At three-thirty the phone on West’s desk rang. He picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?” in his sharp official voice. Then: “Yes — certainly I’ve got time. What is it?” His voice was almost gentle then; the crisp official note was gone. Roth glanced up as he said, “Well, that’s fine news, absolutely great. I’ll get word to him... yes, of course. He’ll be — well, he’ll be just as happy as you are.”
West put the phone down and said to Roth, “There’s one break. That’s Crowley’s wife.”
“The baby’s okay?”
“Not okay. It’s polio, but a mild case, she says. The doctors feel sure the child is in no real danger.”
“How about the after-effects?”
“She just said the baby’s going to live. She’s taking the bridges one at a time.” He put another cigarette in his mouth. “Give Crowley a flash. He’s standing by...”
It was four o’clock when the direct phone to Chicago began to ring. An agent lifted the receiver, then glanced at West. “For you, sir. Agent-in-charge, Chicago office.”
West took the receiver and said, “Yes?”
“Jim Keely, Tom. We’ve got another line on Duke Farrel. I can’t vouch for it. It’s third-hand. But you can run it down. One of our sources here just phoned me. He came across a bookmaker who had a letter from Duke Farrel. He was in New York then, staying at either the Wells Hotel or the Bell Hotel — the bookie wasn’t sure.”
“When was this?”
“About a month ago. Farrel was in to the book for a couple of hundred bucks, and they were after their money. He wrote that he’d be in Chicago in six weeks and straighten it out then. That’s all we’ve got.”
“It may help,” West said. “Thanks, Jim.”
When he put down the phone Roth stood and said, “What is it?” The other agents had come to their feet, too, and were watching him with alert eyes.
“The Wells Hotel, or the Bell Hotel,” West said. “Farrel was at one of those places a month ago. Do you know them?”
“I know the Wells,” Roth said. “On Forty-seventh Street between Fifth and Sixth. It’s a trap. Vags, hustlers, horse players, that sort of thing.”
“The Bell is up in Harlem,” another agent said. “It’s run by some kind of a mission. You’ve got to be a member of the church to stay there.”
“The Wells sounds right,” West said. “We’ll try it first.”
“What do we do?” Roth said. He had already put on his coat; he was tense, ready to go, his big face hard and mad. “Take it apart brick by brick? Give the clients a memory lesson?”
“Farrel might have friends there,” West said.
“I’ll bet he does. And I’ll bet they know where he is.”
“We can’t go in with sirens,” West said.
“Someone in that hotel may have a lead for us,” Roth said, and unconsciously his eye shifted to the clock. “I’d like to bust it loose. While there’s time.”
“Yes, and someone there might be on the phone to Farrel ten minutes later,” West said. “The bellhop, the night desk clerk, elevator man — any one of them might be in on this deal.”
“What the hell can we do?” Roth said, pounding a fist into the palm of his hand.
“Relax — and start doing it right now,” West said, and there was a sudden snap of command in his voice. “We’re handcuffed till that baby is safe. We’re not taking any chances yet. So let’s go to work. Check the post office to see if any registers were delivered to Farrel while he was at the Wells. And the telephone company for long distance calls. And Western Union for wires.”
West swung around to the agents standing in front of his desk. “All right, move! Don’t waste time explaining what you want to clerks. Go right to the top. We want this information now.”
Turning, he beckoned to the agent on the Chicago phone. “Let that go now, Bill. I want you to check the police precinct covering the Wells Hotel. Find out what paroled convicts they’ve got in the area. Get their names and addresses. Find out if they’re watching anyone at the Wells — for any reason at all. Say you’re on a security job. Phone me here when you’ve got that dope.”
Roth came back to West’s desk after assigning three agents to phones. “I’m sorry I blew my top,” he said.
“Forget it,” West said. “We may hit something now.” He was thinking of the million jurors with just a touch of bitterness. They’d quarter-back this decision, too, from the stands, not knowing or not caring that a kidnaping put law officers in a strait jacket: the police didn’t have the breaks in this case. Not as long as the baby was missing...
A few minutes later they had a final radio report on Creasy; he had left his car and the ransom money at a garage on Second Avenue. From there he had walked to his room on Thirty-first Street. He was now inside.
Phoning, West thought, saying, “This end is all wrapped up Sure, I’ve got it. You can fade now. Don’t take anything you don’t need...”
They’d get Creasy, of course. And Farrel and the others. That was no problem. They’d try them and execute them as quickly as the law would allow...
But would that compensate the Bradleys for a dead baby? The minutes seemed to be rushing by now. West tried not to watch the clock but his eyes shifted there compulsively — and on each occasion another precious amount of time was lost forever.
And then, at four-fifteen, an agent scrambled to his feet and knocked his chair over backwards. “Here it is,” he yelled in a sharp, breathless voice. He spun around, kicked his chair from his path, and reached West in two long strides. “Here it is, sir. From Farrel’s brother.”
West jerked the paper and scanned the message. Yes, he thought, feeling the pounding beat of his heart. Yes... The message read: “My cottage available two weeks. More if you need it. Won’t see you. Sorry. Am leaving for fishing trip Canada. Regards. Hank.”
“Where was it sent from?”
“Williamsboro, Main.”
West stood perfectly still for an instant, staring at the message. “Now listen carefully, Jerry,” he said — and as quiet and deliberate as his voice was, it brought silence over the room. “I’m going up there. I’ll call you from the Boston airport. You phone Washington, tell them what we’ve got, and have them on a conference line for my report. After that, call Boston. I want a dozen agents to meet me at the airport. Men who know the country around Williamsboro. You’ve got that?”
“Right.”
“Tell Boston I want to know where Hank Farrel’s cottage is. I want to know who lives in every house near it. Tell them to be set to block the roads leading away from Farrel’s place. I want to use local trucks — power company trucks, moving vans, delivery trucks. Equipped with two-way radio apparatus. They can fly men up now to get that detail ready. I’ll phone Washington again from Williamsboro. You’ve got all this?”
“Yes, I’ve got it. You want me to call the Bradleys?”
West hesitated, then shook his head slowly. “They’ll want to know one way or the other. And we don’t know — not yet.”
He pulled up his tie and without looking, reached out for his coat and hat; an agent held them ready. With a last quick glance at the clock, West started for the elevators at a run...
Twenty-one
Duke stood at the kitchen window, a cup of rum-laced coffee in his hand, and watched the new day spreading along the horizon. The sky was gray and pink above the green waters of the tidal estuary, and the tips of the fir trees were gleaming in the first thin sunlight. Duke felt pleasantly sleepy as he sipped the hot coffee and stared out at the fresh countryside. He’d had very little rest the past three days, and he had been drinking steadily most of that time: the combination had worn him down to a state of comfortable, almost luxurious drowsiness.