Koski read them as if they had been neon advertisements on Broadway, before the dimout. Those three vertical whites moving almost imperceptibly away from the Battery would be a tug with coal barges coming up from the stake-boat off Black Tom. That cluster of faint yellow dots across the river, — the Coast Guard patrol cutter at the main channel. The luminous red and green, close to the water, — an oil barge from Bayonne for Spuyten Duyvil. And riding sluggishly in the thinner vapor high above the water, two clear, white sparks, — one above the other; that might be a freighter bound out for Quarantine, the net at the Narrows, the assembly port and... God knows where. Her convoy number would be showing by daylight; her name would be painted out. But under the clay-gray war paint Koski thought it likely she would have on her stern the letters S-A-N-T-A P-O-B-R-I–C-O.
He wondered if the little metal replica was on the wall chart in Hurlihan’s office; how long it would remain there...
The phone brrrd. Koski said: “Yair. Here. Go”
“Philbrick, Ballistics, Lieutenant... Homicide says you want the dope on that slug from the Treanor Place shooting... It weighed seventy-two grams... came from a thirty-two caliber Harrington and Richardson automatic... manufactured in Worcester, Mass., some time subsequent to 1935... weapon you’re after will be rifled with a six-groove left-twist spiral. Pitch, ten and a half inches... groove depth, ten-thousandths of an inch... groove width, forty-two thousandths... smokeless powder used in the cartridge... the shells will show an ejector mark which has been isolated... the barrel was comparatively clean when the gun was fired.”
“H&R 32 auto. Okay.”
“You have anything you want us to test against that, Lieutenant?”
“You have one I don’t need tested. An S&W I just sent over. Ticketed Henry Fross. Skipola. Thanks.”
He had scraped one side of his face when the phone went into action again. This time it was Nixon.
“I have a rare specimen for your collection.”
“From the stiff?”
“B-yutifui prints. Nearly good as new.”
“What does it get us?” Koski began on the other side of his face.
“Same as a couple we picked off the bedstead in Room Five at Dominick’s.”
“Shows what science can do. When given a chance.” Koski rinsed the razor. “The one place we know for sure he had been. That the crop?”
“Give us time, pardner.”
“That’s what I’ve got nothing but. Find something, for Pete’s sake. How about that stuff from the Joslin garret?”
“We found a million. Take us a week to classify. He must hold seances or something.”
“Yair. Nothing from the Purdo flat?”
“Zero. Killer must have worn gloves.”
“I’ll fit him out with wristbands if you’ll only give a little. Much oblige. For what?” He hung up.
Mulcahey stuck his head in from the muster room.
“When you get done with your toilette, sire...”
“Something?”
“A rum-dum to see you. He is stumbling all around, stewed to the scuppers. I done my best to shoo him off but he does not shoo.”
“What’s he look like?” Koski washed off the remains of the lather.
“A refugee from a Walt Disney, no kidding.”
“Pluto? Or Mickey?”
“That Reynard the Fox, in the one about—”
“Fox!” Koski dried his face, hurriedly. “Thin? Mustache? Thirty-five to forty?”
“I am glad nobody runs him in for cluttering up the hallowed precinct, if you are acquainted with him.”
Koski dived out the door, went down on the run.
Morrie Schlauff shambled along the wall by the door, trying to brace himself with futile pawings. He weaved unsteadily as Koski reached him.
“Shails... unner... name...” he muttered thickly. “Shails...” he swayed...
“Seldom have I met up with a handsomer snootful.” Mulcahey clumped to the foot of the stairs.
“Save it, Irish!” Koski put his arm around the investigator’s shoulders. “Say it again, Schlauff.”
“Shails... Breeco...” The man grimaced, struggled to balance himself, toppled against the wall. His hat slid askew over his eyes, fell to the floor. The hair on the left side of his crown was matted as if he had rubbed oil in it.
“Amby, Irish! Double quick!” Koski held Schlauff erect.
“Hurt he is? Me bawling him out for being stinko!”
“Skull fracture, for Pete’s sake! Snap into it!” The Harbor Squad man put his face close to Schlauff’s. “One more try. What name’d Ovett use?”
Schlauff’s eyes — rolled. His lower jaw went slack. He made a final tremendous effort, “...going... shink.” His lips worked convulsively... “shink... breeco...” His tongue lolled, his knees sagged. He was a limp weight in Koski’s arms when Mulcahey rushed back.
“Here in three minutes. Holy Mother! ’S he gone?”
“Just out. Might go. Might not. Pull his legs out straight. Have to hold him sitting up.”
“What was he mumbling in his beard?”
“Name of the ship our man got away on, Irish.”
“Got away!”
“Just went down harbor. Ten minutes ago. The Santa Pobrico. Of the Ovett Line. Sounded as if he was trying to say the Pobrico’s going to be sunk.” He scowled at the wound on Schlauff’s head. “I ought to be sore at the dumb cluck. He thought he’d put over a swiftie, collect himself an easy dollar. Walked into one hell of a beating. Had guts enough to make it over here, when he found out what he was up against.” The wail of a siren rose and fell. “I wish I knew just what the guy was trying to get to me. He couldn’t have had it far wrong. Or he wouldn’t have been taken, like that.”
O’Malley yelled from the detective office: “Hey, they got Joslin.”
Koski barked: “Who did?”
“One the Oak Street boys.” O’Malley hurried out. “He tails the Wyatt dame. To the Lighthouse, over by Fulton Market. An’ who does she have a rendezvous with but Hardrock Joslin! How you like!”
“I like it. Is Oak Street still there?”
“Standing by. Waiting for orders.”
“Tell him to keep standing. I’m on my way.”
The long, gray car rolled up.
“Sarge, you ride in the amby. Stick with Schlauff until I get a steno-guy over to the hospital. I want to know if he says anything more before he goes under. Don’t muff it, now.”
“If it comes my way, I will catch it.”
Koski let the interne take his burden, hopped in a squad car, was speeding across Battery Park before the ambulance door shut.
XXI
The light in the Lighthouse was bad. At the side of each table a small, round pool of yellow dripped from a miniature beacon onto the red-checked tablecloth. This electrical economy made it unnecessary for the proprietor to be too scrupulous about the spotlessness of the table linen; besides, the customers who came to the waterfront café considered its broiled butterfish and sautéed sole all that was required in the way of interior decoration.
In addition to this protective lack of illumination, the man at the corner table by the door marked WASHROOM sat so his face was in the deepest shadow. Also he managed to sit back against the wall so he was partially shielded by the girl opposite him; he was virtually invisible to anyone at the front of the café. Only when the fragrance of clam broth or french-fried squid, sweeping in from the kitchen behind him, gave notice of the curtained street-door’s opening, did he lean forward sufficiently to peer around this table companion.