Joe didn’t say anything.
“Hanging’s too good for you, Joe.”
“Poor old Jim never even had a gun on him. You lousy dago!” cried one of the policemen, and took a step towards Joe.
Flaherty motioned him back.
“Just let the law take its course. Luke,” he said, “they’ll hang this baby sure.”
“Will they?” said Joe.
The grey-haired man shook his finger at Joe.
“Yes, my boy, I’m afraid they will.”
“They can’t prove nothing on me,” said Joe; “I wasn’t even in that end of town the night Courtney was bumped off. That dame’s full of hop.”
One of the policemen stepped past Flaherty and knocked Joe down. Flaherty grabbed the policeman and pushed him back. Joe got to his feet and stood holding his jaw.
“I’m gonna put it to you birds for this,” said Joe.
Both of the policemen made a rush at Joe, but Flaherty held them back.
“Well,” said Flaherty, “got an eyeful, Mr. McClure?”
Joe stared at the grey-haired man. So this was the Crime Commission guy that was kicking up all the row. Joe took a good look at him so he’d know him the next time he saw him. Maybe, if things broke right, he could deliver a nice package at the bird’s house some morning.
“Yes,” said Mr. McClure, “lock him up, turnkey.”
The turnkey took Joe by the arm and flung him into his cell. Joe fell on his hands and knees.
“Say,” said Joe, “what’s the idea?”
The turnkey came over and put his face against the bars.
“Orders, buddy,” he said, then he went away.
Yeah, it was orders all right. They wasn’t going to let up on him till he spilled something. Joe felt panicky. He flung himself face down on his bunk and began to sob.
“Won’t I never get out of here?” he said.
They had been questioning Joe for over two hours. He sat under a blazing light and they sat round him in the darkness. Joe was so thirsty that he could hardly swallow. They took turns at him: first, Mr. McClure, then Flaherty, then Rieger. Flaherty sat near him, and when he was slow with his answers rapped him over the knuckles with a ruler. But Joe stuck it out.
The turnkey took him back to his cell and gave him some water. Joe took a big drink then lay down on his bunk and tried to sleep, but it was no use. He felt hot all over and his tongue was swollen.
He put his hands under his head and lay looking at the square spots of sunshine in the dark corridor.
“God,” he said, “I can’t stand much of this.”
In five minutes the turnkey came back.
“They want you again, kid,” he said.
“God, I can’t move,” said Joe.
The turnkey unlocked the door and came into the cell.
“Get on your feet,” he said, “and snap it up. The prosecutor’s in there now and you’re gonna ketch hell.”
Joe got slowly to his feet and the turnkey led him down the corridor.
V
Sam Vettori sat half-dozing in an armchair watching a crap game. It was about eleven o’clock in the morning and most of the blinds were still down. All the wheels were covered and the chairs were piled up on the tables. The game was desultory as nobody had much money. As it wasn’t a house game, but merely some of the Vettori gang amusing themselves, Sam occasionally staked one or another of the players.
Since the rise of Rico, Sam had confined his efforts to the managing of Little Arnie’s old joint. He was making money hand over fist, and he was content to sit all day in his armchair and superintend the work of his employees. He drank wine by the gallon and ate plate after plate of spaghetti. In a month he put on fifteen pounds. As he was fat to begin with, this added poundage made him immense. His aquiline features were puffed out nearly beyond recognition, and there were rolls of fat at the base of his skull. Sam had loosed the reins and gone slack. Formerly, effort had kept him in better condition, but now, perfectly at ease, free of responsibility, the deadly lethargy which had threatened him all his life took possession of him.
Sam crossed his legs with difficulty and took out a stogie. The crap game had ended in an argument. Kid Bean loudly contended that he had been gypped.
“Shut up, you guys,” said Sam, “I’m doing you a favour to let you shoot in here. Any more of this kind of stuff and you don’t do it no more. If you guys’d save your money you wouldn’t have to be fighting over two bits.”
“Aw, rest your jaw,” said Kid Bean.
Joe Peeper took the dice and flung them out of the window.
“Them babies’ll never bother me no more,” said Joe.
“Can you beat that!” said Kid Bean.
“Well,” said Sam, “since Blackie’s got all the jack, the rest of you guys can pitch pennies. Listen, Kid, don’t forget you owe me two bucks.”
“You can take it out of my hide,” said the Kid.
“Your hide ain’t worth it,” said Sam.
Chesty, the doorman, came out of Sam’s office rubbing his eyes.
“Sam,” he said, “Scabby wants to see you.”
“Tell him to come out here,” said Sam.
“No,” said Chesty, “he wants to see you private.”
“Hey, Sam,” said Kid Bean, “give us a deck of cards, will you?”
“No,” said Sam, “you don’t even know what they’re for.” He pulled himself slowly to his feet, and turning to Chesty went on: “Get these guys a pack of cards and lock ’em up some place. They’d bump each other off for two bits and I don’t want this nice carpet spoiled.”
Yawning and stretching, Sam went into his office and shut the door. Scabby was standing in the middle of the room, biting his nails.
“Want a bottle of wine or something Scabby?” asked Sam.
“Christ, no!” cried Scabby.
Sam stared at him, then dropped into a chair.
“Well,” he said, “you look like you got something on your
