“It’s creating a problem for me; in a couple of cases my parolees have lost their jobs already, on account of being picked up. The department is sometimes instrumental in finding jobs for them where only one man in the firm has to know they’re ex-cons, but you can’t keep that a secret when you’re picked up at work. It’s unfair, but what do you expect from a man like Raglan? He’s not interested in people — he’s interested in results. You want the home addresses of these men?”
“That’s what I’m here for, Milt.”
“Just be fair to ’em, all right?”
“Until one of these guys is charged with kidnapping Debbie Raglan, he won’t even get his name in the paper. But if it happens, I want all the information right at my fingertips.”
Rosenberg buzzed for his secretary. When she came in he handed her the list. “Esther, give Ted the current addresses of all these men, will you please?”
“Any of these guys hate Joe Raglan enough to kidnap his daughter?” I asked.
Rosenberg shook his head. “These men are specialists; they know one crime and they always do it the same way, maybe with minor improvements as they gain experience. Take Duncan; he’s a forger. A master of his trade — signatures, documents, the works. Raglan got him for preparing false ID that was used in the commission of a felony.”
“So?”
“This job was pulled by someone who knows the ins and outs of kidnapping — someone who probably is capable of murder. Either that or a master criminal, a jack of all trades, and they don’t exist except in the comic books.”
I, too, was unwilling to buy the Master Criminal idea, which left but one category to choose from. The hoodlum who had not yet settled down to a distinctive modus operandi. A young kid, maybe a smart high-school kid. I was willing to bet that in addition to brains he’d have a personality problem. A smart kid. Perhaps brilliant. But socially inept. Since he wouldn’t be much of a mixer he wouldn’t have the experience to make it with the girls. Outwitting the cops might have a strong appeal for this type of boy. And to kidnap the Chiefs daughter — that would be a project worthy of his intellect!
I was guessing now, and I didn’t want to risk Raglan’s scorn if I was guessing wrong. But there was nothing to prevent me from doing a little detective work on my own.
I called Victor Sorenson and arranged to meet him at a convenient bar later on. In the meantime I still had a story to write, to run alongside the personality profile I’d done of Debbie the night before. I wrote it fast and well, thankful that Raglan, for a change, was being good copy all by himself.
Sorenson was tall and angular, with a long face and a Nordic complexion, complementing his name.
“I ordered you a beer,” I said. “I hope that’s all right.”
He smiled crookedly. “My taste in beverages is completely in character with my budget. Have they located the missing manuscripts yet?”
“No, but a ransom note came in Raglan’s morning mail.”
“I heard about that. I understand he’s ordered everybody off the case.”
“Everybody but us amateurs. He wants to keep Debbie alive.”
“A noble motive,” Sorenson said “I’ve been trying to think of anything else I can tell you about her, without much success.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about Debbie. I have someone else in mind.” I described the brilliant, rebellious high school boy I’d built up in my mind’s eye.
“Whew,” he said. “I know the type.”
“But do you know the boy?”
He smiled and sipped his beer. “Fifteen years ago that description might have fit me. Off hand, I can’t think of anyone quite like that in school right now.”
“Maybe a drop-out,” I suggested. “Someone attending school recently enough, though, to get to know Debbie, develop a crush on her. Someone who might have been in the habit of printing his name at the top of his assignments?”
“Why should that be significant?”
I took a clean sheet of paper from my briefcase and reconstructed the ransom note. I should have asked Matcha for a duplicate print of the note itself.
Sorenson studied my facsimile and nodded. “I’ve seen lettering like that. Not too often, but I’ve seen it. I can’t recall exactly where, but I’ll check around for you.”
“He’s not necessarily a dropout,” I said. “But if he’s still going to school, he’ll have been absent just as long as Debbie has.”
“Not necessarily,” Sorenson countered “If he’s as smart as you say he is, he’d be cautious enough to cover his tracks He would have kept coming to classes just as it nothing had happened at all. His ego would demand it; it’s all the kids are talking about now.”
“There’s one class he would have missed,” I said. “Yesterday morning, between ten forty-five and eleven forty-five, he was in front of the main post office mailing that ransom note.”
Sorenson smiled. “That narrows the field considerably.”
“Call me, will you?” I drained my beer.
“Sure. At the paper?”
“If I’m not there, ask for Stanton Pritchard. He’s the city editor. He’ll know where to reach me.”
After we’d parted, I thought about Victor Sorenson for a while. The man was handsome, with a brooding, intellectual quality which I imagined would have appealed to a girl like Deborah Raglan. I wondered if it could have been more than a quest for constructive criticism which had prompted her to take her stories to him. He was in his early thirties, old enough to be her father, but young enough not to be And he had poise and maturity. I wondered, too. if he might have seen in her something more than just a welcome relief from the general run of nincompoops he was required to instruct.
At nine o’clock that night the Larry Brenner Special Report came on; I taped it for reference.
Florence Raglan was there, a tragic figure of grief. Perhaps it was the crumpled handkerchief in her hands that did it. If I hadn’t known her, my heart would have gone out to her. Joe, too, had changed. By the time I’d watched five minutes, I realized I was looking at a side of Joe Raglan I’d never seen before.
The first quarter hour was devoted to the details of finding Debbie gone. Then Brenner concentrated on Debbie, delving into her likes, dislikes, anecdotes about her childhood, the warm, human way in which she blossomed into all-American girlhood. She, too, had changed, having acquired a sweetness and innocence that no one ever suspected. That was Brenner’s style of reporting. The thought of a brutal kidnapping was enough to send chills down the spine.
Brenner had a documentary look about him as he solemnly informed his audience that Chief Raglan had requested a few minutes in which to talk directly to his daughter’s kidnapper. Then the scene shifted to the tragic couple on the dais.
Raglan blinked and located the proper camera. “I want to assure you,” he said slowly, “that all official efforts to locate you have been stopped. No police technician has so much as seen your ransom note. I am making every effort to co-operate. You have asked for one hundred thousand dollars.” He paused, and his voice was almost inaudible. “I want my daughter back.”
Mrs. Raglan began to cry quietly. Joe’s arm went around her shoulder’s, and he looked straight at the camera as it dollied in. His face filled the screen. He wasn’t the tough cop any more. There was grief in his eyes as he continued, “Debbie, we’ll get you back. I don’t have the money yet. I don’t know where we’re going to get it, but we’ll get it if I have to die trying.”
His expression changed, became hard. “And you — whoever you are. If you hurt my kid I’ll track you down. Don’t hurt her, you hear me? You’ll get your money, every penny of it. You know my reputation. I’ve never gone back on my word yet.”