On the flight from Indiana to Pennsylvania, Keegan had finally explained their mission to Dryman.
“C’mon, Kee, you really believe this bank clerk was a Nazi spy?”
“I’m convinced of it,” Keegan replied.
“Well, if it was him he’s probably been dead for five years. Probably floated up somewhere along the river and the dogs ate him,” Dryman answered.
“H.P., the railroad runs right past where the car went into the river in Drew City and ends at Lafayette,” said Keegan. “Now, supposing you had just faked your own death and you had to get out of town. How would you do it? You can’t drive, can’t take a bus or hitchhike. You can’t afford to be seen. But. . . you could hop a freight. And if Fred Dempsey jumped a rattler, he would’ve walked into the middle of that brawl at the Hooverville.”
“If, if, if,” Dryman grumbled. Then Keegan grabbed him by the elbow and pointed to a plot. It was well cared for, the grass neatly trimmed and small plot of flowers at the foot of the section. A large headstone was bracketed on either side by two smaller stones, one of which read:
Frederick Dempsey
Born: Feb. 3, 1900 Died: Feb. 7, 1900
Taken from this earth after four days
Beloved for a lifetime
“Convinced?” an elated Keegan cried.
Keegan was not satisfied with just one subject. Recalling what Tangier had told him, that people on the run sometimes set themselves up with more than one identity, he and Dryman checked the rest of that cemetery and five others in the city. They strolled through the rows of tombstones, jotting down the names of all male children born between 1890 and 1910 who had died within two weeks of their birth. By the end of the day they had the names of twelve male children to check. It was a long shot, Keegan agreed, but so was the search that had turned up Fred Dempsey.
They had little trouble getting birth certificates of all twelve. Death certificates were recorded on a separate floor in the courthouse. Eddie Tangier was right, the state made no correlation between life and death. The certificates were not cross-referenced. As far as the clerk in the vital statistics department knew, Fred Dempsey was alive and well. Little did she realize how alive and well he was.
Keegan met Mr. Smith in a small Chinese restaurant in Georgetown. By arrangement, Keegan arrived first and was ushered into a small private room in the back. Smith arrived ten minutes later, entering through a back door after taking his usual circuitous route. The tall, enigmatic dog robber listened patiently as Keegan described the trip to Drew City and Erie, Pennsylvania.
“So. . . we know our Mr. X assumed the identity of Fred Dempsey,” Keegan concluded. “He lived in Drew City for nine months, never caused any trouble and might have even married Louise Scoby if fate disguised as John Dillinger hadn’t walked into his life.”
“Seems to me you may be stretching a point, tying him to the killer in the hobo camp,” Smith answered.
“Why? It makes perfect sense.”
“But there’s no proof. .
“We’re not trying the son of a bitch in court, Mr. Smith. I assure you, if Fred Dempsey and Twenty-seven are one and the same, then he did not die. He’s alive and well. He is six feet tall, about one-eighty, green eyes. Obviously he was wearing those new-type colored contact lenses and he lost one in the fight at the Hooverville.”
“How do you know that?” Smith asked skeptically.
“We know this guy is a master of disguise. He had gray eyes when he lived in Drew City. Joe Cobb saw a man with one gray eye and one green eye. It’s obvious that Twenty-seven lost one of the gray lenses in the fight and his eyes are green. And since he went to all that trouble to change the color of his eyes and he’s German, my guess is he’s blond. He uses a gold cigarette lighter with a wolf’s head on the top, rolls his own cigarettes using Prince Albert tobacco, loves movies and the ladies, and hasn’t a trace of an accent. I’ll tell you something else, this guy doesn’t shake. He’s one cool operator. He shacked up with Louise Scoby knowing the C-men were on their way to Drew City. And he likes to kill people, Mr. Smith. He shacked up with Louise Scoby for months, then broke her neck and dumped her in the river like that he snapped his fingers sharply “. . . to set up an alibi. He killed two men and blinded another one because they saw him and might tie him back to Fred Dempsey in Drew City. I’m beginning to understand this guy, Mr. Smith. I’m beginning to know how he thinks and how he operates.”
“If what you say is true, he’s more dangerous than we anticipated.”
“I never doubted that for a moment.”
Keegan took a list of names from his pocket.
“I’ve got twelve names for you. I believe one of them is our German sleeper agent. All of them were born in Erie, Pennsylvania, between 1890 and 1910. If I’m right, he applied for two passports in May 1933, one under the name Fred Dempsey, the other under one of those names on that list. He’d want to be able to get to Europe, to be able to escape in case something else happened.”
He leaned across the table, his eyes alive with excitement.
“If I can get a look at his passport application, I’ll know what he looks like and possibly where he lives now.”
“Doesn’t it seem likely he’s changed identities again since then?”
“Why? He has no idea we’re on to him. If he’s settled in some place, like he was in Drew City, why would he change? The more accepted he is, the safer he is.”
“That’s assuming Dempsey was your man.”
“He’s got to be.”
“But supposing you’re wrong, Mr. Keegan?”
“Then I’m beat,” Keegan said. “But I don’t believe I am. I’m right about Dempsey, Mr. Smith, and if any of those twelve names matches up to a passport application, we got our man.”
“That kind of information is highly confidential. This is not an easy task.”
“C’mon,” Keegan said. “Nothing’s too tough for the world’s greatest dog robber.”
Smith sighed. He recognized cajolery and flattery—but he was not immune to it. He toyed with the list for a few moments and shrugged.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Keegan and Dryman checked into the Mayflower to await the result of Mr. Smith’s investigation. Two days later, Smith met Keegan in the back room of the Regal restaurant a few blocks from the Capitol.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I had to drive all over the city to dump the twins.”
“What’s the latest news?”
“The whole city’s in an uproar. Everybody expects it’s just a matter of days before Hitler attacks Poland. Neville Chamberlain’s ‘peace in our time’ treaty wasn’t worth a lead nickel.”
He put a small brown envelope on the table in front of Keegan.
“You better face facts, Mr. Keegan,” Smith said as Keegan eagerly checked the contents of the envelope. “If this lead doesn’t pan out and Germany attacks Poland, you’re off the case. Hoover’s gone bananas on the subject of security.” He stopped for a moment and nodded toward the contents of the envelope. “And I broke at least three laws to get you that information.”
“Isn’t that what dog robbing is all about?” Keegan answered with his crooked grin.
He read the passport application and his heart picked up a few beats. There was no photograph, but there was an artist’s sketch showing a handsome man with a dark beard, longish hair and spectacles.
“I couldn’t lift the photograph so I had a sketch made for you,” said Smith. “Of course he could have shaved off his beard, changed his hair color . . . Well, what do you think?”