A Dog's Ransom Read Free Page A

the door to anyone. I’ll speak to Mark downstairs. I’ll tell him not to let anyone up to see you. All right? Do you have to go out for anything?”
    “No. I had sort of a lunch date with Lilly, but I can cancel it.”
    “Cancel it. I’ll call you during the morning. Bye-bye, darling.”
    That morning, during a Publishing Committee meeting—which was so full of agenda it would be resumed in the afternoon—half Ed’s mind was on the Lisa situation. By 11:30 a.m. he had decided that to have a plainclothesman, who might insist on trailing Anon after he collected the money, would jeopardize Lisa’s life: Anon might realize he was being trailed and be afraid to return an hour later with the dog, or to have anyone else bring the dog. So when Ed telephoned Greta just before he went out to lunch, he told her that he had decided to get the money and to have no police. Greta was still in favor of a plainclothesman.
    “If we lose, we’ve lost only a thousand bucks, darling. I mean if we can’t identify him later and so forth. There’s more chance of losing the other way—losing the dog.”
    Greta sighed. “Could you telephone me again this afternoon, Eddie? I am worried.”
    “I’ll call you twice if I can.”
    He and Greta had four letters from Anon now. If he took them to the police, which he certainly intended to do eventually, the police might have in their files letters to other people from the same Anon. Identifying printing was just as easy as identifying script writing. If Lisa were dead or alive, Anon would be found and stopped. Even his own letters were bound to provide a clue. And yet—just how exactly?
    After a quick lunch alone at the Brass Rail on Fifth Avenue, Ed walked to his bank and withdrew a thousand dollars in ten-dollar bills. He had foreseen the bulk and brought his black briefcase. As he left the bank, Ed wondered if he was being watched even now by Anon? Ed did not glance at anyone on the street and made his way at a moderate pace back to his office. It was a fine, crisp day full of sunshine. He wondered if Lisa were outdoors or in at this moment? Surely she’d bark, surely she was unhappy and mystified. How had the bastard grabbed her? How? It was quite possible she was dead, Ed realized.
    When Ed came home, with the briefcase, Greta said she had had no telephone calls other than Ed’s and one from Eric who wanted to know the news about Lisa.
    They had a simple dinner. Greta was depressed about the money, and didn’t want to look at the briefcase. But she wanted to go with him at 11 p.m. Ed tried to dissuade her. Where would she wait for him?
    “Oh, there are bars on York Avenue. Or Third. I’ll order a drink. I’ll ask Eric to come. Sure!” she interrupted his protest. “Why not? What’s the harm? Do you think I want to leave you alone with this bastard?”
    Ed laughed for the first time since Lisa had disappeared.
    Greta telephoned Eric, who was nearly always in. Ed had not been able to stop her from telling Eric his mission, and maybe it wasn’t a bad idea, Ed thought, if Eric came.
    It was ten to 11 p.m., when Ed went out the door of a bar on Third Avenue and 60th Street, leaving Greta and Eric on their scotch and sodas. He carried the newspaper-wrapped parcel under his left arm. The parcel was held by two big rubber bands. He was to rejoin Greta and Eric in about fifteen minutes—and Ed did find it comforting to have a date with them. He walked slowly, but not too slowly, eastward, and at York Avenue crossed to its east side and continued north. He was not anticipating a physical encounter, but one never knew with a psychopath, he supposed. However, he pictured Anon as a short fellow, fortyish, maybe even fifty, a weakling, a coward. Anyway, Ed was five feet ten, sturdily enough built—in fact he had to watch his waistline—and in college, Columbia University, he had boxed for a year or so, and played football, though neither with much enthusiasm. Ed took a breath and walked