On Inspector West’s desk at FBI headquarters there were two enlarged glossy prints of Duke Farrel, one full face, the other in profile. The pictures had been wired from Washington, only a few minutes after the dossier on Farrel had come in by telephone. Since that time — ten o’clock the previous night — Roth had been in communication with Joliet Penitentiary in Illinois, and the police authorities in Chicago, and Madison, Wisconsin. Now it was nine o’clock. Tuesday morning. Long beams of cheerful sun slanted in the windows and from the streets below could be heard muted sounds of traffic and occasionally the shrill piping of a traffic cop’s whistle.
The Inspector stood at his desk with Roth. He had talked with Crowley twice this morning; he knew about the special delivery letter, Creasy’s subsequent visit and the ransom instructions which had arrived an hour later in the regular mail.
The Inspector was studying Duke Farrel’s dark bold features.
“According to Joliet, he’s dangerous,” Roth said. “He took solitary like it was a suite in a luxury hotel.”
They were assembling, bit by bit, a portrait of Duke Farrel. They knew that he was unmarried, seemed to have no close friends, that both his father and mother were dead. His only relative was a half-brother, Henry Todd Farrel, who had left Big Springs, Wisconsin, at the start of the Korean War. There was no indication that the brothers had been in contact since that time. The younger brother had enlisted in the army and served in Korea. They were waiting now for his service record. They had no idea of his present whereabouts...
West drummed his fingers on the desk. “We’ve got to get a line on him, Jerry.”
“We’ll have something when we get his service record. Right now all we know is that his mail was forwarded from Big Springs to Boston for a few months four years ago. Care of general delivery.”
West glanced at the big clock on the wall; the gesture was compulsive, almost desperate. Time had assumed a heightened and precious value now; the minutes seemed to be flowing away on a prodigal tide.
“Let’s check the pickup plans,” he said. On his left a small-scale map of Pennsylvania had been tacked to a bulletin board. The kidnapers’ plan was nearly perfect, West has seen instantly; it was simple, ingenious, safe. He could no longer hope that he was dealing with amateurs or neurotics.
West looked at a copy of the payoff instructions and then turned to the map of Pennsylvania. “Step one,” he said to Roth. “Dick Bradley takes the money to Philadelphia at three this afternoon. There he rents a convertible. He stays in Philly until ten o’clock. Then drives to—” West glanced at his memo. “Kennett Square.”
“That’s about here,” Roth said, putting his finger on the map. “Fifteen miles from Wilmington, Delaware, thirty miles southwest of Philadelphia.”
“He leaves Kennett Square at midnight on Highway One and drives south at thirty miles an hour,” West said. “He keeps going until dawn if necessary — he keeps going until a car pulls up behind him and signals him to stop with three blasts of the horn. Then Bradley drops off the money and continues south for another fifty miles.”
“That will be tough to cover,” Roth said.
“If we cover,” West said slowly.
“The baby may be down that way. South, I mean.”
“Sure. Virginia, Florida, Panama, Peru. There’s a lot of territory south of us.”
“But if they take the money and disappear, where does that leave us?”
West glanced at him. “And suppose they spot us? Where does that leave the baby?”
Roth shrugged his big shoulders and said nothing...
Afterwards, West knew, the correct decision would seem the inevitable one — a wrong decision would be attributed to the judgement of a fool or an incompetent. The only thing that mattered was the baby’s safety. But either path he chose might cost the baby its life. And a million jurors would sit in judgement on the bureau’s decision over their morning coffee and papers. “What the hell was he trying? A grandstand play? Why didn’t he let them have the money? The baby’s the important thing, right?” And if it went the other way: “Chicken-hearted, that’s what they are. They had the bastards right in their hands and didn’t have the guts to close their fists. Why didn’t they have a hundred men waiting when they tried to grab that money? Where were they?”
West didn’t give a damn about those million jurors. He was thinking only of the baby — but the jurors’ arguments were the same ones that sounded in his own mind.
“Let’s set up to cover,” he said quietly. “Let’s be ready.”
“Right,” Roth said.
“Call Philadelphia first. The instructions don’t specify where Bradley is to rent the car. That’s one break. Have Philly plant a convertible for him, equipped with a camera and transmitter that works off a foot pedal. Now let’s see: at thirty miles an hour Bradley will travel about one hundred and eighty miles on Highway One by dawn. Okay, get enough men to cover that stretch thoroughly this afternoon. Spot every garage, diner, restaurant and all the side roads. Prepare small-scale maps of the area on both sides of the highway, secondary roads, rivers, bridges, overpasses — everything. And mark out deserted stretches on Highway One — places where the contact is likely.”
“If we decide to cover, everything’s got to be ready. Enough cars on an intercom hookup, enough men to follow any length of tail job.”
“They’ll be ready.”
West turned back to his desk, still studying the ransom instructions. Regardless of their preparations, this would be risky; the kidnapers had every advantage. They could be miles ahead of Bradley, or miles behind him, choosing their moment of contact from a wide latitude of times and places. They could wait until the road was dark and empty — then make their move.
Roth came to his side later and said, “It’s rolling. What next?”
Nothing more had come in on Duke Farrel, nothing at all on his brother.
“I want more on Creasy,” West said.
“You aren’t sure of him?”
“There’s no proof. He could be the neighborhood crank or a Peeping Tom. He turned down a cab in the rain. Maybe he likes getting wet. He’s watching the Bradleys’ house. Maybe he likes old brownstones. I want more.”
“We’ve been covering him since last night,” Roth said. “We’ve made a duplicate key to his room. Maybe if I took a look around there—”
West glanced at him, a little frown on his face. “We’ve got to know,” he said. “Right now all we’ve got is a handful of smoke.”
Roth said nothing. He wanted to go, he wanted to be doing something positive, but he controlled his impatience; he didn’t want to influence West’s decision.
“Okay,” West said at last. “But for God’s sake be careful, Jerry...”
Roth and an agent named Carstairs parked on Third Avenue just below Thirty-first Street. They waited there almost an hour before the radio in the car crackled, and a voice said, “Subject just leaving building, walking toward Second Avenue.”
Roth picked up his telephone. “All right, I’m going in. Keep your eyes open.”
The agent who had given him this information was stationed in a room at the intersection of Third Avenue and Thirty-first Street. From there he had a clear east-west view of Thirty-first Street.
A few moments later Roth walked briskly into Creasy’s building with a zippered brief case under his arm. In the case were insurance literature, application forms, a rate book — and beneath these a receiver and a transmitter by which he could keep in touch with Carstairs and the agent stationed in the room at the intersection. The hallway was empty and dark, and the house smelled faintly of old wood and German cooking. Roth listened for an instant, and then let himself into Creasy’s room and closed the door quickly.