“Murphy? What Murphy? He didn’t tell me anything about a Murphy.”
“Bob, I don’t know. That’s just what he said.”
Liz had the day off, but wanted to use the car so she drove me to work. We were in front of the paper when I remembered. I didn’t have to look up Murphy.
I told Liz to wait where she was and went to a pay phone in the lobby of the paper. I put in a collect call to Frank. The phone rang eight times before the operator came back on. “Your number does not answer, sir. Shall I place the call later?”
I called the city desk and left word for Grace that I was taking the day off as comp time for the overtime I put in on the campaign. I ran back outside where Liz was double-parked, shooed her over to the passenger side and headed the car for the interstate north. Liz waited for me to tell her what we were doing.
“Murphy. He was talking about Reg Murphy, the Atlanta editor who was kidnapped a few years back. Liz, I think they got him.”
It was 10:30 when we got to Franks building just a block from the campus. The apartment door was locked; there was no answer to the door chime. Liz knew the student janitor of the building and routed him, grumbling out of his basement apartment, to let us into Franks place. He went back to his spherical trigonometry, and we were left in the empty apartment.
“Why don’t you call the school to make sure he’s not there,” I said. While she was phoning, I looked through the apartment. There was nothing that looked as if there had been trouble. The bed was made, there were washed dishes on the kitchen drainboard, and the desk in the living room was in comparatively good order. There was nothing on it or in the drawers that appeared to be about the CR&P. One of the desk drawers, fitted for file folders, was empty.
Liz put down the phone. “His office line doesn’t answer and the department secretary says she hasn’t heard from him. But she says he doesn’t have any classes until later in the day, and he often doesn’t come in until late.”
“God, I don’t know, Liz. I looked around and didn’t see anything suspicious. I looked through the desk and couldn’t find anything except that empty file drawer.”
“That drawer is where he keeps files on his current work and the desk is always locked when he isn’t working,” Liz said. “Even when he’s here he locks it when he finishes. Bob, we better call the police.”
She picked up the phone again. I put my hand on her arm.
“Wait a minute, Liz. He told us this was a kidnapping. Maybe we ought to wait to hear from whoever took him.”
“No way. I’m calling the cops.”
I had an idea. “OK, I guess you’re right. But if we have to explain why he may have been kidnapped, his investigation will be blown. How about this? You remember I told you about Bill Phlager, the county D.A. who helped with the Schmid story? He’s down at the capital now, an assistant attorney general. How about I call him first and lay this out, so we can maybe get some help on how we should do this.”
Liz nodded. She was scared and doing well to keep back the tears.
I called the attorney general’s office and asked for Phlager. Arlene, who presided over the telephones, apparently didn’t recognize my voice or was feeling unusually officious that morning.
“Who may I say is calling, please,” she intoned.
“Bob Wartovsky. It’s urgent.”
“May I tell him what the dall concerns, please?” She was playing games with me. Maybe it had something to do with the after-work drink I had been offering her but never got around to making definite.
“For Christ’s sake, Arlene, it’s important!”
“Lir, there is no call for obscene language.”
“Arlene, tell Bill Phlager his blackmailer is calling him and he’s behind in his payments.”
Liz stared at me as if I had lost my mind as a great gust of laughter came back over the phone.
“Oh, Bob,” Arlene choked out. “You crumb, you’ve made my day. I’ll put you through.”
I talked to Phlager for about twenty-five minutes. He interrupted only to ask several short questions and was ready at the end of the story with a short list of instructions.
“First, don’t touch another thing in that apartment. I’m going to call the chief of police there, and I want both of you to sit down and wait until he or a ranking officer arrives. If they send the campus cops, ask them to call me immediately.
“Second, don’t tell anyone what you’ve just told me until I get there. I’m going in to see the A.G. when I hang up, and I should be on the way in half an hour in a state police car.
“Third, if anyone calls with demands about Sanders, listen to them, take notes—see if he has a recorder around—but try to stall off any arrangements for ransom or whatever.
“And fourth, I hope I really don’t have to tell you this—don’t call your paper or talk to any press about this. Nobody, understand?”
“How about the foundation he was working for?”
“You think they can get him back? Nobody, Bob.”
Within fifteen minutes, the deputy chief of the university town police was sitting with us. One officer was photographing the apartment; another was dusting fingerprint powder.
“Did you move anything?” the deputy chief asked. “Try to remember just what you did and where you were before you called Mr. Phlager.”
Phlager got there within two hours. Larry Creston, who headed criminal investigation for the state police, was with him. We had done business before.
Creston went to one side with the deputy chief and Phlager sat down with us.
“We’ve got bulletins out in four states to look out for Sanders and Kehler. The car description… can you remember any more about the car?”
We weren’t even sure about the color. We knew it was a big—probably American—sedan.
’The attorney general is calling the Chicago police and the FBI himself. Larry Creston is in charge of the police work; I’m the liaison. I’ve got to tell you, it will be a miracle if we find them on the road. If Kehler was here at midnight and they got out of here after Miss Sanders called, they almost surely are holed up by now.
“Another thing. Kehler is a mean customer. We know he worked five years as muscle for Gene Bright, but he hasn’t been active for the last two years. We’re not sure who he’s with now. He’s got a long sheet—as a kid he did a couple of terms for armed robbery and assault. He’s a fist and foot boy basically, but he will use a gun and we rate him dangerous.
“Creston and I talked about this on the way up; about all we can do is keep looking for them without going public and wait for something from Kehler or whoever he’s acting for.”
Liz interrupted. “If we keep it secret, somebody might see them and not know Daddy has been kidnapped.”
Creston had joined us. “It’s a tradeoff, Miss. There is a chance someone may come forward with a lead, but there is also the chance that Kehler will panic and… uh, dispose of Professor Sanders. For now, we best be quiet about it.”
Phlager stood. “What’s important is to get Sanders back safely.” He paused and looked closely at Liz. “We need someone to stay here in case a call comes in, and we need someone in the capital to be near Bob’s phone at home and the paper.
“Miss Sanders, you would be the logical person to remain here. Mr. Creston will have someone with you all the time. If you’re willing, you should call the university and tell them Professor Sanders is sick—flu or something—and you’ve come to stay until he gets back on his feet. Tell the same to your boss at the paper.
“Bob, you should go back. We can arrange to get your home phone and your direct line at the paper patched, so a call to one will ring on both.