`That's nothing so terrible. He'd have rated probation, if this was a first offense. Was it?'
`Of course it was.'
`Then what were you afraid of?'
`I wasn't-' he started to say. But he was too honest, or too completely conscious of his fear, to finish the sentence.
`What did he do Sunday morning, when you went to see the judge?'
`He didn't do anything, really. Nothing happened.'
`But that nothing hit you so hard you won't discuss it.'
`That's correct. I won't discuss it, with you or anyone. Whatever happened last Sunday, or might have happened, has been completely outdated by recent events. My son has been kidnapped. He's a passive victim, don't you understand?'
I wondered about that, too. Twenty-five thousand dollars was a lot of money in my book, but it didn't seem to be in Hillman's. If Tom was really in the hands of professional criminals, they would be asking for all that the traffic would bear.
`How much money could you raise if you had to, Mr. Hillman?'
He gave me a swift look. `I don't see the point.'
`Kidnappers usually go the limit in their demands. I'm trying to find out if they have in this case. I gather you could raise a good deal more than twenty-five thousand.'
`I could, with my wife's help.'
`Let's hope it won't be necessary.'
4
THE HILLMANS' PRIVATE drive meandered up an oak-covered rise and circled around in a lawn in front of their house. It was a big old Spanish mansion, with white stucco walls, wrought-iron ornamentation at the windows, red tile roof gleaming dully in the wet. A bright black Cadillac was parked in the circle ahead of us.
`I meant to drive myself this morning,' Hillman said. 'But then I didn't trust myself to drive. Thanks for the lift.'
It sounded like a dismissal. He started up the front steps, and I felt a keen disappointment. I swallowed it and went after him, slipping inside the front door before he closed it.
It was his wife he was preoccupied with. She was waiting for him in the reception hall, bowed forward in a high-backed Spanish chair which made her look tinier than she was. Her snakeskin shoes hung clear of the polished tile floor. She was a beautifully made thin blonde woman in her forties. An aura of desolation hung about her, a sense of uselessness, as if she was in fact the faded doll she resembled. Her green dress went poorly with her almost greenish pallor.
`Elaine?'
She had been sitting perfectly still, with her knees and fists together. She looked up at her husband, and then over his head at the huge Spanish chandelier suspended on a chain from the beamed ceiling two stories up. Its bulbs protruded like dubious fruit from clusters of wrought-iron leaves.
`Don't stand under it,' she said. `I'm always afraid it's going to fall. I wish you'd have it taken down, Ralph.'
`It was your idea to bring it back and put it there.'
`That was a long time ago,' she said. `I thought the space needed filling.'
`It still does, and it's still perfectly safe.'
He moved toward her and touched her head. `You're wet. You shouldn't have gone out in your condition.'
`I just walked down the drive to see if you were coming. You were gone a long time.'
`I couldn't help it.'
She took his hand as it slid away from her head, and held it against her breast. `Did you hear anything?'
`We can't expect to hear anything yet for a while. I made arrangements for the money. Dick Leandro will bring it out later this afternoon. In the meantime we wait for a phone call.'
`It's hideous, waiting.'
`I know. You should try to think about something else.'
`What else is there?'
`Lots of things.'
I think he tried to name one, and gave up. `Anyway, it isn't good for you to be sitting out here in the cold hall. You'll give yourself pneumonia again.'
`People don't give it to themselves, Ralph.'
`We won't argue. Come into the sitting room and I'll make you a drink.'
He remembered me and included me in the invitation, but he didn't introduce me to his wife. Perhaps he considered me unworthy, or perhaps he wanted to discourage communication between us. Feeling rather left out, I followed them up three tile steps into a smaller room where a fire was burning. Elaine Hillman stood with her back to it. Her husband went to the bar, which was in an alcove decorated with Spanish bullfight posters.
