Hostage For A Hood (19 page)

"You want me to beat it out of you?" he said. "I'd like to. It would give me a kick. So come on, let's have it. What were they planning? Are they pulling out of here together? Come on, let's have it."

Joyce stared at him, trying to keep the panic out of her eyes. She knew that he wasn't quite sane, wasn't quite human. She would gladly have told him anything that he wanted to know, but she didn't know what to tell him.

"Honestly," she said, "honestly, they didn't talk. If they had, I would tell you."

This time he doubled his fist when he hit her and in spite of herself she cried out. The knife was back in his pocket now and he was sitting on the side of the bed, leaning over her. One hand held her by the throat and the other was balled into a fist to strike again.

"You don't care about your face, do you?" he said.

He was raising his fist then and she struggled and tried to turn her face away. That's when the voice spoke from the door.

"Go ahead, kid," Luder said. "Hit her again. But make it good, because it will be the last time you ever beat a woman."

Santino leaped from the bed and swung around. His hand flashed toward his pocket, but Luder spoke quickly. "I wouldn't," he said.

"What are you buttin' in for?" Santino said. "What's this to you, anyway?"

"We don't want trouble," Luder said. "I heard her scream. What the hell are you trying to do, raise the whole neighborhood? Haven't you got better sense?"

"I'll see to it that she don't make any noise. Don't worry, I'll see that this bitch is as quiet ... "

"You'll leave her alone. Hear me? Leave her alone. She's no part of this."

"The hell she isn't. She cut in on this party and she's a big part of it. What the hell do you want we should do—give her a medal?"

"You're a fool, Santino," Luder said. "Hurting her isn't going to do any good. Just leave her alone and come on back downstairs."

Santino moved a step toward the door and laughed. "You kill me," he said. "A real hero!" He turned to Joyce. "Why don't you tell her we're going to bump her off, hero?"

"I said come on downstairs," Luder said. He saw that Joyce's frightened eyes were on him and he couldn't quite face her. "We haven't decided what we're going to do," he mumbled. "Not yet."

Sylvia Dudbern, Bart Sherwood's secretary, waited until George Swazy returned from lunch before talking to him. She hated to bother him at all, knowing how Mr. Swazy felt about discussing anything which wasn't directly connected with the office. But she felt that she really had to. She'd spoken with Bart around noontime, calling him at his home when he failed to show up for work on Monday morning, and she just had to do something. After all, Bart Sherwood was a member of the office.

Swazy looked up when she came into the room after knocking, giving his usual neutral, rather cold, expectant smile. Swazy was a man who wasted no time on trivialities.

"Yes, Miss Dudbern?"

She was a little pale, realizing that what she was about to do was a bit out of order. But finally she gritted her teeth and spoke, her words rushing out in a tumble.

"It's about Mr. Sherwood," she said. She blushed as Swazy looked at her sharply. "He didn't come in again this morning," she hurried on, "and I had to call him about the Tri-State matter. They ... "

"I know about the Tri-State matter."

She hesitated a second and continued.

"Mr. Sherwood didn't seem to be very coherent. This thing with Mrs. Sherwood seems to have completely shattered him. He couldn't even tell me when we could expect him. He sounded sick. I just thought that ... "

"Just what do you want me to do, Miss Dudbern?"

"Well, Mr. Sherwood seemed to feel that the police haven't been making a real effort to find his wife. He's sitting out there in his apartment, all alone, and he just didn't seem right. I thought that maybe if someone here in the office, someone with influence, could just get hold of the police and maybe see what they are doing, and ... "

Swazy held up a beautifully manicured hand. "They're probably doing everything they can," he said. He hesitated for a moment, looking thoughtful, and then quickly stood up and started pacing the floor.

"All right," he said. "I'll see what I can do. It's a damned shame. Mrs. Sherwood is a nice little woman. Get me the man in the police department who's handling the thing. I'll see what I can find out. We have to have Sherwood back here, and soon," he added.

Five minutes later he had Detective Lieutenant Parks on the wire. It took him a minute or so to make it clear what he was talking about.

The lieutenant didn't pull his punches. "Listen," he said. "Let's get something clear. We're doing everything we can. Everything. It doesn't do one damned bit of good to keep riding us. You better tell that to your Mr. Sherwood. I feel sorry for him, but there's not a damned thing more we can do. You're Mr. Sherwood's boss, you say?"

Swazy said he was.

"All right. Understand this. The woman is missing, we'll grant you that. But we don't know that anything has happened to her. We don't know that she didn't just go off by herself. And in the meantime, we have other problems. By God, I've got a quarter-million-dollar robbery and a murder on my hands and I'm not getting anywhere with that. Nowhere. A missing woman is important, I'll admit, but we have plenty of other important problems!"

Swazy coughed and interrupted. "Perhaps the FBI ... " he began.

"They wouldn't be interested, at least not at this stage. They have things to do themselves and there's been no indication that this is a federal case, a kidnapping or anything of the sort. After all, missing wives are a fairly common occurrence. Don't think we're being callous about this, or indifferent. But at this point, until something turns up, there's not another damned thing we can do."

Parks slammed down the receiver and turned to Detective Sims, who had just entered the room "That damned Sherwood thing again," he said. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "I feel sorry for Sherwood, but what does he want us to do about it? What does he expect us to do?"

Actually, by this time, Bart Sherwood had given up hope that the police would do anything. That's why he did what he did when he got the telephone message about the dog that evening.

* * * *

Corwell Harding made his decision over the weekend. It was a difficult decision, but once he made it, he immediately felt better about the whole matter.

He looked the number up in the telephone book on Monday morning and after carefully writing it down, being a methodical man, he made the call.

It took the people at the pound a little longer than he had expected and for a while he experienced a rather forlorn hope that perhaps the record might be lost or misplaced. But it was a futile wish. They called him back around three in the afternoon and told him that the license number of the dog he had given them was for a French poodle and that the dog was owned by a Mr. Bart Sherwood, 97 Olive Drive, in Brookside. Harding thanked them and hung up the receiver. He decided he would write the Sherwoods a letter.

A short time later he brought Flick in from the stake he had him chained to outside of the house and fed him. He had grown very attached to the dog. Watching the poodle as Flick ate his dinner, Harding began to wonder what kind of people owned him. They probably were very attached to him. The chances were that they had children and he could imagine how those children must be feeling about losing the dog.

Mr. Harding began to feel very bad about it. That is why, shortly before nine o'clock that night, as once more he was about to take the dog outside and stake him, he decided that he wouldn't write; he'd telephone them.

He had no difficulty in getting the telephone number from the long-distance operator. He made the call collect.

* * * *

Bart knew that he should call the police. It was the only sensible thing to do. He was so excited that he had a hard time lighting the cigarette he had instinctively reached for as he started to dial the telephone. And then, suddenly, he put the receiver back on the hook.

The police? What good would that do him. Maybe it wasn't Flick at all. Maybe ... But of course it was Flick. It had to be; the man was quite sure of the tag number. But even if it was, what would the police do? Nothing.

That's when Bart decided to get a car—rent one if he had to—and drive directly up to Cameron Corners and see the man who had found Flick.

He had to look up the location of the place on the map. He'd been so excited he'd forgotten to ask. Cameron Corners—it wasn't more than an hour and a half at the most. The trouble was the man had been very reticent about seeing him at all that night. He'd said he had the dog and that the dog was in good condition and wouldn't the morning be all right. It seemed he was some sort of farmer and he went to bed early.

Bart had wanted to tell him just how important it was. He started to explain, and then he hadn't been able to go on. How do you explain to a man who has found your dog that your wife is missing? Where do you start?

So he had changed his mind and begged to be allowed to come right up. The man was very reluctant but at last had said he would wait up for a couple of hours. He'd given Bart directions to follow once he got into the town.

It was more difficult than he thought it would be, getting the car. For a moment or so he was tempted to take a cab, but after considering the expense, he made a last try and managed to rent a car from the owner of the gas station he patronized. He was lucky in finding him in when he phoned. As it was, he didn't leave his house until almost ten-thirty.

When he heard the rented car drive up in front of the house, he had a sudden change of heart. He decided to at least call Sims at the police station and let him know what had happened. Detective Sims wasn't in and the man on the desk wasn't sure where he could be reached.

Bart cursed himself for wasting the precious minutes and quickly told the man to leave word for Sims that he had called and that he had a possible lead on his missing wife. He'd call Sims back in the morning. The policeman on the other end of the wire hurriedly asked him something, but Bart was already putting the receiver back.

* * * *

At twenty to eleven, Lieutenant Parks received the telephone call from State Trooper Ralph Domonitti, stationed at the Hawthorn Barracks.

It was only the sheerest luck that Trooper Domonitti saw the story in the newspaper at all. The paper was a couple of days old, at least, and he was throwing it out with a bundle of old magazines. Usually his wife took care of these chores, but she was in the hospital, nursing the newest addition to his already large family. Right then Trooper Domonitti was home taking care of the other children and doing the housework on his day off. It was only because of his wife's being in the hospital and the attendant problems on his mind that he had failed to read the report on the missing woman which had come into headquarters in the first place.

Seeing the picture of the girl in the paper as he was about to toss it out, brought the thing back to his mind. He recognized her at once and as he hurriedly read the story, he remembered the name and the incident. They'd eat him out at headquarters for not checking the reports, he realized. The only excuse was that newborn baby and it wasn't an excuse the captain was likely to accept.

For a moment Trooper Domonitti experienced a quick temptation; he could just forget the whole thing and say nothing. But as quickly he discarded the idea. He was too honest a cop to ever cover up a thing like this.

So when he saw the picture and recognized the face and then read the story he didn't hesitate to put in the call. He talked with his captain first, verifying the routine flash on the thing, and then he called Brookside. He reached Detective Lieutenant Parks almost at once.