Ransom Game (13 page)

“Where did Blackwood come from?” The question surprised me too, since it led away from the territory I wanted to explore.

“Oh, the usual places. She was well recommended, and she really is very efficient. It's true, whether I say it in my mother's voice or my own. I've never met anyone so organized. I've only seen her rattled once, and that was when she mixed up the mail the morning Daddy died.”

“Oh?”

“Detectives! Always on the lookout, aren't you? Well, the great letter mix-up happened
before
Daddy drowned. It was Blackwood who dived fully clothed into the pool after Daddy. She was too late, unfortunately. We were all too late. You should stop barking at her.” She didn't look straight at me when she said this, and I made a mental note. She was playing with the hem of her shirt-tail, winding it around her fingers. It made her look about twelve.

“Did you have bad dreams after the kidnapping?” I asked, wondering what sort of effect the question would have on her shirt-twirling.

“I still have them. Not as often now, of course, but sometimes. Even in the middle of the day, I can feel someone standing behind me about to pull an evil-smelling hood over my face. If you get to know me better, you may see me suddenly go bug-eyed and turn around quickly. I was under a doctor's care for over a year you know. It seems silly, I guess. I mean, I was only a prisoner for a few hours.”

“For most of a long weekend.”

“Just the same. Apart from tying me up, they didn't actually hurt me. They didn't even threaten me, or talk to me at all. I remember being so thirsty. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be encouraged to talk like this.”

“Tell me about your life before the kidnapping. Were you happy?”

“I should have been. I had every reason to be. I had everything I ever wanted from the cradle. I was never the poor little rich girl. Until two months ago, I had a father who loved me dearly. The George Warren that everybody knows from the business world wasn't Daddy. When he was with me, there was never a word about business. He was good and kind, and only wanted the best for me. Sometimes we disagreed about what ‘best' was, but we agreed in theory anyway.”

“You said you should have been happy.”

“Did I? Well, I suppose I must have been.”

“You had an older brother, didn't you?”

“Yes. Russell. He at least was spared the horror of the kidnapping. He died a couple of months before it happened. We were very close, Russ and I. When we were little, we were more like a pair of twin brothers than brother and sister. Especially at the farm. We felt free there, truly free. Pop was alive then. My grandfather. He showed us his secret world where he could escape his wife and the others. The three of us were always staying clear of my grandmother's search parties. Like three kids. Russ and I never fought the way most brothers and sisters fight. Well, I guess we had our disagreements, but they were trivial compared to our everyday fondness for one another. He would have died for me, and I for him. I miss him, Mr. Cooperman.”

“Call me Benny. Everybody does.”

“I sometimes think of things that I want to tell him, and then, when I remember that he's gone, it hurts all over again.” I was watching the shadows creep across the floor of the studio and crawl up the walls.

“He was killed in a car accident, wasn't he?”

“Yes. I don't like to talk about it. He always liked fast cars and he drove them fast. He was a wonderful driver. He used to drive his Lotus in car rallies. I remember feeling so proud one day when someone asked me if my brother was Russ Warren, the driver. Imagine that: ‘Russ Warren the driver.'” She grinned at me and I gave her the best I could manage. I saw hers fade quickly as she faced again the irreparable loss. I thought I'd better try a new line for a while.

“How old were you when your mother went away?”

“How tactful you are, Mr., I mean Benny. I must have been twelve or thirteen. Russ was two years older. He sheltered me from that too. Nobody knows what a wonderful person he was, Benny: a really wonderful human being.” I nodded and tried not to picture Russ Warren. I haven't met many really wonderful human beings in my time. Maybe I thought the compliment was a cheap label that tended to mark down the merchandise. She went on: “We were staying at the farm then. Of all the places we've lived, I think that those summers were the best. You can take the Riviera, the Costa Brava, Malaga, Sardinia. I'll take the old home farm any day.”

“Is it still the home farm, or is it now a housing development?”

“Oh, Daddy wouldn't have sold the farm. Never. And now I won't. It has too many memories for all of us. It was Daddy's home, where Pop raised his racehorses. When Pop died, it went to his oldest son. We didn't see much of it then, but when Uncle Henry died, four years ago, it came back to us. To Daddy, I mean. Sell the farm? It would be like selling part of your own body, an arm or a leg. You must see it sometime and try to imagine what it was like when it was being worked. I hate to go there now, because I always think that Russ will swing down from the hay mow, or jump out at me from a loft in the barn. He would go to great lengths to amuse me, Benny. We used to hide from the old folks, Russ, Pop, and I. Pop had a store of old Scotch. Russ and I used to smoke cornsilk cigarettes and later we blew our first grass. I do so miss him. I don't know what I'd do if it weren't for Bob. Bob's helped me so much.”

“What did your brother do, exactly, Mrs. Jarman?”

“Russ? Why, Russ could do anything. He could fix a motor or build a box-kite or find May morels or get me to stop crying. But, of course you mean what did he do as a job, don't you? Well, Russ never settled to anything. Sometimes he worked for Daddy. He couldn't stick wearing a tie, though. He hated jobs in the city. He had a lot of memberships that he attended to. You know, clubs.”

“But he didn't work in the sense of ‘I work,' ‘you work, ‘he, she or it works'?” I could see she didn't like that, so I let it drop. “Can you think of any reason why Johnny Rosa, that is assuming it was Johnny Rosa, why he would want to see you after all this time?”

“Of course not. I only saw him at the trial, remember.”

“Is there a chance he might think you know something that in fact you don't know?”

“I can't think what that might be. He can't believe that I know anything about the ransom money. Maybe he wants
more
money. Maybe he's trying to blackmail me.”

“Why?”

“‘Why?' How should I know what a criminal like that thinks he can get away with? It's not funny. I didn't hear anything in what he said that sounded in the least familiar. It seemed intended for somebody else.”

A door had opened on the balcony, and for a minute a tall male figure had looked over the balustrade, then begun to descend the spiral staircase. He didn't hurry.

“Do you think he will bother me again, Benny. Do you think I was right not to go directly to the police?” She looked over at the staircase. “Oh, Bob! You've missed tea. I'll have Blackwood get you something.” She jumped up and stopped Jarman dead in his tracks with a massive hug.

“Hey! What will people think?” He was well over six feet tall, and bald on top but with a fashionable moustache over a whole keyboard of smiling teeth. His eyes were penetrating and blue, his handshake bone-crushing. “Glad to know you, Mr. Cooperman,” he said when his wife had made the introductions. “Never mind about bothering Blackwood, dear. Maybe Mr. Cooperman will join me in a drink.” He looked up at me conspiratorially, and made for a sideboard with a tray of bottles on it. Inside he found ice in a small refrigerator and a shaker full of left-over martinis. I said I'd have a light rye with water. He passed a drink to Gloria and sat down beside her. He didn't look so big once he'd been partly swallowed by the deep leather couch. His suit was immaculate, but he'd given his blue and white tie a pull and a shift that said ‘I'm home.' I could picture him in an office easily. I could see him in a boardroom making the tough decisions, getting on airplanes bound for distant places, wearing a hard hat on a building site or by an oil well. He crackled with the kind of energy that governments don't tax.

“Mr. Cooperman's been giving me some advice about that call I told you about.”

“Good. I'm glad to hear you're taking this seriously, Gloria. It's nothing to fool around with. I can't imagine why this man would be harassing my wife again, Mr. Cooperman. You'd think ‘Once burned, twice shy.' wouldn't you?” I shrugged. I was no expert on what is usual or unusual among half-successful kidnappers. Besides, I was still getting used to the idea of a living Johnny Rosa. Jarman was still talking when I tuned in again over the top of my glass. “Are you thinking of reopening the kidnapping case, Mr. Cooperman?”

“Hardly that, Mr. Jarman. I …”

“Bob's the name. Please go on.”

“I was just going to say that I have no intention of reopening anything. I can't think that you'd want that either. Besides, I don't have a reason. You can't take an anonymous phone call to court. I had a hunch a couple of days ago that one of the hoodlums might try to contact your wife, and I was right. That's why she asked me here.”

“I'd like you to take charge of this, Benny,” Gloria said, with a sidelong glance at her husband, who nodded his approval. “If he phones again, I'll tell him to deal with you.”

“Fine. You know, you should consider getting the police involved. I mean that seriously. They could put a man at your door if that would make you feel more comfortable.”

“Right now, Benny, I think I'll get more sleep knowing that you're at the other end of the telephone.”

“Darling, I hate to break this up, but we have tickets to the Moscow Circus tonight. We're picking up the Bryants and the Attorney-General for cocktails in twenty-five minutes. Have you seen the Russian circus, Mr. Cooperman? It's the damnedest thing. Sorry to break up the meeting,” he said, getting up and offering me his hand again.

“I'll call Blackwood,” Gloria said pushing a button on the telephone.

“Don't trouble. I can let myself out. You'll get in touch if anything happens?”

“I promise. I feel better already. Thank you for coming.” She extended her hand and I took it, still smarting from Jarman's grip. She savaged my fingers too. It must run in the family. Her grip came out of a boiler works or a karate school. I let go and the hand went on stinging as I crossed the studio floor, found the door, and let myself out.

I didn't get far before Blackwood caught up with me.

“Mrs. Jarman wants you to have this,” she said, holding an envelope to me. She had a good face, but it was troubled. It was the face of a poised young woman, but as vulnerable as one of Gloria's dolls. She was about three inches shorter than Gloria Jarman, and insecure enough that every hair was in place. It was light brown hair and rolled under at the end of a cascade that circled her face Her brows were arched, clear and wide with eyes set well apart. Her neck was slender and her shoulders narrow. The dress, which was ochre or some earth colour, was loose-fitting in front, but caught tightly at the waist. It flared over her hips and fell down to mid-calf. She was almost smiling.

“No thanks, Blackwood. I don't think Mrs. Jarman owes me anything yet. I'll keep track, though, and will get in touch when I've done some work on her business. You hang on to it for me, will you?”

“As you choose, Mr. Cooperman. I assume you've discussed this with Mrs. Jarman?”

“It didn't need discussing. I thought it up by myself.”

“Why do you talk like that, Mr. Cooperman? What have we done to you? You sound so belligerent and prickly.”

“Guess I'm not used to having tea wheeled in on a trolley. Where I come from, we dip the bag in the cup and pass it on. You ought to try it sometime. It's fun.”

“Don't let the packaging fool you, Mr. Cooperman. Mrs. Jarman's a wonderful human being. She doesn't need all this.” She waved her hand around the darkening hall we were sharing with a few display cabinets full of the spoils of Greece and Rome. “Gloria Jarman is a rare person, Mr. Cooperman. In time you'll come to appreciate her rare qualities.”

“In which she abounds, I'm sure. Look, Blackwood …”

“Stop calling me that! You make me feel like there's a collar around my neck. My name is Helen Blackwood.”

“All right, Miss Blackwood. I get along fine with your boss. You can save the build-up. I've got wonderful human beings behind every pillar in this place, and frankly my opinion of the human race is tapering off. Your boss treated me fine. I don't have any complaints.” She took in her breath and turned heading for the stairs without saying any more. We went down the curving staircase with more of the same and she didn't turn to me again until we were both at the front door.

“So long, Miss Blackwood. Don't take me too much to heart. Remember that under this stony heart of mine lives a stony liver.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Cooperman.” She opened the door for me and I had one shoulder into the snow-flurry that had started while I was in the studio when I thought that it might be profitable to talk to her about all this.

“Is your job a sleep-in job, Miss Blackwood?” I took a second run at it. “What I mean is, do you ever get into town?” The explanation didn't help. I tried again. “There are some angles to all this that are still vague. Things I didn't want to trouble Mrs. Jarman about, what with the show she's preparing and all.”

“Oh, I see, you'd like to talk to me.” She considered the proposition for a moment, frowning. “Now let's see what I can do.” Then she looked me right in the eye and fired. “Look, Mr. Cooperman, I think we've made a bad start with each other, and I'm sorry. I've developed a manner in this job. There's nothing personal, I assure you.” I nodded my willingness to take her word for it.