Naked Cruelty

seems to have sweet-talked him so efficiently that he’s already muttering about taking a trip home to check up on the folks.”

“Then you have a case, Helen, that entirely depends on you for a solution. If you can’t crack it, no one can.” Carmine nodded at a chair. “Sit down, sit down! It’s going to take some time to organize. In the meantime, what have you deduced?”

“They did their homework, sir, that’s foremost. They must have known that green card holders have fingerprints on record in Washington, D.C. They knew enough to get the prison plans from County Services archives. They knew how much money was going to be freed up as a trust for the grandchildren, and the date it was happening. They knew enough to allow a week for the gathering of the ransom, for no other reason, I believe, than that they assumed people like the FBI would expect a week for such a huge ransom. In actual fact, they could have made their time span an hour. But that would have pointed toward Germany and away from America. A lot of their information about how things are done here came from movies and television.” Her brow creased. “However, there are anomalies, sir. The air vent wasn’t closed firmly enough to survive a downpour, which says the villains are not familiar with downpours. Or it may be saying that one of the two didn’t really want to see Kurt die. He was left water that would have lasted longer if he hadn’t guzzled some and spilled some. Was it a form of torture or a hope that Kurt would be found before he died? One of the two is a real hater, Captain, but the other is a weakling. And which one left a bucket? You don’t leave a bucket for someone you expect to die, though I don’t think the bucket had anything to do with Kurt’s living or dying. I believe that whoever left it knows Kurt personally, and didn’t want him to endure the indignity of looking at his own excrement. If there is a personal link, then both kidnappers know Kurt. The weakling is under the domination of the hater, but doesn’t like how he or she feels. It may be that cutting Kurt’s finger off tipped the balance, hence the water and the bucket. The hater can’t have realized their significance, or maybe the weakling threw a tantrum, as weaklings can.” She stopped. “How did I do?”

“Very well, but I’m a pussycat,” said Carmine with a grin. “It’s Kurt you have to fool, Helen.”

“When do you think we should go?”

Carmine frowned. “Today is the twenty-fourth, and the Dodo is due to attack Tuesday or Wednesday of election week. Provided he’s on schedule, you have time to go before, though I’m not sure what his schedule is going to be now he’s killing.”

“Yes, if it’s two weeks, he’s due next week,” Helen said. “If we go tomorrow, Friday, we can be back by Monday night.”

“Passport? What if you need a visa?”

“Sometimes it’s handy to be my father’s daughter. I can get whatever I need, and Kurt’s all set up.”

“That doesn’t leave you much time for investigations at this end, Helen.”

“I have this afternoon. It’s enough.”

“You realize you’re off the Dodo until I can close the kidnappers, even if the kidnappers are never arraigned?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Then I won’t delay you any further.”

The Captain’s departure left Helen pondering her logistics; this afternoon she had to buy two airline tickets to Munich, and that meant Lufthansa, not TWA; then she had to find out how the kidnappers got hold of the Holloman prison plans. She saw her way about the travel almost immediately, and picked up the phone to dial a number she knew better than her own-her father’s. But not to speak to him. She wanted his secretary. Ten minutes of cajoling later, and it would all be done for her, though she still had one thing to do on that front; she called Tiffany’s and had them send the dear woman a pair of ruby earrings.

Next, a call to Kurt, home from the hospital.

“Darling,” she cooed, “how about I bring over Chinese tonight and we have a quiet evening?”

“Helen, yes, please!”

“Six o’ clock, with a bottle of Moet?”

“Yes, please!”

Good, that was organized. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Helen set out for a different part of the County Services building to find out who had obtained a copy of the prison plans.

After drawing a blank at three of the five sections holding those plans, she hit paydirt at Correctional Institutions, the new euphemism for places where people were incarcerated apart from society in general. It included juvenile detention centers and the parole system, but it also housed penal archives.

A middle-aged clerk manned the enquiry counter, a mournful fellow who, thought Helen, would remember nothing of the people fronting up to his desk. But when he beheld this beautiful young woman in her immaculate, tasteful clothes, every memory cell in his brain opened in a flood of information. Shabby lawyers and desperate parents did nothing for him, but a girl with stunning apricot hair that never came out of a dye bottle-!

“The lady who asked for blueprints of the prison plans? Oh, yes, I remember her, officer. Who couldn’t?”

“What made her memorable, apart from asking for those particular blueprints?” Helen asked, smiling seductively.

“Well, she was such a lady. Beautiful clothes in a maroon shade that suited her. She even wore a hat and gloves, both in the same shade of maroon. The gloves were finest French kid, and the hat screamed Paris. Not vulgar clothes, like modern trash,” the clerk said, warming to his theme. “Her suit looked like Chanel or Balenciaga, and her shoes were Charles Jourdan.”

“You’re amazingly conversant with women’s fashions, sir.”

He simpered. “My wife is a keen follower of fashion, Miss. She and I design clothes as a recreation.”

“I wish more of our witnesses did! What was her face like?”

“Hard to see-her hat had a maroon net veil that covered the top half of her face, and it had little furry bobbles on it. Stylish!”he exclaimed, sighing. “Her lipstick was maroon and didn’t really follow the outline of her lips-she preferred being in fashion to anatomical accuracy, I guess. Her hair was a light brown and beautifully cared for.”

“Did she have an accent?”

“Yes. Foreign, more northern European than southern.”

“Like German?”

“Exactly!”

“Would you know her again, sir?”

“By her clothes, anyone would.”

“Who is the best-dressed woman in the world?”

He looked amazed at Helen’s ignorance. “The Duchess of Windsor, even if she is getting old.”

“What about Audrey Hepburn?”

“Can’t hold a candle to Her Highness,” he said fervently.

Hmm, thought Helen, leaving Correctional Institutions. So a very haute couture woman collected the plans! A German accent, as we suspected. No real description of her face. We have two kinds of cases on our files at the moment. One is prompted by sex, and the other by greed. So far greed hasn’t led to murder, since Kurt survived, but why do I think it will? I mustn’t forget the glass teddy bear, a reason for greed too. And nothing is what it seems! The German woman isn’t poor-that funny little guy knew enough about fashions to put what she was wearing at about five thousand dollars. Per annum a Chubb technician lives on that.

She still had some time, and two Holloman watchtower guards had information to offer.

“A man and a woman appeared several weeks ago with surveyor’s gear and measured up the vacant ground outside,” said the first guard. “They concentrated on the gravel area and the ground beyond it. Must have been there most of a day.”

“Can you remember the date?”

“The week of September 16 to 20.”

“Did you put the glasses on them?”

“No need for the binocs, officer. They were two surveyors in coveralls with city lettering on the back. One was a man and one was a woman. Women do all kinds of jobs these days.”

“I saw one of them baby bulldozers pushing rubble around,” said the second guard. “The date was September 30-I know because it was the last day of the month and it fell on a Monday. My wife works at Chubb, only gets paid twelve times a year, on the last day of the month. Lousy system!”