Death Is My Comrade by Stephen Marlowe Page A

and died.
    â€œThem?” Mrs. Gower asked in a furious whisper. “You think it’s them already?”
    I looked at Jack Morley over her shoulder. His face was tense and white.
    Marianne picked up the phone on the third ring.
    â€œHello?”
    I saw her shoulders slump.
    â€œI … I know, Suzanne,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just forgot. The twins … one of them isn’t feeling well. Yes, the heat, I guess.”
    She hung up. “A beach party,” she said, her voice empty and flat. “I was supposed to go to a beach party.”
    I glanced at my watch. It was twenty to six. Time enough for the kidnapers to go wherever they were going? I thought so, and I still thought they’d contact us any minute now. But I could have been wrong six ways from Sunday.
    I squeezed Marianne’s hand. We waited.

Chapter Seven
    T he call came at ten after six.
    This time Marianne grabbed it on the first ring. She’d been standing there, chain-smoking.
    â€œYes?”
    Her back was to us. Her free hand rose to the blond hair brushed back over her ear, and the fingers clutched there.
    â€œYes. I understand. Are they all right? You haven’t.… Yes. I know.”
    She turned to me, cupping the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand. Her eyes were wild and desperate. “Chet. Oh God, Chet. They want to know who owns the Chrysler outside. Your car. They … they’re watching the house.”
    Maybe that explained the delay, I thought. Now that it had come I felt cool, detached. I wanted to get it over with. I said: “Tell them the truth. You sent for me. I’m the twins’ godfather.”
    Marianne spoke into the phone again. “I’m a widow. I sent for the childrens’ godfather. I—yes, all right. It’s a blue-and-white Ford. In the garage. You haven’t—right away. Yes, I understand. I have it. I can—hello? Hello!”
    She let the receiver fall. I picked it up. The line was dead.
    â€œThey set up the delivery?”
    â€œI asked them. They wouldn’t say. I asked them how the twins were.”
    â€œThat figures. They want to keep you scared.” I prompted: “The delivery. What’s the setup?”
    â€œThey wouldn’t discuss the return of the twins till after I delivered Ilya’s letter.” Marianne sobbed. “Maybe they’re dead already. Maybe they.… They’re so helpless, Chet.” She began to cry.
    I slapped her face. Not hard, but hard enough. Dr. Nickerson took an angry step toward me. Jack held his arm.
    â€œHow soon?” I urged.
    â€œRight away. They want me out of the house right away. The letter. I’m to address it to a Mr. Allen, care of General Delivery at the Main Post Office. I’m to deliver it there, alone. In the Ford. But it’s closed. Isn’t the post office closed? If they don’t pick it up till tomorrow; the twins.…”
    â€œThe Main Post Office is open till nine every night,” I cut her off. “Let’s have the letter, Jack.”
    Giving Marianne the letter and a ballpoint pen, Jack said: “Pappy Piersall’s in town, Chet. We could—”
    I shook my head. Pappy Piersall, a fellow classmate of mine and Jack’s at the FBI Academy, was still with the Bureau. “Marianne’s going,” I told Jack. “I’m going with her. That’s all.”
    â€œThey said alone,” Marianne protested. She had finished addressing an envelope.
    â€œWhere’s the Ford?”
    â€œIn the garage.”
    â€œI’ll get in back, on the floor. Did they give you a route back from the post office?”
    Marianne nodded. “Along Pennsylvania Avenue to M Street. M clear into Georgetown.”
    â€œThey have a man watching the house. They have someone with the kids, someone who just called. There can’t be an army of them. I’ll get out a couple of blocks from the post office. I