The Night People (24 page)

Martha, and the apartment on Gramercy Park, was another life.

This day she greeted me at the door, as she always did when I phoned from the airport. I could describe Martha by calling her a chic blonde, but that was only the surface woman. Actually she was an artist and a poet, merging two ill-paying professions into a sort of livelihood. She never asked me for money, though I insisted on leaving her some each month, if only to pay for the groceries I consumed. I didn’t think about what she did in her spare time the rest of the month. If there were other shuttle flights, from Washington or Chicago or Detroit, I didn’t want to know about them.

“Jeff, darling,” she said in that familiar soft voice, running a hand along my cheek. “It’s been so long!”

“Only four weeks.”

“It seems a lifetime.”

I hung my suitcoat in the front closet and dropped my attaché case on a convenient chair. Then I gave her a long kiss. “It seems a lifetime for me too,” I agreed. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine. Lonesome.”

“I wrote you.”

“One letter in four weeks! I get that much from Con Edison!”

Traditionally, the first night’s dinner was eaten at her apartment. Martha was a good cook, and this night, as we dined by the window overlooking the park, she was filling me in on the history of the area.

“Until 1830 it was a farm belonging to a man named Samuel Ruggles,” she said over coffee and dessert. “Then he divided it to form the present park. Most of these houses date from about 1840, and one of them—Number Four—was the home of New York’s mayor, James Harper, in 1844. A few decades later Samuel Tilden, the almost-president of 1876, lived at Number Fifteen. And Edwin Booth the actor was at Number Sixteen.”

“You should write a book about it,” I told her half in jest. She had a way of going off on subjects like that, pouring out more knowledge than I really cared to hear.

She started to reply but was interrupted by the buzzer. “Who could that be?”

“One of your other lovers,” I ventured.

“Some joke!” She spoke through the intercom, asking who was there, but nobody answered. The buzzing kept on. Finally, in exasperation, she unbolted the door. “They probably want one of the other tenants.”

Then I heard her scream, not loud, and she tumbled backward through the doorway, landing on the rug. I was out of my chair, crossing the room to her side, when I saw the man in the doorway.

He wore a stocking mask over his head and carried a small revolver. Behind him was a second man, also masked, who held what looked like a sawed-off shotgun.

“What in hell is this? Who are you?” I bent over to help Martha.

“Stay away from her!” the man with the revolver ordered. His voice was brisk and authoritative. “You’re Jeff Michaels, right?”

The sound of my name on that man’s lips sent a chill through me. This was no random holdup. They were after me and they’d found me. In that wild instant a dozen thoughts crowded my brain. Had Joan learned about Martha and me and sent these people to kill me? No, that was fantastic!

“I’m Michaels,” I managed to get out. “What do you want?”

“We’re taking you along. Tell the lady not to call the police if she ever wants to see you alive again.”

Martha was still on the floor, sheer terror on her face. “Jeff, what do they want?”

“I can’t imagine.”

The man with the revolver gestured. “You’re being kidnapped, mister. Don’t struggle, do as you’re told, and you won’t be harmed. Otherwise, you’re dead.”

“Kidnapped! I don’t have any—”

“Shut up!” While the second man covered me with the shotgun, the first one took out a hypodermic needle. “This won’t hurt you and it won’t knock you out. It’ll just make you a little fuzzy headed and willing to come with us. It’s this or a rap on the head. Take your choice.”

“What sort of choice is that?” I mumbled. But I didn’t resist when he plunged the needle through my shirt and into my arm.

“Now tell the lady not to call the police. You don’t want it all over the papers that you were kidnapped from your girlfriend’s apartment, do you?”

“I—no.” The injection was already beginning to take effect. I turned to Martha. “I’ll be all right. Don’t call the police.”

“Jeff!”

“We won’t hurt him, lady, as long as you both behave.”

Then they slipped on my jacket and hustled me out the door to the elevator. A part of me was past all caring, but another part still hoped someone would see us and raise an alarm.

They kept me to one side till they saw the elevator was empty, then prodded me in with their guns. We rode down to the basement and they took me out the back door to a waiting car. In the back seat the one with the revolver said, “Now you’ll be blindfolded from here on. If you remove the blindfold and see our faces, or see the place where we take you, we’ll have to kill you. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good!”

He fitted some sort of goggles over my face that effectively blocked all vision. Then he ordered me onto the floor of the back seat and covered me with a blanket. We drove for about a half hour, as near as I could tell, but in my drugged state it might have been longer. It was impossible to concentrate on direction, or even to determine whether or not we passed over a bridge going out of Manhattan.

Presently the car stopped and the revolver prodded me once more. “We’re here. No tricks now.”

They led me inside a building and up several flights of stairs. I tried to listen for sounds but I heard nothing. It was an apartment somewhere in the city, but I could tell no more. The floor was bare, without even a rug, and in the room where I was to be kept there seemed to be no bed. “You’ll use that sleeping bag,” the man’s voice told me. “If your wife pays off, it won’t be for long.”

The drug was beginning to wear off, and I tried to reason with him. “Look, this diamond ring I’m wearing is worth two thousand dollars. Take it, and my watch and wallet. Then let me go.”

“We’re after far bigger stakes, Michaels. Pretty soon we’re going to phone your wife in Boston and you’ll tell her what we want.”

“What’s that? I’m not a wealthy man.”

“You’re wealthy enough for us. We know all about your jewelry business.”

I realized it had all been carefully planned. “How much do you want?” I asked at last.

“A quarter of a million dollars in uncut rubies.”

“Rubies!”

“We have a market for them overseas, and we know they’re available through your business. Your wife will phone the manager tomorrow and convey your instructions. If he won’t surrender the gems, you may have to phone him too. Your wife will package them as we instruct and fly to New York tomorrow afternoon. The package will be left in a ladies’ room at LaGuardia Airport. Your wife will board the next shuttle flight back to Boston. Once the rubies are safely in our hands, without police interference, you’ll be released.”

A little later they made their call. The telephone was thrust into my hands and I heard Joan’s puzzled voice on the other end. “Jeff? What is it?”

Trying to keep my voice calm, I answered, “Don’t get excited. I’ve been kidnapped.”

“What!”

“Calm yourself, Joan. I’m in no danger if you do exactly what they tell you. And don’t call the police.”

“My God, Jeff! What do they want?”

“A quarter million dollars in uncut rubies. You’ll have to get them from the company vault and fly to New York with them tomorrow. This man will tell you exactly what to do.”

My captor took the phone and spoke distinctly. “We won’t contact you again, Mrs. Michaels, so listen carefully.” He outlined the procedure to be followed, including the plane she should take the next day and the place where the package should be left. “There’s a wastebasket for paper towels. Wrap the package in a couple of paper towels and drop it in. Then leave immediately and take the shuttle back to Boston.”

“I—I don’t think I can get the rubies that soon,” Joan said. I could hear her voice coming from the receiver.

“Your husband will call his manager and take care of that. You just pick them up.”

“Can I talk to him again?”

“Do as you’re told and he’ll be free by tomorrow night. Otherwise he’ll be dead.”

He hung up but I could feel his presence near me still. “We’d better call your manager and arrange for the pickup of the rubies. We don’t want any slips.”

I talked to George Franklin on the phone and told him what had happened, emphasizing he must not call the police. He was a frightened little man at the best of times, and the news of my kidnapping completely unnerved him.

“A quarter million uncut!” he protested. “I don’t think we have that much in rubies.”

“Then get them! Draw some money out of the special account and buy them from Craig or Morton. They’ll have enough to make up the difference.”

“All right.” He sounded reluctant.

“These men mean business, George.”

“All right,” he repeated.

After the phone calls they handcuffed me and gave me another injection, putting me into the sleeping bag for the night. I slept better than I’d expected, helped no doubt by the powerful tranquilizing drug. When I awakened in the morning they brought me a light breakfast—orange juice in a plain water glass and a piece of toast on a paper plate.

I could tell nothing about my surroundings, though occasional street noises penetrated the room. Sitting on the floor with my meager breakfast, I might have been on another planet. I knew that one of the two men was in the room, watching me, and since he didn’t speak I suspected it was the silent one with the shotgun.

I found myself feeling for the walls, trying to leave a mark that might be identified later. But they were smoothly painted and any smudges I might make could easily be wiped away. In my hands were a paper plate that would be disposed of and a water glass.

The glass was my only chance to leave some sign, and it was a slim one. I waited till I heard my captor step out of the room momentarily and then I finished the juice and turned the glass upside down. Working quickly, I used my diamond ring to scratch a crude JM on the bottom of the glass. I couldn’t see how successful I was, of course. It might not show at all—or it might be so obvious they’d see it at once and throw away the glass. But it was my only chance.

They gave me another injection after breakfast and I dozed off and on through the rest of the day. With my eyes covered it was impossible to tell when day ended and night began, and once after waking I called out to ask what time it was. The man with the revolver came into the room and answered that it was late afternoon. He said he was waiting for his partners to pick up the rubies.

“You’d better pray there are no cops,” he said.

“What good would it do you to kill me?”

I heard him go out of the room without answering.

After a time I lifted my handcuffed wrists and felt the goggles around my eyes. I’d been considering risking a peek at my surroundings, but I discovered that broad pieces of tape had been added. I settled back against the wall, discouraged.

Presently I heard the apartment door open and then the low murmur of voices. I held my breath, half expecting a bullet at any moment. Or a fatal injection from which I would never awaken. I had a fleeting memory of Martha, huddled on the floor where she’d fallen. And Joan. Had she flown to New York with the rubies? Did she really care whether I lived or died? How hard would it be for her to keep the rubies and only pretend to have made delivery? She’d be rid of me, and she’d have a quarter of a million dollars to start a new life as the bereaved widow.

If that’s what she wanted.

I heard someone enter the room.

It was the man with the revolver, the talkative one. “Your wife delivered,” he said. “Right on schedule. This must be your lucky day.”

“You mean I can go?”

“We’ll wait till it gets dark, then take you out and dump you somewhere. Don’t worry, we’re not going to harm you.”

His words were reassuring, but when you’re blindfolded and handcuffed it takes more than reassuring words. Wouldn’t he tell me exactly the same thing if they meant to take me out and dump my body in the river?

The next hours passed slowly. They fed me again—a sandwich on a paper plate followed by a cup of instant coffee—and then made preparations to leave. I was taken down the stairs and this time I tried to count the flights. There seemed to be four of them, but I was pretty certain we emerged into a basement. That would mean I’d been kept on the third floor.

“Into the back seat,” the man ordered, “and no tricks. We’d really hate to shoot you this close to letting you go.”

They drove me around for the better part of an hour, or at least it seemed that long. Finally the car stopped at a curb and I was shoved out. By the time I tore the tape and goggles from my eyes the car was out of sight.

I was somewhere uptown, near Riverside Drive, but I couldn’t identify the exact spot. Still handcuffed, I struggled to a corner phone booth. There was a dime among the change in my pocket and I dialed Martha’s apartment.

“My God, Jeff—where are you? I’ve been frantic since last night!”

“I’m free and I’m unharmed. My wife delivered the ransom. I’ll tell you everything later. Look, call the police and tell them I’m at the corner of”—I glanced up at the sign—“98th Street and West End Avenue.”

I waited in the phone booth, oblivious of passersby, until the police car arrived.

My story was that I’d been kidnapped while visiting a client, and the police didn’t press the matter. Martha was interviewed, and the press took pictures, and back in Boston, Joan questioned me about Martha. But if she suspected the truth she didn’t pursue it. I was back, all in one piece, and after a week’s run in the newspapers the story died down. I had George Franklin checking with the insurance company to see what coverage we carried. Certainly it was a theft and certainly they should pay.

Only once, a few weeks later, when I mentioned the need for another trip to New York, did Joan hint that she knew the truth about Martha. “New York again? You’d better stay away from that client this time.”

But of course I didn’t stay away.