Franzino ran a finger along the beard stubble on his lean jaw. “Simple rackets are always the ones that work.”
“If Andersun was in on a big deal like this, we'd have found some trace of it,” Al said.
One of the FBI's asked, “And if this Brown has the passport, why should he kill Andersun months later?”
Before I could answer, Franzino said, “The thing is, Andersun wasn't in on any deal. The lead we've overlooked was the story in the papers about Andersun planning to use the prize money for a trip to Paris, which meant...”
“Why Brown and Smith operated in bars like the Grand Cafe,” I cut in, determined to at least explain my own idea, “was because there was little chance of any of the boys in the bar ever taking a trip out of the country. Once Andersun applied for a passport, the State Department would investigate, and the whole deal would be cooked. They had to stop the real Andersun, and they did it with a bullet.”
The State Department man returned. There was a passport issued to an Irving Spear, none to Turner, and they were checking all the Smiths and Browns. A photostat of Spear's application was being flown in, and handwriting and photo experts were checking Brown's face and writing against other recent passports.
There wasn't anything to do for a couple of hours, and I had some coffee with Al. Then we drove over to the Turner apartment. Betsy and the kid were mixed up in cloth and patterns, and we were in the way. The last thing Ruthie wanted was to leave, so I said I'd phone later, maybe take them both out to supper, and after that—no matter what—Ruthie was going home.
As we left, Al gave me an evil grin, croaked, “What a domestic scene—mamma, poppa, and baby,” and started to whistle “My Blue Heaven,” and I told him to shut his corny trap. We went for a ride and I put on some speed—with Al's badge beside me I didn't have to worry about a ticket. Al insisted his Caddy could outrun my car, but backed down when I offered to bet him ten bucks. I drove back to the station house and we waited around some more, before the Spear application came in.
Brown's buddy, Smith, was six feet tall, weighed 196 pounds, had a mole on the right cheek. From the picture he looked like a handsome, distinguished young man, but his bald dome made him look older than thirty-four. One of the FBI lads said the mole was probably make-up and his head had been shaved for the picture. Franklin Andersun had signed as his witness, and Franzino said, “These jokers thought of everything—there's some attempt to disguise his handwriting here. Tomorrow I'll have my men check every passport photo shop in the city with these copies. See what we come up with. Of course we'll have every dock and airfield watched, in case they try to leave the country.”
“A passport is good for two years,” one of the FBI men said. “They can lay low till the summer, when the travel rush is on.”
“Another possibility—they could have skipped,” the State Department man said. “They could have gone to Canada, Mexico, some of the West Indies—without passports—then use them shipping out down there.”
Franzino sighed. “Or they could have taken a plane out the same night of the murder, for all we know. Hope this isn't another blank wall.”
Al shook his head. “I got a hunch they're still here, playing it too cool. Also got a hunch this is it. Like shaking out a tangled fishing line—once you get the right line, it all straightens out.”
There wasn't a thing to do but wait till Monday morning, while Washington checked, so we all knocked off for the day. I watched the cops line up before the desk as they were turning out a platoon, then I stopped into Franzino's office, asked, “How about releasing Louise now?”
“What did that whore do for you?” he growled, but had them both in his office within a few minutes. She looked bad, her face puffy and strained from worry and lack of sleep. Cliff looked okay, hair as slickly combed as ever. Franzino told them, “I'm letting you go as a favor to this big cluck. There's two conditions—break either of them and I'll toss you back in the can, lose the key. Don't move or become hard to find, in case I want to get in touch with you. And no hustling. Soon as this case is over, both of you get the hell out of my precinct.”
Louise and Cliff hurried out and as I started after them to explain, Franzino called me back. He pulled his bent medal out of the drawer. “I'm afraid to hammer this—might crack. Think you can straighten it out again, muscle head?”
I got it fairly straight.
CHAPTER 6
WHEN IT looked like we were really closing in, we fell flat on our collective faces. Not a thing happened Monday or Tuesday, except New York had one of those unexpected muggy heat spells. The air seemed to vibrate with heat waves, and as usual, the heat knocked me out. The passport photo places had never seen either Brown or Smith, and the State Department was “reasonably” sure nobody looking like either of them had used a passport since the murder.
On Wednesday Al Swan called for me and we went down to an office in the Federal Building on Foley Square. Franzino was there, along with two big apples from the Police Department, and an assortment of Feds. Except for me and Franzino, everybody was dressed like he'd been torn out of the men's fashion page of Esquire.
I was in fast company and I sat and listened. A State Department man made a short speech that added up to one thing —we were still no place. They'd found two other false passports, one issued to a light tan Negro named Alvin Hunt of Patterson, New Jersey, and one to a Richard Cohen of Brooklyn. Neither of these men had ever made an application for a passport; both vaguely recalled bar conversations some months ago about where they were born. In the passport pictures, Brown looked swarthy, his hair dark and close-cut, and he did something to his cheeks to make him look full-faced. Smith was sporting a heavy head of blond hair and didn't have a mole. A check on the rooming houses used by “Hunt” and “Cohen” gave us nothing—the guys had lived there for a few weeks, moved as soon as they got their passports. The talk ended with, “We have no way of knowing how many false passports these men planned to secure. But it is our theory that the killings will frighten them off the whole idea.”
“Meaning the case is closed?” Franzino growled. “Why, damnit, a policeman has been murdered and we're going to find the murderer whether you guys play ball or not!”
One of the police brass curtly told him to shut up, asked, “You mean they'll stop trying for any more passports?”
“Of course we're as anxious to find these men as you are, but it is our theory they will destroy the passports, drop the whole scheme.”
“Leaving us with Turner's death unsolved!” Franzino snapped.
The Federal man said, “These men are clever, and a clever man knows when he's had it. If they stop now, they're comparatively safe. Since their own passports may have been issued any time within the last four years—if they renewed them— it's almost impossible to check the thousands of passports issued during those years, so we can't find their real identities.”
There was a moment of silence and I sat there, sweating gently and feeling sticky and uncomfortable. I asked, “What happens if a person abroad sells his own passport?”
“Usually they report it as lost or stolen, and unless we can prove otherwise, we issue them a special travel permit, good only for returning to the States.”
“In other words, if they did get to Europe, they could sell their own passports and continue to live there, long as they didn't travel?” I asked.