Johnny glanced at Al Munson's body. “Your signature, Doc?”
The pink-cheeked man nodded. “A mewling kitten,” he said disdainfully. “I posted Armand and went out to the street to await your arrival.”
“You're the gizmo behind the whole thing?” Johnny still found it a little hard to believe.
“These people abused my patience terribly,” Dr. McDevitt assured him earnestly. “Their greed destroyed my foolproof plan. I naturally had to take steps.”
Rocky, Johnny thought, and I got to find it out upwind from the barrel of that small-caliber belly gun. “Armand got Roketenetz at the Rollin' Stone,” he said tentatively, turning his body a fraction of an inch at a time to lessen the area in front of the gun barrel.
“Roketenetz,” the doctor agreed, “and Ybarra. I felt that Hendricks and Munson should be dealt with personally by me, inasmuch as they had so grossly abused my confidence.” His voice rose sharply. “In five years the group had earned a steady profit, with no one the wiser, all due to my initiative and planning. Wouldn't you have thought they'd be satisfied?” The tone was high-pitched and querulous.
“It's a shame Keith got away from you,” Johnny said solemnly.
“It is, indeed. I had not anticipated his-ah-withdrawal. I fear I shall never understand people.”
You and me both, Johnny thought. How in the hell am I gonna reach that little flipped-lid? His eyes ranged the room for something to throw, but there was nothing within reach. He didn't even have his shoes on. And then he heard the elevator. The self-service elevator was moving. The discovery of his overcoat and other items on it should produce some kind of an investigation.
But the doctor heard it, too. Without saying a word his arm tensed and lengthened itself, and Johnny launched himself backward, rolling hard to gain the shelter of Al Munson's desk. The little gun spat nastily, and a large splinter flew past Johnny's head, but he came up behind the desk, grabbed up Al Munson's lumpy weight, pushed it out in front of himself, balanced himself carefully and charged Dr. Philip McDevitt. Six feet away he propelled the heavy body forward in a straight line, he himself diving low. The doctor was still methodically snapping bullets into Al Munson when Johnny hit him at the ankles. The doctor cried out shrilly like a petulant child as he went over backward, and his head struck a chair with a dull sound.
When he had breath in his lungs again, Johnny climbed wearily to his feet and plodded to the telephone.
In the cab on the way back crosstown Johnny sat on the jump seat and faced Lieutenant Dameron, Detective Rogers and a D.A.'s investigator named Douglas. Behind them the high-ceilinged room still seethed with precinct men uniformed and plain-clothed, lab men and a medical examiner, and the specialists from Homicide East, but Johnny had been released to Dameron and Rogers upon their belated arrival. The beefy Douglas had wandered in like a sleepy bear getting out of the cold and had attached himself to the expedition setting out for the West Side precinct to receive Johnny's statement.
“I'd like to have seen your face when McDevitt pulled the gun on you,” Detective Rogers said from the back seat, and grinned at Johnny's grunt. “Of course, you knew it was him all along.”
“The hell I did, and neither did you,” Johnny said flatly. “Say, was it him Keith made that second call to from Gidlow's suite? If it was you boys are due for a few demerits.”
“Keith made that call to Keith,” said Dameron. “He called the Chronicle office, and asked for himself,” he explained.
“Smart,” Johnny mused. “Not smart enough to keep strugglin', though. When the doc scared him bad enough he pitched it in. I don't see how I missed seein' that little bastard. His footprints were all over the place.”
“He had perfect cover. He'd formed the ring of people who had a finger on the pulse of the business, and they must have made a comfortable fortune. In a way you can see his sense of outrage when they defected from beneath him.” Detective Rogers' voice was somber.
“I thought it was Turner,” Johnny admitted, and the D.A.'s man, Douglas, spoke up for the first time on the ride.
“What gave you the hunch about the goon under the stairs, Killain?”
“I wasn't sure he was under the stairs,” Johnny explained patiently. “I just felt someone was there. If I took that phone call at face value, I was due for a fall.”
“Yes, but why? Something Munson said?”
“The way he said it,” Johnny said briefly.
Douglas plainly was an unhurried man befitting his bulk. “I'd like to know why it was the way he said it,” he persisted.
“You could lose your next couple of meals if I told you.”
“Try me,” Douglas said solidly.
“Just remember you asked.” Johnny's glance drifted off to the silent Lieutenant Dameron before it returned to the beefy investigator. “This goes back a ways. I happened to be in a place one time where two guys were brought in to a drumhead court. They were murderers and torturers, long overdue to get their tickets punched. They had information, but there wasn't time to get it. Somebody got the idea that, if they could be made to make one quick telephone call, they'd bring the roof down on some more of their own kind. The first guy was planted in a chair beside a phone, with a man behind him with both hands in his hair, and a man in front of him with a knife across his throat. He was told who to call, an' what to say. He knew he was for the knife whether he made the call or not. He said the equivalent of 'To hell with you, Jack,' and the knife went z-z-zick. They tossed him aside, an' sat the second guy down. He bought another hundred an' eighty seconds. He made the call.” Johnny drew a short breath. “His voice sounded like Al Munson's. You kind of don't forget it.”
The cab drew into the curb in the short silence that followed. “Anyone for Aesop's Fables?” Douglas asked finally. He buttoned his coat, opened the door and stepped out on the sidewalk, and the others followed. Johnny looked up at the stars in the cold-looking night sky, shoved his hands deeply in his coat pockets and trailed up the steps of the weather-beaten red brick building. Inside he would dictate and sign his statement, and then it would be time to go to work.
