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

given shelter to someone hiding. It was almost noon. Should he go up to the precinct house and ask about those letters now?
    No, don’t go, he told himself. At the same time, he was walking uptown on the west side of the Drive now, still keeping his eye out for the possible letter-writer, a man who’d be alone probably, looking furtive, suspicious of everyone. Or would he be cocky? Don’t go into the precinct house, he thought, because tough-boy Santini might be on. Asking for the letters might irritate him. On the other hand why should he care if he irritated Santini?
    Clarence made for the precinct house.
    An elderly black cop whose name was Sam or Sims or Simmy, Clarence wasn’t sure, was sitting on a camp stool inside the door, reading a comic book. “Well, well. Morning, Mr. Clarence.”
    “Morning to you,” Clarence said, smiling. He went into the first office on the left.
    It was not Santini at the desk—Santini could be in the next room where the files were—but a lieutenant named Boulton, a rather friendly fellow.
    “Well, well,” said Boulton, in the same tone as Sam.
    “Good morning, sir. I’m not on till eight tonight, but I wonder if those letters—the anonymous letters addressed to Reynolds—Could I have a look at the photostats? It’s the man whose dog was kidnapped.”
    “Reynolds,” said Boulton, gazing at a wire drawer heavy with clipped pages on his desk. He pulled the wire thing towards him. “Jesus, if anything—Yesterday, yes. Stuff ought to be filed. What we need is a girl around here.”
    Clarence laughed a little. The letters certainly weren’t in that wire drawer.
    “Reynolds. Yes, I recall.” He reached for a stack of papers on his desk, picked it up, then said, “Why do you want them?”
    “I was interested. I heard the man’s story when he came in yesterday. His dog’s still missing, so I thought it wouldn’t hurt if I saw the letters—or the photostats.”
    The lieutenant flipped through the miscellaneous papers, and pulled out some clipped-together photostatted sheets. Just then, the telephone rang, and Boulton flopped into his chair and reached for it.
    There were four letters, all dated by another hand, possibly Mr. Reynolds’s, and they were in chronological order. The first had a September date and said:
    DEAR SNOB,
    I DONT LIKE SMUG PEOPLE, WHO DOES? I SUPPOSE YOU CONSIDER YOURSELF A SUCCESS? WATCH OUT. THE AX CAN FALL. LIFE IS NOT ALL SMOOTH GROVES WITH LITTLE COGS IN THEM LIKE YOU. I HAPPEN TO BE A FAR MORE INTERESTING AND IMPORTANT PERSON THAN YOU ARE. ONE DAY WE MAY MEET—UNPLEASANTLY.
    ANON
    The letter must have been a nasty thing to receive, Clarence thought, and shifted on his feet before he read the next one, dated a few days later. Lieutenant Boulton was still on the phone.
    WELL SIR,
    STILL AT IT? YOU ARE A LITTLE MACHINE. YOU THINK THE MAJORITY IS WITH YOU. NOT SO! SINCE WHEN ARE YOU SO RIGHT? JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE A JOB AND A WIFE AND A SNOB DOG LIKE YOURSELF? IT NEED NOT GO ON FOREVER TILL YOU CREEP INTO YOUR GRAVE. THINK AGAIN AND THINK CAREFULLY.
    ANON
    He progressed to the next two letters, the fourth about the dog Lisa. It was quite shocking to Clarence, having met the decent Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds. Boulton was off the phone now.
    “Thank you, sir.” Clarence handed the folder back. “See you tonight, sir.”
    “Not me. Not tonight,” replied the lieutenant with a smile, as if he had a big date and wouldn’t dream of working this evening.
    Clarence walked back along Riverside Drive, watching for people—men—who might be staring at him a little too long. Clarence felt happy and excited. He wanted to ring up his mother. That would please her. Except that just now, at a quarter to one, she and his father were probably sitting down to Sunday dinner, maybe with a couple of neighbors as guests.
    What about the little man in the dark gray overcoat and old shoes, shambling along, hugging the side of a building? The man didn’t look at him.