“Of course you didn’t!” Mrs. McBirney said unpleasantly. “But if you had—”
“I know,” the janitor said with the indulgent air of one who has learned to take his pannings as an ordinary part of married life; “if I’d been a hero an’ grabbed him, an’ got myself all mussed up. Well, I ain’t foolish like old man Coplin, gettin’ himself plugged in the foot, or Blanche Eveleth, gettin’ her nose busted. I’m a sensible man that knows when he’s licked; an’ I ain’t jumpin’ at no guns!”
“No! You’re not doing anything that—”
This Mr. and Mrs. stuff wasn’t getting me anywhere, so I cut in with a question to the woman.
“Who is the newest tenant you have?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Jerald; they came the day before yesterday.”
“What apartment?”
“704—next door to Miss Eveleth.”
“Who are these Jeralds?”
“They come from Boston. He told me he came out here to open a branch of a manufacturing company. He’s a man of at least fifty, thin and dyspeptic looking.”
“Just him and his wife?”
“Yes. She’s poorly too—been in a sanatorium for a year or two.”
“Who’s the next newest tenant?”
“Mr. Heaton, in 535. He’s been here a couple of weeks; but he’s down in Los Angeles right now. He went away three days ago, and said he would be gone for ten or twelve days.”
“What does he look like, and what does he do?”
“He’s with a theatrical agency, and he’s kind of fat and red-faced.”
“Who’s the next newest?”
“Miss Eveleth. She’s been here about a month.”
“And the next?”
“The Wageners, in 923. They’ve been here going on two months.”
“What are they?”
“He’s a retired real estate agent. The others are his wife and son Jack—a boy of maybe nineteen. I see him with Phylis Coplin a lot.”
“How long have the Coplins been here?”
“It’ll be two years next month.”
I turned from Mrs. McBirney to her husband.
“Did the police search all these people’s apartments?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We went into every room, every alcove an’ every closet from cellar to roof.”
“Did you get a good look at the robber?”
“Yeah. There’s a light in the hall outside of the Coplins’ door, an’ it was shinin’ full on his face when I saw him.”
“Could he have been one of your tenants?”
“No, he couldn’t.”
“Know him if you saw him again?”
“You bet.”
“What did he look like?”
“A little runt; a light-complected youngster of twenty-three or four in an old blue suit.”
“Can I get hold of Ambrose and Martinez—the elevator and door boys who were on duty last night—now?”
The janitor looked at his watch.
“Yeah. They ought to be on the job now. They come on at two.”
I went out into the lobby and found them together, matching nickels. They were brothers: slim, bright-eyed Filipino boys. They didn’t add much to my dope.
Ambrose had come down to the lobby and told his brother to call the police as soon as McBirney had given him his orders, and then he had beat it out the back door to take a plant on the fire-escapes. The fire-escapes ran down the back and one side wall. By standing a little off from the corner of those walls, the Filipino had been able to keep his eyes on both of them, as well as on the back door.
There was plenty of illumination, he said, and he could see both fire-escapes all the way to the roof, and he had seen nobody on them.
Martinez had given the police a rap on the phone, and had then watched the front door and the foot of the front stairs. He had seen nothing.
Neither of them had seen anyone in the building either before or after the Coplins were turned for their jewels who fit the robber’s description.
I had just finished questioning the Filipinos when the street door opened and two men came in. I knew one of them: Bill Garren, a police detective on the Pawn Shop Detail. The other was a small blond youth all flossy in pleated pants, short, square-shouldered coat, and patent-leather shoes with fawn spats to match his hat and gloves. His face wore a sullen pout. He didn’t seem to like being with Garren.
“What are you up to around here?” the detective hailed me.
“The Coplin doings for the insurance company,” I explained.
“Getting anywhere?” he wanted to know.
“About ready to make a pinch,” I said, not altogether in earnest and not altogether joking.
“The more the merrier,” he grinned. “I’ve already made mine.” Nodding at the dressy youth. “Come on upstairs with us.”
The three of us got into the elevator, and Ambrose carried us to the fifth floor. Before pressing the Coplins’ bell, Garren gave me what he had.
“This lad tried to soak a ring in a Third Street shop a little while ago—an emerald and diamond ring that looks like one of the Coplin lot. He’s doing the clam now; he hasn’t said a word—yet. I’m going to show him to these people; then I’m going to take him down to the Hall of Justice and get words out of him—words that fit together in nice sentences and everything!”
The prisoner looked sullenly at the floor and paid no attention to this threat. Garren rang the bell, and the maid Hilda opened the door. Her eyes widened when she saw the dressy boy, but she didn’t say anything as she led us into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Coplin and her daughter were. They looked up at us.
“Hello, Jack!” Phylis greeted the prisoner.
“ ’Lo, Phyl,” he mumbled, not looking at her.
“Among friends, huh? Well, what’s the answer?” Garren demanded of the girl.
She put her chin in the air, and although her face turned red, she looked haughtily at the police detective.
“Would you mind removing your hat?” she asked.
Bill isn’t a bad bimbo, but he hasn’t any meekness. He answered her by tilting his hat over one eye and turning to her mother.
“Ever see this lad before?”
“Why, cerdainly!” Mrs. Coplin exclaimed. “Thad’s Mr. Wagener who lives upsdairs.”
“Well,” said Bill; “Mr. Wagener was picked up
