Then he had honked three times. And a minute later was in possession of two hundred thousand dollars. He had opened the suitcase to make sure — that had taken fifteen seconds at the most — and then he had turned around and started for the New Jersey Turnpike, heading for New York.
When Creasy reached the outskirts of Wilmington, Delaware, he turned off the highway into a dark residential area, and parked in a block of arching trees and handsomely landscaped homes. Only a few cars and buses had passed him since he had picked up the money, but he decided to wait here in the darkness and make absolutely certain he wasn’t being followed... No precaution was ever pointless.
Creasy took a road map from the glove compartment. If a police car happened to stop, he would have his story... “I seem to have gotten turned around, officer. Could you tell me the best route to the Memorial Bridge? Ah, yes. Silly of me. Thanks so much...”
Creasy lit a cigarette, and then settled back and smiled at the dim reflection of his glasses in his windshield. Grant had been so worried — giving him instructions as if he were lecturing a backward child. So meticulous, so exasperatingly repetitious. Grant seemed unable to believe that Creasy could actually drive a car. But Creasy was an excellent driver, having been in service as a chauffeur for a number of years. In Old Westbury, he thought, remembering the quiet, winding roads and gardens, its air of spaciousness so incongruous with the proximity of New York. There was regal privilege, he thought — to have nine-hole golf courses on land that was worth ten or twenty dollars a square yard. An elegant life, oh yes, with indoor tennis courts for the winter months, heated pools and polo fields and endless chatter about horses and games and schools, and how well old Mrs. So-and-So would cut up for the lucky survivors. He had worked for the Winthrops. Not the good branch, not the direct line — but second cousins. Nobodies, actually. He had traced them thoroughly. And how superior and disagreeable they had been! The daughter... He remembered her so well. Haughty little bitch. Lying on her back in white shorts, toasting her slim brown body in the sun. Cool drink at her side... Now she had a son, he remembered. Michael Desmond. The christening party had taken up quite a bit of space in the society pages. Little Michael was about a year old now...
Creasy was puzzled by the direction of his thoughts, and by the splintered, irrelevant anger that was growing in his breast, spreading pleasurably through his body. The Winthrops, yes, indeed. They needed a comeuppance. Doting on their first grandchild. So many people needed a lesson. And it was so easy.
With a start he glanced at his watch. He must be on his way. There would be time for all this later. But time for what? His thoughts were strangely confused. Only the sustaining sense of anger churned clearly and satisfyingly in his mind. With a vicious thrust of his small foot he tramped down on the starter...
The radio on Inspector West’s desk cracked through a tense silence, and Roth sat up quickly and leaned toward the speaker, his face hard with strain and fatigue.
A voice said, “Davis, Philadelphia office. Subject crossed the Memorial Bridge a few minutes ago, on the approach to the New Jersey Turnpike.”
“Okay,” Roth said.
“I’m turning off now.”
“Good work, Davis.”
Roth glanced up at West who was sitting on the edge of the desk with an unlighted cigarette in his mouth. The days of strain had drawn lines of exhaustion in his lean, youthful face, but his eyes were hard and bright as marbles.
“Looks like he’s coming back to New York,” Roth said.
West nodded slowly, and glanced at the clock.
The radio sounded again, and a voice said, “This is Brandell, Philadelphia. Subject is on the Turnpike. I’m going to pull ahead of him. He’s doing forty-five. I’ll check off in ten or twelve miles.”
“Right, Brandell,” Roth said.
West stood up, glancing at the clock again; it drew his eyes like a magnet. It was three o’clock Wednesday morning. Time was working against them now; each minute that passed lengthened the odds against the baby. The ransom had been paid, the kidnapers had their money. Now the baby became dangerous and incriminating excess baggage. A nuisance... Why risk taking her home? That would be the question they’d put to themselves. And West knew how they would answer it...
The FBI had covered the payoff for that reason — hoping that the pickup car would lead them to the baby. More than a hundred cars, trucks, cabs and station wagons had participated in the coverage — even a few motorcycles. Creasy had been followed leaving Kennett Square, Pennsylvania by a relay of cars, working on a split-second schedule. Bradley’s convertible had been equipped with a radio transmitter and camera by agents from the Philadelphia office. When Creasy had pulled up behind him Bradley had touched a foot pedal — and the camera had recorded Creasy’s license plates, and the transmitter had thrown one signal to the cordon of agents who were patrolling the secondary roads that ran parallel to Highway One.
It was an intricate maneuver, demanding perfect timing and synchronization from the dozens of agents participating in the surveillance. And it had been brought off flawlessly. Now Creasy was apparently returning to New York with the money. And time was running out...
West threw his unlit cigarette aside with an abrupt, angry gesture. He stared at the two blown-up photographs on his desk: Duke Farrel and Howard Creasy. Where in the name of God was Farrel?
A half-dozen agents sat at the desks surrounding West’s long table. They were waiting for phones to ring, teletype keys or radio signals to break the silence; the nets had been cast wide — to Chicago, Madison and Detroit, south to Mobile, as far west as Colorado, to any place where there might be a lead on the Farrel brothers.
An agent had talked to the younger brother’s commanding officer, a retired colonel living in Red Bank, New Jersey. Another had spent three hours at Joliet Penitentiary, talking with the warden and trustees who had known Duke Farrel.
They had the two brothers in sharp relief now; army service, prison record, credit ratings, hobbies, tastes in food, clothing, women — that had all gone into the file. They didn’t have much on Creasy, but a file was growing on one Edwin David Grant, a seasoned Chicago hoodlum who had been an intimate of Duke Farrel’s in prison. They had been around Chicago for a while after being released from jail, and had gone on together to Detroit, and later to Denver. There the trail ended, there was nothing to indicate that Grant was with Farrel now...
Roth said, “I’ll be surprised if the younger brother is in on it.”
“You can’t tell,” West said.
Roth picked up a card from the desk. “He doesn’t fit. Two decorations, damn fine record, and you know what his CO thinks of him — it just doesn’t fit.”
“We’ll see.”
They knew that Henry Farrel lived and worked in Portland, Maine, as a junior partner in a real estate office. Agents had checked his apartment, but found it empty; he was away on a fishing trip in Canada, but his secretary didn’t know just where.
“It could fit,” West said. “Maybe the Farrel brothers met in Canada.”
“Sure,” Roth said, dropping the card back on the table. “I’ll be surprised though.”
There was nothing to do but wait. Everyone in the room looked up when the radio broke the silence with a periodic report on Creasy’s approach to New York. And occasionally, with almost furtive glances, they watched the relentless sweep of the second hand around the face of the clock.