A Dog's Ransom Read Online Free PDF Page B

remembrance or concern.
    “So I’m in a hurry. I don’t want my dog to die. The letter-writer’s got my dog. I don’t give a damn who he is , really I just want my dog back, you see.”
    “Yeah, I see but—”
    “Can you possibly find out something tonight ?” Ed asked politely but with determination. “Can I call you back around ten, say?” Ed wished he could offer them money to speed things up, but one didn’t do that, he supposed. “Could you possibly ring up Centre Street now and ask what they’ve found out?”
    “Yeah.” But the tone was not reassuring.
    “All right, then I’ll ring you back later.”
    Ed and Greta were going to the 6:30 performance of Catamaran on West 57th Street. An adventure story—Pacific seas, danger, exotic islands, a triumph of heroism against elements and odds. For long intervals Ed was distracted from his own thoughts, from his life. Perhaps Greta was too. After the film, they had excellent hamburgers and red wine at a nearby steakhouse, and came home a little before ten.
    Ed rang the precinct station, and said he was supposed to telephone this evening in regard to his missing dog and some anonymous letters. Once more he had a strange voice at the other end, and had to repeat the facts.
    “There’s no report come in from Centre Street . . .”
    Ed could have banged the telephone down, but he hung on politely during a few more inconsequential exchanges. He was sorry, in a way, that he’d given them the damned letters. The letters had been something to hang on to, somehow. Or was he losing his mind?
    “So?” Greta asked.
    “So, nothing. I’ll try them again tomorrow. I’d better get back to that biography.”
    “Are you going to read late? Want some coffee?”
    Ed hesitated between coffee and a drink. He preferred coffee. Or maybe both. Or would coffee keep him awake tonight? “Do you want coffee?”
    Greta usually wanted coffee. She liked it strong, and it almost never interfered with her sleep. It was miraculous, or her nerves were. “I do, because I am going to sew a little bit.”
    “Fine, Coffee.” Ed smiled, sank into the sofa, and pulled the paperbound manuscript off the coffee-table on to his lap.
    The biography was of John Phelps Henry, an obscure English sea-captain of the mid-eighteenth century who had become an optician in his forties, after quitting the sea. So far, halfway into the book, Ed was not enthusiastic about its publication. It was a recent idea of Bruthers, one of the chairmen of Cross and Dickinson and a Senior Editor more senior than Ed, that C. & D. ought to bring out a series of biographies of little-known people of the past. It reminded Ed of “minor poets,” who were minor, Ed thought, for the good reason that their talents were minor. Not even the prose of this biography was noteworthy, not even ex-Captain Henry’s sex life was lively. Who on earth would buy it, Ed wondered. But he plowed on dutifully. He wanted to be able to say to Bruthers, honestly, that he had read it.
    Greta’s coffee arrived.
    Then he heard the cozy, intermittent hum of her sewing-machine from the room that had been Margaret’s.
    Ed continued to read, or at least his eyes moved over the interminable pages. A hundred and seventy-odd more to go. It would be ridiculous to go back to York Avenue and 61st Street tonight, he supposed. He was glad Greta hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said it might be a good idea, because then he would have gone. If Anon was serious about returning the dog, Anon could telephone.
    The telephone rang—just before midnight—and Ed jumped with a happy premonition. This was going to be something , some bit of news—probably from the police, but maybe from Anon.
    “Hello. Is this Mr. Reynolds?”
    “Yes.”
    “This is Patrolman Duhamell, Clarence Duhamell. You came to the precinct house this morning.”
    “Yes?” Ed gripped the telephone.
    “I was in the room when you were speaking with Captain MacGregor. I—”
    “You have