Dead End

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