Hostage For A Hood (8 page)

Joyce started to speak, but her companion quickly interrupted. "Let him bark," he said. "Just be sure about yourself."

The driver in the convertible was putting his license back in his wallet. A moment later and they waved him on and signaled for Joyce to move forward. She felt the cruel hard end of the gun poke into her ribs as she slowly released the clutch.

"Smile, damn you," Cribbins whispered. "Smile. Talk with me."

She fumbled with the hand brake as she stopped the car. She knew the color had left her face and she could see her hand trembling on the wheel.

The trooper was at the side of the car now and he was looking at the dog and half grinning. The other one, the one on Cribbins's side, had approached, but he was keeping his distance. He didn't see anything funny at all about the dog.

"Quiet, boy," Cribbins said.

"Like to see your license, miss," the trooper said. "Where are you headed for and where have you come from?"

She spoke as she reached into the leather bag for the license.

"What is it, Officer? What's happened?"

"Just a checkup, miss," he said. He extended his hand and waited.

"We're from Brookside," Joyce said, and the second the words left her mouth she caught the quick sharp look on the trooper's face. At the same time she again felt the prod of the gun in her side.

"I told you you were going a little fast, dear." Cribbins spoke suddenly. He looked at the trooper and frowned in irritation. "My daughter's supposed to be taking me for an airing in the country, but you'd think she was going to a fire." He smiled, and then coughed.

"We're not checking on speeding," the trooper said shortly. He looked down at the license. "Let's have the car registration, too."

He waited until she handed it to him and then looked at it very carefully.

"You're Mrs. Joyce Sherwood?"

"Yes." It came almost in a whisper. She tried to smile again, but couldn't quite make it. "My father's been sick," she said. "I'm taking him for a ride."

"What time did you start out?"

Joyce opened her mouth to speak, but Cribbins quickly cut in. His voice sounded old and querulous.

"Around eight-thirty," he said. "You see we hoped to get up to Pawling in time for lunch and I don't like Joyce to drive too fast."

Joyce felt the car shake slightly and a moment later, as she sat watching the trooper carefully checking her license again, periodically looking up at her to see that the description on the driver's certificate fitted, the trooper who'd been at the rear of the car circled to the side.

"Your trunk's locked, lady," he said. "Mind letting me have the key?"

For a moment she almost forgot her lines in her sudden terror. But the quick pain as Cribbins again poked the gun into her side brought her to. "It isn't locked," she said. "It's jammed. The key was lost and the trunk's jammed and we haven't been able to get it opened."

"I warned you," Cribbins said. "I warned you, Joyce. Said that we might want to be getting into it. What would happen if we should have a puncture or something."

He turned to the trooper and spoke in a tired voice.

"Break it open," he said. "Don't mind if you do. It would serve her right for not stopping and having it fixed."

The man checking the license looked up at Joyce and smiled. "Guess that won't be necessary," he said. "But you better stop at a garage and get the thing looked at. You might have a flat at that." He handed back the license. "Some dog you got there," he said. He stepped back and waved them on.

As the car pulled away, he turned to the officer who'd failed to get into the trunk. "They were from Brookside," he said.

"Jesus, maybe we should have taken a look in the back," the second trooper said. He seemed nervous.

"Don't be a damned fool," the first one said. "There's a hundred cars passed through here from Brookside and White Plains and down around there. You think that old guy and his daughter pulled the job? Maybe the pooch was the lookout." He laughed and waved the next car toward him. "Anyway," he said, "you heard the old buzzard invite you to break it open, didn't you? Well."

Ten miles north of Brewster, Cribbins told Joyce to turn off to the left of the road at a macadam intersection. Joyce, following directions, drove on for a few miles and then made a second turn. A mile beyond they entered the town of Cameron Corners.

Cameron Corners is an old farming town. Three or four times in the past fifty years small manufacturing enterprises were started up by local promoters, but little ever came of them. It wasn't until after World War II that the town began to grow at all, largely as a result of an influx of city people looking for weekend places in the country.

The larger of the two grocery stores took additional space and called itself a supermarket, and the other one went out of business. A couple of new gas stations and a second hardware store were opened. Outside of that, and a new open-air theater on the edge of town, very little has changed over the years. The post office was moved from the drugstore into a little one-story building of its own on the main street and that's about it.

Most of the houses had been built in the last part of the nineteenth century and they are painted uniformly white and kept in excellent repair. Lawns are kept trimmed and Cameron Corners remains a typical neat little New England village.

They entered the town from the south and Joyce followed Cribbins's directions, driving down the main street and out to the north end. They passed a number of small houses and he told her to make a left turn. She continued on for two more long blocks and once again he directed her to turn left.

It was a neighborhood of old, Victorian mansions set well back in spacious lawns, shaded by great oaks.

"Second place on the right," he said. "Turn in at the drive and go right on back to the garage."

There was a circular drive, passing the main door in the front and turning then to follow the side of the house. An old-fashioned carriage porch covered the drive.

The house itself was much like its neighbors. Four stories high, surrounded by wide verandas, it was covered with ivy. In its day it had been a fine mansion and the years had failed to alter its impressive dignity.

Behind the main building was the old carriage house, which had been converted into a garage. Its wide doors stood open and Cribbins directed Joyce to drive inside.

Joyce caught a quick glance of a face at the window as they passed the house. The face of a young, rather pretty girl, her dark eyes wide and startled.

She drove into the garage and just sat behind the wheel until Cribbins's voice brought her back to reality.

"We're here," he said. "Get out. And hang on to that damned dog."

As Joyce stepped to the floor of the carriage house, she noticed the sedan parked next to her own car.

Cribbins had her wait outside the barn and hold the dog by its leash while he pulled the doors closed. It was difficult, using only one hand.

They walked back down the long drive toward the side entrance of the house.

The street out in front was completely deserted and the hot sun-drenched air of midday seemed to hang heavy around them. Joyce shivered involuntarily as they approached the stoop leading up to the porch which circled the house.

* * * *

Santino watched the car until it turned and swung into the bypass leading up to the overhead road. When it had passed beyond his sight, he slowly dropped his eyes and for a moment just stood there. Then he looked up at the other two men. "The dirty son of a bitch," he said. "This is just great. Here we are, and there he goes with the only car and with the dough."

Mitty didn't say anything, but Luder spoke up. "It's best," he said. "The only thing he could do. This way there's a chance he may make it. The only chance. The four of us would be bound to be stopped. This way there's a chance."

"Yeah—a chance for him," Santino sneered. "But how about us? What happens to us now?"

"We do like he said," Luder said. "Split up. Get back to town and then tomorrow or the next day make it up to the hide-out."

"And I suppose he's just going to stay there waiting with the money, eh?"

Mitty's dull eyes suddenly sharpened and he turned quickly, grabbing the little man's arm in a hard grip. "You're damned right he'll be there waiting," he said. "You tryin' to tell us Cribbins would duck out?" His voice was ugly and Santino tried to pull away.

"Listen," Luder cut in. "For God's sake let's not start fighting now. We got enough problems. Don't worry about the boss—you know damned well he'll be up there waiting. What we got to do is start thinking about ourselves and how we can get back to town."

Mitty dropped the little man's arm and nodded sagely. "That's right," he said. "We gotta think about us. I'm for picking up a heap—quick."

Luder shook his head. "No," he said. "Too risky. Let's just split up and see what happens. Why don't one of you head for the depot and the other start out for the bus station. I'll take off for White Plains and get a train.

"Not me," Mitty said. "They'll be watchin' those depots and bus stops an' I'm known around this town. Don't forget, I worked here. The cops know me. I'll take my chances on a car."

"I don't like that train or bus idea either," Santino said. "I'm with Mitty. A car's best."

"Well, whatever we do," Luder said, "we gotta get started. We can't hang around here; this place will be hotter'n a pistol in no time at all."

"It's hot right now," Santino said. He, like the others, became aware of the far off wail of the police sirens.

Ten minutes later Luder and Santino slowly walked down a street a couple of blocks away. It was a quiet, middle-class residential street, all but deserted. They walked very slowly, watching a point half a block ahead where Mitty had found a car sitting at the curb. Mitty had passed the car once and he'd known immediately that given only two or three minutes undisturbed, he'd be able to get the engine started. They were almost opposite him when the police prowl car swung into the street at the corner. Luder saw it first and he reached out quickly and tapped Santino on the wrist.

"Cops," he said. "For Christ's sake keep on walking. Don't do anything but just walk, slow and easy. They won't be looking for a couple of guys out for a walk."

He spoke without moving his lips and looking straight ahead. It took iron control, but he didn't change pace. Once, however, his eyes darted across the street to where Mitty was working on the car.

Mitty himself had his back to the direction from which the police car was approaching and it was obvious that he was unaware of it. He leaned into the sedan, his hand up under the dashboard as he manipulated the wires. Luder wanted to warn him, but he had no time.

They had just passed Mitty when the police car screeched to a halt. Luder was in time to see Mitty look up, startled. And then the single cop in the car had leaped to the street, a gun in his hand.

They could hear Mitty's high-pitched voice as they continued down the street.

"That does it," Santino said, the moment they had turned the nearest corner. "That does it. Here's where you and I split. I'm taking a chance on the railway station. You do what you want. I'm headin' for the station."

"Okay," Luder said. "You try it that way. I'm going to hit the highway and see if I can hitchhike a ride. Whoever gets into town, if either of us make it, call Goldman. Tell him what happened; tell him they got Mitty."

Santino nodded and stepped out ahead of the other man.