Ransom (11 page)

The line to Sydney was, inexplicably, a bad one. Only Brigid Malone was at home and she keened as if at a wake. He could see her in his mind’s eye, holding the phone almost at arm’s length, shouting into it as if she were on a direct line to Hell: “Wait till I get me glasses - I can’t see you for weeping!”

“Mum!” He found he was yelling too, chasing her down the thousands of miles as she went looking for her glasses. Then he realized what he was doing, where he was, and he began to laugh almost uncontrollably. He was still laughing when she came back on the phone.

“Is it good news you have, then? Is the poor girl safe?”

“No, Mum.” The keening started again, made worse by static; it was time to hang up. “Mum, I have to go. I’ll call you again tomorrow - “

“What?” she shouted across the world, unable to believe he was so far away from her when he needed her so much. “I’m having a Mass said for the poor girl - “

She’s already buried Lisa, he thought: the Irish dig graves while other people dig gardens. He shouted goodbye to her again and hung up, knowing she would still be there yelling comfort to him into the dead phone for minutes after he had gone. When he went out of the study Nathan was in the hall.

“How do I pay for the calls, Nathan?”

“I think the City of New York can afford them, sir,” said the butler with a slow sympathetic smile.

Malone grinned. “I wonder if the City of New York could afford me a drink?”

“Another beer, sir?”

Malone shook his head: he needed something stronger than American beer to get him over what he had just been through. “A Scotch and water.”

Forte was waiting for him in the living-room. Rain had begun to pelt against the windows and outside the wind was finding the weak branches in the trees. “I have to go out - I have to take the kids down to their grandparents, then I have to go to my campaign headquarters down at the Biltmore. Do you mind being left alone or would you like to come with me?”

“Will there be reporters down at your headquarters?”

“Dozens of them, I’d say.”

“I’ll stay here.” Then the cop in him said, “What about your kids? I mean, in case someone tries to snatch themV

Forte looked grateful for his concern. “That’s been taken care of. There’ll be a police guard staked outside my in-laws’ apartment. But thanks for thinking of it.”

Malone nodded, feeling a slowly growing rapport with the other man. There would never be time for them to become friends, but Malone’s life was milestoned by friends he had never made, men whom he understood and who understood him but whom he had never had time to stay with; friendship was a continual siren call in a policeman’s life, always desired but always suspect or inconvenient. He would be gone from here in a day or two, with or without Lisa, and Forte would be another one of those he had liked but would never really know.

Then the butler came to the door. “Mr Frank Padua wishes to see you, sir.”

“Padua? Frank Padua?” Forte’s brow came down in puzzlement, then he shook his head. “Tell him I can’t see him.”

“I think he anticipated that, sir. He said to tell you it was to do with Mrs Forte.”

Malone looked sharply at Forte. The latter said, “Tell Mr Padua to wait a moment,” and the butler went out. Forte lowered his voice. “I don’t know what the hell this is all about.”

“Who’s this Padua?”

“A wheeler-dealer, he’s in everything in this town that will make a buck - and he’s made a lot. But as far as I know he’s respectable. I’d better see him alone.”

“If he has any news of your wife, then he’d know something about mine. You can’t expect me to step outside - “

When the butler brought Padua into the room Malone recognized his type at once. He could have been an old-fashioned banker, a gentleman whose larceny would be gentlemanly and courteous. Yet Malone sensed this was a man whose money was not as old as the man himself, who was not quite sure of the power of money and would therefore, when the pinch came, rely too much on it. Sydney, like New York and affluent cities everywhere, was full of them, the robber barons who wanted to be accepted at court.

“I wanted to see you alone, Mr Mayor.” Padua, like Sam Forte, had worked hard on his voice; but he was twenty years behind Sam and the rough times in New Jersey were still there in the voice that was hardly more than a whisper. “Perhaps Inspector Malone will excuse us?”

Malone shook his head and Forte said, “I understand you wanted to see me about my wife. Inspector Malone’s wife is with her - he and I are in the same terrible situation.”

“As you wish. May I sit down? I have had a very busy afternoon - ever since I heard of this dreadful business.” He sat down, carefully arranging the creases in his trousers. He pulled down his shirt cuffs and Malone caught the glint of gold; he had the feeling that Padua had dressed specially for this call. Forte sat down opposite Padua, but Malone, suddenly on edge, wondering what the news of Lisa and Sylvia Forte might be, remained standing. “As you know, Mr Mayor, I have a lot of connections in our city - “

“So I’ve heard. I have some myself- they go with the job.”

The irony was not lost on Padua; he smiled appreciatively. “True, true. But from your demeanour I assume your connections have not been as helpful as mine have been - “

“Padua, for Christ’s sake get to the point!” Forte’s voice did not rise, but Malone saw his body stiffen.

“Mr Mayor, I believe I may be in a position to effect the return of your good ladies.” He looked up at Malone, acknowledging him at last. His prim posture in the chair, his over-formal way of speech, brought on another image in Malone’s mind: the bishop from the wrong side of the tracks, the priest who knew all the cardinal’s sins. There were no such bishops in Sydney, or if there were the Criminal Investigation Bureau hadn’t yet been called in; but Italy and the older Catholic countries, he had been told, were full of them. And Padua was an Italian, a different sort from Michael Forte: all his expensive conservatism could not hide his inborn talent for intrigue. “That is why I have been so busy this afternoon. My connections - “

“What connections?”

“Ah, I am not at liberty to say, much as I should like to take you into my confidence. However - “

“Padua, have you come here with any definite information on my wife and Mrs Malone? Or are you just flying a kite?”

Padua spread his hands palms upwards, the Italian answer that was no answer. “That depends. Are you interested in kite-flying?”

Forte sensed rather than saw Malone’s angry, impatient movement; without looking at Malone he waved a restraining hand. “All right, Padua. Keep talking.”

“I shall be honest with you - I do not wish to raise your hopes unduly. I do not like to see suffering any more than I care to endure it myself.” He took a gold watch from the fob pocket of his waistcoat. “I should need probably seven or eight hours - can you give me that much time?”

“First, I want to know who your connections are. Are they

political connections? I just don’t believe Tom Kirkbride would try to make capital out of something like this.”

“Mr Kirkbride has nothing to do with this, I assure you.”

“Then who are they?”

“Just connections.”

There was a loud crack from outside, the gunshot sound of a branch being snapped off by the wind. Forte looked up at Malone, then back at Padua. “Are your connections the Mafia?”

“What is the Mafia?” There was no surprise at the question on Padua’s smooth thin face; it was as bland as an over-exposed photograph. “Mr Mayor, you are Italian like me. You know we don’t admit any more that there is such a thing as the Mafia. It offends our patrial sensitivities.”

“I didn’t know I had any till I came into politics. But it is the Mafia we’re talking about, isn’t it?”

“Connections, that’s all I have. But I think they can be very helpful.”

“For a price?”

Padua spread his hands again. “I haven’t talked about such a thing with them. My desire to help you is just that of a citizen who thinks such things as this dreadful kidnapping should not happen in our city.”

I’m going to king-hit the oily bastard in a moment, thought Malone. But he restrained himself and said, “Mr Padua, you’re not being helpful at all. I don’t know what Mr Forte thinks of your offer to help, but I think you ought to be kicked up the arse for coming here giving us false hopes and then trying to make some sort of deal. If you came into a police station and tried that same sort of caper, I’d lock you up.”

Padua stared coldly at Malone for a moment, then he stood up. “I can help you, Mr Forte. Here is my card. Call me at home if you think I’m honest in my offer and that Inspector Malone is wrong in his opinion of me. Goodnight. I’d just warn you - you don’t have too much time.”

He went out, walking with practised dignity. Malone took

a step after him, but Forte stood up and grabbed his arm.

“Let me bring him back! Christ, he’s the only lead we’ve had so far - “

“Nothing doing.” He waited till Malone relaxed, then he let sfo of the Australian’s arm. He looked at the card in his hand, then dropped it on a small side table. “If he was here sounding out the chances of a deal with the Mafia, I wouldn’t want to listen to him. I’ve never connected Padua with them before, but it’s no surprise.”

“Have you had any trouble from the Mafia before? Padua said you were Italian like him - “

Forte’s mouth stiffened. “Never. There are quite a few Italians who’ll have nothing to do with them. Most of them are Sicilians and my old man, like a lot from northern Italy, has no time for them.”

“If Padua came up with some proof that he knows where Lisa and your wife are - would you do a deal with him?” Malone was still chafing with anger at being held back: he had wanted to grab Padua by the throat and force the man to tell them if he knew anything.

“Jesus, how do I know what I’d do!” Forte whirled round, working off his own sudden anger; then he regained control of himself, turned back. “Look, these guys have their price for everything. That explorer I mentioned, Verrazano, he went on down to Brazil and the Carib Indians ate him as a main course. If I made a deal with Padua, his connections would do the same with me. Except I’d be the hors d’ceuvres and they’d take the city as a main course. I can’t take the chance - not yet.”

Malone sat down in a chair by the window. Outside, the wind and rain had risen now to a full storm: Hurricane Myrtle was making her presence felt. He could not comprehend the power of the Mafia; he had read of its strength here in America, and an Antipodean branch had tried its luck in Melbourne but without much success. Sydney was not without its corruption, but it was fragmented: politicians, aldermen, policemen, all looking for graft for their own ends:

there was one organization that aimed at an empire among the city’s clubs but so far it had not reached the headlines. There was another loud crack from outside: the trees were being demolished limb by limb.

“Christ, how did I get into this?” He leaned his head back against the chair, exhausted by dread, hopelessness and anger. He sat there a moment, then abruptly he stood up. He grabbed up Padua’s card from the small table. “I’m going after him! I don’t care a bugger about you and New York-”

Forte stood in front of him. “You stay where you are! You try to go see Padua and I’ll have you picked up and held - “

“Held? Arrested? What for?”

“Disturbing the peace, suspicious behaviour - you’re a cop, you’ve used the same excuses whenever you’ve wanted anyone held. I’ll do it, Malone,” he emphasized, when he saw that the Australian didn’t quite believe him. “I’m sorry about your wife, but my wife’s in this too. And we’ll play it my way till I know there’s absolutely no alternative but to give in on the ransom terms!”

“That may be too bloody late - “

Then Roger and Pier came in, wrapped up against the storm outside. They paused at the door, sensing something was wrong. Then Roger said, “We’re ready, Dad. But I wish to hell we didn’t have to go down to Grandma’s. We’d rather be here -just in case they let Mother make a call - “

Forte hesitated, looked at Malone, then back at the children. “Okay, stay here. Look after Inspector Malone, keep him company.” He looked back at Malone. “And remember- I meant what I said!”

“Mother and Dad are on TV tonight,” said Pier.

Forte had gone, and for the past half-hour Malone had held a desultory, awkward conversation with the two chil-

dren. Roger, gauche in his attempt to sound older than he was, not helped at all by Malone’s inability to find a level with him, had soon lapsed into silence. Pier, more at ease, had tried to keep the conversation going by asking about Lisa; Malone, appreciating her effort, had done his best to reply in something other than monosyllables. But he was well aware that when he was in the company of anyone under the age of eighteen he was about as loquacious as an aborigine who had had the bone pointed at him. If the Irish were supposed to love children, he had been overlooked when his ration of charity had been handed out. Kids bored him, even ones he felt sorry for.

Pier led the way out to the study where Malone had taken the phone calls. Roger, unwinding himself like a young giraffe getting to its feet, followed his sister and Malone into the room, switched on the television set mounted in the wall, then fell into the nearest chair. Malone looked around for chairs for Pier and himself.

“Let Roger get them, Inspector.” The young girl looked at her brother. “On your feet, you slob. Your manners are execrable.”

“Ex-who? Jesus, what sorta words do they teach you at St Tim’s?” But the boy got to his feet, dragged two chairs up level with his own. “Sorry, Inspector. I guess I’m not functioning too well tonight.”

“Who is?” said Malone, but he smiled at the boy and for the first time there was some rapport between them.

“The segment was taped last week.” Pier arranged herself in her chair. Arranged is the word, Malone thought: she wasn’t sitting like himself or sprawled like her brother. “Mr Cronkite was here when I phoned Mother from school.”

“Who’s Mr Cronkite?”