Lawrence placed a kindly hand on the G-man’s shoulder. “I know how you feel, Ed, but in the work we’re doing, we’re not supposed to have any feelings. Our job is to go out, collect evidence and convict. Smashing crime is our job. Forget it.”
He took his hand from Kirby’s shoulder and returned to his desk. “I’ll assign Stevens and Weatherby to help you. You can tell them what you want. Meanwhile I’ll get in touch with Rawlings.”
As Kirby made ready to leave the office some minutes later, he faced the two clean-cut young agents who were to back his play. “Stevens, you’re to keep me in sight all the time. We’re handling dynamite tonight. If I make a single mistake, somebody’s going to get hurt. As soon as I finish the job on lower Third Avenue, I’m going to the tunnel workings for my night shift. Hang around the place. Keep an eye on Morengo, See if anybody comes to see him. He’s the timekeeper.”
He turned to the other young agent. “Weatherby, I want you to be down on Third Avenue. When everything is over, and I’m in the clear, go at once to the precinct station commanded by Captain Burke. He’ll point out a certain prisoner that’s to be released. Tail him. See where he goes. It’s important. Clear? Let’s go.”
Without speaking again, he left the building and headed for the subway, with Stevens and Weatherby trailing him not too far behind.
Chapter V
Slip-Up
Detective Jim Rawlings swung his big bulk from the curb at the exact moment an “L” train roared over the tracks above the avenue. He had just crossed the first pair of surface-car tracks beneath the “L” structure when Ed Kirby, gun in hand, stepped from behind a steel pillar.
Mingling with the roar of the train going uptown came the staccato thunder of Kirby’s .38 Colt automatic. Rawlings did not immediately fall, but lunged backwards and jerked his own gun from its holster on his hip, adding its booming to the reverberating thunder beneath the steel structure of the elevated. Then he grunted and collapsed into a big heap.
When a radio patrol car reached the scene a short time later, there was only the huddled body of big Jim Rawlings on the pavement and a crowd of the morbid curious.
The police herded them back from a too-searching investigation. Internes in white jackets hopped out of an ambulance that was miraculously Close at hand, and Jim Rawlings was lifted to a stretcher and carried away.
But one man remained — long after the others had gone. He was the man in the gray suit who had warned Kirby away from the Starret job. He stood for some moments in danger of being struck by passing cabs, staring at the spot where Rawlings’ body had rested on the pavement after the rattle of gunfire had died away.
Abruptly he knelt close to the reddish smear on the pavement. In the semi-darkness beneath the elevated that smear looked queer. His fingers pawed the pavement and closed around the rounded end of a thin, glass test tube. There was less than a quarter of an inch of the glass, and adhering to the sides was a clear liquid, almost a drop. He dipped his finger into the color and applied it to his tongue.
Sudden cunning gleamed in his eyes. The red stuff was not blood. It was bitter to the taste — like ink. There were harsh glints in his eyes, and a savage twitching in his jaw muscles as he shoved both hands in his pockets and headed towards Bellevue Hospital where the ambulance had taken the body of Detective Rawlings.
Kirby’s foolproof plan had developed a flaw. The cards had been cleverly stacked, but Rawlings had muffed the deal.
The young agent, Weatherby, meanwhile, had faded from the scene. He had remained only long enough to see Rawlings placed in the ambulance. Then he hailed a taxi and was driven to the mid-town precinct station. Ten minutes after his arrival the prisoner was released following the telephoned instructions from the Chief of the Bureau of Investigation. Weatherby obtained a good look at the man in the station house without himself being seen — or so he thought.
On the street once more, he trailed his quarry uptown to the Seventies — a region of basement restaurants and night clubs where the cab he was following came to a stop.
Still watching his man, Weatherby walked down on the opposite side of the cross street. There was a neon sign with small block letters: THE GOLDEN MIRROR near a canvas canopy stretching out over the walk. The man he was following went beyond the night club’s canopied entrance and turned into a small parking lot adjoining the edge of the building.
Casually, Weatherby sauntered across the street, saw his man vanish behind a black sedan, then heard the distinct closing of a door that seemed to come from a spot beyond the sedan. Weatherby figured there must be a door in the brick wall of the building that was not visible from where he stood. He determined to investigate.
Alert to danger, he looked carefully around him. So far as he could see, there was no attendant watching the half-dozen cars parked on the small lot. He glanced cautiously up and down the cross street. No one was coming from either direction. It looked safe.
He walked into the parking place, edged around a gleaming Packard, followed the building wall with an outstretched hand towards the black sedan and a shadowy doorway that was dimly visible — then fell into the trap.
A darkish shape loomed up close to the running board of the sedan. An arm rose and fell. There was a muffled thud, and a thousand-watt light exploded in the exact center of Weatherby’s head. A low gasp trembled on his lips. He clutched futilely at the brick wall, reeled, and slumped to his knees, stunned and without strength to fight back.
Hands curved under his armpits and dragged him through the door in the wall. The silence in the parking lot had hardly been disturbed.
Leon, Fleming’s bodyguard, opened the hall door. “Berman’s here,” he said, “with a guy he slugged down on the lot.”
The gash that was the deformed man’s mouth twitched faintly. “Send them in,” he ordered, curtly.
Berman entered, prodding the now fully conscious Weatherby with a gun. The young agent’s face was pale. A thin trickle of blood had run down from his head across his cheek. He was a trifle unsteady on his feet.
“Who is he?” asked Fleming, quietly.
Berman shook his head. “I don’t know any more than you do. Here’s what happened. Figure it any way you want to.”
Fleming’s black, malignant eyes snapped impatiently.
Berman continued: “Listen, I tailed Ed Kirby after he parted company from Morengo the way I was supposed to. He must have got wise. Anyhow he cornered me down on Broadway and slapped me. God, how that guy can sock! I woke up in the station house charged with attempted robbery. Can you beat that? But Kirby didn’t appear against me and the dicks let me go.
“This guy, here” — indicating Weatherby — “was standing close to the monitor desk when I was brought before the lieutenant’s desk. As soon as I was on the sidewalk I spotted him tailing me. I slugged him down below. It was the only thing I could do. Well?”
Fleming’s eyes shifted to Weatherby “Where do you fit in?”
Weatherby tried to wipe the caked blood from his cheeks. “That heel’s nuts,” he scoffed. “I wasn’t following him. And I wasn’t near or in no station house. I was looking for a car.”
“What kind of car?”
A new one. These guys who go to places like the Golden Mirror are just saps enough to leave the switch keys inside. That’s the kind of a car I was looking for. An easy one.”
“Who you working for?”
“Ask me something else. You think I want my head shot off?”
“Wise and tough, eh?” sneered Fleming. “Maybe after a little working over you won’t be so tough.” He motioned to Berman. “Lock him up in the corner room. We’ll check his story later.”