house.

“Not so fast,” I cautioned. “I'm not as anxious to get into the water as you are. This isn't Miami, you know.”

“It's heated, silly. Come on. You'll soon forget it's February out there.” She opened the door leading to the pool and turned on the lights, which were controlled from a box near the door. The lights from above danced on the surface, while those that were mounted at the bottom or on the sides added green-blue tints to the water and turned the tile walls to shimmering marble.

“Which is the shallow end?” I asked.

“The far end. Why not take the tube from the bench, then you can use the whole pool. Can't you really swim very well?”

“I'm good for a few strokes, then I lose my wind. I'll be fine in the shallow end.” We left our things on a bench halfway along the length of the pool. The radio started in with rock music. Helen made a spectacular dive off the board with hardly a splash on entering the water. I stood at the edge listening to the loud report of the springboard die away and not quite believing that the water was heated. To me, February is February and Grantham in February is no place to be found in swimming trunks. She came to the surface just in front of me, her skin shiny in the water.

“Come on,” she taunted. I nodded and tried the water, with a brave toe. It seemed safe to the toe, so I threw myself in, coughed and held on to the side. The water was refreshing without being tooth-rattling. I climbed out, shook myself off and plunged in again with one hand gripping my nose and the other lifted above my head, while my feet appeared to be pedalling a bicycle as they disappeared from sight. It was a classical leap, and I gave myself seven out of ten for its near faultless execution. If this was the shallow end, the deep end must be five fathoms. Again I came up close to the edge and held on. When I looked up, Bob Jarman, drink in hand, was smiling down at me.

“Hi, Benny! Unwinding at the end of a hard week? Hello, Helen. Have you seen Gloria?” Helen was climbing up the ladder near the diving board.

“Hello, Bob. She's gone into town looking for some Number Seven brushes. She'll be back for cocktails at five-thirty.” She went off the board again and, surfacing, continued to my end of the pool on her back. She continued doing lengths until I became tired watching. I took the rubber tube and began paddling across. When we passed one another, Helen gave me a smile. I was too busy to return it. She did two lengths to each of my widths. Finally, she climbed out and took off her cap, shaking water and hair most becomingly as she did so. “I'll be back in a minute,” she called, taking her yellow beach robe with her through the door.

“How's the investigation going?” Jarman asked above the racket of the radio. He was standing over me at the edge of the pool, his expression masked by the freakish lighting in the room. “I see from the evening paper that it was Johnny Rosa you found all right. I'm glad they were able to keep the family name out of it.” I held the rubber tube around me. The outside light coming in the windows seemed over-bright, and when I looked into it the rest of the room looked like a darkened den. “I'd hate to see the family name dragged into something unnecessary, wouldn't you, Ben? It's a reasonable approach, don't you agree?”

I agreed with him, and he kept standing there, looking bigger and darker as the time wore on.

“Helen tells me that you're not much of a swimmer, Ben.”

“I make out,” I said, noticing for the first time that the pressure in the tube I was using had been decreasing gradually and that a fine string of bubbles was escaping the tube, bursting without a sound when they reached the surface.

“She should have warned you about that tube. It has a leak.” He sounded like he was shouting now. And the light on the water was making me feel a little giddy. I tried lying back on the tube, but the lights above me danced about the ceiling. I felt as though I was wearing lead weights on my feet. I tried to paddle toward the edge, but something prevented me. I couldn't get close to the edge. I tried the opposite edge, my nose getting closer to the waterline with every stroke, but everywhere I saw Bob Jarman's brown shoes and I couldn't get close to pull myself out.

“You've done a lot of digging, Benny. I guess you think that you are getting close to the end. In a way you are close to the end, if not the end of the investigation. Just the end of your contribution to it.”

“Help me out,” I called. My vision was completely off the rails now. It was the coffee, of course. Nothing too strong, just enough to disorient me. I felt the last of the air go out of the tube. I floundered with my arms and kicked with my feet. “Help me out!” I called again. I tried moving over to the opposite edge, but again I saw the brown shoes and I couldn't reach the other end. I could hear Jarman's voice talking to me out there somewhere in the echoing shadows. He was laughing at me. I couldn't make out what he was saying anymore. I went under the water and came up coughing. I could still hear him, above the music and above my cries for help. I was floundering, sputtering and coughing. Then I felt something slip over my head. It didn't confine me closely, but it played tricks with my vision, or what was left of it. It made the water turn from greenish-blue to milky white. I could feel it pulling me down under the water. I tried to grab whatever it was, but there was nothing I could grip. My head went under. I couldn't see any more. The pressure holding me under didn't let up, however hard I fought against it. My lungs were beginning to ache. I stopped trying to get up, and went down as far as I could go. When I came up, I was free of the white. I caught my breath, and heard a pounding at the door. The brown shoes had gone from the edge of the pool. I heard voices above the radio music. I heard the door splinter. In a second I saw or felt, I couldn't be sure of which, hands reaching for me. This time the shoes on the tiles were black, regulation issue.

THIRTY-ONE

It was about half an hour after I'd nearly drowned in the Warren pool that I became aware of where I was and what was going on. I was still wearing Jarman's bathing suit and brown robe. There was a blanket rolled around me and I felt warm and comfortable despite the shivering that I couldn't control. I had to keep my jaw tense or I would have lost a few teeth. The coffee was still on my breath with its unpleasant aftertaste. I was looking up at a ceiling I'd seen before. The green lamps told me it was the library at the Warren place. Better than the bottom of the pool, I thought. There were faces in the room too. Nearest was Helen Blackwood. A bit further off, Chris Savas and two or three policemen in uniform. I seemed to be holding the centre of the stage, and I was sure that I would forget my lines. I decided not to ask “Where am I?”; I asked the time instead. That's how I knew that half an hour of unconsciousness separated me from the swimming pool.

“He's coming around,” I heard her say. And then to me she said: “Can you speak? Are you okay?” Her eyes were wide with worry, real worry. I was beginning to feel better. The shivering began to subside a little.

“Th-there was something in the coffee,” I said, and “He held me under with a net.”

“Don't worry about it now,” she said. Savas stuck his big face into the picture frame.

“You held on there pretty good, Ben.” He grinned, and I could only think of Mr. McCammus's rules about the use of
good
and
well
but didn't feel strong enough just then to carry the point. It was good to see Savas and I felt better for seeing the policemen in the background.

“Where's Bob Jarman?” I asked. Helen looked at Savas. Savas's meaty face was crowding hers out again.

“Jarman heard us at the door and went out the back. He got into the Rolls and tried to make a run for it down the mountain. He was going too fast for the switchbacks. He made two of them, but missed the third, went through the railing. Must have been doing sixty. Jesus. Took a drop of nearly fifty feet. Not very pretty. He's not expected to live. Mrs. Jarman is with him at the General.” I nodded and tried to show that I understood. Helen handed me a mug with something hot in it. I liked the warmth on my hands, but I looked at her eyes for a few seconds before letting her help lift the mug up to my lips. She tried to smile, but failed. She couldn't look me in the eye. I didn't blame her. She was still in her bathing suit, with the terrycloth robe tightly belted at the waist. I sipped coffee. It had something in it: it was whiskey.

“Are you feeling strong enough to tell us what happened, Ben?” Savas asked. I nodded, and he pulled a chair closer. I took a long swallow. I would have felt better wearing my trousers.

“You sure you don't want me to go through this downtown?”

“Just sketch it in for me. We can go into the fine print when you're up to it.”

“Fine,” I said. “Fine.”

I tried to collect my thoughts. It wasn't any good. I knew that I'd have to start jabbering. Once my mouth was running, I could idle along for a few minutes, then let out the clutch slowly and engage my mind.

“To begin with, you have to go back before the kidnapping. Take a look at what everybody was doing. Old George Warren was a tycoon with big bucks, power to burn, and a complicated family situation. His wife had run off to the Riviera. His son was mad about speed, cars and young girls, and hated the sight of a panelled office with matching desk-set. His daughter was good-looking and bait for every fortune-hunter in North America. Jarman was a fortune-hunter with the drawbacks of being a local one. He hardly rated with the American, British, and European sharpsters ringing the doorbell: smoking jackets and tennis togs in the back seat of their rented cars and an overdraft at the bank. They were easy for an old hand like George to spot. But he slipped up on Jarman, because the kidnapping threw sand in those shrewd eyes.” The cops over by the window had stopped whispering and were looking my way.

“Jarman met Gloria and saw in her not only an heiress but also a stepping-stone to power in business. That was heaven to a man like that, but with George on the watch he couldn't get anywhere. To make matters worse, Gloria liked the guy. That was the worst thing that could happen. George had to use both hands to keep them apart.