Along about the time they came out to play, said Anna Watelowitz and Irene Krzanowski, they peeked through a brake of dry weeds and saw two cars drive into the narrow lane from the direction of the railroad tracks. One of the cars was brown and one was black.
Two men got out of the black car and joined another man in the brown car. The brown car went away... Anna Watelowitz and Irene Krzanowski picked two tomato cans full of burdock burrs. They went over to the lone man who still sat in the black car — he had turned it around until it faced toward the railroad viaduct — and they said, “Hey, mister, buy some fine popcorn, a big bag for a nickel.” But the man didn’t want to buy any burdock-burr popcorn. He had a snarly white face and he said: “You damn kids,” and so they ran away as fast as they could go. They hid in a thicket of marshgrass, where the man couldn’t find them.
Finally (it had been quite a long, long time) the brown car came back. It came from the south, and the men jumped out of it hastily and jumped into the black car beside the other man, and went bouncing away toward the railroad tracks... An hour passed before Irene and Anna mustered enough courage to approach the abandoned brown sedan. When they climbed up on the running board, they saw blood inside. They ran home, and told, and Mrs. Watelowitz went clear down to the phone at Poppashveli’s Handy Grocery, and called the police.
Dave Glennan sat with his feather cushion against his back, jingling a handful of empty .45 caliber shells in his hand. “Yeh, you better do that, Rhineheimer. Take those girls down to headquarters. Maybe they can pick those mugs out. How’d you like a nice fast ride in a great big car, girlies?”
The little radio chanted: “Squad Sixteen, attention. Communicate by telephone at once. Squad Sixteen—”
Sergeant Dave Glennan did his communicating from the phone at Poppashveli’s grocery. When he rejoined his companions, there was a slight smile on his grim lips.
“Let’s go, Frank.” He slid into his seat. “They got the St. Louis paper to cooperate and send some pictures over the telephone to the News-Detail office. They’ve got ’em at the Bureau now: pictures of four hoods who trailed around with Rainy Moper in St. Louis and К. C.
Even a telephoto picture means a lot. There wasn’t any doubt in the minds of the police and detective forces, half an hour later, that they were looking for Benjamin Farnum, Joe Vitale, and Claude Powers. And according to the two little Polish girls, licking their ice cream cones in the squad room, the fourth photograph was the living image of the man who said, “You damn kids.” The fourth photograph was named James Lippert.
“Farnum, Vitale, Powers, and Lip-pert,” chanted Sergeant Dave Glennan as he climbed into the lean Packard. “We’re all ready to put the finger on them, except that we don’t know where they are.”
Kerry swore harshly. “Highway cops! Sure, they’d let the whole army slide through them, if we were after the army—”
“Never mind, Kerry. There’s lots of cars on the highway.”
“They’ll be halfway to Buffalo or El Paso by now.”
Glennan looked over at his kid brother, the slim patrolman with the old-young face. Nick was twirling a shiny bottle opener between his fingers.
“That gadget, Nick—”
“Yes?” queried Nick smoothly.
“If you were wearing plainclothes—”
Nick Glennan said: “If I was wearing plainclothes, I’d sure regret that those kids didn’t notice the license of the black car. The brown car, we have now learned, was stolen late last night from a roadhouse this side of Midvale, and belongs to a dentist named Holder. But — the black car — those little girls did notice that it had suitcases in it. It’s their traveling car, like as not. And when men who like beer go a-traveling, where do they buy their beer?”
“In grocery stores at home, before they start out.”
“Not if they’re in a hurry. No, indeed. It’s only after they reach their destination, mind you, that they feel free to indulge in a bit of a drink. At road-stalls. At hot-dog stands. That’s where they would be buying it.” Everybody grunted.
“I’m cock-eyed, and I never expected to be taking suggestions from a steer in harness,” muttered Dave Glennan, “but we might take a drive in the country. It’s a fine Indian summer day, as poor Van Wert remarked before those gorillas got him...
“Highway Twenty-six is the short line from St. Louis and Midvale. Let’s mosey out to the city limits and invest in a hot-dog and a glass of beer.”
Three out of the first nine road-stalls were all that sold Hoffbrau beer, and none of those three road-stalls had sold a twelve-bottle case in weeks and weeks. No, they didn’t remember any four guys in a black car. Yes, it seemed like those guys might have been here... No. No spikka Engliss. Sella nice hamburg —
“As a plainclothes officer, Nicholas,” said Dave Glennan to his brother, “you’re a stiff pain in the—”
“Don’t say it,” whispered Nick. “You insult me, and I’ll be forgetting that you still got a hunk of lead alongside your chiropractor’s delight! And here’s another hot-dog stand, gas station, or whatever you call it.”
It was a rambling one-story shack at the intersection of Routes Twenty-six and Fifty-five. There were four gas pumps in front and two water-closets in back. The owner was named Basilio Constanopolus, and yes, he carried Hoffbrau beer. Light or dark. How many bot’ you want?
“Not one!” snarled Dave Glennan, and exhibited his badge.
“Listen, police,” wept Mr. Constanopolus, “I ain’t never sold a bootleg since we got a good beer. What the hell? No, police—”
“Talk to him, Nick,” ordered the sergeant.
Patrolman Glennan smiled his sweetest smile. “Now, Mr. Constanopolus, you think hard and try to help us. Did you sell a case of Hoffbrau during the night?”
“There was those man—” Basilio wrinkled his forehead.
“Maybe they drove in with two cars?”
“They have hamburg egg sandwich. Yes, it was so. And they buy a twelve-bot’ case.”
Nick twirled the opener in his hand. Mr. Constanopolus let his eyes become narrow and somber. “Those are free, for no money. They come in a case.”
“They came in two sedans? Four men?”
The Greek shrugged. “Maybe four. It was pretty late they come. They eat somethings; then they go away with beer.”
“Now,” crooned Nick, “you didn’t by any chance be noticing their license plates?”
Mr. Constanopolus said: “Not the one car. I see the license on the one under the light, beside the pump.”
Five pairs of hard eyes were on his face. “Yes?” drawled Dave Glennan.
“Not the number. I see the name of what state. All day I count how many state come to stop here. Some day maybe I see twenty-five. Utah, I see — Col’rado, New Yawk — all those place I see on the cars.”
“What was this one, buddy? What state?”
“Jefferson,” said the Greek.
Nobody spoke for a moment. “Jefferson?” asked Nick slowly.
Mr. Constanopolus shrugged again. “I see,” he said.
“But, listen, friend, there isn’t any such state.”
“On the car. It is a black car, I remember now.”
“What color was the license plate?”
“I don’t know. It was Jefferson. I read. I have a kids what go to school. He tell me about once there was a great man here in this country it is Jefferson. So, maybe he have a state name’ for him, uh?”
Kerry sobbed: “Hell. Lay off, Nick. I got it.”
“What?”
“He must have got it mixed up with Washington. It was a Washington State license.”