The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious #2)(86)

“Oh, it’s real. As is my promise to set it off if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

“Why would you . . .”

“Because I have nothing left,” Albert Ellingham said quietly. “The only thing I need is the answer. I know you have it. If you do not give it to me, then I will end us both. Think very carefully about what you will do next, George. Realize I did not get where I am in life by making idle threats.”

Quiet can be deafening. The lapping of the water, the sound of a bird in the distance. Every flutter and every ripple boomed. George Marsh remained where he was, half-lurching forward, sweat appearing on his forehead. He licked his lips and blinked several times. Then the air seemed to go out of him and he slowly fell back against his seat.

“That’s right,” Albert said, his voice gentle. “You see now. Set it down, George. Talk. Talk and feel the relief. Go ahead, son. We have all the time in the world.”

It was the softness of tone that made George Marsh’s eyes go red.

“It was never supposed to happen the way it did,” he finally said. “That’s what you need to understand. There was never supposed to be any violence. Never. It just went wrong.”

“Why did you do it, George?”

George Marsh knotted his hands together.

“When I started running with you and your friends . . . I got in a little over my head. I played some cards. I’m good at cards. I was winning. And then, one day, I wound up in the hole for about twenty grand with some guys in New York, real heavies. They knew I was connected with you, so they let me keep betting. I thought I was going to win. . . .”

“Money?” Albert Ellingham said. “George, if you needed money, why didn’t you come to me?”

“To pay gambling debts?” George Marsh said.

“If you needed help, I would have helped you.”

“And then never worked with me again,” George Marsh said. “I needed to get myself out of this jam and never get back into it.”

“And so you took my wife and child?” Albert Ellingham’s voice was rising a bit. He cleared his throat and composed himself. “Go on,” he said.

“One day,” George Marsh said, his head down, “I saw one of the kids from the school out reading one of those crime-story magazines. I asked her about it, and she said she was reading one about a kidnapping. She wanted to know if I had ever worked on one. I said I had. She asked me if there were notes, trails of clues. The more she asked me, the more I realized that the kidnappings I had seen were simple. You take someone, you get paid, and you give them right back. As long as no one sees your face, the matter is largely settled. Then I thought about the money in the safe in your office. It all came to me. I’d ask for that money. Honestly, I thought Iris would . . .”

“Would what?”

George Marsh looked up from wringing his hands.

“Enjoy it,” he said.

“Enjoy it?”

“She was looking for thrills, Albert. She was using cocaine. You know that. You know what kind of company she kept. She wanted fun and adventure. She was bored up here. All that was supposed to happen was that she would be grabbed and put in a barn for a few hours. You could see Iris telling that story over dinner.”

If Albert Ellingham could picture this, he did not say so.

“I got two guys I knew—real two-bit hoodlums, no real brains. They’d steal anything but they never hurt anybody. I offered them two grand apiece to help me out for a few hours. Their job was to block the road with their car, and when Iris went out driving, they were supposed to grab her, blindfold her, tie her up, and put her in a barn a few miles away. I would get the money. Then she would be freed. Maybe she’d have a scratch or two, but she’d be home, laughing. Home and laughing.”

“But she is not home,” Albert said. “She is not laughing.”

“No. No she isn’t.” George Marsh pulled the cigarette from behind his ear. “Alice was in the car. I think that . . . complicated things.”

He faltered, but Ellingham waved him on.

“I was in Burlington that day, like you said. We had a signal set up. I would have lunch at Henry’s diner and when the thing was done—when Iris was, you know, with them—they would call the diner and ask for Paul Grady. The waitress yelled out for Paul Grady at five after one. I paid my check and left, but I stayed in town for a while and kept an eye on where you and Mackenzie were working. Then I drove down Route Two toward the house and parked by a phone booth. One of the guys was on lookout for when you left Burlington, and called me. That was when I had to get into place. It was foggy, so no one was really around. I parked in the back and let myself into the tunnel. I was wrapped up in a scarf and coat and hat. All I had to do was wait in the dome, get the money from you, tie you up, and then drive back to the phone booth. I know someone at the telephone exchange. . . .”

“Margo,” Albert Ellingham said. “Margo Fields. This was the one element that always bothered me—we reached you at home that night, and you couldn’t have gotten home in time if you were the person Dottie saw. I realized quickly just how simple it would be to have your call connected somewhere else. But Margo had spoken to the police. She said she put the call through to your house. I had to go back and ask her again, and finally she admitted that she put the call through to the phone booth. She said you told her not to say—it was part of FBI business, and that certain things had to be kept from both the public and me. So you go to the dome, and instead of finding it empty, you find Dottie Epstein. What happened to Dottie?”