A Dog's Ransom

  “I don’t think so,” said MacGregor. “Can you come with me please? The file for this kind of thing is in another room.”

  Ed followed him. They went into a larger office whose door was open. A plump cop sat at a desk with a telephone at his ear. There were lots of files. In another smaller room towards the rear of the station, Ed saw an electric burner with an old-fashioned gray metal percolator on it. Two young patrolmen were standing in the room. MacGregor was looking through a big green file in a corner. The cop on the phone was saying nothing but letters and numbers, and an occasional “Right.” MacGregor wouldn’t be overly interested in a dog, Ed supposed. Until they did something like kidnapping a child, or setting a house on fire, anonymous letter-writers were merely nuisances. Ed felt also that MacGregor thought him an ass for having come forth with the money.

  MacGregor came over with a folder. “This isn’t exhaustive by any means. Just our precinct. The real files are at Centre Street. I don’t see anything resembling that printing here. Best we can do is photostat your letters and send the originals to Centre Street for checking out.”

  The fat officer hung up, and MacGregor said to him: “Seen anything like this before, Frank?” He laid one of the letters on the officer’s desk.

  The officer sighed, planted his hands on the desk and peered at the block-lettered page. “No.—Nope. Lives in this neighborhood?”

  “We don’t know. Seems like it. This gentleman Mr.—”

  “Reynolds,” Ed said.

  “—lives on a Hundred and sixth. These four letters came to him, last one asking a thousand dollars’ ransom for a dog. Missing since Wednesday night, was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Reynolds last night delivered a thousand dollars in ten-dollar bills, left them where the letter says here, money was picked up—and no dog.”

  The fat officer’s black eyebrows went up at the mention of the thousand dollars being paid, and they stayed up. On a block of wood on his desk was printed LT. FRANK SANTINI. “Any strange telephone calls?”

  “No,” Ed said.

  “We can check this printing out,” said Santini. “Can you give us your name and address, Mr. Reynolds? Or have you got that, Mac?”

  MacGregor hadn’t, or wasn’t sure they had it, and Santini took it. Ed gave also his business address and telephone number. “I’d like to give you a description of the dog. French poodle, miniature, black with light brown eyes—aged four. Dutch cut—”

  “What’s that?”

  “She’s trimmed. It’s a style of trimming. Answers to the name Lisa. L-i-s-a. Identification and license on her collar.”

  “Last seen where?”

  The telephone rang, and Santini took it.

  “Riverside Park at a Hundred and sixth Street, Wednesday night, October fourteenth around seven-thirty.”

  MacGregor wrote this, closed the notebook and pushed it back on Santini’s desk. Ed felt that the information on Lisa was lost among its pages. MacGregor was now absorbed in what Santini was saying on the telephone, giving him urgent instructions about something.

  “All right, where was the squad car?” Santini said. “We sent a squad car . . . Don’t tell us!”

  The two younger patrolmen stood patiently near a wall, as if awaiting orders from their superiors. One of them looked very young, and more like a college student than a cop.

  When Santini had finished speaking, Ed said, addressing both him and MacGregor, “I hope you can find out something soon. The main thing is, I want to get my dog back alive. I’m not concerned about the money. Can I telephone later today and see if you’ve found out anything?”

  Santini glanced up at MacGregor. He had long crocodile lips, neither quite smiling nor cynical.

  MacGregor seemed to fumble for something to say. “Sure. Certainly. We’ll get these to Centre Street today and ask for a quick reply.”

  MacGregor walked with Ed to the front door of the station house. A shambles of a man, who looked as if he had been drunk for days, was sitting on a bench just inside the door. He had a wounded cheek and swollen, half-closed eyes, and was evidently too far gone to warrant surveillance, because there was no guard around.

  “Not a pretty sight, eh?” said MacGregor, noticing Ed’s glance. “You’d think it was the old Bowery here sometimes.”

  Ed turned on the front steps. “Do you think you can find the man?” he asked, trying not to sound unreasonably insistent. “What’re the odds? I’d like to know, honestly.”

  “Fifty-fifty. Maybe worse, Mr. Reynolds. Honestly. That’s all I can tell you. We’ll keep in touch.”

  Ed walked homeward. The last phrase sounded about as promising as the phrase, the same phrase, that people gave to people who came asking for a job. Ed found himself looking at other people on the street, watching to see if any gave him more than the absent, involuntary glance that the average person gave a passer-by. He saw none, but in one of these buildings with all the windows behind which people quarreled, laughed, made love, ate meals, or fretted waiting for someone who was late—behind one of those windows lived Anon. He must be someone in the neighborhood. This thought made Ed feel momentarily naked and afraid, even now in daylight, gave him a sense of impotence and danger. The kidnapper knew him, but he didn’t know the kidnapper. One of the two or three men now walking towards him, apparently paying no attention to him, might be the kidnapper chuckling inwardly at the sight of him alone and without his dog.

  This was Saturday morning. Sunny again. Not even nine o’clock. What could he buy to pick Greta up? Maybe a coffee ring from the good bakery on Broadway, a Jewish bakery, more or less. He turned towards Broadway. He still glanced at people he passed, wondering if they might be Anon, but now his face was confident and almost cheerful. After all, he’d laid his case before the police.

  The young blond girl in the bakery knew him and Greta, and gave Ed a big smile. “Hello, Mr. Reynolds. How’re you? And how’s your wife?”

  “She’s all right, thank you,” Ed said, smiling too. “Can I have one of your—a coffee ring, please.” The shop smelled of fresh, buttery baking, of cinnamon and baba au rhum.

  The girl reached for a coffee ring with wax paper in each hand, then paused. “Oh, someone told me about Lisa! Have you had any news?”

  “No. But just now I spoke with the police,” Ed said, smiling. “We’re hopeful. I’ll take a couple of croissants, too, please.”

  Then he bought three packs of cigarettes from the store in the middle of the block, in case something happened today and Greta or he couldn’t get to the supermarket for the usual Saturday morning shopping.

  “Ah, Mark was telling me you’re missing your dog, Mr. Reynolds,” said the cigar-shop man, a thin Irishman of about sixty.

  “Yes, since Wednesday night. I’ve told the police. But keep your eye out for her, would you? I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure I will!”

  Ed left the shop feeling that he lived among friends in this neighborhood—even if Anon lived in it, too.

  “Let’s have a nice lazy breakfast,” Ed said as he came in.

  Greta had put on black slacks, red flat sandals, a gay blouse with a floral pattern. “Did you hear news?”

  “No. That I’m afraid I didn’t. But I spoke with them. The police.” He held up the paper box from the bakery by its string. “Goodies.” He made his way to the kitchen. “I could use another good coffee.”

  “What did they say?”

  Ed lit the gas under the big glass pot. “Well—I spoke with two men. I told them where I could be found and all that. Told them you were here most of the time. I left the letters.”

  “But do they know this creep?”

  “No, they don’t seem to. But they’re sending the letters to the main office on Centre Street. I’m going to phone them back today.”
He put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “I know it isn’t much, my pet, but what else can I do just now?” Walk around the neighborhood, Ed thought, put on different clothes, a false mustache, and try to spot someone who was maybe slyly watching his building? “Open the cake box. Let’s put the coffee ring in the oven for a minute.”

  With a movement of her shoulder, Greta pushed herself from the door jamb that she had been leaning against. “Peter called you. A few minutes ago.”

  “Already? Um-m.” Peter Cole, a young and eager editor of C. & D., took home manuscripts on weekends and telephoned Ed nearly every Saturday or Sunday to ask some question not always of importance. Ed remembered he had also brought a manuscript to read, a biography. “I suppose he wants me to call him back?”

  “I forgot. I don’t know. Sorry, darling.” Absently, she adjusted the coffee-pot over the flame.

  Ed and Greta sat in the dining area off the L-shaped living-room. It had windows that overlooked their street, and from where Ed sat, facing the Hudson River, he could look down on part of the long strip of green that formed Riverside Park. Was Anon down there now, strolling about? Would he be loitering around the supermarket on Broadway, probably knowing they went there, he and Greta or one of them, every Saturday morning around eleven? Often they took Lisa with them and tied her outside to a rail.

  Greta propped her face on one hand. “Oh, Eddie, I’m discouraged.”

  “I know, darling. I’m going to ring them back, the police. If they sound vague, I’ll go to Centre Street myself.”

  “Three days now almost. I wonder if they give her enough to eat?”

  Ed was glad Greta assumed Lisa was still alive. “Don’t worry about that. She’s in good health.”

  Greta put her cigarette down and covered her eyes with her finger-tips. “If she’s dead, I don’t know what I’ll do, Eddie,” she said in a voice squeaky with tears.

  Ed knelt beside her. He wanted to say, “We’ll get another dog, right away,” but it wasn’t time to say that—a statement that would sound as if Lisa were definitely gone.

  “She’s such a darling. As a dog, she is perfect, you know?”

  Lots of their friends said that. As a puppy, even, she had not chewed up shoes, only chewed—with the greatest pleasure—the silly things they sold in pet shops for puppies to teethe on. Ed laughed. “Yes, she’s perfect, and I love her, too, darling!—Dry your eyes and we’ll think about the shopping. Got a list? Then—” He remembered he had to read the biography this week-end, and it was a thick one. Well, he’d sit up at night doing it, if he had to. “How about a movie this afternoon? Or would you rather go tonight? What was that thing we wanted to see? Catamaran, no? I’ll look up the time.”

  Greta came out of it slowly. Her face was still unhappy, but she was probably already composing her shopping list. Usually on Sunday they had a good lunch at two or three, and a snack in the evening. “I think I’ll make a Sauerbraten. Marinate it overnight, you know?”

  They went to the supermarket together, Ed first taking the laundry in two pillowcases to the launderette near the supermarket on Broadway. Then he joined Greta in the supermarket and held a place on the line with her nearly full carrier cart while she came and went, adding small items like tinned crabmeat or pâté. There were simpler ways of shopping and doing chores, Ed supposed, and men in his position didn’t usually frequent supermarkets, but Ed and Greta had shopped together in the same way when they first met, and Ed still liked it. They bought their meat at a shop on the other side of Broadway. Ed told himself that when they walked out of the supermarket in a couple of minutes, he wasn’t going to think of Lisa tied to the rail, brightening at the sight of them. A dog wasn’t everything in life. It was just that Lisa took the place of a child now, for both of them. That was obvious.

  “Okay, okay!” said the check-out operator, because Ed was a few seconds slow in starting to unload his carrier on to the belt, which at once began to move. He looked around for Greta, and was relieved to see her approaching, carrying a pineapple in her hands, a smile on her face as she looked at him, as if to say, “An extravagance, I know, but I want it.” She squeezed in behind Ed, unperturbed by a woman behind her who was annoyed by their maneuvers.

  At 5 p.m., Ed telephoned the police station. They had sent the letters to Centre Street, but as yet no report, the man said.

  “Is this Captain MacGregor?”

  “No, he’s not on duty now.”

  “When will they know anything?”

  The man sighed audibly. “That I can’t tell you, sir.”

  “Can I call Centre Street?”

  “Well, no, they don’t like that.—You wouldn’t know who to talk to. Even I don’t.”

  “When can I know something? Tomorrow?”

  Ed was given to understand there was less staff on Centre Street on Sundays, or something like that. Especially painful to Ed was the idea of waiting till Monday for information.

  “It’s not just the letters, you know. My dog has been stolen. I explained all that to Captain MacGregor and—an officer named Santini.”

  “Oh. Yeah,” said the voice without a hint of remembrance or concern.

  “So I’m in a hurry. I don’t want my dog to die. The letter-writer’s got my dog. I don’t give a damn who he is, really I just want my dog back, you see.”

  “Yeah, I see but—”

  “Can you possibly find out something tonight?” Ed asked politely but with determination. “Can I call you back around ten, say?” Ed wished he could offer them money to speed things up, but one didn’t do that, he supposed. “Could you possibly ring up Centre Street now and ask what they’ve found out?”

  “Yeah.” But the tone was not reassuring.

  “All right, then I’ll ring you back later.”

  Ed and Greta were going to the 6:30 performance of Catamaran on West 57th Street. An adventure story—Pacific seas, danger, exotic islands, a triumph of heroism against elements and odds. For long intervals Ed was distracted from his own thoughts, from his life. Perhaps Greta was too. After the film, they had excellent hamburgers and red wine at a nearby steakhouse, and came home a little before ten.

  Ed rang the precinct station, and said he was supposed to telephone this evening in regard to his missing dog and some anonymous letters. Once more he had a strange voice at the other end, and had to repeat the facts.

  “There’s no report come in from Centre Street . . .”

  Ed could have banged the telephone down, but he hung on politely during a few more inconsequential exchanges. He was sorry, in a way, that he’d given them the damned letters. The letters had been something to hang on to, somehow. Or was he losing his mind?

  “So?” Greta asked.

  “So, nothing. I’ll try them again tomorrow. I’d better get back to that biography.”

  “Are you going to read late? Want some coffee?”

  Ed hesitated between coffee and a drink. He preferred coffee. Or maybe both. Or would coffee keep him awake tonight? “Do you want coffee?”

  Greta usually wanted coffee. She liked it strong, and it almost never interfered with her sleep. It was miraculous, or her nerves were. “I do, because I am going to sew a little bit.”

  “Fine, Coffee.” Ed smiled, sank into the sofa, and pulled the paperbound manuscript off the coffee-table on to his lap.

  The biography was of John Phelps Henry, an obscure English sea-captain of the mid-eighteenth century who had become an optician in his forties, after quitting the sea. So far, halfway into the book, Ed was not enthusiastic about its publication. It was a recent idea of Bruthers, one of the chairmen of Cross and Dickinson and a Senior Editor more senior than Ed, that C. & D. ought to bring out a series of biographies of little-known people of the past. It reminded Ed of “minor poets,” who were minor, Ed thought, for the good r
eason that their talents were minor. Not even the prose of this biography was noteworthy, not even ex-Captain Henry’s sex life was lively. Who on earth would buy it, Ed wondered. But he plowed on dutifully. He wanted to be able to say to Bruthers, honestly, that he had read it.

  Greta’s coffee arrived.

  Then he heard the cozy, intermittent hum of her sewing-machine from the room that had been Margaret’s.

  Ed continued to read, or at least his eyes moved over the interminable pages. A hundred and seventy-odd more to go. It would be ridiculous to go back to York Avenue and 61st Street tonight, he supposed. He was glad Greta hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said it might be a good idea, because then he would have gone. If Anon was serious about returning the dog, Anon could telephone.

  The telephone rang—just before midnight—and Ed jumped with a happy premonition. This was going to be something, some bit of news—probably from the police, but maybe from Anon.

  “Hello. Is this Mr. Reynolds?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Patrolman Duhamell, Clarence Duhamell. You came to the precinct house this morning.”

  “Yes?” Ed gripped the telephone.

  “I was in the room when you were speaking with Captain MacGregor. I—”

  “You have some news?”

  Greta had come to the hall door and was listening.

  “No, I’m sorry I haven’t. But I’d like to see you. If I may. The point is—I happen to know the men are very busy at the precinct house just now. There’ve been a lot of house robberies, whereas—I have the night patrol post starting tomorrow. I think it’s a good idea to look in the neighborhood.”

  “Yes.” Ed was disappointed at the absence of news, but grateful for this interest in his problem.

  “Could I come to see you tomorrow morning?” the young voice asked on a more definite note.

  “Yes, of course. You’ve got the address?”

  “Oh, yes. I took it down. Tomorrow morning around eleven?”

  “Very good.”