Leopold's Way (9 page)

“Sure. Sure will. Always glad to co-operate.”

Leopold went back to the car, where the two kids were hanging in the window listening to the police calls. He was about a block away from the Blazer's when a call came in for him. “23 Charlie 4.”

“Leopold here.”

“Urgent message from Dain Moore. Please go at once to the Glory Hill address.”

“Right.” Leopold made a U-turn and headed back in the general direction of the Clement house, wondering what in hell had happened now….

Moore and Fletcher were waiting for him when he pulled up in front of the house, a few minutes after noon. He noticed that Clement's car was in the driveway. If he'd gone to the bank for the money, he was back already.

“What's up?” Leopold asked.

“Another ransom note. Just came by special delivery.”

“Different instructions?”

“No,” Moore said quietly. “Different kidnapper.”

“What?” Leopold didn't understand.

“Read it. We've already checked for prints.”

Leopold accepted the unfolded sheet of paper gingerly, as if it might explode. It was neatly typewritten on a letterhead of the Hotel Hudson:

MISTER GEORGE CLEMENT—IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE YOUR DAUGHTER ALIVE AGAIN, WITHDRAW FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS IN TWENTY-DOLLAR BILLS FROM YOUR BANK AND HOLD THEM FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

L. M.

“Who in hell is L. M.?” Leopold asked, of nobody in particular.

“Leopold and Moore,” the F.B.I, man answered. “We already asked her father that one. Went over his Christmas card lists and the list of officers at his company. No L. M. Fletcher here phoned Karen's high school. There's a junior named Lawrence McCarthy, but he never even knew Karen.”

Fletcher shrugged. “Probably stands for Lotsa Money or something. A kidnapper would never sign his right initials anyway, so why worry?”

Moore tapped the note. “The important thing is that it was obviously written by a different person. Different amount, different instructions, everything. So which note do we believe?”

“At this point, both of them,” Leopold said. “Any trace on the typewriter?”

Moore smiled. “We haven't been sleeping. The letter got here thirty-five minutes ago, and ten minutes later I had a man checking typewriters in the lobby of the Hudson. It was done on a pay typewriter they keep up on the mezzanine. You know, quarter in the slot and you can type for a half-hour. The letterheads are there for the taking.”

“And nobody noticed anyone using it?”

“Nope. Letter was postmarked at the main post office at three this morning, which narrows the timing a bit.”

“But doesn't help us,” Leopold said. “Nothing helps on this damned case. Fletcher, get on the phone and see that the newspapers hold off a little longer. We can't have this story breaking tonight. Not with this new note.”

Moore accepted one of Leopold's cigarettes and settled down in a chair. “Mrs. Clement's sleeping upstairs,” he said. “The doctor was in, gave her some pills. It's been tough on her.”

Leopold nodded. “It may get a whole lot tougher, when we find Karen.”

“You think she's dead?”

“Fifty-fifty at this point. What about that typewriter? You got a man watching it in case he tries to use it for the next note?”

Dain Moore nodded. “But if the guy's got any brains he typed all his messages at once so he wouldn't have to go back there.”

“Clement's got the money?”

“Yeah. It makes a good-sized package in small bills. He figures he's getting out of it easy. Ten thousand's not much to him.”

“Five thousand's even less.” Leopold could feel a headache coming on, probably from his lack of sleep. He knew he wasn't as young as he used to be. The long hours and the chasing bothered him now. “We've got a two-bit kidnapper who still finds the game important enough to commit murder.”

“So we go to the park at six?”

Leopold shrugged. “That part's your show, Dain.”

“Then we go to the park at six….”

The statue of Henry Hudson stood in Hudson Park, a few blocks from the hotel of the same name. It was a small, bushy green park in a corner of downtown overlooking the river, and during the summer months it was a favorite noontime gathering place for secretaries and young businessmen who brought their sandwiches to eat on one of the green-and-white benches scattered about the area. Though the park in May was constantly full of people, Leopold saw at once that the deposit point for the money had been chosen with care. The statue of Hudson backed up to a heavy backdrop of bushes and, once the money was deposited behind it, anyone could approach it through these bushes without fear of being seen.

But Moore had placed his men with care, and Leopold had supplemented them with some of his own. One man ran a lawn mower over a growth of grass hardly yet in need of its first seasonal cutting. Another lounged on a park bench, reading a newspaper. Fletcher sat behind the wheel of a taxi, and Moore himself was on the scene in the guise of a balloon salesman.

At exactly six o'clock, George Clement left his car at the curb and walked quickly across the damp grass to the statue of Hudson. He carried a brown paper bag about the size of an unabridged dictionary. As he reached the statue, he looked around once, a bit too casually, and deposited his burden behind the statue. The bushes immediately swallowed it up.

Ten minutes after Clement had departed, Leopold cautiously drove his car into a vacant parking space and got out. He stood by the car for another five minutes, glancing at his watch, then strolled over to the balloon seller who was doing no business at all. “What do you think?” he asked Dain Moore.

“Too early to tell. Want a balloon?”

“No thanks.” Leopold's casual eyes swept the area of the park. “Your men are in the bushes?”

Moore nodded. “Five of them. One's practically sitting on that bundle.”

“Who's that?” Leopold said suddenly. “He's not one of us.” A middle-aged man in not-quite-shabby clothes had left the walk and was crossing the grass in the general direction of the statue. He carried a sort of knapsack over his shoulder and in his hand were a number of small red flowers.

Moore squinted into the lowering sun. “He's one of these veterans selling poppies. Memorial Day is coming up, you know.”

“He's going to sell one to Henry Hudson's statue, maybe? Come on!”

Just as the man reached the statue and started around to the rear of it, one of the F.B.I. men sprang on him from the bushes. Leopold and Moore, trailing balloons, were on him from the rear, and Fletcher was hopping out of his cab.

“What the hell!” the captive gasped, his knapsack of poppies toppling to the grass. “Get your damned paws off me!”

“I know him,” Leopold said, letting out his breath. “Zingo Charlie Taft. A narcotics pusher.”

“Like hell!” Zingo Charlie growled, struggling to be free.

“What were you doing behind the statue, Zingo?”

“Drop dead.”

“This is a federal rap, Zingo. These are F.B.I.”

That scared him. “I don't know a thing! I was across the square 'bout fifteen minutes ago and I see this guy drop a package there, behind the statue. I just come over to see what it was.”

Fletcher was going through the poppies on the ground. Suddenly he held up a handful of small packets. “Morphine,” he said. “Zingo's still in business.”

Leopold sighed and took out his handcuffs. “Zingo, only you would think of selling morphine along with poppies for Memorial Day. But I'm sorry you happened along just now. Take him down to headquarters, boys. Nothing more's going to happen here now….”

They sat around in Leopold's office, watching the hands of the big wall clock work their way around to eleven. Depression was heavy in the air. As heavy as the cigarette smoke.

“You're sure Zingo's not involved?” Dain Moore asked for the tenth time.

Leopold shook his head. “The guy's not smart enough for a kidnapper. Besides, nobody would be peddling morphine on the way to pick up ten thousand bucks in ransom money. No, he probably just saw the money drop, like he said.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Where does it leave Karen Clement?”

Fletcher lit another cigarette. “God, I'd hate to be her about now. Ten to one we don't find her alive.”

Moore squinted into the smoke. “Well, there's still the second kidnapper to be heard from, whoever he might be.”

“If the first kidnapper was there within sight of the statue tonight, he might already have killed her.” Fletcher was in a glum mood.

But Leopold was more hopeful. “We must assume that kidnapper number one is no longer active. Otherwise why did this L. M. send the second note? And cut the ransom in half?”

The phone at Fletcher's elbow buzzed and he picked it up. “Captain Leopold's office. Fletcher here…. Yes? Where?…Good, bring it in and check for prints.” He hung up and rose from his chair. “A little action. They just found Thomas Sane's car, abandoned in a parking lot over on Grant Avenue.”

Leopold came alert. “Where?”

“Grant Avenue near River Street.” River was some three blocks from the Blazer's.

“Look, get a couple of men to cover an ice house at Grant and Brook, will you, Fletcher? It's a beer place called Blazer's. Probably just a coincidence, but we can't overlook a thing. Maybe in the morning I'll ask for a search warrant. In the meantime, I want it watched.”

Fletcher went out and Moore stayed a while longer with Leopold. By midnight they were all ready to go home, but Leopold stopped first at the police garage to look at the car they'd towed in. Fletcher was down there with a finger-print man.

“Any luck, Fletcher?”

“Not a thing. Wiped clean around the steering wheel. Found a print on the mirror that looks like Sane's.”

“I'm going home to bed.”

“One thing, Captain.”

“What?”

“The seat's pushed up to the forward position. The car was driven by a shorter man than Sane. This Blazer fellow…”

Leopold thought back to the little red-haired man. “Yeah, he's short, all right.”

“Should we get that search warrant?”

“Let's see what morning brings.”

Outside, it was starting to rain….

Morning—the morning mail—brought the second letter from L. M. Leopold read it in Clement's living-room at twenty minutes after ten. It was short and to the point:

MISTER GEORGE CLEMENT—BRING THE MONEY TO THE BASEMENT MEN'S ROOM AT HUDSON HOTEL. LEAVE IT IN WASTE BASKET UNDER PAPER TOWELS. BEFORE NINE TONIGHT.

L. M.

It had been written on the same typewriter, using the same Hudson Hotel letterhead. Their kidnapper seemed to be partial to the Hudson.

“All right, what are you going to do now?” Clement demanded. “Is it going to be another botched-up job like last night?”

Leopold was solemn. “I hope not.”

“If anything's happened to Karen, it'll kill my wife.”

“I think your daughter's still alive, Mr. Clement. I think with a little luck we can keep her that way.”

He was very near the point of collapse. “What do you want me to do?”

Dain Moore was unhappy. “This is a lot trickier than just leaving the money behind a statue in the park. Our man knows we can't search everybody coming out of that men's room, and naturally he'll wait till the place is empty before he goes after the money. He'll hide it in his clothes and be gone before we know what's happened.”

Fletcher thought about that. “If it's the Captain's friend Blazer we'll recognize him.”

“And if it isn't?” Clement asked. “Do you really think he'll release my daughter after he already has a murder against him?”

Moore ran his tongue over dry lips. “About all we can do, sir, is hide a camera somewhere outside the door to this men's room. If he gets by us, at least we'll have his picture.”

“All right,” Leopold said. “You work on that angle. I've got a few things of my own to check on. Fletcher, you examined Sane's apartment, didn't you?”

“Went over every inch of it. Didn't find a thing.”

“Let's go look at it again.”

“You on to something?”

“Just maybe. Mr. Clement, you'll take your instructions from Moore. But you might start getting the five thousand ready.”

“It's little enough to pay for her return.”

Leopold stared at him for some seconds. “It may end up costing you more. Let's hope not.”

They drove to the run-down section of the city where Thomas Sane had lived out his last years on earth. His apartment was over a little neighborhood grocery store where a woman customer was arguing loudly with the clerk about the price of oranges. “Nice place,” Leopold said.

“Sane was on his way out.”

“He made it.”

Upstairs, Fletcher unlocked the door and waited patiently while Leopold went over the two rooms with care. He went first to the kitchen, where he rummaged through the drawers, then to the bedroom, concentrating his attention on a battered little desk bulging with unpaid bills.

“You're looking for something special,” Fletcher said.

“You guessed it.”

“What?”

Leopold smiled and let his hand dive into one of the open drawers. “This!” he said triumphantly, holding it up for Fletcher to see.

“It's nothing but a blank sheet of paper from a kid's tablet.”

“It's only blank for those who will not see, Fletcher. Come on.”

“Where to now?”

“You're going up to the hotel to check on things there. I'm paying a return visit to Karen's high school.”

Classes were still in session, and it took him some time to locate Harry Waygon. The youth was secreted in a little room behind the auditorium stage, poring over a script. Leopold pushed through a tangle of hanging costumes that would have done credit to a Broadway house, and said, “We meet again, Harry.”