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The Cut of the Whip Page 7
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Chapter VIII
AFTER BREAKFAST the next morning, the houseman told Port about Heering. The Galveston office had called to say Mr. Heering was due back in the afternoon; that Mr. Heering—still airborne and on his way back from Alaska—had radioed the Galveston office for this information: is Mr. Heering’s son, Robert, back at the house?
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them,” said the houseman, “that Robert Heering was not here.” Then he added, “I believe that was the extent of my duty,” and left for the kitchen.
The houseman, thought Port, felt it too: the tension growing and the unfinishedness…
Four hours later, Jane was upstairs in her room, napping, and Port was sitting in the empty front hall. Outside something changed. The wind noise dropped away and did not come back. It was as if a vacuum was left. This held for a short while and Port sat there, pulling on his cigarette, listening, straining into the silence, when the big door opened and Carl Heering came in.
The older man, Port thought, moved like a cat. It had not struck Port before. And another thing Heering did, he said “Good afternoon,” nodded, and at the last moment he smiled.
It was gone very quickly and Heering had passed to walk towards a door.
“Will you come with me, please?” and he held the door open.
Port walked in and Heering followed. Port thought he must have been mistaken about the smile. Carl Heering does not smile. He has a nondescript face, a mouth as impersonal as a line drawn with a ruler, and the only thing about Heering’s face are his eyes.
But Heering was going across the room with his eyes downcast, it must be, because they showed nothing. He sat down at his desk, looked up at Port, and his eyes still showed nothing.
He put his briefcase on top of the desk, pulled out a folder, a letter, more folders, and then he left everything there.
“Now then, Mr. Port,” he said and waited.
Port stood up and handed the brown packet across.
Heering took it and laid it on the couch next to him.
“It’s been opened, Mr. Port.”
Port kept standing. He put his hands in his pockets and looked straight into Heering’s face, so that Heering had no doubt about the way Port felt.
“I’ll make it short,” he said. “I did only half the job. I brought your package back but not Robert. That makes your bill half, five hundred bucks, which I’ll take in cash. Or your check will do. Then I’m out of it.”
“Not so quick, Mr. Port,” said Heering. “I would at least like to hear why you failed with Robert. Where is he?”
The behavior was puzzling. Heering was much too conversational—unless the control the man had over his emotions was really fantastic. Port said, “Robert is with his mother.”
Port did not expect any great change in Heering’s behavior, and he was right. Heering gave no response, except to raise his eyebrows a little. So Port said,
“I believe you know, or suspect, that Robert told me what was in that package.”
“I know it,” said Heering. “I saw that the package had been opened.”
“It changes only one thing,” said Port. “Instead of conference notes I returned your letters. I see no point in more talk.”
“But you forget about Robert,” said Heering and the venom crept back into his voice. “And I assigned you to bring him back.”
“That’s out. We don’t have to discuss it.”
“But we do, Mister Port. I’m saying it for the third time: Your assignment was to return Robert and—”
“Once more,” said Port. “And so you understand what you’re up against. I believe Robert. I’ve seen the wreck you’ve made out of him with your poison. I’ve heard about the house in the back, that sick-maze you built, and it—with you—reeks of intentional murder. I’ve known a man who killed in cold blood. He’s dead now himself. He killed in cold blood and all alone. You, Heering, you’re worse! You don’t do your killing alone but make somebody else do it. You make the victim do it!”
“I’ll see to it, Mister Port—”
“The hell you will,” said Port and walked to the door. The sheer impact of the high voice stopped him and he turned around, looking at Heering. The man was livid now.
“I will force you! I want Robert, and you are the—”
“How?” said Port, and he felt so removed by now he could almost laugh.
But when he turned to the door again he still caught a glance of Heering. A white rage was trembling all over Heering’s face and his voice was close to a shriek.
“Here!” and he held up a letter, as if ready to strike. “Here’s how! My son has been kidnaped!”
It was typewritten and started, “Dear Mister Heering, Sir.” All through the letter backwoods phrases kept showing up, the way sugar is used to cover a poisonous taste.
Your son Robert is here now and feeling all right now.
I figure that’s only natural and his mother does too. I’m proud to know the boy and we’re in this little old place here, just resting up where nothing can harm the boy or be of bother, because he deserves the best. We all think so and our Mister Port too who helped the boy out when he was so wore out and near loco from fretting himself over what was the right thing to do. Well we got him all safe now and not to worry. I’ll let you know more by and by. I know you’ll want to hear, being his father, and being so well set up you will want only the best for Robert.
It was signed, Herbert Powell.
There was no return address and the letter had no stamp on it.
“Well?” said Heering.
Port put the letter back on the desk and nodded.
“I think you’re right. And the next letter will be the touch. The first touch.”
“I thought you might know how it goes,” said Heering. He was going to start all over, thought Port. The man didn’t give up. As a matter of efficiency, and to keep his secret confined, he had decided that Port would handle this thing, until Robert was back and Heering took over himself.
Port didn’t look at Heering. He knew how the other one felt, how his eyes sat in his face and what the expression would mean. And at the other end of the scale were Port’s feelings about Robert Heering. His first free swing out of the black rut where he had been kept most of his life, and the swing snapped back in his face.
“I’m not part of it,” said Port. He almost sounded tired.
“I didn’t mean that you were part of the kidnaping,” said Heering. “I was referring to your criminal background, that it doubtlessly gives you some familiarity with this sort of thing.”
“You’re only half right. I wasn’t in on this, and I’m—”
“Of course not,” and then, for the second time, Heering smiled, very briefly. “I know you quite well by now. You are not too easily predictable by the usual standards, but your impulses, I notice, are quite consistent.”
There was no point standing any longer, nor was it wise to leave now. Heering, Port felt sure, was building up to something that mattered. Port sat down and said,
“You mean, with my clean-cut impulses and with your clean-cut instructions, I’m now going forth and rescue the lost Robert?”
“You mean, no?”
“No.”
“Well, then—”
“Discounting pity, which never goes very deep, Robert means nothing to me.”
“You’re right,” said Heering, and for a moment he could not keep the high look out of his face, smug and well-satisfied for having understood this much about Port, and for being prepared. The last thought gave him the most satisfaction.
“You will do what you can, Mr. Port, because I have this.” He held the letter up and then, from that height, let it drop to the desk. The letter fell down with a smack.
“You are one of the kidnapers, Mr. Port.”
Port put his hands back in his pockets, and very slightly he started to rock on his feet.
“That, Mr. Port, is how it will look. Your
name mentioned affectionately in this letter. Your presence here, to negotiate. The amount of money—considerably larger than five hundred dollars—which I am transferring to your account. The car outside, which you used to chase Robert.” Heering sat down behind the desk and looked at his hands. “You didn’t know that my Benz was picked up in Lubbock, parked illegally somewhere? My office was called by the police about that. One fender is dented. And the car you drove shows the paint. You must have chased the boy hard. And then the story of some young man, a hitchhiker who works at one of my pumping stations—” Heering looked up, shook his head, “He’s not working at Low Shelf any more. I can imagine what you might do to one of my witnesses. And then,” Heering went on, “the entire complexion of your movements after your arrival here. My employees—the copter pilot, pump station supervisor, Lubbock office, my Galveston secretary—all instructed to aid your progress but no reasons given. You can see how that can be cast—”
“I don’t doubt you can do it,” said Port. Then he put his hands on the desk and leaned slightly.
“And then,” he said, “when I get on the stand, Mr. Heering, how long do you think your secrets will stay secrets? How long do you think it will take me to undo your twenty-five years of hard effort?”
Carl Heering was a narrow man, built smallish, and most of the time nothing changed that impression. He stood up now, standing less high than Port, but none of that mattered. A fantastic strength moved into him, or moved to the surface of the small man so that it showed everywhere. This reservoir of strength made him so sure, it made effort unnecessary. His voice was low and quiet.
“That way,” he said, “you could wreck me. And in that wreck I’ll tear down everything in my reach. I’ll wreck you, my children, anyone who gets within reach. Believe that, Port. I don’t win, no one else will either.”
Port moved away from the desk, went to the window, and stood there for awhile, looking out. He couldn’t see very far because of the light, but heard the wind again. It was starting again with a whisper.
“All right.” He turned around and looked at Heering. “I’ll get Robert,” he said.
Heering had been sure of it. He did not have to relax, or feel relief when he heard Port give his answer, because he had been sure. He had known that his strength was greater than any.
But he did not know why Port agreed—what made the switch possible; that every move Port made, from now on, would be a move against Heering.
Chapter IX
BOTH MEN were finished with their decisions and the rest was cold details. It was business now and a concrete job. The two men, on this level, worked well together.
Port sat down on the couch again and asked if he could have a cup of coffee. Heering rang for the coffee and asked for two cups. Until the houseman came back with the tray Heering did things with papers on the top of his desk and Port sat on the couch, arms folded. He had his eyes closed part of the time and every so often he made his monotonous whistle sound.
The houseman poured Heering’s cup half and half with a lot of sugar. Port asked for his black. When Heering came over to sit opposite, Port started asking.
“How did you get that letter from Powell, since it didn’t come through the mail?”
“It was in my Galveston mail. Delivery by the mailman is made on the ground floor, into a mail bin. The slot to the bin is accessible from the Information office—somewhat like a mailbox.”
“I could walk in there and drop a letter?”
“Yes. It happens rarely, but sometimes outgoing mail is dropped there by mistake. Even though the slot is clearly marked.”
“Are you sure this is from Herbert Powell?”
“There is no question.”
“You know his handwriting?”
“By sight.”
“I don’t understand why?”
“This—this Mrs. Emma Powell,” said Heering, “receives a monthly check. From a New York—”
“I know about the check you send her. Quit being so secretive, dammit.”
Heering said, “Some of those checks have been endorsed by Herbert Powell. The signature on the letter is the same.”
“Any idea when that letter was dropped?”
“Today.”
“Today when?”
“After three P.M. At that time the three o’clock deliveries had been cleared out and this single letter came through. The clerk forwarded it to my office immediately.”
“Last night, at about ten o’clock, Powell was in his home in Lubbock. Your son Robert couldn’t have identified himself there until about twelve, or even later. He left me, to go to the Brandywine address, after eleven. And today, less than twenty-four hours afterwards, you get this letter. How far is Lubbock from Galveston?”
“About five hundred miles.”
“I don’t know the roads down there. Can a man drive that distance in fifteen hours?”
“No, I gave you air miles. By highway the distance is quite a bit more. Both Abilene and Austin constitute major swings of direction on the main highway. And secondary roads are no saving in the central part of the state.”
“And Powell had probably less than fifteen hours…” said Port. He thought a moment, then said, “And airmail is out.”
“Naturally it’s out. I told you—”
“What you told me doesn’t stop Powell from sending a letter to a friend in Galveston and having it dropped at your building in a plain envelope. Anyway, there wasn’t time. Even if the letter got there the same day, it wouldn’t be delivered ’til the following. Which would be tomorrow.”
“Robert is in Galveston!” Heering said suddenly.
Port shrugged. “He’s with Powell and Powell flew there from Lubbock and dropped the letter?”
“Of course! I fly from Lubbock to Galveston in less than two hours. I don’t know what commercial planes do on that run, but—”
“It makes sense,” said Port, but he didn’t move. He kept sitting still, fingering the rim of his cup.
“A short while ago,” said Heering, and there was an edge to his voice, “you were in a great hurry to—”
“The more I can figure out sitting here, the faster can I move once I leave,” said Port. And then, “Do you know of a detective agency which—”
“The chief reason, Mr. Port, why you are working for me—”
“I know, I know,” and then Port took a deep breath. “Look. I want some leg work done. You can disguise the assignment all you want without cutting in on some efficient leg work which an agency can do better than I.”
“I first want to hear what you want. As far as investigations are concerned, I have my own organization, as a part of my enterprises.”
“Yes,” said Port. “I’m sure.” Then he lit a cigarette. He started to talk while the smoke was still in his lungs. “I want to know if Powell left Lubbock, and if so when. Any clue where he, or he and Robert, might have gone, and if Mrs. Powell is still at her address on Brandywine. By the way,” said Port, “do you know where that Benz was found?”
“I don’t know. I can find out.”
“Yes. And I’d like a little background on Powell. There may not be time for much, but something about what he does, whom he knows currently.”
“I can help you with that myself,” said Heering, and for the fifth or sixth time Port realized that Heering usually knew a great deal about anyone even slightly involved with him.
“Can you reach your private police now and give—”
“They are not a private police, Mr. Port. As a legitimate branch of any enterprise as large as mine, an investigative branch is both necessary and ethical.”
“Can you call them now and ask them for a fast job on this?”
Heering got up and went to his desk. He sat down behind it and asked Port to repeat what he wanted and wrote it down on a pad. Then he picked up the telephone, and in a short while: “This is Mr. Heering,” he said. “Connect me with Ebberhouse. If he isn’t in the building, try his Houst
on office. If he isn’t there, ring his home, a Galveston number.”
Ebberhouse was ‘in the building,’ which Port guessed was the Heering office in Galveston, and got his instructions. In the end Heering asked, “How long?” Then he nodded and hung up the phone.
“Some of it will be phoned in as early as this evening, late this evening,” said Heering. “The rest, with any luck, will be available tomorrow forenoon.” Heering came around his desk, soothed down his jacket. “It is dinnertime. Will you join me and my daughter or would you prefer to eat in your room?”
“I’d like to hear about Powell,” said Port. “You said you had information on him.”
Heering looked at the watch he had in his vest, then sat down opposite Port.
“We eat at eight,” said Heering. “In fifteen minutes. What I know won’t take any longer. Would you like the coffee heated?”
“No. This is fine.” Port put his cup down, put his arms on his knees. “I’d like to know how much money Powell has.”
“Money?” said Heering. “He has none.”
“None?”
“Why the question?”
“I was wondering why a man, retired in his forties, pulls a kidnaping stunt.”
“He isn’t ‘retired,’ in the approved sense of the word. He is living on his wife’s stipend. I mentioned to you that a New York bank sends her—”
“Yes. You told me. Now, something else. Where did he live before he came to Lubbock? He mentioned he was a cotton farmer in the past.”
“Before he married the Semmerling woman,” said Heering, and Port had to marvel at the anonymous way in which Heering spoke of her, “he lived in various places; Fort Worth, Houston, Galveston, New Orleans, and in Laredo and Brownsville, on the border. Those are the main places. He was brought up in Dry Waters, a small place near the New Mexico border. In the panhandle that is.”
“They raise cotton there?”
“Certainly not. Nothing grows there. The town only exists because it used to be on the trail—one of the trails—into former Mexican territory.”