Dead End

10—

Lieutenant Bill Smith was one of these wiry, lean guys with an iron-gray crew-cut topping off a rugged puss. He always had a pipe stuck in his face, smoking a sweet mixture that made me slightly sick. I don't know, there was something both hard and quiet about his voice, his looks, that said this was a character who knew his stuff.

It sure was big. There were at least thirty detectives on fly assignment to this ancient precinct house that must have been a police station in Washington's time. As we reported in we were briefed by Smith. If he had repeated the story a dozen times, his voice didn't seem bored. “We haven't much to work on, but we have to make it do, and do it fast. This is what we know: The kid went to a fancy nursery school facing the park, a few blocks from here. Wyckoff dropped her off every morning at ten, on the way to his factory. At ten twenty this morning the school received a call, supposedly from Mr. Wyckoff, saying he was sending his secretary, a Mr. Jackman, right over to pick up Joan—an aunt was in town and it was going to be a surprise for the kid. There wasn't any reason for the school to check the call and anyway, before they had a chance to, this tall man, about thirty-five, average face, dark brown hair, conservative clothes, and speaking with a mild twang, appeared. He said he was Jackman and took the girl. No one at the school knows if he came and left in a car or cab. Within a half hour Wyckoff received a call at his office telling him to get a million dollars ready, nothing higher than hundreds, and to wait for another call. There was the usual threat not to contact the police.

“Mr. Wyckoff immediately called both the press and the police. Too bad he let the papers in, but it's done. His idea was to publicly broadcast that he will not work with the police, will carry out the kidnappers' instructions to the letter. Maybe that was a stupid way of working it; maybe it was very smart. He's a rich man and the girl is his only child. Of course, once we know about it, we have to take a hand. So does the F.B.I. Our job is to act fast and quietly. Everybody understand that?

“Now, this is obviously an inside job. For example, a Howard Jackman is Mr. Wyckoff's secretary. Also, whoever phoned knew that Wyckoff had a gruff way of speaking. We're checking all the past and present household help Wyckoff ever had, his factory employees. I want the rest of you to mosey around, ask for a tall, thin stranger who talks with a Western twang. Of course, the twang could be a phony. From the description given by the school head, we've had an artist make up a picture of the man. It isn't too accurate—the school head is a hysterical biddy. One thing she's positive about: The man has long, slim fingers, like those of a concert pianist, she says. In cases like this, the guy is probably an out-of-towner brought in for the job. And we're almost certain the man hasn't left town with the girl; that's about the best bit we have going for us. Ask around. A job this size is impossible to keep quiet.”

We were each given color photographs of a homely, pug-nosed little girl with bright eyes and red hair. And there was a sketch of a thin-faced man—a drawing that didn't mean a thing. It could have been a quick sketch of a thousand guys.

“That's all. Except for two things: The child's life depends upon our acting quietly. Since the father's made it public, despite his hands-off plea, the kidnappers must know we're working on the case. There's little chance of the kid being returned alive, but we can't give up on even that small chance. Wyckoff has told the papers if we do stick our hand in, he'll hold us responsible for the child's life. That's bull, but unless we work quietly there could be a hell of an uproar. Finally, if you do come up with anything, notify me before you make a move. That's orders. Keep in touch with this squad room every two hours. That's all.”

Doc and I managed to get a squad car—or rather Doc did—and as I drove off he said, “The first thing we do is have lunch at the zoo and read the papers.”

“I thought you were so hot to get working?”

“We've reported in. We're covered.”

Over bacon and eggs on the zoo terrace I read the papers. I didn't learn anything new except the girl was adopted. You know the way a little thing can change all your ideas—well, her being adopted is what really got me interested in the case. “Imagine this, Doc, Joanie is an adopted child.”

“So what?”

“I don't know, a guy raising a kid alone, and willing to shell out a million, and the kid adopted—I mean, that's a hell of a good joker.”

“According to the papers, he can afford the dough. He was a damn fool to tell the press, the cops.”

“Why? It seems to me by being away aboveboard, he's assuring the kidnappers he's playing ball with them. How long could he have kept it quiet, anyway?”

Doc shook his head. “There's going to be a tail on Wyckoff, on everybody in his household and factory. Don't you think the punks will know that? Just as they know we can't take a hands-off attitude, no matter what daddy wants.”

“Yeah, but we'll be under wraps.”

Doc took out a cigarette. “Give me some fire; my lighter is out of fuel. Look, Bucky, there's fifty men asking questions. How long is that going to be under wraps?”

“You think it's an inside job?”

“It has to be. Maybe without the inside person knowing it. Somebody, say a secretary or a valet, gets high at a party, shoots off his mouth about Wyckoff's dough and the kid. This tendency of servants to brag about their employer's wealth is a curious form of envy complex. The point is, while they're loud-talking, a smart punk is within listening distance, and the idea for the snatch is born.”

It was dull, tedious work. Doc called on his stoolies—mostly by himself, as they didn't want to be known to another cop. Doc used the car and I did plenty of walking, talking to the few characters I knew. Then we visited a lot of bars, made small talk. One advantage of the case being out in the papers, we could more or less openly ask about strangers. You couldn't help but talk about it—everybody else was talking, and mostly about the million bucks ransom. As Doc cracked, “That's inflation. Price of everything has gone up.”

Around four in the afternoon Smith gave us a number of crackpot leads to check. Everybody was “certain” they'd seen the tall man. Even Elma kept phoning, and when I called back she gassed about a thin man she'd seen that morning in the grocery store. She was sure she had seen his face in one of her crime magazines. We checked every tip. It only took me an hour to learn that Elma's thin man happened to be a salesman who had lived in the neighborhood for the last twenty years. We also scared the daylights out of a couple of tall guys who happened to have been seen walking with their own redheaded children. In one case the child was fourteen years old, but that didn't make any difference to the excited old lady who pointed out the guy's house.

These crackpots made me tired but they seemed to amuse Doc. “It's amazing, Bucky, this love to be an informer. Most times the public is against the police—we all hate authority. If a cop is being ganged up on by a dozen thugs, the average citizen might call in for help—if there was a phone handy—but they damn well wouldn't risk their necks by going to his aid. But now they flood the phone with these idiotic tips.”

“They don't want anything to happen to the little girl.”

“Bull. They don't give a damn about the kid or the law. They're selfish. This is their chance to be a somebody.”

“Maybe.”

“In reality they envy the crook for being able to pull off something they themselves haven't the nerve to do, so they want to see him—or her—collared.”

“Could be,” I said, thinking of Shep Harris tipping me off to Johnson.

Doc and I worked until ten that night, then went to sleep on the cots jammed into the upper floor of the precinct house. More men were being assigned to the case and it gave me a charge to realize I was about the youngest detective there. The evening papers were full of sob stories about the little girl, how the Wyckoff's had taken her from an agency when she was six months old, how she had been found abandoned in an ash can when she was two days old. The agency denied they knew who the real mother was, or that mama could possibly know who had adopted the girl, but a number of young women came forward claiming “baby Joanie” was their child.

Wyckoff had placed half-page ads in the evening papers assuring the kidnappers he would follow any instructions, that his only concern was the return of his girl unharmed.

The following morning I noticed several elderly women cleaning up and making beds on our floor. Doc said they were the widows of cops, earning an extra buck. Over coffee and rolls we read editorials criticizing Wyckoff for placing his family above the law, and others criticizing the police for being indifferent to the life of a child. Doc shook his head as he said, “This is becoming a Roman holiday.”

Smith put us on checking rooming houses, deserted buildings. At noon, when Doc wanted to go to the zoo and eat, I told him, “No. No fluffing off on this. I want to find Joanie.”

“So do I. But let's face it—we have a fat chance of lucking up on this guy. We haven't enough to go on—yet. Must be thousands of men who fit the description we have.”

“We know he's holed up. He had to rent a room, has to go out for food.”

“Kid, stop the simple talk. Smith immediately checked the bus, train, and air terminals, but that doesn't mean a thing. They could have put the girl in a car and be a hundred miles from here. They may have rented an apartment months ago, have it stacked with a freezer full of food. This is a well-organized snatch. Don't you think they thought of little things like a room and food?”

“Maybe they didn't. I want to keep trying.”

Doc sighed. “All right, but these bar hamburgers are ruining my stomach.”

I was bushed and on edge by evening. The papers were going full blast rehashing every big time kidnapping, starting with the Lindbergh baby. The Commissioner and the head of the F.B.I. assured the public they would do all they could to see that baby Joanie was returned unharmed. The widows were working in shifts in our dormitory. It annoyed me that they seemed happy at their work, didn't resent the fact a cop's pension wasn't enough to live on.

At 6 a.m. we were briefed by Smith again. He looked in bad shape, his eyes two hot holes in his bony face. He puffed on his pipe as he said, “Wyckoff was contacted last night. And we're dealing with a hell of a smart gang. At 11 p.m. they phoned his house and told Wyckoff to be at the corner of the Fifty-second Street library in fifteen minutes. Naturally we have a tap on all his phones, and by the time he got there we had the corner covered. Wyckoff hung around for a few minutes and then the public phone in the booth nearest the corner rang. We were caught with our hands down; we had no chance to put a tap on the public phone. We don't know what they told Wyckoff. He's flatly refused to tell us. He was incensed that we were tailing him. However, it's easy to guess what the message was—they're arranging the pay-off. Wyckoff held a press conference at 1 a.m. in which he begged us to let him alone, call off our men. Undoubtedly the Commissioner and Washington will give out with some double-talk this morning, but we're still on the case. What we have to do is dig deeper and harder. Don't pass up a thing, no matter how unimportant it may look. We have snaps of his maids, former maids, his factory help. Pass them around.”

When we got into the car I asked Doc, “Can they tap all the public phones in the city?”

“Sure, in time. But it would be a big job, take weeks.”

“You think they'll do it?”

“Who knows? This will probably come to a head today or tomorrow. As Bill Smith said, they must have told Wyckoff about getting up the dough.”

“That's where they'll hook themselves. The banks have been warned about giving out so large a bundle, will certainly put in plenty of bait bills.”

Doc shook his head. “You forget that Wyckoff is a big depositor. He has millions. Supposing you were a banker, would you risk losing that kind of customer? Another thing: Some banker may want to do it, think it will get the girl back. There's a dozen other possibilities. The money could be shipped in from a Canadian or Mexican bank. You see, Bucky, we're playing a game here, only Wyckoff isn't playing with us. He's holding a lone hand. Which means there's a good chance he'll get rooked.”

“One good break will bust this case wide open.”

“A good break opens any case. That's what we're hunting for—the break. Well, let me try out these new pictures on my stoolies.”

The crazy thing was, I thought I'd stumbled upon the break a few hours later. I was waiting in a bar for Doc, having a sandwich and reading an article in the paper. Some clergyman called Wyckoff's pleas for the police to stay out of the case “shockingly corrupt,” and added he had children of his own—as if that proved a thing.

The middle-shift barkeep came on duty. He was a clown who claimed he'd once seen me fight as an amateur. I know I wasn't that good, but we were buddies and usually chattered about fights. When I showed him the new snaps he got excited as he pointed to a picture of a potato-faced gal, said, “Bucky, this tomato has been in here!”

“When?” I asked, seeing a promotion coming up.

“Jeez, I don't know. Maybe a year ago, maybe six months.”

“She come in here often?”

“No, just once or twice. Reason I remember is, she was a real potty tomato—you know, two drinks and she's raising hell. Had a kind of twang, or something, to her voice. Oh, I remember her! She was making loud talk, thought she was the queen of the bar, or something. I told her to quiet down, and she stuck her homely face out at me, says to make her. The jerk she was with—his name is on the tip of my tongue—he laughed and told me she was a judo expert. She nearly bent my hand off when I tried to stop her from sitting on the bar and—”

“What's the name of the boy friend?”

“It'll come to me, Bucky. He's a steady customer, a... yeah, Teddy Anderson. He's a mechanic in a truck renting outfit down on Washington Street.”

“When did you last see him?”

“He comes in from time to time, but regularly from time to time. I think he was in a few weeks ago.”

“Do you remember this dame's name?”

“I had some names for her, all right, but I don't recall what her real handle was.”

Her name was Rose Mack and according to the dope on the picture she'd been a former nursemaid for the kid. I didn't know whether to call in on my own or wait for Doc. While I was deciding, Doc showed. He was an old friend of the barkeep and questioned him again, not getting any more than I had.

In the squad car he said, “Bucky, when you wind up as commissioner remember your old pal, Doc.”

“Shouldn't we call in?”

“After we've talked to this Anderson.”

We located him within ten minutes and rushed him up to Bill Smith. And it all turned out to be a dud. He admitted picking up Rose—he never knew her full name—at a skating rink last fall. Yes, Rose had told him she'd been a nursemaid for Joanie Wyckoff, but she was leaving to return to Australia. Teddy said she had boasted about Wyckoff making a pass at her, had “joked” about how she'd like to get her strong hands on some of his money. “She said she would like to get him in a... a...” Teddy was one of these over-handsome men, a dizzy slob in his late thirties, his face running to blubber, and now he gave us a sloppy wink, added, ”... in a... eh... compromising position and then blackmail him. But I don't think she ever did. Although she was a pushover for me.”

“How do you know she didn't?” Lieutenant Smith asked.

“Well, she didn't have any extra change on her, if you know what I mean. When I met her she had already left the job, and was waiting for a boat. She didn't like the job, said the kid, this Joanie, was too smart and spoiled.”

“Why didn't you come forward and tell us all this when you read about the case?”

“I knew she had sailed and—”

“You see her off on the boat?”

“No, but she went for me. If she was around she would have looked me up. And she told me she was due to sail in a few days.”

“Why didn't you tell us about her before?”

Teddy smirked. He had bad teeth. “You know how it is, officer. I got a wife and kids—Hey, this ain't going to make the papers, is it?”

“That depends on how co-operative you are. Anderson, where were you at ten on Monday morning?”

“On the job. I come in at seven and knock off at... You think I did it?” There wasn't any fat smirk on his face now.

“Did Rose ever say anything about the nursery school?”

“Listen, I wouldn't do a lousy thing like take a baby girl. Check my time card. I haven't missed a day in months.”

“Answer my question.”

“I don't know. This was a long time ago.”

Smith glanced up at Doc. “Send the reporters in. And a couple of photographers.”

Teddy twisted in his chair as if it was the hot seat. “Wait a minute, officer. I'm doing all I can to help. I told you I got kids—I wouldn't want this to happen to mine. I'll do anything I can to help get Joanie back. Look, like I told you, this was a pickup. I saw her twice within a week; then she sailed. It was only bar wisecracks and jokes.... Well, come to think of it, she did tell me something about him—her boss—expecting her to do the girl's clothes while she was in this nursery school. Rose thought she should get extra pay for the laundry. That's all.”

Smith, Doc, and a few other guys sweated Teddy for the rest of the afternoon. I checked with the employment agency that got Rose the job. She'd only been in the country for a year. I talked to another couple she'd worked for. They thought she'd been a fine nursemaid, although they had let her go because she'd been a bit rough with their boy in horsing around, and anyway a younger sister of the wife had come to five with them, took care of their child. The Australian police cabled Rose had returned there over seven months ago, was married and hadn't any ideas on the kidnapping. A dozen men checked all of Teddy's movements, his family and friends. And by the end of the day it was all a fat zero.

The letdown really left me pooped. Although Lieutenant Smith complimented me for digging up Teddy, that was that. Doc knew Smith well enough to call him “Bill,” and while we were having supper in a delicatessen across from the station house, Doc stopped complaining about the food long enough to tell me, “Here's some news Bill let me in on. It seems poppa is a bed warmer. He might have made a pass at that pot, Rose. We know he was seeing a high-priced gal.”

“So what? He's a widower.”

“The gal happens to be your old friend Judy,” Doc said softly, smiling at me.

I jumped. “My God, she's greedy enough to be in on a deal like this!”

“I doubt it; she doesn't need money that badly. And they've questioned her; they're sure she's clean. Still holding Judy as a material witness.”

“Why?”

“Same reason they scared that slob Teddy with the reporters. Poppa wouldn't want it known he was seeing a call girl. We may hold it over his head to make him work with us.”

“That's a lousy thing to do.”

Doc shrugged, pushed his sandwich away. “We're the police. He isn't helping us.”

“Only because he wants his child back.”

“And if he gets away with it, it will set a pattern for future kidnappings, encourage them.”

We were awakened at eleven that night when the owner of a trailer camp outside town reported seeing a little redheaded girl and a thin man and woman in a new trailer. In less than twenty minutes we surrounded the trailer and scared the bejesus out of the guy and his wife. It was their own kid and they'd just driven into town.

I didn't get back to the dormitory before one thirty and I was really beat, hadn't changed my clothes for nearly three days. I felt dirty, tired, and I missed Betty. Also I was mad because nothing had come of my lead. I thought about Judy, wondering if she had talked about our relationship, if I should volunteer to question her. But how could I, without spilling the beans? And what could she tell me? I didn't believe she'd have anything to do with kidnapping. Still, it almost seemed as if she was part of my beat, that I should have been the one who lucked up on her knowing Wyckoff.

I was overtired, found it hard to sleep. There was a young guy hanging around, a sharp dresser who looked about seventeen. Doc was getting a last smoke and I nudged him, said, “Look at Junior. Must be looking for one of the women cleaning up, his mother, or—

“He's a detective, a hot rock, like you.”

“Him? He's too short, and he looks like a kid.”

“Made a couple of big collars. Don't let that baby face fool you. Name is Wintino. He's the one found out about Judy and poppa.”

That made me angry. I knew it was stupid, but I'd gone for the idea I was the youngest dick there, and this guy made me look like an old man. And he looked fresh, clean—and the little punk had beat me to Judy. I stretched out and told myself to stop being a jerk. I needed sleep. And I needed Betty. I dozed off thinking of her, the two of us on the beach at Miami.

The morning papers were calling for “action.” It was ridiculous; even the papers that had been yelling for us to keep off the case were now yapping about the kidnapping being three days old and the police department was still sitting on its badges.

We started making our usual rounds, asking and asking again about strangers, peddling our snapshots. Doc drove me to the house and I changed my underwear and took a fast shower while Elma was sleeping. I still felt tired and on edge, but at least clean. At noon we were called back to the squad room, where Bill Smith told us, “The kidnappers contacted Wyckoff early this morning. Same routine; he was told to be in a drugstore at Rye Plains, on the outskirts of the city. They gave him just enough minutes to get there—then the call on a public phone. They must have arranged the pay-off. Wyckoff admits he has the money ready. We don't know how he got it. We've agreed to leave him alone for a while. However, the Feds aren't talking. They may try to pull a fast one on us.”

Smith rubbed the stubble on his haggard face. “This isn't my idea, but until we get further orders from downtown, I want you all to hang around.”

We went out for coffee and Doc cursed because we hadn't gone to the zoo for a decent meal. When I asked why we weren't tailing Wyckoff, Doc snapped, “Ask the brass, they're running the show. Sorry, Bucky boy, this whole mess is getting on my nerves. Don't worry, he's under surveillance; you can bet on that. Probably being tailed from a distance through high-powered telescopes.”

Two hours later we were all back on the prowl again. Smith told us the kidnappers hadn't shown. Over the radio I heard poppa blasting the F.B.I. for tailing him. Via a direct phone call to his office, he had been warned to keep the F.B.I. away or never see Joanie again.

In the middle of the afternoon, poppa rushed to a busy downtown cigar store to take another call in a public booth. He again took the suitcases full of money and drove off in his Lincoln for a deserted road where it would be difficult to follow him without being seen. He returned within an hour and said he hadn't met anybody. I heard he was hysterical and on the verge of cracking.

I had a long talk with Betty over the phone, and a much shorter one with Elma. It seemed we were going around and around in the same circles. If I was on edge, the strain was starting to tell more on Doc. He wanted to have supper in some Jewish restaurant, but Smith had us hanging around the precinct house and Doc was kicking about the lousy stool-joint hamburgers. I had some stew that wasn't bad and Doc claimed I had to be nuts to eat stew in a greasy spoon. It was a silly argument, yet we damn near came to blows.

The evening papers carried an attack on and sharp reply from the F.B.I. I read the sports section, went up to the dormitory for a few hours of sack time. About the time I fell off, somebody ran in and shouted that payment had been made to the kidnappers! I shook Doc awake and we went down to the squad room, where Smith angrily told us, “Wyckoff has pulled a fast one on us. That supposedly dry run he made with the dough was the real thing. They must have told him over the phone to put the money in laundry bags inside the suitcases, dump it at some prearranged spot, then return with the suitcases and claim he hadn't made contact. The girl hasn't been returned yet. She's supposed to be sent home sometime tonight. I want you out looking for anybody carrying bags, suitcases, anybody spending money. Be as open about it as you want. Get rough if you have to.”

The young punk who looked like a junior G-man, Wintino, asked, “Won't we be endangering the child's life if we come out in the open, sir?”

Smith growled, “Just follow my orders!”

Doc and I cruised in and out of bars, restaurants, until 3 a.m., when they shut. Doc shook up his stoolies once more, but we didn't even get a sniff of anything. Doc said, “This is silly. If they have the loot, why the devil should they start spending it now?”

“They might try to make a getaway.”

“Maybe, but it would be the first dumb move they've made. Still, all punks are stupid or they wouldn't be punks. Damn, my back hurts. Hope I'm not coming down with a cold.”

“I'm going to sleep around the clock, now that this is over. I'm glad he got his little girl back.”

“Has he got her back?” Doc said, rubbing the sleep out of his veined eyes. “I'm too old to be on the go for three days. Let me call in.”

At a few minutes before 4 a.m. we were told to knock off and return to the dormitory. I was so bushed I felt dazed. It seemed I'd hardly hit the cot when somebody shook me awake. A voice snarled, “What do you think of those miserable bastards—they killed the baby!”

“When?” The word “bastards” making me wide awake.

“She was found strangled in the trunk of a wreck in an auto junk yard. Medical Examiner says Joanie was killed days ago, within a few hours after she was snatched.”

“Then she was dead from the go!” I said, a deep anger covering my tiredness.

“Seems that way. Wash up and be in the squad room in ten minutes,” this guy said, awakening Doc, and going down the line of cots.