“It’s bound to have a bearing.”
“It’ll come, it’ll come. How about trying to run down Mallory for me? Think you can find anything on him?”
“We should, Mike. Let’s go down to headquarters. If he was pinched at all we’ll have a record of it.”
“Roger.” We were lucky enough to nab a cab waiting for the red light on the corner of Fifth and Forty-second. Pat gave him the downtown address and we leaned back into the cushions. Fifteen minutes later we got out in front of an old-fashioned red brick building and took the elevator to the third floor. I waited in an office until Pat returned bearing a folder under his arm. He cleared off the desk with a sweep of his hand and shook the contents out on the blotter.
The sheaf was fastened with a clip. The typewritten notation read, Herron Mallory. As dossiers go, it wasn’t thick. The first page gave Mallory’s history and record of his first booking. Age twenty in 1927; born in New York City of Irish-Russian parents. Charged with operating a vehicle without a license. That was the starter. He came up on bootlegging, petty larceny; he was suspected of participating in a hijack-killing and a holdup. Plenty of charges, but a fine list of cases suspended and a terse “not convicted” written across the bottom of the page. Mr. Mallory either had a good lawyer or friends where it counted. The last page bore his picture, a profile and front view shot of a dark fellow slightly on the thin side with eyes and mouth carrying an inbred sneer.
I held it under the light to get a better look at it, studying it from every angle, but nothing clicked.
Pat said, “Well?”
“No good, chum. Either I never saw him before or the years have changed him a lot. I don’t know the guy from Adam.”
He held out a typewritten report. One that had never gotten past a police desk. I read it over. In short, it was the charges that Mallory had wanted filed against York for kidnapping his kid. No matter who Mallory was or had been, there was a note of sincerity in that statement. There was also a handwritten note on hospital stationery from Head Nurse Rita Cambell briefly decrying the charge as absolutely false. There was no doubt about it. Rita Cambell’s note was aggressive and assuring enough to convince anyone that Mallory was all wet. Fine state of affairs. I had never participated in the mechanics of becoming a father, but I did know that the male parent was Johnny-the-Glom as far as the hospital was concerned. He saw his baby maybe once for two minutes through a tiny glass plate set in the door. Sure, it would be possible to recognize your child even in that time, but all babies do look alike in most ways. To the nurse actually in charge of the child’s entire life, however, each one has the separate identity of a person. It was unlikely that she would make a mistake . . . unless paid for it. Damn, it could happen unless you knew nurses. Doubt again. Nurses had a code of ethics as rigid as a doctor’s. Any woman who gave her life to the profession wasn’t the type that would succumb to a show of long green.
Hell, I was getting all balled up. First I was sure it was a switch, now I wasn’t so sure. Pat had seen the indecision in my face. He can figure things, too. “There it is, Mike. I can’t do anything more because it’s outside my jurisdiction, but if I can help you in any way, say the word.”
“Thanks, kid. It really doesn’t make much difference whether it was a switch or not. Someplace Mallory figures in it. Before I can go any further I’ll have to find either Mallory or Grange, but don’t ask me how. If Price turns up Grange I’ll get a chance to talk to her, but if Dilwick is the one I’ll be out in the cold.”
Pat looked sour. “Dilwick ought to be in jail.”
“Dilwick ought to be dead. He’s a bastard.”
“He’s still the law, though, and you know what that means.”
“Yeah.”
Pat started stuffing the papers back in the folder, but I stopped him. “Let me take another look at them, will you?”
“Sure.”
I rifled through them quickly, then shook my head.
“Something familiar?”
“No . . . I don’t think so. There’s something in there that’s ringing a bell, but I can’t put my finger on it. Oh, nuts, put ’em away.”
We went downstairs together and shook hands in the doorway. Pat hailed a cab and I took the next one up to Fifty-fourth and Eighth, then out over to the parking lot. The day was far from being wasted; I was getting closer to the theme of the thing. On top of everything else there was a possible baby switch. It was looking up now. Here was an underlying motive that was as deep and unending as the ocean. The groping, the fumbling after ends that led nowhere was finished. This was meat that could be eaten. But first it had to be chewed; chewed and ground up fine before it could be swallowed.
My mind was hammering itself silly. The dossier. What was in the dossier? I saw something there, but what? I went over it carefully enough; I checked everything against everything else, but what did I forget?
The hell with it. I shoved the key in the ignition and stepped on the starter.
Chapter 9
Going back to Sidon I held it down to a slow fifty, stopping only once for a quick bite and a tank of gas. Someday I was going to get me a decent meal. Someday. Three miles from the city I turned off the back road to a cloverleaf, then swung onto the main artery. When I reached the state police headquarters I cut across the concrete and onto the gravel.
For once Price was in when I wanted him.
So was Dilwick.
I said hello to Price and barely nodded to Dilwick.
“You lousy slob!” he muttered softly.
“Shut up, pig.”
“Maybe you both better shut up,” Price put in quietly. I threw my hat on the desk and pushed a butt between my lips. Price waited until I lit it, then jerked his thumb toward the fat cop.
“He wants words with you, Mike.”
“Let’s hear ’em,” I offered.
“Not here, wise guy. I think you’d do better at the station. I don’t want to be interrupted.”
That was a nasty dig at Price, and the sergeant took it right up. “Forget that stuff,” he barked, “while he’s here he’s under my jurisdiction. Don’t forget it.”
For a minute I thought Dilwick was going to swing and I was hoping he would. I’d love to be in a two-way scramble over that guy. The odds were too great. He looked daggers at Price. “I won’t forget it,” he repeated.
Price led off. “Dilwick says you broke into the Grange apartment and confiscated something of importance. What about it, Mike?”
I let Dilwick have a lopsided grin. “Did I?”
“You know damn well you did! You’d better . . .”
“How do you know it was important?”
“It’s gone, that’s reason enough.”
“Hell.”
“Wait a minute, Mike,” Price cut in. “What did you take?”
I saw him trying to keep his face straight. Price liked this game of baiting Dilwick.
“I could say nothing, pal, and he couldn’t prove a thing. I bet you never found any prints of mine, did you, Dilwick?” The cop’s face was getting redder. “. . . and the way you had that building bottled up nobody should have been able to get in, should they?” Dilwick would split his seams if I kept it up any longer. “Sure, I was there, so what? I found what a dozen of you missed.”
I reached in my pocket and yanked out the two wills. Dilwick reached a shaking hand for them but I passed them to Price. “This old one was in Grange’s apartment. It isn’t good because this is the later one. Maybe it had better be filed someplace.”