The French Connection

by Robin Moore

  Holy Mother! The sonofabitch just walked out the door, and there must be twenty of our guys around here somewhere, and nobody's on him! Egan whirled and slammed out through the revolving door, to find that Jehan had almost reached the corner of Broadway. Egan desperately searched 47th Street for some sign of police awareness that Frog One was calmly strolling out of the picture, but he spotted no one. Taking a deep breath, Egan started after the man.

  Jehan appeared little the worse for wear after his long Friday night. He was walking easily south on Broadway toward Times Square. Egan was confused and angry. How could so many supposedly professional police officers blow one old bastard who stands out like a giraffe in a field full of cows?

  Jehan continued to amble without apparent purpose along the "Great White Way," which by daylight was dingy and pallid. Pedestrian traffic was minimal, so Egan was able to keep a clear view of the tall grey-haired figure in black. When Jehan paused at a shop window near 46th Street, Egan, at the corner of 47th, took another moment to look around him once more for assistance. A man and a woman were entering a cab in front of the Edison, but still he saw none of his people— until he recognized two hatless, overcoated men lounging at a soft-drink stand on the opposite corner of 47th Street: Detectives Frank Meehan and Roy Cahill.

  Egan whistled sharply, and as the two officers looked up he jerked his thumb viciously in the direction Jehan was going. The Frenchman was just moving away from the shop window that had caught his attention and had resumed his leisurely pace. The two detectives, looking very surprised, downed their drinks and stepped out behind Egan.

  At 43rd Street, in Times Square, Frog One strolled to the BMT subway kiosk and descended the stairs. Not once in the four blocks, so far as Egan could make out, had the Frenchman so much as glanced back nor otherwise indicated any suspicion of being observed; and now he had gone straight down into the subway as though he knew exactly where he was going. Egan enjoyed a flush of elation: the Frog must be making a meet; maybe our luck is changing. But then, he thought, surely this guy, this cool one, must know by now that the operation had been burned, that the other Frogs had faded? And he must have guessed that he himself was carrying a tail? So why the subway bit all of a sudden on a Saturday afternoon?

  Underground, Jehan did not go to the BMT trains. He headed for the cross-town shuttle, the short subway line that plies back and forth between Times Square and Grand Central Terminal. With Meehan and Cahill right behind him now, Egan bought a token and cautiously followed the subject through the brightly marked passageway from the main subway station to the shuttle platform. Unlike the streets above, the underground complex was crowded.

  Tourists goggled at the dreary, noisy, impersonal efficiency of New York's vaunted transportation system.

  New Yorkers from outlying sections of the vast city, many with children, streamed glumly to and from Manhattan weekend excursions. Egan had to press forward to keep Jehan in view.

  Both tracks of the shuttle run were unoccupied, and the platform on one side was filled with citizens waiting for the next train in from Grand Central.

  Egan figured he had three or four minutes to call in and alert base radio. Catching the eyes of the other detectives he threw a nod toward Jehan, who was standing easily behind a cluster of people, appearing as unconcerned as a headwaiter on his way to work.

  Meehan and Cahill moved separately to an edge of the crowd at either end of the platform, keeping their undivided attention on the tall Frenchman.

  Egan found a public telephone cubicle, also within sight of Jehan, and dialed base. "I'm sitting on Frog One," he began. The voice at the other end droned, "Yeah, we know, we got the Edison covered like a tent." It was Agent Ben Fitzgerald.

  "The Edison? Balls! I got him down in the subway at Times Square. He's about to take the shuttle to Grand Central. You got any men over there? Send some more over. What the hell's going on? I make him coming right out of the hotel, free as a bird. Not a soul around. If I hadn't run into a couple of cops at a snack bar, it'd be a real sweat." The two-car shuttle train clanked into the station and began to unload its packed cargo. "The train's in. I gotta go. Have those guys stake out Grand Central!"

  Jehan had boarded the second car as Egan came up behind the last knot of passengers edging through the doors. Meehan and Cahill had seated themselves at each end of the car. Jehan sat near the middle, close by the centre door. Egan waited until all passengers were in, then quickly pushed into the now crowded car. Taking pains not to look toward Frog One, he shouldered his way toward the front end of the train, where he stood with his red-haired fingers grasping a chin-high hand grip, staring at the advertising in front of him.

  His mind's eye, however, was scanning what could happen when they reached the Grand Central end of the half-mile trip. Base had advised that several detectives were already in the terminal keeping close watch on the banks of storage lockers. Frogs Two and Three had loitered in Grand Central the previous night before losing their tail, so there was still some suspicion that the load might be stashed there after all.

  And now, presumably, other officers in cars would be speeding to the terminal area to help Egan.

  Egan's only possible plan was to get off the train first and let the Frog catch up and pass him. From there, he and the other detectives would just have to play it carefully, with Meehan and Cahill keeping a sharp eye out for fellow cops. When the train lurched to a stop, Egan made his way to the forward door and, on the crowded platform, proceeded slowly toward the tunnel corridor connecting the shuttle with the main station.

  Several minutes passed, and the crowd streaming past Egan from behind him became a trickle, but Jehan had not appeared. Egan chanced a glance back. No one else was coming from the train now - no Jehan, not even Meehan and Cahill! Shucking caution, Egan bolted toward the two-car train he'd just left, now almost filled with return passengers. He marched grimly through both cars, checking every occupant. Nothing. Oh, good Christ Almighty! He jogged back along the passageway to the main 42nd Street subway station. Neither Jehan nor the officers were in sight on the various platforms. How could he have missed them? He raced up the long flight of stairs into the terminal, and saw Detective Dick Auletta standing by the entrance to the lower level, peering over a folded newspaper. When he spied Egan, Auletta lowered his eyes without recognition, obviously awaiting some signal. But Egan, breathing hard, went straight to him.

  "Dick, have you seen Frog One?"

  Auletta looked quickly up at the other's flushed face and shook his head. "What's happened?"

  "I lost him," Egan groaned, rapidly surveying the ramps leading from 42nd Street down into the terminal. "I can't figure it, but I did . . . Let's check some of the other guys."

  They hurried about Grand Central, seeking out other officers now posted by various exits, but no one had seen either Jehan or Detectives Meehan and Cahill. Egan felt clumsy and powerless. He and Auletta slumped against the marble counter outside a shuttered New York Central ticket window in the cavernous main terminal.

  "What are you gonna do?" Auletta asked.

  "Christ, I don't know. If we've blown him, I guess that's the ball game. I better call in. Maybe somebody else has got a lead."

  "Why don't we check out the Roosevelt first?" Auletta asked. "That seemed to be their favorite meeting place."

  "Yeah, that's a thought," Egan acknowledged, without much genuine enthusiasm. He and Auletta trudged up the stairway to Vanderbilt Avenue and walked two blocks north to the hotel. It was scarcely more than an hour since Egan had happened upon Jehan at the Edison, but the afternoon seemed endless.

  After circling the block-square Roosevelt together, the two separated and searched the lobby and lower-level arcades inside. It was fruitless.

  They met outside the hotel's Rough Rider Room on the 45th Street side, and Egan decided to call base from the lounge. After a few minutes, Egan rejoined Auletta at the bar, and they ordered two Pepsis. Egan appeared thoughtful.

  "S
o?" Auletta probed.

  Egan swallowed a mouthful of cola, set the glass down deliberately, leaned one elbow on the polished wood bar and turned to his companion. "So," he said softly, "Mr. Frog One is back in his room at the Edison Hotel."

  On the way cross-town to the Edison in Auletta's car, Egan related what he had been told. When he had boarded the shuttle at Times Square and pushed to the head of the car, consciously avoiding looking at Jehan, the Frenchman had left his seat and seconds before the train departed nimbly slipped through the closing doors. Fortunately, Meehan and Cahill had detected this sudden move and managed to scramble to the platform themselves just as the doors closed.

  Of course, they had had no chance to alert Egan, who continued on to Grand Central rapt in his plans for maintaining surveillance when he got there.

  Meanwhile, the perplexed officers had followed Jehan up to the street and back to his hotel, where he took an elevator and returned to his room on the ninth floor.

  After the return of Jehan, there was considerable agitation among the dozen or so narcotics officers posted in and around the Edison as to how their subject had succeeded in breezing out of the hotel. The next hour was an uneasy jumble of fierce speculation and recrimination, with the New York police and Federal agents generally taking sides against one another.

  Shortly, the men staked out in the lobby received word from the French-speaking agent in the room next to Jehan's that Frog One had just had a telephone call from Frog Two. The listening device, which was not attached to the telephone, could pick up only Jehan's end of the conversation. But he had referred to his caller as "mon petit François" — surely the missing Barbier — and had said in French: "You were right, I think. It is best to leave it where it is . . . "

  This set off a new round of heated speculation downstairs. "What did he mean by 'you are right'?" "It means we burned the tail good, stupid." " Who burned it? I wasn't sitting on the lobby!" And, as they snapped at each other thus in anger and frustration, Jean Jehan put on his black coat and hat, picked up his cane, and calmly went out for another stroll . . . .

  Auletta dropped Egan at the corner of 47th and Broadway and drove off. Sapped of enthusiasm, Eddie was struggling to revive his spirits as he again approached the main entrance of the Edison.

  Suddenly, Jean Jehan came out of the revolving door and walked past him.

  Egan took two full steps before stopping short. He whirled, startled to see, as he had earlier, the same tall, dark ethereal figure striding up the street toward Broadway. Jesus, Mary and Joseph — is this a dream? Am I going nuts? Shaking his head, he looked toward the hotel entrance and saw Detectives Meehan and Cahill emerging cautiously behind the Frenchman. Spotting Egan, one nodded in the direction of Jehan up the block. Egan acknowledged with a curt nod of his own and turned after Frog One, with the others trailing.

  Jehan again went down the subway stairs at 43rd Street. Egan, half a block behind, couldn't shake the eerie feeling that he was somehow reliving a portion of his life. But Jehan proceeded this time not to the shuttle but to the BMT main line, descending another flight of stairs to the downtown platform. Egan and the others followed separately. Jehan stood on the Local side, apart from a handful of other passengers scattered along the platform. Egan guessed that a train must have just gone through and, because of curtailed Saturday service, he estimated that he would have several minutes to report the situation to base.

  The two other detectives drifted apart to opposite ends of the platform, while Egan looked for a telephone. The only booth he could use without losing sight of Jehan was within a dozen feet of the man.

  Egan swallowed and with outward brazenness walked in front of Frog One and settled in the booth.

  "Send all your available cars to the west side," he told base. "Find out where each BMT local station is and spot a man up at every street exit all the way downtown. If we don't show up with the Frog at one stop, have the guys rotate, keeping a couple of stations ahead. We'll stay with this guy. Got that? Hold it. A train's coming in. Let's see what he does this time. I might hang up fast . . . "

  The noisy grey-green subway train squealed to a stop. The doors rattled open, and the passengers got off and those on the platform stepped aboard; all except Jehan who stood quietly, hands clasped gently around the grip of his black walking stick in front of him. When the doors closed again and the train left the station, Jehan and one overcoated man at each end of the platform were the only people visible. Egan said into the telephone: "He didn't get on. Stay with me. I don't want to be wandering around the station."

  Another train arrived and departed without Jehan, and now Egan, still in the telephone booth, began to grow restive. "I don't like this," he reported. "'He's waiting for something, or somebody . . . . Christ, maybe he wants to use this telephone." Egan swung open the folding glass door and raised his voice into the receiver. "I've worked in plenty of joints, bartender, waiter, even a bouncer. All I'm asking is a chance to show you what I can do. Can I come see you today? I'm telling you, I want this job bad." He prayed that his urgent tone had carried over the constant rumble of the subway and that his expression reflected the concern of a man struggling for livelihood.

  Several more people had walked onto the platform, one a middle-aged woman in a Kelly green coat with a yellow kerchief around her head who stopped just outside Egan's telephone booth. Jehan came over to her, not six feet from where the detective sat. The elegant Frenchman doffed his Homburg and spoke to the woman. He must have been asking directions, Egan thought, for the woman nodded, and with a curt bow Jehan turned to wait for another train. Egan have the woman in the green coat a hard look, before deciding that she was no more than a passerby.

  Another Local clattered into the station, and Frog One seemed to edge toward it. "Here we go, I think."

  Egan muttered into the telephone mouthpiece.

  Jehan stepped aboard the train. "See ya," Egan said, jamming the phone into its cradle. He left the booth and hurried to the same car as Jehan. Meehan and Cahill boarded the train at either end.

  Jehan sat in the forward corner of the car, gazing blankly up at the advertising placards opposite. There were only five or six other passengers besides Egan.

  The detective took a seat midway along the car, across the aisle from the Frog, averting his face but keeping the dark figure firmly in the corner of an eye. As the train pulled out of the Times Square station, glancing to his right Egan could see Meehan in the car immediately behind, weaving into position; presumably Cahill was doing the same in the car ahead.

  The train pulled into the next stop, 33rd Street.

  Jehan arose casually and stood studying the subway map next to the door. Egan smiled grimly to himself: he's beautiful; the doors will open, and he'll wait till the last second, and wham! then he'll jump off the train —and I guess I'm supposed to just sit here like a dummy.

  He hoped the other officers were ready to move.

  The doors opened. A man got on, passing Jehan, who had not moved. Action hung suspended for a long second. Then, with a hiss the doors began to come together. Jehan shoved his cane against the rubber edging; all the doors reopened. Jehan quickly stepped out. Egan leaped across the car and out another exit just as the doors were closing again.

  Egan was grinning. But not for long. Where was Jehan? He was nowhere in sight. Meehan and Cahill had made it to the platform, and now they were approaching Egan.

  The train started to move out of the station. The three were alone. And then a familiar figure appeared in a window of the car he had supposedly just left. Frog One, bent slightly toward them, was smiling at the police officers and daintily waving a gloved hand. In a moment, the train had rattled into the black subway tunnel, Jean Jehan with it. There was no way all the exits on the long subway line could be covered this soon.

  C h a p t e r 1 1

  By nightfall of Saturday, January 13, it appeared certain that Jean Jehan would not return to the Edison Hotel. François Barbier and J.
Mouren also remained at large. The narcotics officers covering the hotels in which the Frenchmen had stayed now suspected that the three had regrouped and perhaps were even on their way out of the country.

  Others were still watching Patsy Fuca, but he had not left his home in Brooklyn all day Saturday.

  Detectives had observed his wife go shopping, and Barbara's father and Patsy's brother Tony together tended the luncheonette on Bushwick Avenue. It was not until nearly 6:00 P.M. that Patsy finally made an appearance, after his day-long rest from the arduous night before. He left his house on 67th Street and entered a gray 1956 Cadillac, his friend Nicky Travato's car. Late Friday night, while Patsy had been diverting the police in the "Keystone Kops" chase around mid-Manhattan, officers watching Travato had observed him drive his Cadillac the four blocks from his house to 67th Street and leave it parked there.

  The mystery of this move was increased when Patsy, with his own Oldsmobile and Buick both standing in front of his house, proceeded to drive Nicky's Cadillac to a point on Graham Street, three blocks away from his luncheonette. He spent the rest of the evening in his store. At about 11:00 P.M., Nicky Travato drove up in Patsy's blue and white Olds. Patsy emerged and climbed in behind the wheel, leaving Tony to close up shop.

  Detective Jimmy O'Brien and Agent Jack Ripa, watching the store from the hospital across the Avenue, climbed into their own car and fastened onto Patsy as he turned the corner of Maujer Street and drove over to Graham, where he let Nicky out next to his own Cadillac.