Stolen Away

Maybe Papa would be up there watching this afternoon, when I did something worthwhile, did the kind of thing a cop is supposed to do. Righted a wrong like Nick Carter or Sherlock Holmes in the books I read as a kid. Restored a missing child to his distraught parents. Papa would like that, up in heaven. Only Papa didn’t believe in heaven and neither did I.

“Not so close,” I cautioned the cabbie. “Keep two or three cars behind.”

He nodded and backed off. We were on Lake Shore Drive, following the Checker Cab up the Gold Coast—aristocratic brownstone mansions hobnobbing with modern high-rise apartments, fronting an unimpressed, choppy white-and-gray Lake Michigan. One of these days I had to look into finding a flat in this neighborhood—hell, they started at a mere three-hundred-fifty a month.

The Checker pulled off at Irving Park and so did we, moving into an area that had once been an exclusive section of town itself, before the money moved north. Which was a boon for criminals—a whole gang, particularly one on the lam, could move into one of these sprawling six-room numbers, and live a life of ease, with the nightlife of Uptown nearby. If I had a crook’s money, I might move in here myself.

Now the Checker swung right on Sheridan Road, where the cab soon pulled up in front of a big brick terra-cotta-trimmed six-flat apartment house—one of many such that stood shoulder-to-shoulder on this street—and let the blonde with the baby out.

My cab rolled on by, and when I looked back and saw the blonde disappear into the six-flat, I said, “Right here.”

The cabbie pulled over and craned around and showed me his gap-toothed grin again. “How’d I do?”

“Swell,” I said, and I took out a sawbuck, tore it in two and handed him half.

His eyes got wide; he wasn’t sure whether he should be pissed off or pleased. “What’s this?”

I was already getting out. “You get the other half by hanging around. Pull around the corner, there, and wait—but first find a phone and call Lt. Sapperstein at the Detective Bureau. Tell him I trailed Bernice Rogers to 4072 Sheridan, and want some backup.”

“Okay. Who’s the message from?”

“Heller.”

“Okay, Officer Heller.”

“Repeat all the names.”

“Uh—Lt. Sapperstein at the Detective Bureau. Bernice Rogers. Heller.”

“And the address?”

“4072 Sheridan.”

Now I gave him a smile. “Good man.”

The snow had stopped, but there was enough wind to blow it around some, a fine white mist that felt good on my face. My heart was starting to race and I breathed slow as I walked, calming myself. Across from the six-flat in question was one of the elaborate neighborhood movie palaces Chicago was so rich in. Arrowsmith was playing, with Ronald Colman. I hadn’t caught that one yet.

Same was true of the blonde, of course; hadn’t caught her yet, either. Inside the claustrophobic vestibule were half a dozen mailboxes and as many buzzers. All but one of the buzzers had a name underneath; neither “Bernice” nor “Rogers” was one of them. I pressed them all, except the nameless one—4-B—and waited for somebody to buzz the inner door open.

Somebody did.

The central stairway stopped at each floor for a small landing and a couple of apartment doors, then jogged on up to the next landing. The janitor had a basement apartment, and I could’ve checked with him, but he might warn his tenant a cop was on the way. Instead, I went up to the first landing, knocked on the door of Apartment 1-A, and waited.

A cutie about twenty with Clara Bow curls peeked around the door at my upheld badge. She frowned.

“You’re new,” she said. Betty Boop with a bad attitude and a cigarette.

“Pardon?”

“I paid already this month. I’m not made of money.”

“Miss, I’m just here for some information. I don’t want your money.”

“Oh,” she said, warming. She opened the door wider. Her slender little shape was wrapped up in a blue-and-pink floral kimono. She looked as easy as ticktacktoe, but her timing was lousy.

“How can I help you, cowboy?”

“Do you know if any new tenants moved into this building recently?”

“Why, no.”

“Well, then—any apartments empty right now, that you know off?”

“No. I don’t think so.” She blew a smoke ring. “Didn’t you check with the janitor?”

I gave her my best suave smile. “Maybe I’d rather talk to you.”

Ronald Colman had nothing to worry about, but she bought it just the same, a sultry smirk making the cigarette in her lips erect.

“I’ve been here over a year, cowboy, and nobody’s moved in or out in all that time.”

I thought about that. Then I took out the circular and folded it so that all she could see was Bernice Rogers’s picture.

“Know her?”

“Sure,” she said. “That’s Bernice Smith. She lives upstairs in 4-B.”

The one buzzer without a name.

“She got a kid?”

“Yes.”

“Baby?”

She thought I was calling her “baby” for a second. Then she figured it out and said, “Uh, yes—year-and-a-half old or so.”

“What color is the baby’s hair?”

“Blond, I think.”

“And Bernice?”

“Well, like that picture—brunette.”

Interesting.