More shots outside now, to the rear of the house. I ran to my kitchen door; the fugitive crouched at the back near the corner of the house, supporting himself on one hand. He fired around the house the way he had come, but the police were on him from the other side of the house, too; there must have been some of them stationed outside. I’d no more than got my door open a crack than the hunted man threw his gun to the ground, crying: “You’ve got me! You’ve got me!”
He tried to haul himself upright, but one leg dragged; the police were on him in a smothering heap; I saw a fist crash his chin, and he went down, limp.
The tangle broke then. Three policemen emerged, carrying the unconscious man; they disappeared around the Sixteenth Street side of the house.
Breathless, I went back to the hall. Mr. Buffingham, the one I knew, was there, handcuffed to another policeman. Hodge Kistler, alongside, was rapt and intent, his eyes shining. He was practically wagging his tail.
The three of them disappeared out the front door as the sirens began to cry.
—
IT WASN’T THIRTY SECONDS before Mrs. Garr and Mrs. Tewman, Miss Sands and Mr. Grant, Mr. and Mrs. Waller and I were all there in the hall in a knot. Mr. Waller was sent off posthaste to find out what it was all about.
Mrs. Garr was quivering with excitement.
“It’s that no-good boy of his, that’s who it is. Oh, he’s got his hands into some dirty work now. I always said to him, ‘That boy’ll come to no good,’ I said, ever since he got his first job driving trucks for those dirty bootleggers.”
“Here! How did he get here?” Mrs. Waller was still breathing hard from hurtling her weight downstairs.
“Brought him in, that’s what he did,” snapped Mrs. Garr. “No respect for a decent house. You mark my words.”
My mind leaped to another possibility.
“Sam Zeitman—that gangster—do you think that’s what he could have done? Do you think he was the one that shot him?”
Four tongues spoke at once as they considered the possibility. I had to leave for work while the talk still raged.
When I came home, that session—or another one—was still in progress. By that time, Mr. Waller had long been home with the story. But the papers were full of it, too; I read the account coming home on the streetcar.
The gist of it was this. The younger Mr. Buffingham—his given name was Reginald, of all impossible names—had driven out to Elsinore the day before with three other men, and the four of them had robbed the little Elsinore bank. They’d shot and killed a schoolteacher, waiting at the wicket for the money from her paycheck, because she didn’t get out of the way fast enough. Reginald Buffingham, bending to push her aside, had lost his hat. The cashier had a good look at him; he was shot for that, but he lived long enough to give the police the description. The Buffingham boy had fled, with all other hands against him, to his father for hiding, but the police had rounded up all his known associates, and they’d squealed.
“He robbed a bank,” Mrs. Garr screamed at me when I walked in. “Killed a lady! Killed a cashier!”
“I saw it in the paper,” I said. “Do you think Mr. Buffingham, the one that lived here, had anything to do with it?”
“Oh no, he didn’t have nothing to do with it,” spat Mrs. Garr. “He wouldn’t have the nerve. I know him.”
“Will he be sent to prison, too? He must have known about it when his son came here last night.”
“Get sent up for harboring?” Mr. Waller’s bulk was quick with excitement. “Maybe he will. You can’t tell, though. Mostly they jug people for harboring when they can’t get hold of the big shots, or don’t want to get hold of ’em. Do it to stop the public hollering.”
“They certainly caught young Buffingham, if you could call him a big shot.” I shuddered, thinking of the exhausted, desperate boy who had cried so truly that morning, “You’ve got me!”
“Was he hurt much?”
“Broke a leg when he fell out that window. Lucky you saw him. If he could have made his father’s car parked alongside on Sixteenth Street he could have made the start of a getaway anyway, and they’d have been shooting up the whole town. Can’t tell who’d of been killed.”
“I notice it didn’t say anything about the possibility of his having shot Sam Zeitman,” I said. “I wonder if the police didn’t think of that. I should think they would.”
“I should think they would, too,” Mr. Waller agreed. “He’s been here with his father before; he knows about that drop. They’ll bring it up yet, see if they don’t.”
I left the four of them to their pleasant conversation for the greater pleasure of eating. But I waited up until Hodge Kistler came in just after midnight.
“Poor Mr. Buffingham,” I said when I had supplied coffee and a sandwich. “Imagine having children and having them turn out like that.”
“Yeah. But don’t let it keep you awake. This isn’t the first job Reggie pulled. He had it coming.”
“That doesn’t make it any easier for his father.”
“They all have fathers.”
“Yes, but we know this one. I mean, I’ve seen him around. Couldn’t we do something?”
“Sure. Maybe we could take up a collection for bail. It wouldn’t take much—a couple grand here, ten grand there—”
“But the father’s in jail, too, isn’t he? If he gets out, we could go out of our way to show sympathy. Ask him for dinner or something.”
“Say, are you nuts?” Mr. Kistler’s lips pressed tightly together, and his eyebrows almost hit his nose. “You let me see you talking, just talking, to that guy, and I’ll take your pants down and spank
