Purvis laughed humorlessly. “Very funny,” he said, and stopped to look out at the Rookery, then at his watch.
Cowley said, “You had this theory, and you just had to see if it was right. You just had to know.”
I shrugged, said, “Yeah, I suppose. I had to know.”
“Did you ever go to college?”
“For a while.”
“Did you take any science?”
What the hell was this about? “Some,” I said.
Cowley leaned forward, hands folded, and tried to look fatherly, wise. “Did you learn anything about what happens when a scientist goes looking for a certain answer, when he should just be looking?”
“You’re saying I was predisposed to finding out this guy wasn’t Dillinger.”
Cowley nodded.
“Hell, I wish the guy
Purvis whirled and pointed a finger at me, like I was a suspect he was interrogating; he was trying for a dramatic moment, but it didn’t play. He said, “Suppose you’re right. Suppose there was some grain of truth in this nonsense you’re peddling. What do we do about it?”
I shrugged again. “Announce your mistake. It’d be embarrassing—the headlines are half ‘Dillinger Dead,’ half ‘Purvis Hero.’ It wouldn’t be easy. It’d be embarrassing as hell. Little Bohemia was a spring picnic compared to this.”
Purvis lifted his chin, looked down his nose at me. Small guys like to do that, sometimes, when you’re sitting and they’re standing. He said, “Why should I buck the tide? If the corpse has been identified as Dillinger, why should I think otherwise? The fingerprints match up, after all, and—”
“That does have me stumped,” I admitted. “But I noticed the prints didn’t get entered as evidence at the inquest. Some agent just testified they matched up, right? So who took em?”
“Uh, took what?” Purvis said.
“The prints, man! Which of your men took the prints?”
Purvis and Cowley exchanged looks; I couldn’t read the meaning.
Cowley said, “It was done by some Chicago police officer, at the morgue last night.”
“Chicago police officer?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, East Chicago?”
“No. Chicago.”
“Do you know the cop’s name?”
Both men shrugged.
“Let me get this straight—there’s been absolutely no Chicago police involvement in the case whatsoever up till this point, then suddenly it’s not one of your men, but a Chicago cop who takes the prints. A nameless Chicago cop, at that.”
This time only Cowley shrugged. “It was at the Cook County Morgue. What can I say?”
“Why don’t you go down and take another set of prints while you still can?”
“What for?” Purvis said, irritably.
Cowley shook his head. “I think it’s too late. I think Dillinger’s father has come from Indiana for the body. They’re supposed to’ve shut down that show at the morgue by now, and turned Dillinger over to—”
“Well, hell, go to Indiana, then. Catch up with Dillinger Senior before the burial. Save yourself exhumation expense. Check the prints.”
“Why bother?” Purvis said.
“Why bother? Because as somebody said—I think it was you, a couple of hundred times—the Chicago cops would sell their grandmother out for a cigar. Or words to that effect.”
Purvis looked at his watch. Then, suddenly civil again, he said, “I have to stop back at my apartment for my luggage, before I get that train. I’ll have to leave you gentlemen, now.” He walked to the door, turned and said, “See you in a few days, Sam. Mr. Heller, thanks for sharing your theories with us. Interesting if farfetched, but we do appreciate that you’re otherwise keeping them to yourself. Good evening.”
“Oh, Melvin,” I said.
He stopped momentarily, the door open.
I said, “You may catch your train, but you are definitely missing the boat.”
He snorted and went out.
Cowley and I just sat there awhile.
