The Stand-In (13 page)

She pulled away from him. “What are you talking about? What are you talking about?”

“I'll explain. Did Bran tell why I called? At about one
A.M.?”
He took his hand away so she could nod. There were red marks where his fingers had been. “What did he tell you?”

“He said about an interview.”

Nube tapped the paper. “Not
an
interview,
this
one, this one with the picture of the three of you! Did he tell you that? No? Well, I called about this particular picture, and I told him to make absolutely and immediately sure that this photo and this item did not appear in Eunice Merson's column this morning.”

“When Bran said it was you on the phone, Millie was so scared. She thought, you know, the money—”

“And since Nube was going to get up the money, nothing else Nube did was important to the little girl, but Nube was only trying to save the little girl's life!”

“I don't under—under—”

“When I found out it was Kitten they'd snatched—You don't know your sister contacted my cousin Alec for the money? Well, that's not important, only Alec came to me and told me that it was Kitten who was missing. I remembered that the release with the photo was set for today and I realized at once—a death warrant.” He had lowered his voice, but Coral's head jerked toward the bedroom door. “So I climbed out of the pool and called here. I told your husband to call Eunice Merson pronto and make her yank the story. I told him not to say why, so there'd be no chance of leakage; just say that Nube Ossian
insisted
she yank it. I said he should promise that Nube would make it up to her. Well”—he chopped the back of his hand against the paper Coral was holding—“did he? No, he didn't. He didn't get hold of Eunice Merson. He allowed this to appear.”

“But you don't know—”

“I know. If you're telling me that maybe in England the fear of Nube Ossian and the fear of God aren't the same thing, and that Merson might have refused to yank it, or maybe there just wasn't time—” He clapped his small hands together, then pressed them against his cheek. “Branton didn't call her. Nobody called. She was home in bed all night and nobody called. Her telephone didn't ring once.”

“I don't understand.”

“Oh, doll, doll! I'll spell it out for you: Those kidnappers have brains. They'd know just as I knew in the swimming pool that we'd keep this out of the news until the kid was safe if she was worth—” he unclasped his hands to snap his fingers—
“that
to us! This is a signal to them that all they have on their hands is trouble.”

“She's a baby. She's a sweet—a sweet—”

“It's not a sweet world, darling. When they read this and find they've made one mistake, believe me, believe your Nube, they won't take the chance of making another.

“Your dear husband saw to that, doll. A jury wouldn't say he killed the little girl, but you and I will know he did.” He took her chin again, but gently this time, and kissed her forehead. “You figure it out, darling, I've got to go. I'm not expecting you on the set today, and the fifty thousand pounds are in a sealed envelope. I gave it to Julian. He'll be working on the mail in my rooms. He also has a transfer, which turns over the
Wind
rights to me. All your dear husband has to do to get the money is sign it. You tell him that, see what happens.”

When Nube left, Coral didn't go in to Millie or ask her to come back to the sitting room, pretending she believed Millie could really be relaxing. Her head throbbed and she wanted to throw up.
Bran
. It was difficult to remember what Bran had been like when she married him; all she knew for sure was that she would have had Cornie without being married, if she hadn't liked Bran. After all, she wouldn't be the first or last star to hide out and give birth without anyone knowing and then adopting her own child. She had married Bran because she
liked
him, because she thought kids should have both a father and a mother, and the first time she met Bran she'd thought what a good father he'd make, so serious, not a swinger at all.

Twenty minutes later, so that it did look as if he had been giving Nube time to come and leave, Bran strolled in, still serious, still no swinger. He looked worried but with a clear conscience. Coral could tell he had worked out the way he should look; she could always tell.

“Where's Millie?”

She nodded toward the bedroom.

“Sleeping? We'll all need twenty-four hours in the sack when this is over.” He yawned, stretched, stopped in the middle of the stretch as if he had just noticed her expression. “What is it, Coral? Did they call already? Nothing new, is there?”

He allowed his stretching hands to drop to his sides, plop. He was waiting. He was an innocent worried man waiting. Coral said, “No, they didn't call. Nube was here. Julian has the money in a sealed envelope, and Nube has the transfer of the rights drawn up. Julian will give you the envelope when you sign the transfer.” Coral found she couldn't wait while he went on with his act. She shoved the newspaper at him still folded open to the picture of Cornie between Bran and herself. Bran looked, shrugged, did a “What about it?” which she cut short, telling him what about it, although she kept her voice down for Millie's sake. “How could you do this? How could you
do
it? How low can you get?”

“How low can I get? How high can
you
get? Get the hell off that mountain top and stop giving me the Ten Commandments. I realize God himself handed them to you like He handed them to Moses. Well, Nube only thinks he is God Almighty!” His voice raised.

“Sh!”

Now he spoke quietly, with quiet pauses between words. “Just because Nubar Ossian calls and orders me to see this is kept out of the papers didn't mean I had to. I made up my own mind and I don't take orders from Nube when I'm not on the set. It so happens I thought it
should
be in, that it was the
best
thing possible.

“Figure it out yourself: The kidnappers will know they don't have Cornie and they'll realize that fifty thousand pounds is out of the question. I tell you, after Nube called I worked it out for myself, walking. I must have covered half London. So I was ready for them when they phoned at nine-thirty and said that we'd do what we were told, positively no police, no funny stuff, but a
reasonable
sum. I knew that when they read the item they'd be ready to be reasonable.”

“Nube says it's a death warrant.”

“Nube
says? Of course Nube says. You know what Nube wants.”

“He says they won't take the chance now.”

“And what makes him right? I can be right, too, can't I? Are you blind? Can't you see it's to his advantage to make you think his way? Well, maybe you can't, but I can.”

“Bran, please go down and sign that thing and get the money. Then if they call, at least we can say we changed our mind. We'll pay the fifty thousand. Bran, we can't take any chance Nube's right.”

“No, sir! No!”

He plumped himself down on the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. She knew that if she spoke to him, he wouldn't answer. His mother said, like it was something to be proud of, that when Bran sulked, you better make up your mind to wait until he decided to stop.

12

Upstairs Kitten had begun to cry again, but Ronnie didn't notice. As far as Ronnie was concerned, thought Desmond, she was dead already and in her grave. She stopping crying, and the Victorian bedroom was quiet except for the faint sounds from the very occasional car that passed on the road outside the brick wall. Ronnie was lying on the flowered carpet on his back, with both hands under his head and one leg crossed over the other. Ronnie had spoken, and now Ronnie was finished speaking except that the way he lay there showed just what he thought of that poor kid. And what he thought of Desmond.

It was noon. The high sun made the red of the Ax-minster carpet look dusty and blurred the sharpness of the red roses and red rosebuds and green and yellow leaves and the bright blue ribbons that tied the roses.

Then Ronnie sat up and pulled his knees under his chin, taking one of those poses which in America would have meant a queer, but not here. He said, “Time to make the phone call.”

Desmond, who had been pacing up and down, now sat on the step to the brass bed. “Go make it, then.”

“No cooperation? Very well, I'll be back in half an hour.” Ronnie got to his feet. “See me out, Desmond? No? Now whatever's become of the little gentleman?”

Desmond whispered, “I'll see you in hell,” blushing because it sounded so corny. “See yourself out.”

He waited to hear the Jag start before dashing up the stairs three at a time. The kid heard him and began to cry again, but then broke off. Scared, poor little bastard. “Quick! Get up!” he called before he reached the landing.

When he opened the door, she was in the middle of the room with the cape dragging on the linoleum, looking as big as a dime. He held out his arms and picked her up because she was, he remembered, so slow on the stairs. He would carry her as far as he could, leave her on a main road, coach her to say her name and that she was lost. “Please take me to St. Georges Hotel on Langham Place, London.”

Whoever picked her up would either drive her there or take her to the cops. He was going downstairs so fast she had to hold on tight, and he felt her breath against his cheek.

To open the heavy front door he had to shift her, and this time she tried, he thought, to help, to make herself lighter. Maybe she knew he wanted to save her life. He pulled the door closed so Ronnie wouldn't know they were gone until he got back upstairs again. They needed all the time they could get.

He ran down the road lined with bushes and trees and reached the gate, which Ronnie had closed but not locked. He would close that again, too. By now he was so winded that his breath roared in his ears. The kid was absolutely quiet, not a peep out of her, so if he hadn't had that roaring in his ears he might have heard Ronnie. As it was, Ronnie grabbed the kid away so that her scream and the sound of the car door being closed followed each other. The yellow Jag was pulled to the side of the road.

Ronnie called out, “Get in.”

With no car in sight and the kid with Ronnie, there was nothing else to do. He got into the car and pulled Kitten on his lap because Ronnie said to shut her up or he would. Desmond put his arms around her and pressed her wet cheek against his heaving chest and whispered, “Sh-h-h, Kitten. You're okay, Kitten.”

“Now we're going to make that phone call.” Ronnie stopped the Jag next to a public phone booth and took the ignition keys out of the car. Then he showed Desmond the pistol. “I keep this in the glove compartment these days. It's loaded. I don't, as they say, want to use it, but I will. I'd rather be hanged than doing my bird, you nit.”

Ronnie waited until there was no car in sight. Through the glass of the booth he watched to see if Desmond had moved. But all Desmond could do was hold the poor kid against him and shush her and run his hand over her soft hair.

Ronnie came back to the car and said he'd set the place and time. He stood there grinning because it was all such a joke, except his hand in his pocket with the pistol pointed at the kid; then he got in and turned the car toward the house again. When they reached the gate, Ronnie pulled the kid on his lap so Desmond had to open and close it. He rushed because the idea of Kitten on Ronnie's lap made him see Ronnie's gloved hands on her throat. (He wouldn't use the gun unless he had to.) Desmond felt the sweat on his palms as he shoved the gate shut. When he climbed back in, Ronnie, grinning, handed her to him.

She did know the difference between the two of them, no doubt about it. She snuggled against him. Yeah, she knew; only thing was Ronnie knew, too.

13

The phone had not rung once the whole morning because everybody who would be wanting to contact either Coral or Bran believed they were on the set. When at twelve-fifteen it did ring, Millie came running out of the bedroom where she had stayed since her sister had sent her there. Coral was lying face down on the sofa because she didn't want to look at her husband; now she turned over and sat up, shivering.

Bran characteristically set the shoulders of his jacket before he picked the phone up. He said, “Hello, this is Branton Collier.” Then he said, “I'll talk to you.”

As he listened, his eyes fixed, Coral noticed, the way they did when he was memorizing lines. Her hand went to her heart, which began to thump.

Then Bran said, “She'll be there with three thousand pounds. Absolutely no cops.” He listened, then, like Mr. Big Business, set the phone back, straightened up, and turned to Coral. “He said, ‘Right. Three thousand.' Do you hear that, Coral? ‘Right. Three thousand.'” Suddenly he did his imitation of Jackie Gleason doing his happy fat boy dance routine. “Now who's right, Coral? Nube or me?” At last he noticed Millie and stopped, his hands still Jackie Gleason flippers. “It's okay, Millie.”

He picked up the pen Coral had put near the phone and wrote on the pad, even making flourishes, then waved the pad above his head as if it was a banner. “I've got it all down, time and place. We'll get a map, Coral. At four o'clock you have to drive down the street at five miles per hour so they can make sure you're not tailed. When you see a woman step to the curb, stop the car.

“The woman will hold out her hand to you, Coral; that means she's the one. You hand over the three thousand in a flight bag and she will release Kitten. Then you put Kitten into the car and continue up the street without stopping and turn left at the corner. You better sit down, Millie, you look as if you were going to pass out.”

Millie said to her sister, “He told them three thousand pounds. They asked for fifty thousand. Coral, why did he say three thousand?”