They went into the Command Room, and Fred Nieman looked at them from over by the radio. He didn’t stand up or say anything or do anything. He offered them a weak and sheepish smile, and just sat there.
A voice behind them said, quietly, “There’s seven guns on you. Either of you make a single solitary move, you’re dead seven times.”
The two officers froze. Both of them thought immediately that it was some sort of gag, and both looked at Officer Nieman to find a clue in his face. But Nieman’s face was pale and frightened and sheepish, slit by a nervous, ashamed smile.
Footsteps sounded on the black composition flooring, coming from behind them, going to right and to left. Two men came around in front of them, both in dark work clothing, both wearing black hoods, slit three times for eyes and mouth. One of the two was carrying a Thompson submachine gun and had what looked like a walkie-talkie strapped to his back. The other one had a walkie-talkie, too, and carried a rifle.
Mason thought, A war attack. Commies! But even while he was thinking it, he knew that wasn’t it. This was something else. It might even be something worse.
Another black-hooded man, this one with a rifle but no walkie-talkie, stood up from where he’d been crouched beside the radio, out of sight from the door, and said, “Okay, Fred boy, git on over there by your pals.”
Officer Nieman got shakily to his feet and went around the end of the counter and came across the floor toward Mason and Felder. His face was pale, and shone with sweat under the fluorescent lights. A look of apology and shame was all over his face. Mason, watching him, thought Fred might even faint.
A hand came from behind Mason and took the revolver out of his holster. Another hand unarmed Felder.
The one with the machine gun said, “Listen close. For the next few hours, you got nothing to do but sit. You just sit, and don’t get cute ideas, and you’ll be all right. You.” He pointed the machine gun at Mason. “What’s your name?”
“Officer Mason.”
“First name.”
“Jim. James.”
“All right, Jim. You, what’s your name? First name.”
“Albert.”
“They call you Al, or Bert?”
“Al.”
“Okay, Jim, Al, turn around, and do it slow.”
They turned around. There were four more of them back there, hooded, in work clothes, one with another Thompson submachine gun, one with another rifle, and two with revolvers. They were just standing there, pointing all that death at Mason and Felder.
The spokesman said, “All right, Jim, Al, you’ve seen enough. Turn around again.”
They turned around. Mason was trying to think, trying to figure out their game. What the hell was all this?
The spokesman was saying, “Who’s got the prowl car key?”
Felder said, “Me. I have.” Mason was gratified to hear a quaver in Felder’s voice; he didn’t want either of his brother officers to be less frightened than he was, and he was terrified.
“Bring it over here, Al. Hand it to me.”
Felder did as he was told.
“Now go back where you were, Al. The two of you, Al, Jim, get your handcuffs out. Reach them behind you. Don’t turn around, Jim, just reach back. Now put your hands together behind you.”
Mason put his hands behind his back, and felt the cold metal of the cuffs close around his wrists. He looked at Nieman’s face and suddenly realized why Nieman had been so formal when he’d called in; he was trying to warn them.
Mason said, softly, “I’m sorry, Fred, I didn’t get it.”
“Didn’t get what?” It was the one who’d been hidden behind the radio, stepping forward.
Mason closed his mouth. Now he’d done it!
The one with the rifle and the walkie-talkie said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Fred’s seen too many movies. He tried to signal these two by calling them by their last names.”
“Son of a bitch!” The one who’d been hidden behind the radio came closer and raised the rifle and slashed at Fred Nieman’s head with the butt. Nieman ducked away, raising his arms, and the rifle butt thudded into his shoulder, knocking him down.
The spokesman said sharply, “Cut that out! We need him.”
“You hear what he tried to pull?”
“It didn’t work. It never does. Fred, how’s your shoulder?”
Nieman sat on the floor, holding his shoulder, and didn’t speak.
The one who’d hit him said, “You better answer, boy, double quick.”
“It’s all right.”
“Good,” said the spokesman. “All right, Al, Jim, come on over this way. Al, lie down between these two desks here. Face down, that’ll be more comfortable, with your hands behind you that way. Jim, you over here between
