Hostage For A Hood (20 page)

"Last Monday," he explained, "I was on the roadblock just this side of Brewster. Yeah, I'm sure. She showed me her license. It was the Sherwood woman all right. The picture in the paper is unmistakable. Yes, it could have been a French poodle, although I don't know much about dogs. Yes, a black sedan, six or seven years old. Chevy, I believe. And the man with her had one arm. He was average size, around forty or forty-five. Said he was her father and had been ill. She was taking him out for a drive, or at least that's what she told me."

He told Parks he'd write in a full report on the matter. He hung up, wondering what his captain would say to him. He was supposed to check over those reports, and there was no excuse for his not having done so. Well, it probably wasn't too important. If the woman was missing, it was pretty obvious that she wanted to be. He shrugged and went back to his housecleaning.

Lieutenant Parks was completely baffled by the news. It certainly looked as if his first hunch had been right. There was no foul play; the woman had merely picked up and gone off. There must have been another man, after all. Young Sherwood was certainly due for a rather unpleasant surprise.

Still, it was odd that she'd taken no clothes, or returned to the house. He'd tell Sims about it when he saw him the next morning and let Sims break the news to Sherwood.

* * * *

Corwell Harding gave up around one o'clock in the morning. It was really very inconsiderate; the man had been so insistent, begging him to wait up. And now he'd failed to show. It just went to prove that he'd been silly about the whole thing. He could have saved a lot of trouble and written the letter as he'd wanted to first.

He decided to go to bed and forget the whole thing. As far as he was concerned, he hoped they'd never show up. Before he turned in he once more took Flick, whom he'd been keeping in the house for company, outside and staked him near the coops. It was probably only because he was very tired, that he was a little careless himself.

He tied the long rope to the end of the dog's leash, using a simple slip knot instead of the double knot he usually used. That was why, when he went out to get the dog in the morning, just after daybreak, Flick was no longer there. Nothing was there but the end of the rope.

Harding felt pretty bad about it. Even if he wasn't going to be able to keep the dog himself, it made him feel bad. It was going to be pretty embarrassing if and when those folks showed up.

He had a quick breakfast and then collected his eggs. He delivered them to the supermarket every Tuesday morning around eight o'clock. Before leaving, he scrawled a note and tacked it to the front door. Just said that he had to take his eggs into the market and that he'd be back in a couple of hours. He was really hoping no one would come to read that note.

* * * *

The first warning Bart Sherwood had was when the engine began missing. It happened a few minutes after he had passed Hawthorne Circle and came at a time he was on a deserted stretch of the parkway. He pushed the gas peddle up and down several times and the engine coughed and almost stopped. Bart cursed and put the car into second gear. A minute or so later the engine gave an odd, gasping noise and stopped altogether. It was shortly before midnight.

Bart climbed out of the car and opened the hood. He had to use his lighter to see anything at all and he knew very little about automobiles in any case. It wouldn't have mattered. The rented car had blown a head gasket.

His first inclination was to start walking. He knew the last gas station he had passed must be at least seven or eight miles down the road, which would mean there wouldn't be another one for at least ten miles in the opposite direction, in which he was traveling. Somewhere off the road, however, there must be a house where he could use a phone.

The night was starless and there was no moon and he hesitated to start walking. There were almost no cars on the road and he realized the futility of hoping anyone would stop this late at night. And yet he felt that he couldn't just stay there and wait. He had to get to Cameron Corners. He tried to be rational about it, tried not to build up too much hope. After all, it wasn't Joyce, it was only the dog. Flick had turned up, and Flick had been with Joyce when she disappeared. It could mean everything or nothing. He was bitter with impatience as he stood by the stalled car and tried to think.

At last he made his decision. Just walking at random would be hopeless. Sooner or later a cruising police car would be bound to pass. He would have to be content to sit and wait. Climbing back into the car, he turned off the headlights. He would conserve his battery, be sure that there was juice so that he could flash a distress signal when he saw a car coming.

It was almost daylight when the trooper stopped. And it was almost eight o'clock when Bart Sherwood finally arrived in Cameron Corners. The garage man whom the trooper had called had lent him a beat-up jeep to use while he made repairs to the rented car.

Bart didn't stop for breakfast, but drove directly out to Harding's chicken farm. He passed Harding's half-ton pickup truck on the way out not, of course, recognizing it.

* * * *

They had been up since daybreak and she could sense the tension as they sat in the half-dark of the kitchen waiting for breakfast.

Today the routine was changed; instead of Paula's leaving the room they shared and one of the men coming up to guard her, they'd let her come down with the other girl. Heavy drapes had been tacked over the windows of the kitchen and she was unable to see out, but she knew that it was early in the morning.

The thin, wispy one, the dangerous little man with the foul tongue and the nervous, vicious manner, had been steadily cursing under his breath as he paced back and forth. The older one, Luder, sat off to one side, drinking coffee and staring out the window. He seemed morose.

The girl glided about silently, preparing the breakfast and saying nothing. Cribbins didn't come downstairs until later and he was silent and dour. At eight o'clock he finally stood up and stretched.

"It's about time to start in for Mitty," he said. "Santino. you better take the car and meet the train in Poughkeepsie. But get her upstairs first." He nodded over to where Joyce sat finishing her breakfast. "All the way up, this time."

As Luder started to get to his feet, Santino quickly moved across the room.

"I'll take her up," he said. "You finish your breakfast. I'll take her up."

Luder turned a questioning eye to Cribbins and Cribbins nodded.

"Let him do it," he said. He looked back at Santino as the little man reached out and took Joyce by the arm.

"Make it snappy," he said. "I want you to get started for town."

She was unable to control the shiver of revulsion as he grasped her bare arm and propelled her through the doorway and to the staircase. They climbed to the second floor and as she instinctively hesitated in front of the room where they'd been keeping her, he cursed and shoved her.

"Keep goin'," he said.

They walked on to the narrow flight leading up to the third floor.

It was a small, square room, again at the back of the house. There was a frayed rug on the floor, an old-fashioned bed and a high, mahogany wardrobe with its double doors hanging open. Green curtains had been drawn at the windows, which were unshuttered.

"Get on the bed."

She hesitated, sudden fright making her powerless to move. Santino lifted his hand and struck her a sharp blow and Joyce felt the blood hot on her lips. In spite of herself the tears came to her eyes.

She lowered herself, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He struck her again, without warning, and as she fell back, he lifted her feet so that she lay across the bed. He used a thin nylon rope to bind her ankles together, muttering under his breath as he worked. She lay there, staring at him when he ordered her to turn on her side and put her hands behind her back. She didn't move fast enough for him and he punched her with his fist.

He put the gag in her mouth, using a dirty, crumbled handkerchief, after cruelly binding her wrists together.

When he finished he turned her over so that she lay facing up. He stood back and stared down at her, again muttering under his breath. She tried to take her eyes from him, but there was something about the little man that hypnotized her. He was evil—evil and vile and terrible as he stood there watching her.

He started to move, leaning toward her, and at that moment they heard footsteps outside the door. It opened and Cribbins entered the room.

"Damn it, I told you to hurry it up," he said. "You got no time for fooling around now. I want you to go in and get Mitty."

Santino took his eyes from Joyce and looked at the other man. "Why the rush? You sure Mitty will be coming in?"

"Goldman said so. That's as sure as anyone can be. Go and get him."

"And then?"

"And then, damn it, come back here. We'll give Goldman until noon. He'll be driving up. Until noon—that's all."

"And if Mitty ain't on the train?" Santino asked. Cribbins looked at him blankly. He shrugged. "Come on back."

"Paula could go for him," Santino said.

"I want you to go."

Santino swore under his breath, but left the room, followed by Cribbins, who carefully locked the door from the outside. A few minutes later she heard a car start up somewhere below.

Miss Abernathy was watching out of her living-room window as Santino wheeled out of the driveway. She was getting ready to walk into town and do her weekly shopping at the supermarket.

Back in the kitchen, Luder lighted another of an endless chain of cigarettes and looking over at Paula, he half shook his head. "I don't like it," he said.

Paula didn't answer him.

Upstairs in the small square bedroom Joyce lay tense and still on the bed and stared at the ceiling. They were getting ready to make their getaway. She knew that the time had finally arrived. They were going to play it safe; there were going to be no loose ends. For the first time since that fatal morning, sheer horror came over her.

* * * *

When Mitty left the hotel on West Forty-Seventh Street, he knew he was being followed. He'd been followed every hour of every day since he had returned to New York, and it was beginning to get on his nerves.

Mitty wanted to get up to Cameron Corners. That's where the money was and that's where the others were. Cameron Corners represented safety. He knew that sooner or later he'd be picked up again. That business of getting out on bail had been too easy. The cops weren't that stupid, not even small-town cops like those guys up in Brookside. He knew why they'd made it easy for him; they figured he'd lead them to the others. And if, after a certain length of time, he failed to do so, why they'd just pick him up again and throw him in the can.

Another thing bothered him. How long would they wait for him up there in the hide-out? Just suppose things got a little hot and they had to blow the hide-out and find a new place—what then?

It wasn't that he didn't trust them—that is, it wasn't that he didn't trust Cribbins. Cribbins wouldn't let him down. But suppose Cribbins had to take it on the lam? The thing to do was to get up there and do it as soon as possible.

He could understand why the lawyer had warned him. The man who had come up from Goldman's office had made himself very clear.

"You're not to try and duck out and make your meet until the boss lets you know," he'd said. "You'll have to hang around for a few days until the heat cools off. The chances are ten to one they'll put a tail on you. So don't try to get in touch with us; don't try to get in touch with anybody. We'll keep in touch with you."

That had been several days ago, and still nothing had happened. No one had gotten in touch with him. No one had come near him except the two teams of cops who took turns tailing him.