we could figure to cover you. We don’t want to lose our good men.” He smiled a little. “Of course we didn’t expect a theatrical production.”
Coffin Ed grinned. “I dig you, Jack,” he said. “But sometimes these minstrel shows play on when grand opera folds.”
Then suddenly and unexpectedly he fainted.
22
It was past two o’clock in the morning. The prowl cars and ambulances and hearses had gone from the street and only the black inconspicuous sedans of the plainclothesmen remained among the sedate automobiles of the residents. Quiet once again prevailed in this exclusive residential street.
The crew from the Medical Examiner’s Office had been and gone and the six corpses had been taken to the morgue. The fat gunman had died before they arrived and had been tagged D.O.A. with the others. He had died without talking. Now there were only the gobs and patches of clotted blood to mark the spots where the six lives had taken exit.
Wop was in jail, safe at last.
But there was still activity in the basement of the apartment house where the interrogations continued and the reports of this fantastic caper were being recorded to shock and horrify what one must hope will be a less violent posterity.
The dining table from the janitor’s flat had been set up in the corridor and the two lieutenants and chief of the T-men were sitting in bloodstained chairs about it. A police stenographer sat apart, taking down the words as they were spoken.
Coffin Ed sat facing his interrogators across the table. He had been taken to the Polytechnical Clinic in midtown to have the bullet removed from his shoulder blade and the wound dressed. His guns, sap and hunting knife had been taken from him by the homicide lieutenant, and a detective had accompanied him to the clinic. Technically, he was under arrest for homicide and was being held for the magistrate’s court later that morning.
The hospital doctors had tried to put him to bed, but he had insisted on returning to the scene. In lieu of his bloodstained shirt, he now wore a hospital nightshirt tucked into his pants, and his arm was in a black cotton sling. Bandages made a lump on his right shoulder like a deformity.
“It’s been a bloody harvest,” the T-man said.
“Gun-killing is the twentieth-century plague,” the homicide lieutenant said.
“Let’s get to the story,” the narcotics lieutenant said impatiently. “This business is not finished yet.”
“All right, Ed, let’s hear your side,” the homicide lieutenant said.
“I’ll start with the janitor’s wife, and just repeat what she told me. You have my statement from before. Maybe you can fit it all together.”
“All right, shoot.”
“According to her, all she knew at first was that Gus had disappeared. He left her and the African in the flat at about eleven-thirty and said he’d be back in an hour. He didn’t come back-”
“Where was Pinky during this time?”
“She said she hadn’t seen Pinky since late afternoon and hadn’t thought about him until we questioned her after the false fire alarm.”
“So he wasn’t around?”
“He could have been. She just didn’t see him. When she found out he was on the lam and Gus hadn’t come back, she began to worry about what to do with the dog. They weren’t taking the dog and Gus hadn’t made any arrangements for it, and she didn’t know about S.P.C.A. And of course if Pinky turned up, there was the rap against him for the false fire alarm, and she intended phoning the police and having him arrested. So along toward morning she sent the African out to drown the dog in the river.
“Digger and I were sitting outside in the old struggle buggy when the African took it away. We thought then he might have drowned it, but it was none of our business and we didn’t see anything else suspicious, so we left. If we’d stayed twenty minutes longer we’d have seen Sister Heavenly when she arrived.
“She got here about ten minutes to six and said she was looking for Gus. Ginny, that’s the janitor’s wife, was suspicious — said she was, anyway — but she couldn’t get any more out of Sister Heavenly. Then at six o’clock the front doorbell rang. Ginny had no idea who it was, but suddenly Sister Heavenly drew a pistol from her bag and covered her and the African and ordered her to push the buzzer to release the front door latch; and she made them both keep still. Evidently she expected the caller to come straight to the flat. But instead they took away the trunk and left without knocking. When she finally looked out here in the hall and saw the trunk was gone, she ran out of the house without saying a word. And that was the last Ginny saw of her — so she said.”
“What happened to the trunk finally?” the homicide lieutenant asked.
“She claimed she never found out.”
“All right, we’ll get on to the trunk tomorrow.”
“I’m in the dark here,” the T-man said. “Who was going where?”
“She and Gus — he was the janitor — were going to Ghana. They’d bought a cocoa plantation from the African.”
The T-man whistled. “Where’d they get that kind of money?”
“She told us — Digger and me — that his first wife died and left him a tobacco farm in North Carolina, and he sold it.”
“We have all that from your first statement,” the homicide lieutenant said impatiently. “Where did the African fit into this caper?”
“He didn’t. He was an innocent bystander. When Gus didn’t show up after the trunk was taken, Ginny began getting more and more worried. So the African left the house about a half hour after Sister Heavenly to look for Gus. In the meantime it was getting late and Ginny began to dress. They had to go to the dock to get their luggage on board.”
“The trunk should have been delivered the day before,” the T-man said.
“Yeah, but she didn’t know that. All that was worrying her was Gus’s continued absence. She was just hoping the African would find him in time for them to make the boat. She never saw the African again. She had just finished dressing when the two white gunmen who shuttled her about Harlem first turned up. They said Gus had sent them to take her to the dock. She left a note for the African telling him where she was going. Then the gunmen picked up her luggage and took her out to their car. When they got in the fat man drove and the hophead sat in the back and covered her with the derringer. He told her Gus was in trouble and they were taking her to see him.”
“Didn’t she wonder about the gun?”
“She said she thought they were detectives.”
The homicide lieutenant reddened.
“They took her to a walkup apartment on West 10th Street in the Village, near the railroad tracks, and bound and gagged her and tied her to the bed. First they went through her luggage. Then they took off the gag and asked her what she had done with the junk. She didn’t know what they were talking about. They gagged her again and began torturing her.”
Abruptly the atmosphere changed. Faces took on those bleak expressions of men who come suddenly upon an inhumanity not reckoned for.
“Gentle hearts!” the T-man said.
“The next time they took off her gag she blabbed for her life,” Coffin Ed said. “She told them Gus had pawned the stuff but when she saw that wasn’t the answer she said he took it to Chicago to sell. That must have convinced them she really didn’t know about it. One of them went into another room and made a telephone call — to Benny Mason, I suppose — and when he came back they gagged her again and left. I figure they came straight up here and searched the flat.”
“And killed the African.”
“I don’t think they killed him then. The way I figure it they must have searched twice. In the meantime they
