King's Ransom Read online

  King's Ransom

  Ed Mcbain

  King’s Ransom

  [An 87th Precinct Mystery]

  Ed McBain

  Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

  * * * *

  1

  The long curve of the bay window faced the River Harb and the late-afternoon traffic of tugboats and barges plying their way between the two states. The scene beyond the window was clear with the pristine snappishness of October growing into November, each orange-and-gold leaf boldly shrieking its color against a sky too blue, too cold.

  The room itself was clouded with cigar smoke and cigarette smoke, lacking the sharply defined clarity of the outdoors, hazing over the people who had come to the room to transact business. The smoke hovered on the air like the breath of banished ghosts, clinging like early-morning cemetery mist to the wide hand-pegged planks of the flooring, rising to the exposed hand-hewn timbers in the ceiling. The room was immense, but it was cluttered now with the trivia of an extended skull-cracking session, ash trays overbrimming with butts, used and half-used glasses strewn about the room like the debris of a drunken army in retreat, empty bottles cluttering the tables, the men themselves exhausted and drawn as if they too, like the clinging shifting smoke, were ready to dissipate into the air.

  With dogged weariness, the two men sitting opposite Douglas King rapped out their staccato argument with the precision of vaudeville tap dancers. King listened to them silently.

  “All we’re asking, Doug, is that you think in terms of net profit, that’s all,” George Benjamin said.

  “Is that a lot to ask?” Rudy Stone said.

  “Think of shoes, yes. Don’t forget shoes. But only as they apply to net profit.”

  “Granger Shoe is a business, Doug, a business. Profit and loss. The black and the red.”

  “And our job,” Benjamin said, “is to keep Granger in the black, okay? So keep that in mind, and think of net profit, and then take another look at these shoes.”

  He rose from his position in the easy chair. He was a thin waspish man wearing black-rimmed spectacles which overpowered the narrowness of his face. He moved with the swiftness of a bird of prey, walking rapidly, almost gliding to the brass-stemmed, glass-topped teacart which stood some few feet from the sofa. The top of the cart was covered with women’s shoes. Benjamin picked up one of these shoes now and, with the same swift gliding movement, a peculiar grace which gave the impression that he was walking several inches above the actual surface of the expensive flooring, walked to where King sat in noncommittal silence. He extended the shoe to him.

  “Is that a shoe to stimulate sales?” he asked.

  “Don’t misunderstand George,” Stone put in hastily. Standing alongside the bookcases which lined one wall of the living room, he looked like nothing less than a Nordic god, muscularly blond, a man of forty-five with all the litheness of an adolescent. He dressed, too, with an arty flair, the checked weskit, the off blue of his sports coat, which seemed too young for his years. “It’s a good shoe, a fine shoe, but we’re thinking in terms of net profit now.”

  “The red and the black,” Benjamin repeated. “That’s what we’re interested in. Am I right, Frank?”

  “A hunnerd per cent,” Frank Blake said. He sucked in on his cigar and blew a smoke wreath at the high ceiling.

  “This shoe simply doesn’t stimulate the masses, Doug,” Stone said, moving away from the bookcases. “It has no flair.”

  “It has no guts,” Benjamin said, “that’s what it hasn’t got. Not only can’t the average American housewife afford it, she wouldn’t buy it even if she could afford it. Mrs. America, that’s who we’re after. The little woman who sweats over a hot stove and wipes snotty noses. Mrs. America, our customer. Mrs. America, the stupidest damn consumer in the universe.”

  “We’ve got to excite her, Doug. That’s elementary.”

  “We’ve got to bring women to a fever pitch.”

  “What excites a woman, Doug?”

  “You’re a married man. What excites Mrs. King?”

  King studied Benjamin blandly. Standing some six feet beyond him, mixing a drink at the bar, Pete Cameron looked up suddenly and caught King’s eye. He smiled secretly, but King did not return the grin.

  “Clothes excite a woman!” Stone said.

  “Dresses, hats, gloves, bags, shoes!” Benjamin said, his voice rising. “And shoes are our business, and nobody’s in business for his health.”

  “But nobody!” Stone said. “Net profit depends on stimulation, excitement. You can’t excite a woman with these shoes. These shoes wouldn’t excite a mare in heat!”

  The room was silent for a moment.

  Then Douglas King said, “What are we selling? Shoes or aphrodisiacs?”

  Frank Blake rose instantly, his thick Southern accent dripping from his thick Southern lips. At fifty-six, he gave the impression of a man who’d been weaned on molasses. “Doug is makin’ a joke,” he said. “You’ll fo’give me, but I dint come all the way from Alabama to hear jokes. I’ve got money invested in Granger, and from what George Benjamin tells me about how the firm’s bein’ run, well, I can see why it’s almost in the red.”

  “Frank is right, Doug,” Benjamin said. “This is nothing to joke about. Unless we do something fast, Granger Shoe is going to be right up the proverbial creek.”

  “Without the proverbial paddle,” Stone added.

  “What do you want from me?” King asked softly.

  “Now you’re asking the right questions,” Benjamin said. “Pete, let me have another drink, will you?”

  From the bar, Cameron nodded. Quickly he began mixing the drink. There was an economy to his motion, as if it too had been pared down to fit the requirements of his well-tailored, gray-flanneled frame. A tail and handsome man of thirty-five, he continued mixing the drink, his brown eyes flicking alternately to each person in the room.

  “What do we want from you, Doug?” Benjamin said. “Okay, here’s what we want.”

  “Spell it out for him,” Stone said.

  Cameron carried the drink over. “Anybody else?” he asked.

  “None fo’ me,” Blake said, and he covered the top of his glass.

  “You might freshen this one, Pete,” Stone said, handing him his near-empty glass.

  “All right, Doug,” Benjamin said. “In this room, at this moment, we’ve got the top brains of Granger Shoe, am I right? I represent sales, you represent factory, and Rudy here is fashion Co-ordinator. We’re all on the board of directors, and we all know damn well what’s wrong with the firm.”

  “What’s that?” King asked.

  “The Old Man.”

  “His policy is dictating the kind of shoe we produce,” Stone said. “His policy is driving this company into a hole.”

  “He doesn’t know a shoe from a corn plaster,” Benjamin said.

  “What does he know about women’s tastes? What does he know about women, for God’s sake?” Stone said.

  “He’s seventy-four years old, and I think he’s still a virgin,” Benjamin said.

  “But he’s president of Granger, and so Granger goes as the Old Man goes,” Stone said.

  “But why is he president, Doug? Have you ever stopped to ask yourself that question?”

  “Doug isn’t a moron, George. He knows why the Old Man’s president.”

  “Because he has enough votin’ stock to swing any election his way,” Blake put in, interrupting the two other men.

  “So year in and year out, he’s president,” Stone said, nodding.

  “And year in and year out, we stand by while he puts out these… these maternity shoes!” Benjamin said.

  “And year in and year out, we watch the company sink into the slime.”

  “A
n’ my stock dee-preciates in value. Now, tha’s no good, Doug.”

  Benjamin moved quickly to the teacart. King had been silent while the men spoke. Still silent, he watched Benjamin pick up a red pump from the clutter of shoes on the cart’s top.

  “Now look at this shoe,” Benjamin said. “Take a peek at this! Style! Flair! Excitement!”

  “I supervised the design of that bitch myself,” Stone said proudly.

  “We had samples made up when you were on vacation, Doug.”

  “I know what happened at the factory while I was on vacation, George,” King said softly.

  “Oh? Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give him the shoe,” Stone said. “Let him take a close look.”

  Benjamin handed the pump to King and then turned to glance at Blake, who was puffing on his cigar. King turned the shoe over in his big hands, studying it carefully, saying nothing.

  “Now how about that, boy?” Benjamin asked. “The women’ll go nuts for that shoe. What do women know, anyway? Do they care about quality, so long as a shoe flatters the foot?”

  “I can read his mind,” Stone said, “He’s thinking the Old Man would never let a shoe like that go through.”

  “Ah, but the Old Man won’t have a thing to say about it, Doug. That’s why we’re here today.”

  “Oh, is that why we’re here today?” King asked mildly, but the irony in his voice was lost on everyone but Pete Cameron, who caught it and smiled.

  “The Old Man’s got a solid chunk of voting stock,” Benjamin said, his eyes narrowing. “Twenty-five per cent of it.”

  “I was wondering when we’d start discussing voting stock,” King said.

  Benjamin laughed feebly. “Oh, this is a shrewd one, Frank,” he said. “You can’t slip anything over on Doug here.”

  King did not react to the compliment. In a flat voice he said, “The Old Man’s got twenty-five per cent, and between you, Rudy, and Frank, you’ve got twenty-one per cent—not enough to take an election from the Old Man.” He paused significantly. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Control,” Stone said.

  “Control,” Benjamin repeated. “We want your voting stock. We want you to throw in your voting stock with us.”

  “Mmmm?”

  “You’ve got thirteen per cent, Doug. The remainder is scattered around among people who don’t give a damn which way an election goes.”

  “With your stock, we’ll have a neat thirty-four per cent,” Stone said, “more than enough to override the Old Man. How about it, Doug?”

  “Throw in with us, boy,” Benjamin said, enthusiastically. “We’ll vote in a new president. We’ll put out shoes like the one you’re holding in your hand there. We can sell that shoe for seven dollars. We can splash the Granger name all over the low-priced field. The hell with this quality stuff! The big money is with the masses. Invade the low-priced field with a trade name that’s always stood for high fashion, and we’ll kill the competition.”

  “I think George’s idea is sound,” Blake drawled. “I wouldn’t’ve come all the way up here if I dint. I’m interested in protectin’ my investment, Doug. Frankly, I don’t care what kind of shoes we sell, so long as we make money at it. That’s my business. Makin’ money.”

  “Vote out the Old Man, huh?” King said. “Vote in a new president.”

  “That’s right, Doug,” Stone said.

  “Who?”

  “Who what?”

  “Who goes in as president?”

  There was a moment of hesitation. The men glanced at each other.

  “Naturally,” Stone said, “you’ve got thirteen per cent of the stock, and that’s considerable, considerable. But at the same time, you can’t do anything without our collective chunk, and so…”

  “I see no reason for pussyfootin’ around, Rudy,” Blake said firmly. “Conversion to the low-priced field was all George’s idea, as was this meetin’ today. I’m sure Doug will recognize the fairness of our suggestion.”

  “We figured,” Stone said cautiously, as if anticipating an explosion, “that George Benjamin should go in as president.”

  “Well now,” King said dryly, “that’s a surprise.”

  “With you as executive vice-president, of course,” Stone said hastily, “at a tremendous salary jump.”

  Douglas King studied the men silently for a moment and then slowly rose. Sprawled on the sofa, he had given an impression of stockiness, but as he rose now, the impression was instantly shattered. He was at least six feet two inches tall, with the wide shoulders and narrow waist of an exhibition diver. At forty-two years old, it was doubtful whether or not the graying hair at his temples could be called “premature.” It nonetheless added a feeling of dignity to the strong hard lines of his cheeks and jaw, the brittle luster of his blue eyes.

  “You’ll put out a line like this, is that right, George?” he asked, holding out the red pump. “You’ll use the Granger name on a low-priced shoe?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Figuring, of course, that we can eliminate perhaps half our normal factory operation.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, calculating, and then said, “Stamps and dies would knock out virtually the entire present cutting-room operation. And the machines on the fifth floor would go, and all the—”

  “It’s a good idea, isn’t it, Doug?” Benjamin asked hopefully.

  “And this would be the end result. This shoe,” King stared at the pump.

  “The end result would be a higher net profit,” Blake said.

  “Nothing wrong with that shoe, Doug,” Stone said defensively.

  “The Old Man may be running us into the ground,” King answered, “but at least he’s always put out an honest shoe. You want to put out garbage.”

  “Now just a second, Doug, you wait just a—”

  “No, you wait just a second! I like Granger Shoe. I’ve been working in that factory for the past twenty-six years, started in the stockroom when I was sixteen. Aside from the time I spent in the Army, I’ve been with this firm practically all my adult life. I know every sound and every smell and every operation in that place, and I know shoes. Good shoes. Quality! And I won’t stick the Granger name on a piece of junk!”

  “Well, all right,” Stone said, “all right, that’s just a sample you’ve got there. We can put out a slightly better shoe. Maybe something to…”

  “Something to what? This shoe’ll fall apart in a month! Where’s the steel shank in this? Where the hell are the counters? Where’s the box toe? What kind of a cheap sock lining is this?” King ripped out the sock lining and then tore off the strap and buckle. With one quick movement of his hands, he snapped off the heel. He held the assembled debris on his hands. “Is this what you’re going to sell? To women?”

  Outraged by the demolition, Stone said, “That sample cost us—”

  “I know exactly what it cost us, Rudy.”

  “Romantic notions don’t boost profits!” Blake said angrily. “If we can’t make profit with quality, we’ve got to—”

  “Who can’t make profit with quality?” King asked. “That’ll come as a shock to the other high-fashion houses, all right. Maybe the Old Man can’t, and maybe you can’t, but—”

  “Doug, this is business, business.”

  “I know it’s business! It’s my business, the business I love! Shoes are a part of my life, and if I began making garbage my life would begin to smell!”

  “I can’t continue to hold stock in a firm that’s constantly backsliding,” Blake said. “That’s not sound. That’s not…”

  “Then sell out! What the hell do you want from me?”

  “I’d watch the way I was talking, Doug,” Benjamin said suddenly. “We still control twenty-one per cent, and I’ve known bigger men than you to be voted out of their jobs.”

  “Go ahead, vote me out,” King said.

  “If you find yourself out in the street…”

  “Don’t worry about me,
George. I’m not going out into any damn street.” He dumped the remains of the red pump onto the teacart and then turned toward the steps which terminated just outside the entrance hall.

  “If you helped me become president,” Benjamin said, “it would mean an enormous salary increase for you. You could—” He stopped abruptly. “Where do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.”

  “This is still my house, George,” King said. “I’m fed up with your meeting, and I’m fed up with your proposition, and I’m fed up with you! So I’m leaving. Why don’t you follow suit?”