A Dog's Ransom by Patricia Highsmith Read Free Book Online

had turned over face down. She liked to lie in bed a half-hour or so after her coffee—thinking, she said. “I told you I had that chicken,” Marylyn mumbled into the pillow. “Come back and come to bed and then I’ll cook it.”
    His heart gave a leap and he smiled. He stretched out beside her, kissed the side of her head, but was careful not to stay long enough to wrinkle his shirt front. “Bye, darling.”
    He arrived at the Reynoldses’ apartment house at one minute to eleven, and asked the doorman to ring up Mr. Edward Reynolds, who was expecting him—Clarence Duhamell. After an affirmative work from the doorman with the telephone, Clarence took an elevator to the eighth floor.
    Mr. Reynolds had the door open for him, and looked surprised to see him in civilian clothes.
    “Good morning. Clarence Duhamell,” Clarence said.
    “Morning. Come in.”
    Clarence walked into a large living-room where there was a piano, paintings on the wall, and lots of books. Clarence at first did not notice the woman sitting in a corner of the big sofa.
    “My wife, Greta,” Mr. Reynolds said.
    “How do you do?” said Clarence.
    “How do you do?” She had a slight accent.
    “Won’t you sit down? Anywhere you like,” Mr. Reynolds said casually. He was wearing a dark-blue sportshirt and unpressed flannel trousers.
    Clarence sat down on a straight chair which had arms. “I’m not sure I can help with your problem,” Clarence began, “but I’d like to try. I heard you say at the precinct house that you had four letters.”
    “Yes. I left them at your precinct house. And evidently the writer of the letters has our dog.”
    “Just how was the dog stolen?”
    Ed explained. “I didn’t hear any noise, any barking. It was pretty dark. But I can’t imagine how anyone got hold of the dog.”
    “A French poodle,” Clarence said.
    “Black. About so high.” Mr. Reynolds held out a hand less than two feet from the floor, palm down. “Her name’s Lisa. Not the kind to go off with strangers. She’s four years old.”
    Clarence took this in carefully. Mr. Reynolds was pessimistic about him, Clarence sensed. Clarence felt that Mr. Reynolds was a rather sad man, and he wondered why. He had dark eyes, a firm mouth that had the capacity for smiling, for laughter, but the mouth was sad now. He would be a reasonable and patient man, Clarence thought. “And you paid the thousand dollars.” Clarence had overheard it in the Desk Officer’s room.
    “Yes. Obviously a mistake. I got a letter asking for it, you see. The dog was to be returned an hour later after the money was collected—on York Avenue and Sixty-first Street—Would you like a cup of coffee?”
    Mrs. Reynolds got up. “I’ll heat the coffee. It’s quite fresh, because we got up late,” she said to Clarence with a smile.
    “Thank you,” said Clarence. “Have you got any enemies—someone you might suspect, Mr. Reynolds?”
    Mr. Reynolds laughed. “Maybe enemies—non-friends—but not like this. This fellow’s cracked, I think. You saw the letters?”
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t.” Clarence felt at once stupid and at a disadvantage. He should have asked to see the precinct’s photostats. Clarence had been shy about asking to see them, and now he reproached himself. “I can look at the photostats tonight. I go on duty at eight tonight. My shift just changed.”
    Mr. Reynolds was silent.
    “Is there any person in the neighborhood you’ve noticed,” Clarence asked, “watching you?”
    “No. Sorry. I’ve tried to think.”
    Mr. Reynolds had a large head with thick, straight black hair that had a few fine lines of gray in it. It was coarse, unruly hair that did not want to lie down, though there was a side parting in it. His nose was strong and straight, not handsome, though his dark eyes and his mouth were handsome, in Clarence’s opinion. He made Clarence think of a Roman general—maybe Mark Antony.
    Mrs. Reynolds came in with a tray of coffee and