Infamous

“I believe a grown man being kidnapped is different than a child.”

“How do you figure?”

“The person who kidnapped Lindbergh’s child is a weakling suffering from some kind of illness. I’ve always believed that. That whole caper was sloppy. But the ones at work here are different animals; to them this is just a business transaction. Mr. Urschel is nothing more than a flesh-and-blood investment.”

“Like a prize steer?”

“Yep.”

“You helped out plenty when Mr. Slick had some trouble.”

“A man’s business should be a man’s business. Not ammunition.”

“Mr. Slick was much obliged.”

“How ’bout we read that letter again?”

The house was as still and quiet as Jones had known it since his arrival, a vacuum devoid of sound that he couldn’t quite place. There were police on the premises and agents in the kitchen and stationed in the salon. But the work had subsided, many of the men just drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and keeping watch on the Urschel family while they all waited for some kind of legitimate contact from the kidnappers. Kirkpatrick coughed and picked up the typed sheets that had been telegrammed to the mansion.

“ ‘Mr. F. Urschel is fairing well but don’t sleep, a trifel nervose.’ Whoever this is could use a remedial course in spelling and grammar. They spelled ‘trifle’ wrong, and ‘nervous,’ too, and ‘location’ in the next sentence. Are all criminals this stupid?”

“Keep going,” Jones said, drawing on his pipe. Somehow sitting in Urschel’s seat gave him some kind of perspective and feel for how it would unfold, or at least some kind of feel for the man. He wanted to know if Charles F. Urschel was the kind of man to take it or fight it. Or somewhere in between.

“ ‘Locashun of myself will be revealed in the next notice after I see your deci-shun in the newspaper.’ ‘Decision’ spelled the same way,” Kirkpatrick said. “ ‘Mr. Urschel’s release can be secured at small cost and without BLOODSHED.’ They typed ‘bloodshed’ in capital letters. ‘If you follow my instructions, map I will enclose to you at once after I see your ad.’ ”

“Read the part about the ad again,” Jones said, taking another puff. “From the beginning.”

“ ‘Note you are the go between for the family of Chas. F. Urschel. If so, I can tell you where they are holding him. I will reveal the facts to you if you wish or either reveal them to the detective department.’ Good Lord, nobody can be this stupid on purpose.”

Jones listened and smoked some more, watching the smoke kind of hang there in the dull night heat. It had been more than a hundred that afternoon, and the heat didn’t seem to want to leave. This was the fourth letter they’d received that day. All of ’em just as phony, but you didn’t dismiss a single one. You take one ransom lightly and chances are that would be your number.

“ ‘But I would suggest you in as much as I thank you’-I believe they meant ‘think’- ‘should know and then you could tell whom you wished. If you want this information, signify the same by run add in Dallas Times Herald and Fort Worth Star- Teligram.’ ‘Telegram’ spelled, of course, as ‘I-G-R-A-M.’ ”

“Chislers,” Jones said. “Fakes.”

“Surely not scholars.”

“That doesn’t matter a lick,” Jones said. “The writer there hadn’t thought through any plan at all. The boys we’re dealing with here are pretty shrewd, businesswise, and will have a plan in place. Did you meet that four- flusher today? The one who called himself a ‘medium of the psychic arts’? He said he’d try and get in touch with Mr. Urschel’s spirit, and Mrs. Urschel asked what if he wasn’t dead, and the fella just kind of looked at her, holding his hand out for some kind of payment, not really having an idea what to do next.”

“Does it always work like this?”

“They come out of the woodwork, Kirk,” Jones said. “This world has no shortage of shitbrains.”

“You want another nip in your coffee?”

“Better be getting back to the Skirvin,” Jones said, tapping the burnt tobacco from his pipe and reaching for his Stetson. “It’s nearly midnight.”

He pulled his father’s gold watch from his vest and looked back into the mansion’s long hallway, studying the open space.

“The clocks have stopped,” Kirkpatrick said. “Is that what you were listening for? Charlie wound them every Sunday.”

“This house is quieter than a tomb.”

“Sometimes you miss the tick,” he said.

They were quiet for a moment in the silence, and Jones tapped some ash that had fallen onto his hat brim.

“I think the doctor finally got Berenice to take a shot,” Kirkpatrick said.

“She hadn’t slept since they took him. I believe she loves that man in a way that she never felt for Mr. Slick.”

“Maybe I’ll take that nip.”

“I’m sure glad they sent for you, Buster,” Kirkpatrick said.

“Glad to help.”

“Even with fakes and chislers?”

“’Specially with them.”

THEY DIVIDED THE LOOT BY THE CAMPFIRE. UNDERHILL, WITH that bony face and big eyes, watching Verne Miller peeling off every bill, stacking every coin on a rock, till they’d come to a shy more than eight grand. Not exactly the Denver Mint job, but not a bad haul, and Harvey was fine with the whole deal, itching to get into a nice hotel, slip that shot-up leg into a bath, and have people bring him things with the jingle of the phone.

“Count it again,” Underhill said.

“It’s there,” Miller said.

Oh, shit.

“We’re missing a bag.”

“What went into that trunk came out of the trunk, and it’s all right there,” Harvey said. “Get what you got and let’s all get gone.”

“We’re missing a bag.”

Miller stood from the pile of money and placed his hands on his hips, standing tall and looking a bit like that old war hero. He just stared down at the grease-parted hair of Underhill and the pudgy face of Jim Clark, chawing away on a wad of tobacco, the way a man studies an animal in a zoo, with kind of a detached curiosity, waiting to see what they’ll do next.

“Two per man,” Miller said. “Plus some change.”

Miller screwed a cigarette into the center of his mouth and set fire to it. He wore his pants very high and had tucked the cuffs into knee-high boots.

“Why’d you bring him in, Harvey?” Underhill asked. “You gone soft? Everybody knows this fella ain’t got no morals. He kills people for dough.”

Verne Miller smiled at that and rubbed his movie-star jaw. He glanced over at Harvey, and Harvey had to stifle a grin.

“When would we have stashed the money?” Harvey asked.

“I’m not calling you out, Harv,” Underhill said. “Me and Jim was the one did the heavy lifting while you was supervisin’. Your man didn’t lift a dang finger. And now we come up a few grand short, this just ain’t on the level.”

Jim Clark brought his eyes up to Miller and then over at Underhill. He had a stick he’d taken from the edge of the fire and was drawing patterns in the rough earth.

“Why don’t you apologize, you damn moron,” Harvey said. “You want to break up a gang before it starts?”