1963 - One Bright Summer Morning by James Hadley Chase Page A

Everything now depended on how Moe handled it. Kramer suddenly became aware that his collar was too tight. He dug two thick fingers down the collar band and eased it. His mind worked swiftly. He would have to assume that Moe and Chita had got the Van Wylie girl to Wastelands. He had to call Van Wylie before Van Wylie alerted the police.
    He took from his pocket a small notebook. In it, among many other telephone numbers, he had noted down Van Wylie's number.
    As he began to dial the number, he suddenly hesitated and cut the connection. He had very nearly made a mistake!
    A man like Van Wylie would draw a lot of water in this district. He could very easily get this call traced to the hotel and that could be fatal if there were an investigation.
    Leaving the booth, Kramer hurried out into the hot sunshine.
    He flagged a taxi and told the driver to take him to Main Street, a few minutes later, he was in the General Post Office and dialling Van Wylie's number.
    A man said, “Mr. Van Wylie's residence.”
    “I want to talk to Mr. Van Wylie,” Kramer said. “It's urgent . . . to do with Miss Van Wylie.”
    “What is the name, please?”
    “He won't know me. I am a friend of his daughter. Mannikin's my name.”
    “Will you hold on for a moment, please?”
    John Van Wylie had just returned from his routine morning ride. He was in his study, a double Martini on his desk and he was flicking through a big pile of mail. Fellows, his manservant, knocked and came in. He told Van Wylie that a Mr. Mannikin was on the telephone.
    “He says, sir, he is a friend of Miss Zelda's.”
    John Van Wylie was a short, heavily built man with a broad flat face, small hard eyes with fleshy bags, a large thin mouth and a square aggressive jaw. He looked what he was: the son of a wagon driver and a man who could turn one dollar into ten and care little how he did it. He looked for a long moment at Fellows, his eyes becoming slits. Not once could he remember any friend of Zelda's calling him up. He moved to the telephone and with his left hand, he switched on a tape recorder hooked up with the telephone and with his right hand he picked up the receiver.
    “Yes?”
    “Mr. Van Wylie?”
    “Yes.”
    “This is to do with your daughter. You have no reason to be alarmed . . . yet,” Kramer said, speaking quickly, not certain if Van Wylie had some means of getting the call traced. “Your daughter has been kidnapped. She is perfectly safe and will be returned to you within a few days unharmed. However, if you attempt to go to the police or do anything you're not told to do, then you won't see the girl again. We are a big organization and your house is being watched: your telephone line has been tapped. Do nothing, say nothing and wait. You'll be hearing from me again tomorrow. Again I warn you if you want to see your daughter again, wait and do nothing.” He cut the connection and leaving the booth, he walked quickly over to the taxi rank and told one of the drivers to take him back to the hotel.
    John Van Wylie stood for a long moment motionless, the telephone receiver clenched in his big, powerful hand. His face had lost a little of its colour, but his mouth was suddenly an ugly, cruel line. He replaced the receiver and turned off the tape recorder.
    “Get Andrews,” he said in a curt, hard voice.
    Fellows went quickly away. A couple of minutes later, Merrill Andrews, Van Wylie's secretary, a tall, bronze, hard-bitten Texan wearing a sports shirt and blue jeans, came into the room. Van Wylie was talking to the telephone supervisor.
    “The call was made from the General Post Office, Mr. Van Wylie,” she said in a flutter to be talking to one of the richest men in the world. “One of the public booths.”
    Van Wylie thanked her and hung up. He turned to Andrews who was looking at him expectantly.
    “A call has just come through saying Zelda's been kidnapped,” Van Wylie said. “Get the hairdresser's and the Country Club. Find out if Zelda's