The Old Man introduced me to the other man in his office—his name was Chappell—and said: “Sit down.”
I sat down.
Chappell was a man of forty-five or so, solidly built and dark-complexioned, but shaky and washed out by worry or grief or fear. His eyes were red-rimmed and their lower lids sagged, as did his lower lip. His hand, when I shook it, had been flabby and damp.
The Old Man picked up a piece of paper from his desk and held it out to me. I took it. It was a letter crudely printed in ink, all capital letters.
If you ever want to see your wife alive again you will do just what you are told and that is go to the lot on the corner of Turk and Larkin St. at exactly 12 tonight and put $5,000 in $100 bills under the pile of bricks behind the bill board. If you do not do this or if you go to the police or if you try any tricks you will get a letter tomorrow telling you where to find her corpse. We mean business.
I put the letter back on the Old Man’s desk.
He said: “ Mrs. Chappell went to a matinée yesterday afternoon. She never returned home. Mr. Chappell received this in the mail this morning.”
“She go alone?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Chappell said. His voice was very tired. “She told me she was going when I left for the office in the morning, but she didn’t say