Hostage For A Hood (21 page)

It was Monday evening, a week from the day they'd pulled the Rumplemyer job, and Mitty was getting worried. He knew that if the police decided to pick him up again for questioning, it might be a lot more difficult to get him out. The cops were always able to hold a man if they really wanted to; they had a million ways of doing it. This was especially true of a man like himself, a man with a record and without important connections.

Walking down Broadway, Mitty took the opportunity at a cross light to turn and look behind him. There were two of them now, the tall, thin one with the blue suit, and the heavy, middle-aged one who always carried a rolled-up newspaper. They were about a block behind him. He could tell; they might as well have been wearing uniforms.

The light changed and Mitty crossed the street and walking another half a block, turned and entered a cafeteria. He'd been coming here every evening for his dinner; it was the place the lawyer had told him to go for his meals.

Mitty went to the counter and found a tray and silverware. He ordered a fish plate and picked up bread and butter and a glass of milk and then took the tray to the front of the cafeteria where he found a table facing the window. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the tall cop had followed him into the place and had picked up a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He was seated several tables away. Mitty looked out through the window and wasn't surprised to see the other cop seated in a black sedan at the curb in front of the cafeteria.

He was turning back to his food when the man in the open sports shirt walked past the table, hesitated a moment looking around the crowded restaurant, and then turned back and pulled up a chair.

He didn't look at Mitty as he took the food off of his tray and put it down. When the tray was empty, he leaned over to place it on one of the unused seats. Then he spoke. His lips barely moved and his voice didn't carry more than a few inches, but Mitty heard him.

"Tomorrow morning," he said. "The seven-fifteen to Poughkeepsie. You'll be met."

Mitty coughed, covering his mouth. He didn't look at the other man.

Sitting down, his companion reached for the sugar and again his words reached Mitty. This time Mitty was looking directly at him, but he saw no movement of his lips at all.

"There are two of them on you," he said. "One outside in a car, one a few tables away. Have you made them? Don't speak, just take out a cigarette if you have."

Mitty reached for a cigarette.

"Dump them tonight. Hit an all-night movie and get that train in the morning. But be absolutely sure you've gotten rid of them. Don't take any chances."

Ten minutes later Mitty got up and left the cafeteria. He walked to the corner of Forty-Third Street and found a cab at the stand. He climbed into the back and closed the door.

"South on Seventh Avenue," he told the driver. "I'll tell you when to stop."

As the cab pulled away from the curb, he turned and looked behind. The sedan was following. There were two men in the front seat.

Mitty had to laugh. Two cops. Well, it made it a little more complicated, but still they'd be a cinch. The first thing to do was to cut it down so the odds would be a little more even.

Mitty leaned forward on the seat and held two single dollar bills in his hand.

"When you get to Fourteenth Street," he said, "cross if you have the lights and then slow down on the other side. Just enough so I can jump out quick."

The driver looked at him in the rear-vision mirror curiously, then reached a hand back for the money. "Okay," he said. "It's your neck, bud."

The lights were right and the cab driver crossed Fourteenth. Just past the intersection, he braked and pulled toward the sidewalk. Mitty had the door open and was out of the cab before the car came to a stop. He ducked into the subway kiosk and ran down the steps. Putting a token into the turnstile, he walked out onto the platform. In the distance he heard the rumble of an approaching train.

Risking a look, he saw that the taller of the two detectives had just entered the station. The man pressed through the turnstile and stood on the platform several yards away. Mitty knew that his partner would stay with the car until he heard from the other man.

When the train came in, Mitty climbed aboard. The doors closed and the train started south. Mitty knew that the thin man was at the other end of the car.

They both got off at Houston Street station. Mitty walked over to a coin machine and inserted a nickel, fumbling with the machine and shaking it. He was killing time until the two or three persons on the platform left. A minute or so later he strolled down the platform and entered the men's room. It took him only a second or two to reach into his pocket and take out the handful of quarters which he twisted up in the handkerchief. Then he went back to the platform.

The tall, thin detective was waiting a few feet from the entrance. Instead of avoiding him and going toward the exit, Mitty suddenly swung around and walked directly toward him. The man was watching him curiously as he approached. Mitty had a cigarette in his mouth.

"Say, mister," Mitty said, "you got a match?"

The detective stared at him coldly and half turned away. "No smoking in the subway," he said.

"No?" Mitty said. He reached up to take the cigarette from his mouth with the hand which concealed the tightly rolled up quarters. "That's a shame," he said, and as he spoke his hand suddenly lashed out.

Mitty could hear the click of the coins as the blow struck the side of the detective's head. The handkerchief split open and the quarters fell to the cement floor. The thin man also fell and Mitty caught him with an uppercut as he was halfway down.

He turned and walked casually to the exit. Passing the change taker's booth, he looked into the startled eyes of the clerk on duty.

"The son of a bitch made an indecent proposal to me," he said.

Twenty minutes later and he'd found an all-night theater.

T
he sensible thing would have been to wait. The man was bound to return sooner or later. But Bart Sherwood found it impossible to just sit there and do nothing. He had read the note on the door, checked his watch.

Harding apparently lived alone, as there was no sign of anyone about the place. The dog, however, should be around. It wouldn't be likely the man would take him to town with him.

It went against his grain to do it, but Bart stepped off the porch and rounded the corner of the house. He looked in through an unshaded window. There was nothing and so he walked back and looked into the kitchen through a second window. Then he whistled and called Flick's name. If Flick had barked in answer he would have waited. But there was no sign of the animal and so he climbed into the car. Twenty minutes later he was back in Cameron Corners.

A quick drive down the main street convinced him the logical place for Harding to sell his eggs would be the supermarket. He parked the car and entered. Corwell Harding was leaving the manager's office, pocketing his wallet, as Sherwood stopped at the cashier's cage and put his question. The cashier pointed the man out and Bart quickly crossed the almost empty store.

"Mr. Harding?"

Harding looked up, opened his mouth to answer and then stammered, suddenly at a loss for words. He knew at once that this must be the man whom he'd telephoned about the dog.

It took a little time for Bart to explain why he had been delayed and then more time for Harding to tell him about the dog. He was embarrassed about it. And this man, Sherwood, couldn't quite seem to get it through his head that the dog had once more escaped. He seemed utterly baffled, totally crestfallen by the news.

They walked to the front of the store as Bart continued to question him.

"He just wandered in," Harding said. "Like I told you, last Wednesday it was. No, I'd never seen the dog before. Have no idea where he could have come from. He looked all right, not hurt or anything. Except he was pretty near famished."

"And now he's gone again," Bart said, his voice helpless and tired. "Gone."

Harding nodded. "I'm sorry," he began, "but ... "

"Maybe someone around has seen him. I can advertise ... "

Harding shook his head. "No paper here," he said. "But he certainly couldn't have gone far, not in just these last few hours. Now, if you were to just sort of drive around and ask." He hesitated, looking past Bart's shoulder. Suddenly he touched the edge of his hat and bowed.

"Morning, Miss Abernathy."

He half turned and Bart turned with him.

Bertha Abernathy stopped and dropped her shopping bag to the floor. "How are you, Corwell," she said.

Harding said he was fine. "Say, Miss Abernathy," he said, looking up sharply. "You haven't by any chance seen a dog running around loose? A black French poodle. This here gentleman ... "

Miss Abernathy looked up at the ceiling and thought for a moment. She turned to Bart when she spoke.

"The fact is, I did, only a short time ago," she said. "It was right after I left the house. The reason I noticed him, he was wearing a collar and there was a short leash attached to it. Only I don't think it could be this man's dog."

"No?"

"No. I think it belonged to those folks who rented the old Bleeks house, across the street from me. Brown's their name. They're new. Anyway, last Monday Mrs. Brown's father came to visit her—with his own nurse, if you please—and the nurse had a black French poodle. I think that was the dog I saw this morning. It looked like the same dog that showed up at the Bleeks place on Monday."

Bart Sherwood looked at her sharply. "You say the dog first showed up here on Monday."

"That's right, young man. On Monday."

Fifteen minutes later Bart Sherwood drew up in front of the old Bleeks, house and parked the car. For a moment he just sat there and stared at the house.

It was probably completely ridiculous. He wondered just what he would say, what he could say. There probably wasn't even the remotest connection between the dog who belonged to the woman who'd been renting this house and his own dog. On the other hand, Flick had definitely been in Cameron Corners. Flick had disappeared the very day this other poodle had arrived in the town. It could mean nothing, or it could mean ...

He was still thinking about it, wondering just what to do, when his eye caught the movement at the window.

It was a small thing, the mere quick dropping of a curtain as someone stepped away from the window inside of the room. But there was something oddly secretive about it. Someone had been watching him, someone who didn't want to be seen.

Quickly he got out of the car. That strange, surreptitious movement had been enough to decide him.

He had to wait several minutes before his knock was answered.

* * * *

"I've got this fellow Sherwood on the outside wire," the desk sergeant said over the intercom. "He wants Sims and Sims isn't in so I thought I'd see if you wanted to talk to him. He seems a little excited, Lieutenant."

Detective Lieutenant Parks jerked erect in his chair.

"You're damned right I want to speak to him," he said. "We've been trying to reach him for hours. Put him on." He grabbed for the outside phone and waiting only to be sure that the connection was made, spoke quickly, before Sherwood had a chance to say anything.

"Where the hell have you been?" he yelled. "We've been trying to get hold of you. Something has ... "

Bart quickly cut in.

"I'm up in a place called Cameron Corners," he said. "Got here early this morning. Someone reported finding Flick—that's the poodle who was with Mrs. Sherwood when ... "