Don Free put his Colt out of sight, opened the door and went to the vestibule. He closed the door behind him, then turned the knob. There was a spring lock, and he could not open the door. He pulled his brown hat low over his eyes, saw the rip in the cloth of his coat sleeve that the first bullet had made. His lips were pressed tightly together as he went from the vestibule, down the few steps. Crail’s back was to him, and he walked along behind the uniformed man.
At his side he slowed down a little. There were people on the street, but no one was near them. Free kept his head low and fumbled with his hat brim with both hands.
“Hear anything — from inside?” he asked.
Crail said softly: “Yeah — two shots — not too loud, though. Two cabs were passing and there was ‘L’ racket.”
Free said: “All right — I’ll be seeing you.”
Crail spoke thickly: “You okey?”
“Okey.” Free was a little ahead of the uniformed man. “No one came out — ahead of me?”
Crail said: “No.”
Free walked faster, took his hands away from his hat brim. He stopped at the corner and lighted a cigarette. When Crail passed close to him he said:
“Get out of the uniform and stick around the flat.”
Crail nodded his head very slightly and went on. Free went around the corner and after a few seconds hailed a cab. He pointed to the street along which he had just come.
“Go down there about half way, and park on the south side if you can,” he said. “Kill your engine, but stay back of the wheel. Don’t turn or talk to me, even when I tell you what to do next.”
The cab driver nodded. Don Free got inside, hunched down in a corner of the seat. The cab moved forward and around the corner. The driver took it half-way eastward on the block and parked on the south side. The house in which Tony Bandor was lying dead was about fifty yards to the eastward, and on the north side.
The street was a quiet one, but ten persons passed the three-story house with the green window boxes, while Don Free watched. No one was passing when a medium sized man came from the house. He wore a gray overcoat and hat, and his trousers were gray. From the distance Don couldn’t distinguish a stripe. The man held a handkerchief over his mouth, looked up and down the street, barely noticing the cab. Then he moved down the few steps, turned eastward. Jim Lanner, another agency man, came along from behind the cab and stopped near it. Without looking at Free he said softly:
“I had a damn’ bad stomach ache when you called me from Crail’s flat. Is that my man?”
Free said: “Forget the stomach ache, and don’t lose him. He counts.”
Lanner nodded and went along in the same direction as the one who had come from the house. He had a tabloid in both hands and he read it as he went along. Don Free straightened and was about to tell the driver to keep Lanner’s tall figure in sight, when a cab came eastward fast and halted two houses past the one occupied by Bandor.
A woman got out and paid up. She was young and slender, and looked good at seventy yards. The cab went on, and the woman stood near the curb, fumbling in a bag she held in her right hand. A messenger boy passed her. She looked at the cab twice, then took something from the bag, snapped it shut. Instead of going into the house before which the cab had halted, she walked rapidly westward, made a sharp turn and went into Bandor’s place. Her figure was lost from sight in the vestibule.
Free whistled softly and hunched back in the cab again. A minute passed, then another. A uniformed officer came westward slowly and when he was a hundred yards or so from Bandor’s place the street was very quiet. The first scream was shrill and terrible, but it reached the street faintly. The second got outside the house more loudly, and the uniformed officer heard it. He increased his pace, and was almost in front of the green window boxes when the woman came out. She screamed again in the vestibule — and the uniformed cop ran towards her.
Free’s cab driver was stiff in the seat, but he didn’t turn his head. Free was frowning. He leaned forward a little and said:
“All right — Seventh and Fortieth street, and make it fast.”
The driver twisted his head and looked at him with hard, blue eyes. Then he shook his head.
“Wait’ll that cop comes out of there,” he said.
Free narrowed his gray eyes on the driver’s. “What happens in there won’t make any difference to me,” he said. “Get going.”
The cab driver shook his head. “You picked me up at the end of this street and had me come back here. I want to know what’s wrong in there — before I take you anywhere.”
Free swore softly. Then he smiled a little. “Know who lives in there?” he asked.
The driver shook his head. “And I don’t care who—”
Free interrupted. “Tony Bandor lives there,” he said very slowly. “And what happens in there is his business, and maybe mine. It’s not yours—”
He watched the eyes of the cab driver get wide, and the hardness go out of them. He said thickly:
“Tony — Bandor—”
Free nodded. “That’s the name,” he said. “And I want to get to Seventh and Fortieth, very quick.”
The starter made sound and the engine made more sound. The driver muttered something that had the word “sorry” in it, and the cab jerked forward. When it passed Bandor’s house Free saw that the door of the vestibule was half opened. Then the window boxes were behind. He settled back in the cab. The one with the gray coat and trousers was not in sight, ahead — nor was Jim Lanner. The cab turned northward and moved along at good speed.
At Fortieth and Seventh Free got out. He tipped the driver a dollar, and the man said:
“I wasn’t figuring to be nasty back there. Just careful like.”
Free smiled and nodded. “Sure, it always pays to be careful,” he said.
The driver grinned. Then his eyes got hard again. “It sounded like that woman had seen something pretty bad in there,” he breathed. He grinned again. “But you never can tell about a woman.”
Free smiled a little tightly. “Never,” he agreed.
3
Jen Carle looked up from her machine and smiled at him. He went over close and looked at her hair.
“I like it better all the time,” he said. “Has the man killer gone?”
She nodded. “About ten minutes after you left. She was crying.”
Free nodded. “Tim didn’t go with her?”
She shook her head, and her eyes grew smaller. Free nodded again.
“I’m expecting a call,” he said. “Get it right to me. Tim’s inside?”
“Inside,” she said. Her eyes widened as she stared at his coat sleeve. “You’ve torn your coat, Free.”
He looked in the wrong place first, then found the rip. He whistled in surprise.
“Now how the devil did that happen?” he breathed. “In the cab, I suppose.”
She looked doubtful but didn’t say anything. Free went along the corridor and rapped on the door of Hammond’s office. Hammond said: “Come in.”
He went in. The agency head was seated back of his desk, and Free went over and sat on a corner of it. Hammond looked at him without speaking, and used his eyes without missing the cloth tear. He leaned forward and looked at it more closely. Then he swore.
“Bullet?” he asked.
Free said: “Bullet — the other one didn’t come that close.”
Hammond cleared his throat. “What did yours do?” he asked