Kidnapped
by
Fred Narvey
"Hey, Cohen!" O'Riley shouted, "I've got a job for you."
"Can you give it to somebody else, Chief?" I asked. "It's been a long day."
"This is a police station, Cohen. We gotta work when we gotta work. You want a nine-to-five job, go back to school and become an office boy instead of a detective!"
"Okay, Chief," I said sourly, "what's up?"
"Get your sidekick, George, and proceed to the back of the Laurentian Hotel, corner of Concord and Biscayne Drive. You'll find a Cadillac there with license number 380 CHC. Tell George to bring his tool kit along. There's a guy locked in the trunk."
"Who tipped you off, Chief?"
"You won't believe this, Cohen, but the guy in the trunk phoned us himself, from a cellular phone. No more questions. Get cracking!"
My buddy, George, is no ordinary cop; he's a technician. The reason O'Riley always gets George to help me is that I'm the man who got George a job working for the police department and saved him from a life of crime. His former specialty was breaking into cars. I'm telling you this so you will understand why it took George no more than a minute to open the trunk of the Cadillac.
Sure enough, there was a little fellow inside holding a cellular phone. "We got your phone call, sir," I said. "Do you always do your phoning from the trunk of your car?"
"Never mind the jokes," he hollered. "Get me out of here!" I seemed to recognize the voice. The man's face was beaten up and his grey flannel suit was covered with dirt. George and I helped him out of the trunk and he wiped his face with his silk handkerchief. "Little Caesar!" I blurted out.
"Councillor John Steele to you," he answered dryly. "Drive me home."
"Sorry, sir," I replied, "Chief O'Riley instructed me to bring you to headquarters. He wants to talk to you."
"I eat bigger men than O'Riley for breakfast every morning," he retorted. "Drive me home!"
"Your preference of breakfast food is your business, sir," I answered, but since Chief O'Riley pays my salary and you don't, I suggest that you step into my car. Constable Smith will bring your car to the police station." The councillor gave me a murderous look, but did as he was told.
As we drove to the police station, I had some time to think about my passenger. John Steele was a handsome man, about five feet two inches tall, with large, crafty-looking brown eyes. His jet black hair was grey at the temples and he had a neatly trimmed brown moustache. The haberdashers considered him to be one of the best dressed men in town.
He was known in the community as a shrewd and ruthless operator in the road construction business. His competitors and his employees called him all kinds of fancy names behind his back such as Little Caesar, Napoleon, Czar. I even heard him called watch-pocket dictator. He was elected to the city council on a very simple program: a) bust the trade unions, b) bar the communists from City Hall, c) cut the business tax.
The fact that he didn't succeed in implementing any of his ideas didn't seem to matter. He kept getting re-elected year after year. Since I was a member of the Police Officers' Union, he wasn't exactly my kind of a guy.
O'Riley took one look at John Steele and said, "My God! Little...why Mr. Steele, what happened to you? _ You may go home now, Cohen, I'll see you in the morning."
I was sitting in the front office the next morning halfway through my second cup of coffee when O'Riley shouted, "Come into my office, Cohen!" I took my coffee with me and sat down opposite him.
"The Czar told me a very weird story last night," the Chief began. "He claimed that he went to get his car from the underground garage at City Hall when three masked men appeared out of nowhere, beat him unconscious and stuffed him into the trunk of his own car. When he regained consciousness, he could see exactly where he was by looking through a crack in the lid of the trunk. He had the presence of mind to call us on his cellular phone which he always carries. What do you think of that story?"
I gulped down the rest of my coffee. "Well, Chief," I said, "my little Polish mother used to say, 'When a herring stinks, it stinks from the head and not from the tail.' But this herring stinks from the tale, Chief." I don't know whether O'Riley got the subtlety, but he gave me a big grin and said, "And what would your Jewish father say?"
"He would say that it's a tale for little children and big fools"
"I agree with your father, Cohen. I want you to go around town and ask his 'natural enemies' a few discreet questions. by the way, John Steele is fifty-three years old and is still unmarried. Could it possibly be that...?"
"I get the drift, Chief," I said. "I'll look into it."
To my surprise, the morning newspapers already had the story. How did they get it so fast? I didn't tell them. O'Riley certainly didn't tell them, which led me to only one conclusion: George! No wonder he didn't turn up for work this morning. He probably had one too many in a bar last night and shot his mouth off.
I began by going over the case in my mind. John Steele claims that he was attacked by three masked men in the City Hall garage, beaten up, and abducted. Was the motive robbery? No. He would have told us if his assailants had taken his wallet. When we hoisted him out of the trunk, he was still wearing his large diamond ring, his tie was a bit twisted, but his diamond studded tie pin was still in place. Let's say that his attackers were unexpectedly interrupted in their 'work', stuffed Steele into the trunk and took off with his car. What did they intend to do with him, and why did they abandon the car behind the hotel? If it wasn't robbery, what was the motive? O'Riley was probably right. I should start with his 'natural enemies'.
My first call was the Teamsters' Union. I found their secretary, Louis Jones, reading the morning paper and chuckling aloud. He was a huge man, about six feet four inches, with a "beer belly". When Jones chuckled, he seemed to chuckle from his head to his knees. "What's the Joke?" I asked.
"It does my heart good,' he replied, "to read that Napoleon got beaten up. God knows he's been stomping on other people long enough."
"Have you any idea who might have done it?" I asked.
"Say, you don't think we had anything to do with it!" Jones shouted. "It sure wouldn't take three of my men to beat up on that fag! Besides, we are in the midst of negotiating a new contract with that shrewd character. We have enough trouble without an assault charge on our hands. If you ask me, it sounds like a simple case of gay bashing!" O'Riley only hinted about this possibility, but Jones was quite adamant.
"They might be right," I thought. This case might be solved in no time at all. So I phoned up Dore Adams, a well-known gay activist and asked him to meet me for coffee at a downtown café. He was quick to take me up on it.
Dore was a young man of about thirty, tall, handsome and intelligent, in a word, most people's perception of a Hollywood actor. After I had ordered coffee, I said, "Did you read this morning's paper?"
"I sure did."
"Who do you think might have beaten up and kidnapped John Steele?"
"It wasn't gay bashers, if that's what you're thinking, Detective Cohen."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because the little fashion plate isn't gay."
"Frankly, Dore, how do you know?"
Dore laughed. "Ours is a small community, Detective Cohen. We know one another and John Steele is not one of us. The only time we ever see him at the gay bar is before civic elections. He wants our vote and hints that he might be on the police commission if he is re-elected."
"So much for the gay bashing theory," I thought. Then suddenly I had an idea, thanked Dore for his time and phoned the Chief. "Harvey here, Chief. Did it occur to you that John Steele might have locked himself in his trunk as a publicity stunt?"
"Where did you get that bright idea, Cohen?"
"Well, he still had his car keys in his pocket when we fished him out of the trunk, Chief."
"Forget it, Harvey. I'm way ahead of you. I questioned Steele about that and he said he always carried a spare set in his pocket. Keep digging. Goodbye." Wrong again!
My next idea was to see what the Communists had to say for themselves. "They sure have no reason to love John Steele," I thought.
The secretary of the Communist Party was a soft-spoken man by the name of Gordon Stone. His tiny office was as neat as a pin. I found him reading a thick book. He looked like a college professor to me. "Could these be the kinds of people John Steele wanted to bar from City Hall?" I wondered.
I thought I'd be smart and greeted him with, "Good day, Comrade Stone. Detective Harvey Cohen here." Stone lifted his thick, black eyebrows, looked at me over his reading glasses and said, "Cut the crap, Harvey. What's on your mind?"
"It's about the John Steele abduction case, Gordon. Have you any idea who his assailants might have been?" Gordon broke into a broad grin. "What's the joke?" I asked.
"Pardon me, I wasn't laughing at you, Harvey", he replied. "The common perception that Communists advocate violence always strikes me as being very funny, that's all. We Communists believe in fighting for Democracy and against Fascism as we did in the Spanish Civil War and in the Second World War, not beating up on pygmies like John Steele."
"So, who do you think are the culprits?" I asked.
"I don't know, Harvey, but I would check up on his competitors if I were you. I suspect that his 'pals' in the construction business would love to attend his funeral."
I made my report to Chief O'Riley. "Thank Comrade Stone for the suggestion," O'Riley said dryly. "but I've had Detective Murphy questioning the big operators in the construction business. So far, all he has to report is that they all hate his guts because he is more successful than they, but they don't know who would go so far as to use violence against him. By the way, John Steele has refused to take a lie-detector test."
My partner, George, turned up next day. "What happened to you?" I asked.
"I had a peach of a hangover," he answered with a grin.
"Were you drinking at a bootlegger's place or in a bar, George?"
"I went back to the Laurentian Hotel. They have a strip tease girlie show and the best roast beef in town."
"I think I'll drop in there myself," I said, "I like roast beef. You'd better report to O'Riley and see whether you still have a job."
The desk clerk at the hotel looked familiar.
"Detective Harvey Cohen," I said to him. "What's your name?"
"Charlie Wenzell."
"Holy Moses! Not the Charlie Wenzell who used to swipe crabapples with me when we were kids?"
"The same."
"Can I buy you a cup of coffee for old time's sake, Charlie?"
"You can do better than that," he answered. "I'll be off duty at twelve and you can buy me a drink."
After downing a couple of drinks and polishing off the roast beef, I asked, casual-like, "What can you tell me about John Steele, Charlie?" Charlie hesitated a split second too long.
"What do you want to know?"
"Does he ever come around here?" "Maybe yes, maybe no. I don't remember seeing him." Charlie's face told me a different story. After a few more pleasantries we parted company.
"Something tells me that my childhood pal is holding out on me. I better check his record," I thought. Sure enough, the department had quite a file on Charlie Wenzell. It appeared he had graduated from swiping crabapples and proceeded to break-ins, passing forged cheques, and extortion for which he had spent a few years in prison. It seems Dufferin Avenue produced all kinds of people including Charlie and me.
I went back to see Charlie next day. This time I brought George along, just to make it clear to Charlie that the palsy-walsy time was over, and this visit was strictly business.
"Charlie," I said, "this is my partner, George. How would you like to tell us whether or not you were involved in the 'Little Caesar Caper'?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't get coy with me, Charlie, my friend. This isn't like swiping crabapples. Either you tell me who snatched and stashed John Steele, or I'll have Chief O'Riley sweat it out of you."
"I swear I don't know anything about that caper."
"I'll give you one more chance, Charlie. What do you know about John Steele?" Charlie clammed up.
"Okay, Charlie," I said. "George, put the bracelets on him." George gave him a half Nelson, none too gently.
"Hold it!" said Charlie, "I'll tell you all I know. John Steele has been meeting a young lady every Monday night for the last year in room eighteen."
"What's her name and where can I her?" I asked.
"Her name is Hilda Jolly. She used to be John's secretary, but she lives with her parents in Huberville now."
"Thank you, Charlie. That makes you an honest man. I'm giving you fair warning, don't try to leave town!"
George and I made a beeline for Huberville, a small prosperous town seventy-five miles from the city. It took only one or two polite enquiries to find the home of Hilda Jolly. Hilda herself opened the door for us. She was a pretty, petite blond, in her early thirties, I guessed. She was dressed neatly in a becoming print house dress and an apron.
After introducing ourselves, I said, "Miss Jolly, George and I are conducting a discreet investigation into the terrible experience Mr. Steele suffered recently. We know that you were his secretary. May we come in and ask a few questions?"
"Certainly," she answered graciously, and led us into the living room. Motioning us to make ourselves comfortable, she said, "What would you like to know?"
"Did John Steele have any enemies that you know of, Miss Jolly?"
"Of course not!" she answered. "How could a sweet man like Mr. Steele ever have enemies?"
"What was he like to work for?" I asked. Hilda went into a long spiel expounding the virtues of John Steele; not a word of criticism.
"That's a lovely picture," I said, pointing to a photograph on the wall. "Is that a family portrait?" "That's right. That's my mother and dad, my four sisters, my three brothers and me."
"Do you all live in Huberville?"
"Oh, yes, we are a very close family."
"Are your brothers in business here?" I asked.
"They are partners in a garage business down the street."
"Well, we'll be on our way, Miss Jolly," I said. "Thank you for your time. You have been very helpful."
We found one of the brothers in the garage office. "Good day, sir," I said. "What's your name?"
"Martin Jolly", he answered amiably.
"My name is Detective Harvey Cohen," I said. Martin's face turned pale.
"I suggest that you don't bother opening up for business tomorrow, Martin. You and your two brothers better be at the central police station in the city at nine a.m. sharp. Ask for Police Chief O'Riley." Martin tried to put on a brave face.
"What's this all about? Why should we see O'Riley?"
"I think you know why," I answered.
"Suppose we don't show up?"
"That would be very foolish, Martin. If you're not there by nine o'clock, I'll come out here with a warrant for your arrest."
"On what charge?"
"Kidnapping and attempted murder of Mr. John Steele! Let's go, George."
When we got in the car, George said, "What makes you so sure those guys are guilty, Harvey?" I chuckled. "It's a long story, George, but I'll bet you a coke right now that the Jolly brothers will be waiting to see Chief O'Riley bright and early tomorrow morning."
I phoned O'Riley when we got into the city and gave him my report. "Well, Cohen" said O'Riley, "there are two possibilities. Either you are right, in which case I will tell you, 'Mazel-Tov'. On the other hand, you might be wrong. In that case, the Jolly brothers will sue you for harassment and defamation of character and you will be back pounding the beat. Goodnight!"
The Jolly brothers were there on the nose of nine o'clock and were ushered into O'Riley's office. An hour later they were joined by John Steele and the Attorney General. The meeting went on for two solid hours and I began to think, "Oh, well, pounding the beat won't be so bad; at least I'll get some fresh air."
They finally emerged, their faces blank, shortly after twelve noon. O'Riley beckoned to me. "Mr. Cohen, will you please step into my office?"
"Mr. Cohen!" O'Riley had never called me 'Mr.' before, and never talked to me without shouting. "It looks bad. It looks bad." I thought.
"Mazel-Tov, Cohen," O'Riley said with a sheepish grin. "You were right! Like your pal, Charlie Wenzell, told you, John Steele had been seeing Hilda Jolly every Monday at the Laurentian. John Steele made the mistake of slipping Charlie a ten-dollar bill to keep his mouth shut. Charlie, being the character that he is, considered the ten-spot merely a down payment and began demanding more and more money: blackmail, plain and simple. John Steele finally told him to go to hell."
In a fit of drunken rage, Charlie tipped off the Jolly brothers that their sister was having an affair with John Steele. The Jolly family was devastated. If word got around Huberville, the scandal would ruin them. Martin Jolly phoned John Steele and asked him if he intended to marry Hilda. The answer was an emphatic 'No'. As Hilda's condition became more obvious, the Jolly brothers became more aggravated. Finally, they decided to confront John Steele personally.
The Town of Huberville is closed on Monday and the Jolly family knew that John Steele visited Hilda on Monday nights, so they drove directly to the Laurentian. They arrived just as Steele was parking behind the hotel. He opened the car trunk to take out a box of chocolates, but before he could close it he was surrounded by the Jolly brothers. Martin wasted no time. "For the last time, I'm asking you, do you or do you not intend to marry Hilda?" he demanded. Instead of answering, Little Caesar hurled the filthiest epithets he could muster at him.
The Jolly brothers lost control of themselves. It took only a few blows to beat Steele unconscious, then they stuffed him into the trunk, picked up the chocolates, jumped into their own car and took off. On reaching the city limits, they came to their senses and realized what a horrible thing they had done. They drove back to the hotel deliberating on what to do when you and George arrived and opened the trunk. They took off again. By the time you brought Steele to the office, he had invented that cock and bull story about being kidnapped.
"So when is the trial coming up, Chief?"
"There won't be a trial. We ain't got a case." "What do you mean, we ain't got a case?" Chief O'Riley ruffled his thick, grey hair.
"Napoleon has finally met his Waterloo," he quipped. "He made a deal with the Attorney General. He will marry Hilda Jolly. He loves her, he says, and will not bring charges against his future brothers-in-law, who are 'all heart' he says. Furthermore, he will pay the cost of our investigation, and he will never run for public office again. In exchange, we will not charge him with public mischief, and we will never mention this case to anyone again, eh Cohen?"
"You know me, Chief. My lips are sealed."