At about 3:30 A.M. a light came on in an upstairs room of the Heisman home. Egan nudged the dozing Clancy.
At 3:45 Heisman, carrying a small tan attache case, came out of the house, went into the garage, and drove out a car they hadn’t seen before, a black Mercury about two years old, as inconspicuous as their own. It turned southwest, towards the downtown area. The Chevvie followed, keeping two blocks and several cars back.
Suddenly Heisman gunned the powerful Mercury and it shot ahead. Tires screaming, it turned right on Belvidere Avenue. Phil Egan cut out and passed several trucks, racing after it. Had Heisman spotted them, or was he merely taking the usual underworld precaution against a possible police tail?
Heisman, tires screeching, turned right on Loch Raven Boulevard. By the time the Chevvie got around the corner, the Mercury had vanished, in the maze of side streets.
“God damn!” the frustrated Egan shouted.
Heisman had shaken them. They searched the side streets between Belvidere Avenue and Cold Spring Lane for fifteen minutes, without success. The pigeon had flown the coop.
Shaking with anger and nervous tension, Egan headed for Preston Street. He turned on the walkie-talkie, but couldn’t raise anybody. The other cars were out of range. He didn’t dare use the police radio — he hadn’t made up any code to cover this situation.
A few minutes later he tried the walkie-talkie again. This time there was an answering click and a faint voice said: “I read you, Phil, but just barely. This is Lou Grissom in the Buick. We’re tailing Byers’ black Plymouth. He and his two pals left the apartment about half an hour ago. They’ve just been driving around. Right now we’re on Erdman Avenue, heading northwest towards thirty-third Street at about thirty-five miles an hour. Over.”
Egan shouted: “Hang on, Lou! We’ve lost Heisman. We’ll pick you up at the corner of Loch Raven Boulevard and thirty-third. Over and out.”
A few seconds brought them to the intersection of Loch Raven Boulevard and 33rd Street. They turned off their lights, parked, and waited. At this point, the street that had been Erdman Avenue became 33rd Street.
In about thirty seconds they came into view, the black Plymouth with Byers, Visconti, and Mahaffey in the front seat, going slowly down 33rd Street. Behind the Plymouth was a truck and behind the truck and about a block back was the tan Buick. The black Chevvie turned the corner and pulled in about half a block behind the Buick, and the little procession crawled slowly west towards North Charles Street.
Egan picked up the walkie-talkie again. “Lou, let us take over. You drop back and follow along. That damned tan color is too easy to spot.”
“Roger,” replied Grissom. The Buick slowed and Egan passed it, pulling in behind the truck.
VIII
At the corner of 33rd Street and York Road there was an all-night diner. The Plymouth parked in front of it and Byers, Mahaffey, and Visconti went in and ordered coffee. Egan parked the Chevvie across the street from the diner, and awaited developments. He saw the tan Buick parked about a block back, too far to be identified from the diner.
About five minutes later O’Konski’s Elite Bakery truck appeared, parked behind Byers’ Plymouth, and O’Konski went into the diner. A Chesapeake Telephone Company repair truck passed the diner, turned into a side street, and parked.
Egan breathed a sigh of relief. He picked up the walkie-talkie. “Nice going, phone company. The pigeons are roosting. One more to come. Over and out.”
They didn’t have long to wait. The Mercury appeared, coming slowly up 33rd street, made the York Road turn, and parked. Heisman went into the diner.
It was exactly 4:15 A.M.
Five minutes later Heisman, O’Konski, Byers, Mahaffey, and Visconti emerged from the diner and headed for their respective cars.
Egan grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Same M.O. as before. Take the same car, and for God’s sake don’t lose it!”
The three gang cars all turned into York Road and proceeded slowly south, towards the downtown area, followed at a distance of two blocks by the three police vehicles.
At North Avenue each of the three gang cars suddenly bolted in a different direction. Heisman gunned the Mercury west on North Avenue; O’Konski shot off east towards Harford Road; Byers went straight south on York Road, which at this point became Greenmount Avenue.
Heisman slowed again, then speeded up, turned left on St. Paul Street, and headed downtown. Egan, a block behind, clung to him like a used car dealer to a sweepstakes winner.
The walkie-talkie clicked. Lou Grissom said mournfully: “Sorry, Phil, we lost ours. The Plymouth shook us. It turned east on Biddle Street. A trailer-truck got between us and when we passed it the Plymouth was gone.”
“Never mind,” said Egan. “I think we’re getting close. Come fast and fall in behind me about Monument Street. Over and out.”
At St. Paul and Monument he saw by the rear view mirror that the Buick had come up and was following about two blocks back.
Heisman, apparently satisfied that he was not being followed, turned west off St. Paul Street, crossed Howard in the heart of the downtown shopping and theatrical district, turned into Saratoga, then went left off Saratoga on to Green Street.
He parked two stores down from the Lattman Jewelry Store, a large, flashy emporium that specialized in selling jewelry on time at high interest rates to not-too-prosperous customers.
The area, although downtown, was a bit seedy. Not far from brightly-lighted Howard Street; it was dark and deserted at 4:45 A.M.
Egan drove slowly past Green Street and saw Heisman parked near the jewelry store. He kept on going and parked on Saratoga, out of sight of Heisman. A chill fall wind keened down the dark, empty street.
The tan Buick passed him, went around the block, and came back up to park on Saratoga, just across Green Street from the Chevvie, and also out of Heisman’s sight.
The Elite Bakery truck turned into Green Street off Fayette. O’Konski parked across the street from Heisman and walked over to join the latter in the front seat of the Mercury. Coming into Green off Fayette, he had not seen the Buick and the Chevvie parked on opposite corners of Saratoga and Green.
In a few minutes Byers’ black Plymouth appeared, also turning into Green from Fayette. A block behind it the telephone company truck went on past Green Street, turned the corner, and headed for Saratoga Street. It parked behind the Buick. All the walkie-talkies were open.
“This is it,” Egan said. “Con, do your stuff!”
Detective Con McClure, dressed and smelling like a bum, took a pint of cheap whiskey from the Buick’s glove compartment, spattered some over his clothes, and, bottle in hand, staggered towards Green Street.
He saw Byers, acting as a lookout, walking slowly up towards Saratoga Street, and Visconti, also a lookout, standing in a doorway near Fayette Street. Heisman, carrying the attache case, O’Konski, cradling a small cylinder of acetylene gas in his arms, and Mahaffey, one of the stolen Colt .38’s in hand, were walking rapidly towards the entrance to the jewelry store.
In a few seconds Byers would reach the corner of Green and Saratoga, see the three police cars, get suspicious, and give the alarm.
McClure, waving his bottle, staggered towards him, shouting: “Have a lil drink, fren!”
Byers stopped, put his hand in his pocket, then drew it out empty. He called to the men in the jewelry store doorway: “Just a goddam drunk. Nothing to worry about.”