black chairs. The chair hissed as Nudger settled into it; he felt oddly helpless, a prisoner of all that softness, which would inhibit any quick movement. Frick backed away to stand to the side and slightly behind Nudger. Frack took up position by the door, crossing his arms in a casual but vigilant they-shall-not-pass attitude.
'I'm David Collins,' the yellowish man said, walking over to stand in front of Nudger. He was wearing well- tailored dark-blue dress slacks, a silky blue-on-blue shirt, and crinkly leather gray shoes that looked suspiciously like house slippers. His clothes clashed with his complexion but his drink didn't. In his right hand was an on-the-rocks glass with a pebbled clear bottom; the glass contained ice cubes and about a quarter of an inch of diluted amber liquid, probably Scotch. He said, in a very calm and conversational tone, so softly, 'Who has my daughter, Mr. Nudger?'
'I don't know.'
'What do you know?'
'That she's gone. I was at Fat Jack's when you called him. He couldn't hide what the conversation was about.'
'Willy Hollister's gone, too.'
'Is he?' Nudger decided to play ignorant on that one, for Fat Jack's sake.
Collins grinned-no, grimaced toothily. When he did that he reminded Nudger of a young, sickly Richard Wid- mark. 'His clothes are gone from his apartment. He didn't give his landlord any notice. He didn't leave a note or forwarding address. Just packed and left.' He took a very delicate sip of his drink; nibbled at it, really. 'Just what do you make of it, Mr. Nudger?'
'Are Ineida's clothes gone?'
Collins nodded slightly in vague admiration. 'A sensible question. The answer to it is what disturbs me a great deal. Her clothes are there. All of her personal effects are there. Everything but Ineida. This is no joke that she's playing along with.' A kind of slow anger seemed to be building in Collins, a modulated rage that sizzled with dangerous energy. Nudger understood why people feared him. 'She's been kidnapped; I received a ransom note.'
'Demanding how much?'
'Nothing specific yet. I'm supposed to be contacted again to let me know how much getting Ineida back will cost me, and where to deliver the money.' He took another dainty sip of his drink; the level of the liquid didn't seem to have dropped at all when he lowered his glass. 'Off this room there is a wine cellar, Mr. Nudger. I'm proud of it for the vintages it contains, but it also serves another purpose. It's windowless, and completely soundproof. A person could scream like a Civil Defense siren in there and not be heard even here, where we are.' The large brown eyes didn't blink, didn't waver. 'Why did Fat Jack hire you, Mr. Nudger? And don't deny he's your client.'
'Why deny what you already know is true?' Nudger said, reasonably and in the interest of self-preservation. 'He hired me to find out about Willy Hollister. He was worried about Hollister's relationship with Ineida, worried about what you might do if something happened to her because of her connection with the club. He knew he was supposed to be looking out for her, but there really was no way he could do that. The next best thing he could do was to find out where trouble might come from and try to head it off.'
'And what did you find out about Hollister and my daughter?'
'Ineida is a nice kid who can't sing. And she's in love and not thinking straight.'
'And Hollister?'
Nudger drew a deep breath and told Collins about Willy Hollister and Jacqui James and the other vanished women in various cities where Hollister had played blues as they had never been played before. The lines in Collins gaunt face deepened and his eyes darkened as he listened intently. This he did not like.
When Nudger was finished talking, Collins walked to a black steel file cabinet near the bar. He unlocked and slid open the top drawer all the way; it made a soft rolling sound on its tracks. Then he drew something out of it with his back to Nudger. He left the drawer open as he walked back over to stand in front of Nudger.
'Where did you get these?' he asked, holding out the stack of Ineida's love letters for Nudger to see.
Nudger thought about Collins' wine cellar, but not the wine. His eyes flicked to a heavy plank door that probably led to it. He still felt cooperative. 'I took them from Willy Hollister's apartment,' he said.
'You shouldn't be snooping around other people's apartments,' Collins told him.
'Or hotel rooms.'
Collins appeared puzzled for a moment, then smiled his Richard Widmark death's-head grin. 'You got it wrong, Nudger, we didn't get these out of your room. Someone gave them to us.'
'Who?'
'I don't know. They were mailed.'
Nudger decided not to press. He didn't want Collins to press back harder, rock-against-Nudger-against-hard- place.
'How long have you had these?' Collins asked, hefting the stack of letters in his right hand as if he might decide to toss them away in disgust, out of sight, out of the equation of his life and his daughter's life. But he hadn't the power to do that, and it infuriated him.
'A few days.'
'Did you show them to Fat Jack?'
'No.' Nudger didn't mention that he'd told Fat Jack about Ineida and Hollister's impending elopement. He hoped Collins wouldn't ask about that. It would be client-protection time, and Nudger didn't know if he was up to it.
But Collins let the blame fall on the nearest target.
'Maybe Ineida wouldn't be gone if you had let me know about these letters. Or if you hadn't been hanging around asking questions, opening cans of worms.' His upper lip curled nastily, slurring his words. He looked as if he'd encountered a foul odor.
'Listen,' Nudger began to implore.
'You listen, you bastard! Somebody snatched my daughter. That means two things: First, I do everything and anything to get her back. Second, I do everything possible and then some to see that whoever took her lives long enough to regret it but not much longer.'
'Call the police,' Nudger said.
'Oh?' Collins began to pace back and forth. The yellow cat watched him without blinking, moving its head slowly left to right to left. 'Is that an order, Nudger?'
'Advice. Despite what you read or see on TV, the best thing to do when someone is kidnapped is to get the police in on it. Then the FBI. They know their business.'
'I don't want the law to know about this.'
'Livingston knows.'
Collins didn't answer. He didn't seem to think of Livingston as the law.
'I like your daughter,' Nudger said. 'I want to see her home safe, too.'
'Good. That works out fine. It gives you double incentive.'
'Incentive to do what?' But Nudger knew what Collins had in mind.
'You're a detective,' Collins said. 'You find out things. You're going to find out where Ineida is. You're going to get her back home, safe.'
'That might not be something I can accomplish, no matter how hard I try.'
'You'll wish it were. Because if, after a length of time I decide upon, Ineida isn't back here with you, you'll be back here by yourself. That will leave you with two stops to make: the wine cellar, and the bayou.' He glanced somberly at Frick and Frack. 'You'll look forward to the bayou, Nudger.'
'You might be asking the impossible,' Nudger said.
Black laser light glinted Collins' eyes. 'Nothing's impossible where my daughter's concerned.' The ice in his glass made a tiny clinking sound; his hand was trembling.
He abruptly held the glass in front of him cupped in both hands, and turned away.
Frick stood aside and Frack made a motion with his big arm, signaling Nudger to leave with them.
Nudger was ready. The chair hissed at him like a malevolent serpent as he stood up. Frick and Frack waited while he moved through the doorway ahead of them. He glanced back before their oversized forms blocked his view.
Collins was standing on the other side of the room, still half turned away from them, holding and stroking the
