levers.
He lowered himself into the pit, found some greasy cotton waste, and wiped off the instruction plates on the motor and above the levers. One of the levers worked with the motion of a jack handle, and was used to jack the elevator up or down to make it flush with the corridor floors.
He jacked it down as far as it would go, about three feet. Then he climbed out of the pit and, leaving the light on, closed the door to the shaft.
He turned the power back on and brought the elevator down to the basement. Now when he opened the door the floor of the elevator was three feet below the floor of the basement. It was now possible to crawl on top of the elevator from the door of the elevator shaft.
He took the ladder from the wall, propped it against the front of the elevator, and climbed up.
“Do you see it?” she asked breathlessly.
He didn’t answer.
He put his head and shoulders through the opening atop the elevator, ascended the ladder as far as he could, then wriggled forward on his belly.
“Have you found it?” she called anxiously.
“Pipe down,” he said, feeling about for the blue canvas utility bag.
When he found it he drew it forward beside his hip, then turned over on his back and drew both revolvers. He checked them in the dim, reflected light coming up the sides of the elevator from the pit. They checked.
He began worming forward on his back, inch by inch, moving the bag forward with his elbow.
“It’s not there?” she asked. Her voice was strained to the breaking point and jarred on his nerves.
“Will you shut up and let me look!” he grated.
He kept inching forward until his feet touched the ladder. Only his head and shoulders and his hands holding the revolvers remained unseen. Then he knocked the bag out onto the basement floor.
“He’s got it!” she screamed, and dove into the elevator.
There was a slight grunting sound as Coffin Ed jumped and came down like a cat somersaulting in the air.
Simultaneously the hophead gunman leaped into the corridor from the staircase.
Both shot before their feet touched the floor. Coffin Ed shot left-handed with Grave Digger’s pistol, shooting from the hip in a manner he despised. The gunman shot right-handed with the silenced derringer across his left shoulder, the police positive dangling from his left hand.
In the tight narrow corridor the very air exploded with the hard heavy thunderclap of the long-barreled.38 revolver, drowning the slight deadly cough of the silenced derringer.
The brass-nosed.38 slug hit the gunman on the pivot of the jaw and scattered bone, blood and teeth into the air, while the.44 slug from the derringer burned a hole through Coffin Ed’s left sleeve and seared his flesh like a branding iron.
Landing wide-legged and flat-footed in a half-crouch, Coffin Ed pumped two more slugs into the gunman’s body, propelling it into a macabre dance before the fat gunman had cleared the bottom step.
Trying to brake his charge and shoot at the same time, the fat gunman threw two wild shots with his.38 automatic, chipping plaster from the ceiling and puncturing the fire extinguisher; while Coffin Ed blasted with both guns and put two slugs side by side in his bulging belly.
Then Coffin Ed’s beret sailed from his head in a forward flight like a missile taking off, and a fraction of a second later a brassjacketed.45 slug coming from behind hit him on the shoulder blade and knocked him flat on is face.
The third gunman had stepped from the laundry, blasting with a.45-caliber Colt’s army automatic. But before he could squeeze the trigger for the third time, plainclothes dicks poured out of the very walls and crevices, and the corridor erupted with the heavy artillerylike booming of several police positives fired in unison. The gunman went down riddled with thirteen slugs.
It was all over in twenty-seven seconds.
The air was blue-gray and suffocating from cordite fumes, and gun-roar still echoed in their ears.
Two gunmen lay dead on the floor. With his guts perforated, his liver punctured and his spleen blown open, the fat gunman lay dying. A detective was trying to get a statement but he wasn’t talking.
Another detective dragged Ginny from the elevator and slipped on the cuffs while a third brought Wop from the janitor’s flat. There were nine detectives in all, three from the homicide bureau, three from the narcotics squad, and three T-men.
Coffin Ed was gritting his teeth in an agony of bone hurt and trying to push to his feet with his left hand. Two detectives helped him up while another went to the telephone at the end of the corridor and called the precinct station for two police hearses and two ambulances.
“I’m all right,” Coffin Ed said. “Where’s my gun?”
He still had Grave Digger’s pistol in his left hand, but he’d been knocked loose from his own by the impact of the.45 slug.
With a grin, a T-man opened his coat and put the pistol into its holster. Coffin Ed stuck the other one back into his waistband. The T-man buttoned the bottom of Coffin Ed’s jacket and made a sling for his arm.
The lieutenant from the narcotics squad weighed the blue canvas bag in his hand and looked at Coffin Ed questioningly.
But it was the lieutenant from homicide who asked the question, “How did you figure it was there?”
The narcotics lieutenant said, “He didn’t. Don’t you think we looked there?”
“The hell I didn’t,” Coffin Ed said. “I put it there the first thing I did this afternoon when I left the house.”
“So it’s just bait.”
“Yeah. It was the best I could think of.”
For a moment everyone looked at him. His jerking, ugly patchwork face was such a picture of agony, they looked away.
“It gives me an idea,” one of the T-men said. “If it worked once, it might work twice. We got Benny Mason and his chauffeur staked out down the street, beyond Grant’s Tomb. He’s watching the entrance here through night field glasses.”
“She said he’d be around somewhere,” Coffin Ed said, nodding toward the woman.
“What’s your idea?” the narcotics lieutenant asked.
“Let’s send this woman down the street, the other way, carrying this bag. He’ll try to get it-”
“Then what? There’s nothing in it,” the homicide lieutenant said. “Nothing to make a charge.”
The T-man smiled. “We’ll put something in it. We were thinking of a trap too, in case we found a way to spring it. So we brought along a little package too, with two kilos of pure heroin. We’ll just slip that into the bag-”
“And let him get it?”
“That’s the idea. We don’t want to disappoint Mister Mason.”
“You’d better hurry,” the homicide lieutenant said. “In two minutes’ time this street will be overrun with prowl cars.”
“That won’t make much difference to Mister Mason, as hot as he is after this stuff, but we’ll hurry anyway.”
Another T-man produced the package of heroin and they made the substitution and took the handcuffs from Ginny’s wrists.
“I won’t do it,” she said.
All of them stared at her with those blank looks policemen have when a prisoner defies them.
“What do you have on her?” the T-man asked.
“Conspiracy,” Coffin Ed said.
“We got more than that,” the homicide lieutenant said with a straight face. “She killed the African.”
“I didn’t!” she screamed. “It’s a mother-raping lie!”
“We can prove it,” the homicide lieutenant said in a flat voice.
“You’re trying to frame me,” she accused.
“That’s the general idea. Of course you can take your chances in court.”
