Man on a leash - By Charles Williams Page 0,58
else in the car.
“Does she have to go, too?” he asked.
“She shore does.” It was Tex who was on the right. “Ain’t inny glass in them doors now, Sugarfoot, but you won’t be thinkin’ about yore hairdo nohow.”
She ignored him. One of the light standards was brought around in front of the car to shine in through the windshield. Kessler positioned himself to Romstead’s left with the Polaroid. “Left hand up on the wheel, Romstead,” he said. “And both of you face this way.” They turned. He snapped. Very careful, Romstead thought, not to get any of the exterior of the car. Just the two of us and the backdrop on the other side. When the picture was developed, Kessler nodded with satisfaction. He moved in closer then, shooting downward at an angle to get the detail of the bar and the manacles.
The bar was removed then, and they were taken from the car. Romstead’s hands were cuffed behind him again, and they were covered by the ever-vigilant Tex with the shotgun while Kessler photographed something on the floor of the car behind the front seats, using flash bulbs this time because the floods couldn’t be brought to bear. When he had two shots to his satisfaction, he nodded to Tex.
“All right, show it to him.”
Tex gestured with the gun and nodded. Romstead hobbled forward and looked in around the front seat, which was tilted forward. There was enough peripheral light from the surrounding floods to make it out, though except for one chilling item, none of it made much sense to him. A square aluminum-cased piece of electronics equipment that was obviously homemade because it bore no manufacturer’s nameplate was mounted on foam rubber and strapped in place on the floor on the far side. On this side what appeared to be a whole bank of batteries was likewise secured in place, and in between were several interconnecting cables lying loose on the floor. The dynamite was just barely visible, but he was sure that Kessler had framed it in the picture exactly as he wanted it.
There were two bundles of it, one under each seat with only the ends protruding. There were seven sticks in each, strapped together and somehow secured to the floor, and the center stick was armed with a detonating cap whose bare copper wires were connected to some of those running across the floor.
“Just for the pictures,” Kessler said behind him. “We’ll disarm it until you’re on station.”
The great-hearted nobility of that, Romstead thought, was somewhat diluted by the fact that one of them would also be in the car to that point, to drive it. He’d be shackled and blindfolded. They had now raised the lid of the trunk, and Kessler was photographing the interior with flash bulbs. The second shot appeared satisfactory.
“All right,” he said. “Let him see it.”
Tex gestured with the shotgun. Romstead duck-walked around in back. There was more arcane electronics equipment foam rubber mounted and lashed in place around the peripheral areas of the trunk, again homemade and interconnected with lengths of insulated wire and cables, but it was the chest or box that immediately caught his eye and was in its own way as ominous as the dynamite. It took up most of the space in the trunk and was large enough to hold two big suitcases, constructed of welded quarter-inch steel plates lined with asbestos. There was a hinged lid, also of steel plate and asbestos, and a heavy latch on the front of it.
“You see?” Kessler asked.
“Sure,” Romstead replied bleakly. “So why should we go?”
“You’re misinterpreting it. We just want you to know we’re not bluffing; we’ll blow it if you force us to. You’re a dangerous man, Romstead; we admit it. You’re too much like that old son of a bitch to begin with, and we’ve learned a little of your background. If you thought we’d hesitate for a minute in sending it up because we’d also be blowing the money all over half the state, you’d take the chance. So we took the temptation away from you. If you force us to make it jump, as the French put it, that’s too bad, but the money’s still safe.”
Romstead said nothing, but his face, largely concealed under the blindfold, was intensely thoughtful as they were herded back to the house and into the bedroom. Apparently even a genius could make a small mistake now and then, and maybe if he boasted and embroidered long enough,