The Early Ayn Rand

He attacked the typewriter furiously, pounding the keys energetically in an attempt to write the important message he had in mind. But it was not so easy. The words did not seem to him impressive enough. He started one sheet after another, and tore them to pieces, and flung them into the wastebasket.

Jinx interrupted him every few seconds with a gasp of sincere delight: "Oh, look, my picture!... Oh, what a fuss for the old town!... Aren't they dumbfounded!... Don't worry, they'll never find you out, not that bunch of saps!... Lizzie Chatterton's going to chew her nails to the bone from envy — she's never been kidnapped!... Say, what's this about my car? Who wrecked it and why?"

"Some reporter must have done it," Laury answered disdainfully. "It makes better copy."

"Oh, listen to this!" she laughed happily. " 'Every heart in our town is convulsed with anxiety at the thought of this helpless young beauty in the cruel claws of some pitiless beast...' Oh boy! Who wrote that? Gee, what a sap that McGee fellow must be!"

Laury was working hard, very hard — writing the ransom letter. It was not easy, since it had to be good front-page stuff. And a blissful smile of satisfaction spread on his face when he finished it at last and turned to Jinx.

"Here," he said. "Listen — it concerns you."

And he read:

Dear Sir,

This is not an offer or a request, this is a command and you will do well to obey it at once or hell itself will seem a sweet baby's dream compared to the fate I have in store for you. At an hour and place that I will communicate to you later, you will deliver into my hands ten thousand dollars cash, as the price of your daughter's freedom. Be careful not to oppose me, for you are dealing with the most dangerous enemy that any mortal has ever encountered. You are warned.

Damned Dan

Jinx sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing, her body shaking with indignation.

"How dare you?" she cried. "You cheap scoundrel! How dare you ask my father for ten thousand dollars?"

She snatched the letter from him and tore it to pieces furiously.

"Now sit down!" she commanded, pointing proudly at the typewriter. "Sit down and write another one — and ask for one hundred thousand dollars!"

And as Laury did not move, she added:

"Ten thousand dollars! It's an insult to be sold for ten thousand! I won't stand for my price being that low! Why, it's only the price of a car, and of not such a very good one, at that!"

It was a long time before Laury had recovered enough to sit at the typewriter and obey her order...

"But that is not all, Miss Winford," he said severely, when he had finished the new ransom message. "You, too, are going to write a letter to your father."

"Oh, with pleasure!" she answered willingly.

He gave her a pen and a sheet of paper. She wrote quickly: "Dear Pop."

"What do you mean?" he shouted. "Dear Pop! Do you realize that your letter will be published in all the papers? You write what I dictate!"

"All right," she agreed sweetly and took another sheet.

"Dear Father," he dictated solemnly. "If there is in your heart a single drop of pity for your unfortunate daughter, you will..."

"I never write like that," she observed.

"Never mind, write now! '... you will come to my rescue at once.' Exclamation point! 1 can't tell you all the suffering I am going through.' Have you got that? 'Please, oh! please save me.' Exclamation point! If you could only see what your poor daughter is doing now...'"

"Say, don't you think that if he could see that, he'd be rather surprised, and not in the way you want?"

"Go on, write what I say!'... is doing now, your heart would break!'"

"Most probably!"

"Go on! 1 can't write very well, because my eyes are dimmed with tears...'"

"Aren't you laying it on too thick?"

"'... with tears! I implore you to spare no effort to save me!' Now sign it! 'Your desperate daughter...' No! Gosh! Not Jinx! 'Juliana Xenia Winford.'"

"Here you are," she said, handing him the letter.

He read it and frowned slightly.

"Let's make it a little stronger," he said. "Write a postscript to it: 'P.S. I'm miserable, miserable.' Exclamation point — two of them! Have you finished? Here, fold it and put it into this envelope. Fine! Thank you, Miss Winford!"