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

Danish pastry. Her accent was German, Clarence thought. She looked Jewish, or partly Jewish.
    “I intend to keep an eye out for people in this neighborhood,” Clarence said. “It must be someone in this neighborhood. May I ask what time you go to work and come home, Mr. Reynolds?”
    “Oh—I take off just before nine and come home around six, six-fifteen. You know, I’d like this cleared up quickly, if possible,” Ed said, squirming with sudden impatience. “Our dog is the important thing, to hell with the thousand dollars. I don’t know what conditions this moron is keeping the dog under, but it can’t go on for ever.” He glanced at Greta, who was making a silent “Sh-h” to calm him down.
    “I understand.” Clarence tried to think what to do, what to say next. He was afraid he had not made the best impression, not the excellent impression he had wished to make.
    “I hope the police are checking to see if any anonymous letter-writers live in this neighborhood. Seems to me that’s the obvious thing to do.” Ed sipped his coffee.
    “I’m sure they are. I’ll call up Centre Street and see what I can find out.”
    “More coffee, Mr. Duhamell?” asked Mrs. Reynolds, pronouncing his name as if she knew how to spell it.
    “No, thank you. Have you a picture of the dog?”
    “Oh, lots,” said Ed.
    Greta went to a tall bookcase and out of nowhere, it seemed, produced a photograph in a white cardboard folder.
    It was a color photograph of a black poodle sitting beside a table-leg, the dog’s eyes blue-white from the camera’s flash.
    “Poodles look all alike to people who don’t know them,” said Greta Reynolds. “But I would know Lisa from two blocks away—as far as I could see her!” She laughed.
    She had a warm laugh, a friendly smile.
    Clarence stood up and handed the photograph back. “Thank you. I’ll also prod the fellows at the precinct house. The trouble is—we’re swamped with routine things now, like the robberies by junkies—”
    “Ah, the junkies,” said Ed with a sigh.
    “Thank you very much for seeing me,” Clarence said.
    “We thank you ,” Ed said, getting up. “Really, we hadn’t expected any personal attention. Apropos, what about a private detective? Or am I being naïve? Could a private detective do anything more than the police?” Mr. Reynolds smiled his twisted, discouraged smile.
    “I doubt it. We’ve got the files on such letter-writers, after all. The important thing is to work on it,” Clarence said.
    They saw him to the door.
    “I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything,” Clarence said.
    It was chilly, and Clarence wished he had brought his overcoat from Marylyn’s. He walked slowly towards Broadway, looking on both sides of the street for loiterers or anyone who seemed to be watching the Reynoldses’ building. Clarence didn’t like the Riverside Drive area, because the big apartment buildings looked gloomy even in daytime. No shops anywhere until Broadway, no color, just big concrete blocks of apartments that looked as if they’d been standing for eighty years or more. Most of the people also seemed old, and Jewish or foreign, and somehow sad and discouraged. However, the Reynoldses were different, and their apartment certainly wasn’t a bourgeois museum. There were modern paintings on the walls, interesting-looking books, and a piano that looked as if it were played—sheet music on it as well as Chopin and Brahms books. Clarence walked up one block on Broadway, then turned west, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets against the wind that came suddenly from the Hudson River. He wanted to see where Mr. Reynolds had lost his dog Lisa.
    He skipped down the stone steps at 106th Street, past the statue of Franz Sigel on horseback—a Civil War soldier, Clarence recalled, a helper of the North—and crossed the Drive. Clarence walked into the park, turned north, and blew on his hands. There were clumps of bushes, small trees that would have