“Right. Why pick anyone? I'll make the call myself.”
“No, I want you to check the phone book for Alice Dreisers. In the meantime, I’ll be looking over the baby’s garments.”
“You’ll be in the lab?”
“Yeah. Buzz me, Pat.”
“Right.”
Caputo had the garments separated and tagged when I got there.
“You’re not going to get much out of these,” he told me.
“No luck, huh?”
He held out the pink blanket. “Black River Mills. A big trade name. You can probably buy it in any retail shop in the city.” He picked up the small pink sweater with the pearl buttons. “Toddlers Inc. — ditto. The socks have no markings at all. The undershirt came from Gilman's here in the city. It’s the largest department store in the world, so you can imagine how many of these they sell every day. The cotton pajamas were bought there, too.”
“No shoes?”
“No shoes.”
“What about the diaper?”
“What about it? It’s a plain diaper. No label. You got any kids, Dave?”
“One.”
“You ever see a diaper with a label?”
“I don’t recall seeing any.”
“If you did, it wasn’t in it long. Diapers take a hell of a beating, Dave.”
“Maybe this one came from a diaper service.”
“Maybe. You can check that.”
“Safety pins?”
“Two. No identifying marks. Look like five and dime stuff.”
“Any prints?”
“Yeah. There are smudged prints on the pins, but there’s a good thumb print on one of the pajama snaps.”
“Whose?”
“It matches the right thumb print on the stat you sent down. Mrs. Dreiser’s.”
“Uh-huh. Did you check her prints against the ones from the pew?”
“Nothing, Dave. None are hers, anyway.”
“Okay, Cappy. Thanks a lot.”
Cappy shrugged. “I get paid,” he said. He grinned and waved as I walked out and headed upstairs again. I met Pat in the hallway, coming down to the lab after me.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I called the Naval Hospital. They gave me the last address they had for the guy. His name is Carl Dreiser, lived at 831 East 217th Street, Bronx, when the baby was born.”
“How come?”
“He was a yeoman, working downtown on Church Street. Lived with his wife uptown, got an allotment, you know the story.”
“Yeah. So?”
“I sent Artie to check at that address. He should be calling in soon now.”
“What about the sailor?”
“I called the Church Street office, spoke to the Commanding Officer, Captain...” He consulted a slip of paper. “Captain Thibot. This Dreiser was working there back in November. He got orders in January, reported aboard the U.S.S. Hanfield, DD 981 at the Brooklyn Navy Yard on January 5th of this year.”
“Where is he now?”
“That’s the problem, Dave.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The Hanfield was sunk off Pyongyang in March.”
“Oh.”
“Dreiser is listed as killed in action.”
I didn’t say anything. I nodded, and waited.
“A telegram was sent to Mrs. Dreiser at the Bronx address. The War Department says the telegram was delivered and signed for by Alice Dreiser.”
“Let’s wait for Artie to call in,” I said.
We ordered more coffee and waited. Pat had checked the phone book and there’d been no listing for either Carl or Alice Dreiser. He’d had a list typed of every Dreiser in the city, it ran longer than my arm.
“Why didn’t you ask the Navy what his parents’ names are?” I said.
“I did. Both parents are dead.”
“Who does he list as next of kin?”
“His wife. Alice Dreiser.”
“Great.”
In a half-hour, Artie called in. There was no Alice Dreiser living at the Bronx address. The landlady said she’d lived there until April and had left without giving a forwarding address. Yes, she’d had a baby daughter. I told Artie to keep the place staked out, and then buzzed George Tabin and told him to check the Post Office Department for any forwarding address.
When he buzzed back in twenty minutes, he said, “Nothing, Dave. Nothing at all.”
We split the available force of men, and I managed to wangle four more men from the lieutenant. Half of us began checking on the Dreisers listed in the phone directories, and the rest of us began checking the diaper services.
The first diaper place I called on had a manager who needed only a beard to look like Santa Claus. He greeted me affably and offered all his assistance. Unfortunately, they’d never had a customer named Alice Dreiser.
At my fourth stop, I got what looked like a lead.
I spoke directly to the vice-president, and he listened intently.
“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps.” He was a big man, with a wide waist, a gold watch chain spraddling it. He leaned over and pushed down on his intercom buzzer.
“Yes, sir?”
“Bring in a list of our customers. Starting with November of 1952.”
“Sir?”
“Starting with November of 1952.”
“Yes, sir.”
We talked about the diaper business in general until the list came, and then he handed it to me and I began checking off the names. There were a hell of a lot of names on it. For the month of December, I found a listing for Alice Dreiser. The address given was the one we’d checked in the Bronx.
“Here she is,” I said. “Can you get her records?”
The vice-president looked at the name. “Certainly, just a moment.” He buzzed his secretary again, told her what he wanted, and she brought the yellow file cards in a few moments later. The cards told me that Alice Dreiser had continued the diaper service through February. She’d been late on her February payment, and had cancelled service in March. She’d had the diapers delivered for the first week in March, but had not paid for them. She did not notify the company that she was moving. She had not returned the diapers they’d sent her that first week in March. The company did not know where she was.
“If you find her,” the vice-president told me, “I’d like to know. She owes us money.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. I left him then.
The reports on the Dreisers were waiting for me back at the precinct. George had found a couple who claimed to being Carl’s aunt and uncle. They knew he was married. They gave Alice’s maiden name as Grant. They said she lived somewhere on Walton Avenue in the Bronx, or she had lived there when Carl first met her. No, they hadn’t seen either Alice or Carl for months. Yes, they knew the Dreisers had had a daughter. They’d received an announcement card. They had never seen the baby.
Pat and I looked up the Grants on Walton Avenue, found a listing for Peter Grant, and went there together.
A bald man in his undershirt, his suspenders hanging over his trousers, opened the door.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Police officers,” I said. “We’d like to ask a few questions.”
“What about? Let me see your badges.”
Pat and I flashed our buzzers and the bald man studied them.
“What kind of questions do you want to ask?”
“Are you Peter Grant?”
“Yeah, that’s right. What’s this all about?”
“May we come in?”
“Sure, come on in.” We followed him into the apartment, and he motioned us to chairs in the small living room. “Now, what is it?” he asked.
“Your daughter is Alice Dreiser?”
“Yes,” he said, his face unchanged.
“Do you know where she lives?”
“No.”
“Come on, mister,” Pat said. “You know where your daughter lives.”