by Ed McBain
“Not much. Dried tears on her face. Urine on her abdomen, buttocks, and genitals. Traces of Desitin and petroleum jelly there, too. That’s about it.”
“Time of death?”
“I’d put it at about three a.m. last night.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You want a guess?”
“Sure.”
“Somebody doesn’t like his sleep to be disturbed by a crying kid. That’s my guess.”
“Nobody likes his sleep disturbed,” I said. “What’s the Desitin and petroleum jelly for? That normal?”
“Yeah, sure. Lots of mothers use it. Mostly for minor irritations. Urine burn, diaper rash, that sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“This shouldn’t be too tough, Dave. You know who the kid is yet?”
“We’re working on that now.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Thanks.”
I turned to go, and Doc Edwards began pecking at the typewriter again, completing the autopsy report on a dead girl.
There was good news waiting for me back at the office. Pat rushed over with a smile on his face and a thick sheet of paper in his hands.
“Here’s the ticket,” he said.
I took the paper and looked at it. It was the photostat of a birth certificate.
“Here’s how they got it,” Pat said, handing me another stat. I looked at it quickly. It was obviously the reverse side of the birth certificate.
There were several more good reasons why a birth certificate should be kept in the sugar bowl, and then below that:
“Alice Dreiser,” I said.
“That’s the mother. Prints and all. I’ve already sent a copy down to Cappy to check against the ones they lifted from the pew.”
“Fine. Pick one of the boys from the list the Skipper gave us, Pat. Tell him to get whatever he can on Alice Drieser and her husband. They have to be sailors or relations to get admitted to a naval hospital, don’t they?”
“Yeah. You’ve got to prove dependency.”
“Fine. Get the guy’s last address, and we’ll try to run down the woman, or him, or both. Get whoever you pick to call right away, will you?”
“Right. Why pick anyone? I’ll make the call myself.”
“No, I want you to check the phone book for any Alice Dreisers. In the meantime, I’ll be looking over the baby’s garments.”
“You’ll be down at the lab?”
“Yeah. Phone me, Pat.”
“Right.”
Caputo had the garments separated and tagged when I got there.
“You’re not going to get much out of these,” he told me.
“No luck, huh?”
He held out the pink blanket. “Black River Mills. A big trade name. You can probably buy it in any retail shop in the city.” He picked up the small pink sweater with the pearl buttons. “Toddlers, Inc., ditto. The socks have no markings at all. The undershirt came from Gilman’s here in the city. It’s the largest department store in the world, so you can imagine how many of these they sell every day. The cotton pajamas were bought there, too.”
“No shoes?”
“No shoes.”
“What about the diaper?”
“What about it? It’s a plain diaper. No label. You got any kids, Dave?”
“One.”
“You ever see a diaper with a label?”
“I don’t recall.”
“If you did, it wasn’t in it long. Diapers take a hell of a beating.”
“Maybe this one came from a diaper service.”
“Maybe. You can check that.”
“Safety pins?”
“Two. No identifying marks. Look like five-and-dime stuff.”
“Any prints?”
“Yeah. There are smudged prints on the pins, but there’s a good partial thumbprint on one of the pajama snaps.”
“Whose?”
“It matches the right thumbprint on the stat you sent down. Mrs. Dreiser’s.”
“Uh-huh. Did you check her prints against the ones from the pew?”
“Nothing, Dave. None of her, anyway.”
“Okay, Cappy. Thanks a lot.”
Cappy shrugged. “I get paid,” he said. He grinned and waved as I walked out and headed upstairs again. I met Pat in the hallway, coming down to the lab after me.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I called the Naval Hospital. They gave me the last address they had for the guy. His name is Carl Dreiser, lived at 831 East 217th Street, Bronx, when the baby was born.”
“How come?”
“He was a yeoman, working downtown on Church Street. Lived with his wife uptown, got an allotment. You know the story.”
“Yeah. So?”
“I sent Artie to check at that address. He should be calling in soon now.”
“What about the sailor?”
“I called the Church Street office, spoke to the commanding officer, Captain”—he consulted a slip of paper—“Captain Thibot. This Dreiser was working there back in November. He got orders in January, reported aboard the U.S.S. Hanfield, DD 981, at the Brooklyn Navy Yard on January fifth of this year.”
“Where is he now?”
“That’s the problem, Dave.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The Hanfield was sunk off Pyongyang in March.”
“Oh.”
“Dreiser is listed as missing in action.”
I didn’t say anything. I nodded, and waited.
“A telegram was sent to Mrs. Dreiser at the Bronx address. The Navy says the telegram was delivered and signed for by Alice Dreiser.”
“Let’s wait for Artie to call in,” I said.
We ordered more coffee and waited. Pat had checked the phone book, and there’d been no listing for either Carl or Alice Dreiser. He’d had a list typed of every Dreiser in the city, and it ran longer than my arm.
“Why didn’t you ask the Navy what his parents’ names are?” I said.
“I did. Both parents are dead.”
“Who does he list as next of kin?”
“His wife. Alice Dreiser.”
“Great.”
In a half hour, Artie called in. There was no Alice Dreiser living at the Bronx address. The landlady said she’d lived there until April and had left without giving a forwarding address. Yes, she’d had a baby daughter. I told Artie to keep the place staked out, and then buzzed George Tabin and told him to check the Post Office Department for any forwarding address.
When he buzzed back in twenty minutes, he said, “Nothing, Dave. Nothing at all.”
We split the available force of men, and I managed to wangle four more men from the lieutenant. Half of us began checking on the Dreisers listed in the phone directory, and the rest of us began checking the diaper services.
The first diaper place I called on had a manager who needed only a beard to look like Santa Claus. He greeted me affably and offered all his assistance. Unfortunately, they’d never had a customer named Alice Dreiser.
At my fourth stop, I got what looked like a lead.
I spoke directly to the vice-president, and he listened intently.
“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps.” He was a big man, with a wide waist, a gold watch chain spraddling it. He leaned over and pushed down on his intercom buzzer.
“Yes, sir?”
“Bring in a list of our customers. Starting with November of 1952.”
“Sir?”
“Starting with November of 1952.”
“Yes, sir.”
We chatted about the diaper business in general until the list came, and then he handed it to me and I began checking off the names. There were a hell of a lot of names on it. For the month of December, I found a listing for Alice Dreiser. The address given was the one we’d checked in the Bronx.
“Here she is,” I said. “Can you get her records?”
The vice-president looked at the name. “Certainly, just a moment.” He buzzed his secre
tary again, told her what he wanted, and she brought the yellow file cards in a few minutes later. The cards told me that Alice Dreiser had continued the diaper service through February. She’d been late on her February payment, and had cancelled service in March. She’d had the diapers delivered for the first week in March but had not paid for them. She did not notify the company that she was moving. She had not returned the diapers they’d sent her that first week in March. The company did not know where she was.
“If you find her,” the vice-president told me, “I’d like to know. She owes us money.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
The reports on the Dreisers were waiting for me back at the precinct. George had found a couple who claimed to be Carl’s aunt and uncle. They knew he was married. They gave Alice’s maiden name as Grant. They said she lived somewhere on Walton Avenue in the Bronx, or at least had lived there when Carl first met her, they hadn’t seen either her or Carl for months. Yes, they knew the Dreisers had had a daughter. They’d received an announcement card. They had never seen the baby.
Pat and I looked up the Grants on Walton Avenue, found a listing for Peter Grant, and went there together.
A bald man in his undershirt, his suspenders hanging over his trousers, opened the door.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Police officers,” I said. “We’d like to ask a few questions.”
“What about? Let me see your badges.”
Pat and I flashed our buzzers and the bald man studied them.
“What kind of questions do you want to ask?”
“Are you Peter Grant?”
“Yeah, that’s right. What’s this all about?”
“May we come in?”
“Sure, come on in.” We followed him into the apartment, and he motioned us to chairs in the small living room. “Now, what is it?” he asked.
“Your daughter is Alice Dreiser?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you know where she lives?”
“No.”
“Come on, mister,” Pat said. “You know where your daughter lives.”
“I don’t,” Grant snapped, “and I don’t give a damn, either.”
“Why? What’s wrong, mister?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. It’s none of your business, anyway.”
“Her daughter had her neck broken,” I said. “It is our business.”
“I don’t give a . . .” he started to say. He stopped then and looked straight ahead of him, his brows pulled together into a tight frown. “I’m sorry. I still don’t know where she lives.”
“Did you know she was married?”
“To that sailor. Yes, I knew.”
“And you knew she had a daughter?”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Grant said.
“What’s funny, mister?” Pat said.
“Did I know she had a daughter? Why the hell do you think she married the sailor? Don’t make me laugh!”
“When was your daughter married, Mr. Grant?”
“Last September.” He saw the look on my face, and added, “Go ahead, you count it. The kid was born in November.”
“Have you seen her since the marriage?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen the baby?”
“No.”
“Do you have a picture of your daughter?”
“I think so. Is she in trouble? Do you think she did it?”
“We don’t know who did it yet.”
“Maybe she did,” Grant said softly. “She just maybe did. I’ll get you the picture.”
He came back in a few minutes with a picture of a plain girl wearing a cap and gown. She had light eyes and straight hair, and her face was intently serious.
“She favors her mother,” Grant said, “God rest her soul.”
“Your wife is dead?”
“Yes. That picture was taken when Alice graduated high school. She graduated in June and married the sailor in September. She’s . . . she’s only just nineteen now, you know.”
“May we have this?”
He hesitated and said, “It’s the only one I’ve got. She . . . she didn’t take many pictures. She wasn’t a very . . . pretty kid.”
“We’ll return it.”
“All right,” he said. His eyes began to blink. “She . . . If she’s in trouble, you’ll . . . you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
“We’ll let you know.”
“Kids . . . kids make mistakes sometimes.” He stood up abruptly. “Let me know.”
We had copies of the photo made, and then we staked out every church in the neighborhood in which the baby was found. Pat and I covered the Church of the Holy Mother, because we figured the suspect was most likely to come back there.
We didn’t talk much. There is something about a church of any denomination that makes a man think rather than talk. Pat and I knocked off at about seven every night, and the night boys took over then. We were back on the job at seven in the morning, every morning.
It was a week before she came in.
She was a thin girl, with the body of a child and a pinched, tired face. She stopped at the font in the rear of the church, dipped her hand in the holy water, and crossed herself. Then she walked to the altar, stopped before an idol of the Virgin Mary, lighted a candle, and knelt before it.
“That’s her,” I said.
“Let’s go,” Pat answered.
“Not here. Outside.”
Pat’s eyes locked with mine for an instant. “Sure,” he said.
She knelt before the idol for a long time, and then got to her feet slowly, drying her eyes. She walked up the aisle, stopped at the font, crossed herself, and then walked outside.
We followed her out, catching up with her at the corner. I pulled up on one side of her and Pat on the other.
“Mrs. Dreiser?” I asked.
She stopped walking. “Yes?”
I showed my buzzer. “Police officers,” I said. “We’d like to ask some questions.”
She stared at my face for a long time. She drew a trembling breath then, and said, “I killed her. I . . . Carl was dead, you see. I . . . I guess that was it. It wasn’t right—his getting killed, I mean. And she was crying.” She nodded blankly. “Yes, that was it. She just cried all the time, not knowing that I was crying inside. You don’t know how I cried inside. Carl . . . he was all I had. I . . . I couldn’t stand it anymore. I told her to shut up and when she didn’t I . . . I . . .”
“Come on now, ma’am,” I said.
“I brought her to the church.” She nodded, remembering it all now. “She was innocent, you know. So I brought her to the church. Did you find her there?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “That’s where we found her.”
She seemed pleased. A small smile covered her mouth and she said, “I’m glad you found her.”
She told the story again to the lieutenant. Pat and I checked out and on the way to the subway, I asked him, “Do you still want to pull the switch, Pat?”
He didn’t answer.
Hot
I wore moccasins, which were against Navy regulations, and the heat of the deck plates scorched up through the thin soles of the shoes, blistering my feet. I sat aft on the fantail, looking out over the heat of Guantanamo Bay, watching the guys from one of the other ships diving over the side and into the water. The water looked cool and clear, and the guys from the other can seemed to be enjoying it. They didn’t seem to be afraid of any barracuda. They seemed to be ordinary guys taking an ordinary swim in the drink.
The Cuban sun beat down on my head, scorched through the white hat there, left a soggy ring of sweat where the hat band met my forehead. The Old Man made sure we wore hats, and he posted a notice on the quarterdeck saying no man would be allowed to roam the ship without a shirt on. He was worried about us getting sunburned. He was worried about all that sun up there beating down and turning us lobster red.
But he wouldn’t
let us swim.
He said there were barracuda in the water. He knew. He was a bigshot Commander who’d politicked his way through Annapolis, and he knew. Sure. He couldn’t tell a barracuda from a goldfish, but he’d pursed his fat lips and scratched his bald head and said, “No swimming. Barracuda.” And that was that.
Except every other ship in the squadron was allowing its crew to swim. Every other ship admitted there were no barracuda in the waters, or maybe there were, but who the hell cared? They were all out there swimming, jumping over the sides and sticking close to the nets the ships had thrown over, and nobody’d got bitten yet.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, and I sucked in a deep breath, trying to get some air, trying to sponge something fresh out of the hot stillness all around me. I sucked in garbage fumes and that was all. The garbage cans were stacked on the fantail like rotting corpses. We weren’t supposed to dump garbage in port, and the garbage scow was late, but did the Old Man do anything about that? No, he just issued stupid goddamn orders about no swimming, orders he . . .
“Resting, Peters?”
I jumped to my feet because I recognized the voice. I snapped to and looked into the skipper’s face and said, “Yes, sir, for just a moment, sir.”
“Haven’t you got a work station?” he asked. I looked at his fat lips, pursed now, cracking and dried from the heat. I looked at his pale blue eyes and the deep brown color of his skin, burned from the sun and the wind on the open bridge. My captain, my skipper. The Commander. The louse.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I have a work station.”
“Where, Peters?”
“The radar shack, sir.”
“Then what are you doing on the fantail?”
“It was hot up there, sir. I came down for a drink at the scuttlebutt, and I thought I’d catch some air while I was at it.”
“Uh-huh.” He nodded his head, the braided peak of his cap catching the hot rays of the sun. The silver maple leaf on the collar of his shirt winked up like a hot eye. He looked down at the deck, and then he looked at my feet, and then he said, “Are those regulation shoes, Peters?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Why not?”
“My feet were sweating in . . .”
“Are you aware of my order about wearing loafers and moccasins aboard ship?”