Free A Dog's Ransom by Patricia Highsmith Page B

knows if I do not receive another thousand dollars by tomorrow night, the dog is to be killed.”
    Clarence laughed again. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the room, turning. “You can start by opening that chest of drawers or whatever it is,” said Clarence. “Okay, start.” He gestured.
    Kenneth got up. He had to. At that moment, no doubt because of their raised voices in the last seconds, footsteps sounded in the hall, the busy carpet-slipper-shuffling footsteps of the old bag Mrs. Williams, also the clump of Orrin whom she had probably summoned. They were going to listen outside the door, damn them. Kenneth went to his low chest which had three long drawers in it.
    “Empty your pockets first, would you?”
    “Have you got a search warrant? I’d like to see it.”
    “I’ll go on that,” Clarence replied, pointing to the paper Kenneth had printed, which lay on the table.
    As Kenneth moved towards it, Clarence leapt for it, folded it and pocketed it.
    Clarence assisted the man in hauling things out of his pockets—some wadded bills, keyring, filthy handkerchief, a couple of grimy shopping lists. Clarence was interested only in the address of the sister, and was already imagining having to search New York census departments to get it. “Haven’t you got a wallet? An address book?”
    “No.” Kenneth pulled out the third drawer. He hated that anyone saw and also touched his belongings.
    Next the table. It had a drawer, but in it were mainly knives and forks and spoons, some stolen from Horn and Hardart, a can-opener, and in one corner Kenneth’s Social Security card and papers pertaining to his disability money. The policeman copied his Social Security number.
    Now the books. Kenneth had eight or ten paperbacks and a couple of books from the public library on the floor under the front window. Clarence flipped through them. He also looked under the bed, and pulled the bed out so he could see behind it. He looked in the toilet, and also on the kitchen shelf above Kenneth’s hanging clothes, and in the pockets of all the clothes there.
    “I suppose the address is in your head,” Clarence said, frustrated and angry now, because he hadn’t found the money either.
    “My sister has instructions,” said Kenneth, “to kill the dog tomorrow night unless I have the thousand dollars by eleven p.m.”
    “And you expect to get away with this? And get more money? You’ve written another letter to Mr. Reynolds?”
    “I was going to phone him,” Kenneth said boldly, “at his house. If he wants his dog—” Kenneth’s temper burst forth. “The address of my sister is in my head and you’ll never get it!”
    Torture it out of the bastard, Clarence thought. He lit a cigarette. Haul him in, Clarence thought. Let a tough guy like Santini or Manzoni work him over. But how far would Santini or Manzoni bother going? One would have to whet their appetite somehow. Suppose they weren’t interested? Suppose Rowajinski didn’t crack? Could he himself crack Rowajinski? Here or at the precinct house? Would MacGregor let him, for instance? “Who’s bringing the dog over from Queens?”
    “My—my sister. I’ll meet her somewhere.”
    “She has a car? Her husband?”
    “She’ll come with her husband in their car.”
    What a fine family you have, Clarence wanted to say, but was afraid of antagonizing the man any further. The important thing, as Mr. Reynolds had said, was to get the dog back alive. But was he to believe this story? “Your sister lives in an apartment?”
    “A little house,” said Kenneth.
    “Can you give me some kind of guarantee?”
    “What kind?”
    “That’s for you to think of. Maybe I can speak with your sister on the telephone, make sure the dog’s alive, that she’ll bring it. Can I?”
    “I told you my sister has no telephone. I don’t want my sister involved!”
    The guy was really cracked. For the first time since he had been questioning him, Clarence averted his eyes out of a