Continental Op Stories

for a showdown that night, and have the whole thing settled before you came poking around. Well, that’s what I did, though I didn’t tell Miriam I was going. The showdown wasn’t going along very well, too much tension, and when Sherry heard you outside he thought I had brought friends, and⁠—fireworks.”

“What ever got you into a game like that in the first place?” I asked. “You were sitting pretty enough as Kavalov’s son-in-law, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but it was tiresome being cooped up in that hole with him. He was young enough to live a long time. And he wasn’t always easy to get along with. I’d no guarantee that he wouldn’t get up on his ear and kick me out, or change his will, or anything of the sort.

“Then I ran across Sherry in San Francisco, and we got to talking it over, and this plan came out of it. Sherry had brains. On the deal back in Cairo that you know about, both he and I made plenty that Kavalov didn’t know about. Well, I was a chump. But don’t think I’m sorry that I killed Kavalov. I’m sorry I got caught. I’d done his dirty work since he picked me up as a kid of twenty, and all I’d got out of it was damned little except the hopes that since I’d married his daughter I’d probably get his money when he died⁠—if he didn’t do something else with it.”

They hanged him.

Death and Company

The Old Man introduced me to the other man in his office⁠—his name was Chappell⁠—and said: “Sit down.”

I sat down.

Chappell was a man of forty-five or so, solidly built and dark-complexioned, but shaky and washed out by worry or grief or fear. His eyes were red-rimmed and their lower lids sagged, as did his lower lip. His hand, when I shook it, had been flabby and damp.

The Old Man picked up a piece of paper from his desk and held it out to me. I took it. It was a letter crudely printed in ink, all capital letters.

Martin Chappell

Dear Sir⁠—

If you ever want to see your wife alive again you will do just what you are told and that is go to the lot on the corner of Turk and Larkin St. at exactly 12 tonight and put $5,000 in $100 bills under the pile of bricks behind the bill board. If you do not do this or if you go to the police or if you try any tricks you will get a letter tomorrow telling you where to find her corpse. We mean business.

Death & Co.

I put the letter back on the Old Man’s desk.

He said: “Mrs. Chappell went to a matinée yesterday afternoon. She never returned home. Mr. Chappell received this in the mail this morning.”

“She go alone?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Chappell said. His voice was very tired. “She told me she was going when I left for the office in the morning, but she didn’t say which show she was going to or if she was going with anybody.”

“Who’d she usually go with?”

He shook his head hopelessly. “I can give you the names and addresses of all her closest friends, but I’m afraid that won’t help. When she hadn’t come home late last night I telephoned all of them⁠—everybody I could think of⁠—and none of them had seen her.”

“Any idea who could have done this?” I asked.

Again he shook his head hopelessly.

“Any enemies? Anybody with a grudge against you, or against her? Think, even if it’s an old grudge or seems pretty slight. There’s something like that behind most kidnappings.”

“I know of none,” he said wearily. “I’ve tried to think of anybody I know or ever knew who might have done it, but I can’t.”

“What business are you in?”

He looked puzzled, but replied: “I’ve an advertising agency.”

“How about discharged employees?”

“No, the only one I’ve ever discharged was John Hacker and he has a better job now with one of my competitors and we’re on perfectly good terms.”

I looked at the Old Man. He was listening attentively, but in his usual aloof manner, as if he had no personal interest in the job. I cleared my throat and said to Chappell: “Look here. I want to ask some questions that you’ll probably think⁠—well⁠—brutal, but they’re necessary. Right?”

He winced as if he knew what was coming, but nodded and said: “Right.”

“Has Mrs. Chappell ever stayed away over night before?”

“No, not without my knowing where she was.” His lips jerked a little. “I think I know what you are going to ask. I’d like⁠—I’d rather not hear. I mean I know it’s necessary, but, if I can, I think I’d rather try to tell you without your asking.”

“I’d like that better too,” I agreed. “I hope you don’t think I’m getting any fun out of this.”

“I know,” he said. He took a deep breath and spoke rapidly, hurrying to get it over: “I’ve never had any reason to believe that she went anywhere that she didn’t tell me about or had any friends she didn’t tell me about. Is that”⁠—his voice was pleading⁠—“what you wanted to know?”

“Yes, thanks.” I turned to the Old Man again. The only way to get anything out of him was to ask for it, so I said: “Well?”

He smiled courteously, like a well-satisfied blank wall, and murmured: “You have the essential facts now, I think. What do you advise?”

“Pay the money of course⁠—first,” I replied, and then complained: “It’s a damned shame that’s the only way to handle a kidnapping. These Death and Co. birds are pretty dumb, picking that spot for the payoff. It would be duck soup to nab them there.” I stopped complaining and asked Chappell: “You can manage the money all right?”

“Yes.”

I addressed the Old Man: “Now about the police?”

Chappell began: “No, not the police! Won’t they⁠—?”

I interrupted him: “We’ve got to tell them, in case something goes wrong and to have