They were also efficient. Half an hour after the police car—which moved even more rapidly than the Havana taxicabs—had deposited Captain William Weigand at the massive, ancient and ornate building which is police headquarters, electronics as well as policemen were at his call. A signature sped through nothingness toward Worcester and New York; pictures leaped across oceans and radio messages went along, explaining what was wanted. And Bill Weigand, at a desk supplied, read a message from Sergeant Stein—a message which reiterated and amplified. “Confirming our telephone conversations,” Stein might have prefaced, but did not. The police of Los Angeles, as requested, had been asked to trace a Mrs. Winifred Ferris, if possible. Bill doubted it would be. The president of the Worcester Box Company, of which J. R. Folsom was treasurer, was one Abner Baldwin, who had not yet proved available. The waiting game again, as it was so often, Bill decided, and drummed on the borrowed desk with his finger tips.
