“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 rearview 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 Chevie, 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 Chevie 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.”
McClure gripped Byers by the coat lapel. “Jus’ one won’t hurt, fren’. S’my birthday!”
Byers laughed good-naturedly. “Okay,” he said. “Gimme the damn bottle.”
Out of the corner of his eyes McClure saw Heisman take a small black box out of the attache case, hold it up to the lock, adjust a dial, and — clink. Out fell a newly-made key.
Heisman picked it up, unlocked the door, and he and O’Konski went in. Mahaffey, gun in hand, nervously watched Byers and the “bum.”
“Get rid of him!” he growled.
“Go sleep it off in some alley,” said Byers, shaking himself loose from McClure’s grasp.
McClure hurled the whiskey bottle to the pavement, where it smashed with the sound of a firecracker.
That was the signal they’d been waiting for. The six detectives erupted from their cars, guns in hand, and raced around the corner towards the jewelry store.
The “bum” yanked out his gun, but Mahaffey’s shot caught him in the right hip and he went down. As he fell he fired and hit Mahaffey in the groin. Mahaffey dropped his gun and sank slowly to the pavement, his hands clutching the wound.
Byers got off one shot that sang by Egan’s ear. Egan’s own bullet hit him in the neck and Byers flopped to the sidewalk like a stranded fish, the blood gurgling through the hole in his throat, and running across the sidewalk into the gutter.
Visconti was far enough away to make a run for the Elite Bakery truck. He got it started and raced for Saratoga Street, trying to hit Steve Kohnstamm, who was running across the street towards the jewelry store. Steve dove out of the way, breaking his wrist as he fell. His own gun clattered to the pavement.
Egan, Clancy, Grissom, and Smyth riddled the windshield; a red flower blossomed in the middle of Visconti’s face. The truck veered crazily, careened towards the sidewalk, and smashed through the display window of a men’s clothing store.
The sudden burst of noise was now replaced by an eerie silence. The interior of the jewelry store was dark and quiet. Detective Murphy, gun in hand, had gone down an alley to guard the rear door.
The street looked like a battle scene. Visconti, dead, his face and body full of glass splinters, hung half in and half out of the driver’s seat of the Elite Bakery truck, his blood dripping on the neat window display of men’s white button-down shirts.
Byers, not dead but dying, lay face down on the sidewalk, the blood still bubbling out of the hole in his throat. Mahaffey lay groaning in front of the jewelry store, his hands over the wound in his groin, blood seeping through them.
Detective McClure, the wounded “bum” — had half propped himself against a lamp post. Detective Kohnstamm sat on the sidewalk with his feet in the gutter, holding his head down, trying to keep from fainting as his right hand flopped grotesquely at the end of his broken wrist.
Egan yelled into the dark void of the jewelry store. “You’ve had it, Heisman! Back door’s covered! Throw out those thirty-eights!”
Silence. Then a .38 was kicked out through the wide-open door, followed by another. O’Konski and Heisman, hands joined behind their necks, came out.
By now squad cars and ambulances were pouring into the area, and a small crowd had materialized out of nowhere to gape in amazement at the bodies, the blood, the prisoners. Phil Egan phoned Mike Casey, then bustled Heisman and O’Konski, handcuffed together, into the back seat of the Chevie for the ride down to Headquarters. Clancy, gun in hand, sat with them, and Smyth rode up front with Phil.
Heisman, the brain, was calm but dejected. O’Konski, smothered in gloom, snarled and cursed and refused to talk.
Heisman, clinically interested in the failure of his ingenious plan, said: “Where did I goof? What tipped you?”
Egan replied: “Byers, when he left his car out near that Texaco station in Towson. How’d he happen to do that?”
Heisman gritted his teeth. “The fat, stupid jerk! Our three goons — the Outfit provided them, partly to protect us and partly to make sure we didn’t pull a double cross — had the Plymouth and the Bakery truck that night. Byers was the lookout. After the job, he couldn’t get the Plymouth going right away, so he panicked and jumped in the truck with the others. Next time it won’t—”
Egan interrupted. “There won’t be a next time, Heisman. You’re going on an extended vacation.”
Heisman was silent.
After Heisman and O’Konski had been booked and jailed, Egan wrote out his report. Dawn was beginning to light the eastern sky as he headed the black Chevie towards Muriel’s apartment on Mount Vernon Place. He had promised to come up no matter what time it was, so he did.
She answered the bell in a revealing black negligee, but it was easy to tell she hadn’t been sleeping. Her eyes were red and tired-looking and the ashtrays were full of lipstick-stained, half-smoked butts.
Wordlessly they embraced.
He sank into an easy chair. “I could use a drink,” he said. “Or two or three.”
She mixed him a stiff bourbon and water, and as he sipped it he told her all about it. “Heisman and O’Konski planned the whole thing when they were in the army together. It was in the army that O’Konski learned to be a baker and Heisman a pharmacist. They learned those trades as a cover. They even got married as a cover. Heisman is a genius but he has the heart of a born thief who’d rather steal ten bucks than make a hundred legit.