One Bright Summer Morning

Vera Synder, a large comfortable-looking woman with grey hair, whose pleasant face now carried an expression of alert curiosity, had been Vic Dermott’s secretary for the past five years.

She sat behind her large desk and regarded Abe Mason and Merrill Andrews through big horn-rimmed spectacles as she said. “Federal Bureau, Mr. Mason? I don’t understand.”

“Can you please tell me where I can find Mr. Dermott?” Mason repeated politely.

“You asked that question just now. I said I don’t understand. What business have you with Mr. Dermott?”

While they were talking, Andrews was looking around the big, pleasantly-furnished room. He saw at the far end of the room a photograph of a man in a silver frame. He got abruptly to his feet, walked the length of the room and stared at the excellent likeness of Dermott, then he turned and said excitedly, “It’s Dermott all right! No possible mistake about it!”

Mason relaxed. Now at last they were getting somewhere. To Miss Synder, he said, “This is an urgent police matter. It is essential we get in touch with Mr. Dermott right away. Please tell me where he is.”

“Mr. Dermott is writing a play,” Miss Synder said with determination. “He is not to be disturbed. I have no authority to give you his address.”

Mason restrained his impatience with difficulty.

“Mr. Dermott could be in very great danger,” he said quietly. “We have reason to believe that kidnappers have moved into the house where he is living and are threatening the lives of his wife and baby.”

Vic had often said that if an atomic bomb went off behind Miss Synder’s chair, she would be completely unruffled. She was unruffled now.

“May I see your credentials, Mr. Mason?”

With a suppressed grunt of exasperation, Mason handed over his warrant card. Miss Synder examined it and then returned it.

Three minutes later, Mason was on the telephone to Dennison.

“It’s Dermott all right,” he said. “He and his wife have rented a ranch house called Wastelands from a Mr. and Mrs. Harris-Jones. The house is completely isolated: about twenty miles from a little place called Boston Creek and some fifty miles from Pitt City.”

“Good work,” Dennison said. “Come on back. We don’t need Mr. Andrews anymore. Get back here as fast as you can.”

As Dennison replaced the receiver, the telephone bell began to ring. With an impatient movement, he lifted the receiver again. It was Sergeant O’Harridon of the San Bernadino police.

“We’ve found Miss Van Wylie’s Jag,” he reported. “It was where you said. One interesting point: the passenger door has been sprayed with some pretty strong acid. It’s eaten away all the leather work.”

“Get every fingerprint you can find on the car,” Dennison ordered. “Let me know what acid has been used.”

“The boys are working on it now,” O’Harridon said and hung up.

As Dennison reached for a cigar, the telephone rang again. It was Tom Harper.

“Hit the jackpot right away, Chief,” Harper said. “Kramer stayed two days at the Lake Arrowhead Hotel. The doorman identified him from the photograph. Three o’clock on the day of the kidnapping, Kramer hired a convertible Buick and drove away, heading towards Pitt City. He didn’t return that night, but he arrived back at the hotel the following morning soon after eleven o’clock. He paid his check, handed over the Buick and took a taxi to the railroad station. He was in time to catch the Frisco train.”