Landing wide-legged and flat-footed in a half-crouch, Coffin Ed pumped two more slugs into the gunman’s body, propelling it into a macabre dance before the fat gunman had cleared the bottom step.
Trying to brake his charge and shoot at the same time, the fat gunman threw two wild shots with his.38 automatic, chipping plaster from the ceiling and puncturing the fire extinguisher; while Coffin Ed blasted with both guns and put two slugs side by side in his bulging belly.
Then Coffin Ed’s beret sailed from his head in a forward flight like a missile taking off, and a fraction of a second later a brassjacketed.45 slug coming from behind hit him on the shoulder blade and knocked him flat on is face.
The third gunman had stepped from the laundry, blasting with a.45-caliber Colt’s army automatic. But before he could squeeze the trigger for the third time, plainclothes dicks poured out of the very walls and crevices, and the corridor erupted with the heavy artillerylike booming of several police positives fired in unison. The gunman went down riddled with thirteen slugs.
It was all over in twenty-seven seconds.
The air was blue-gray and suffocating from cordite fumes, and gun-roar still echoed in their ears.
Two gunmen lay dead on the floor. With his guts perforated, his liver punctured and his spleen blown open, the fat gunman lay dying. A detective was trying to get a statement but he wasn’t talking.
Another detective dragged Ginny from the elevator and slipped on the cuffs while a third brought Wop from the janitor’s flat. There were nine detectives in all, three from the homicide bureau, three from the narcotics squad, and three T-men.
Coffin Ed was gritting his teeth in an agony of bone hurt and trying to push to his feet with his left hand. Two detectives helped him up while another went to the telephone at the end of the corridor and called the precinct station for two police hearses and two ambulances.
“I’m all right,” Coffin Ed said. “Where’s my gun?”
He still had Grave Digger’s pistol in his left hand, but he’d been knocked loose from his own by the impact of the.45 slug.
With a grin, a T-man opened his coat and put the pistol into its holster. Coffin Ed stuck the other one back into his waistband. The T-man buttoned the bottom of Coffin Ed’s jacket and made a sling for his arm.
The lieutenant from the narcotics squad weighed the blue canvas bag in his hand and looked at Coffin Ed questioningly.
But it was the lieutenant from homicide who asked the question, “How did you figure it was there?”
The narcotics lieutenant said, “He didn’t. Don’t you think we looked there?”
“The hell I didn’t,” Coffin Ed said. “I put it there the first thing I did this afternoon when I left the house.”
“So it’s just bait.”
“Yeah. It was the best I could think of.”
For a moment everyone looked at him. His jerking, ugly patchwork face was such a picture of agony, they looked away.
“It gives me an idea,” one of the T-men said. “If it worked once, it might work twice. We got Benny Mason and his chauffeur staked out down the street, beyond Grant’s Tomb. He’s watching the entrance here through night field glasses.”
“She said he’d be around somewhere,” Coffin Ed said, nodding toward the woman.
“What’s your idea?” the narcotics lieutenant asked.
“Let’s send this woman down the street, the other way, carrying this bag. He’ll try to get it-”
“Then what? There’s nothing in it,” the homicide lieutenant said. “Nothing to make a charge.”
The T-man smiled. “We’ll put something in it. We were thinking of a trap too, in case we found a way to spring it. So we brought along a little package too, with two kilos of pure heroin. We’ll just slip that into the bag-”
“And let him get it?”
“That’s the idea. We don’t want to disappoint Mister Mason.”
“You’d better hurry,” the homicide lieutenant said. “In two minutes’ time this street will be overrun with prowl cars.”
“That won’t make much difference to Mister Mason, as hot as he is after this stuff, but we’ll hurry anyway.”
Another T-man produced the package of heroin and they made the substitution and took the handcuffs from Ginny’s wrists.
“I won’t do it,” she said.
All of them stared at her with those blank looks policemen have when a prisoner defies them.
“What do you have on her?” the T-man asked.
“Conspiracy,” Coffin Ed said.
“We got more than that,” the homicide lieutenant said with a straight face. “She killed the African.”
“I didn’t!” she screamed. “It’s a mother-raping lie!”
“We can prove it,” the homicide lieutenant said in a flat voice.
“You’re trying to frame me,” she accused.
“That’s the general idea. Of course you can take your chances in court.”
“Dirty mother-rapers!” she fumed.
“Give me thirty seconds alone with her,” Coffin Ed said.
She flicked one glance at his face and her defiance wilted. “All right, give me the mother-raping bag,” she said.
21
Shadows were framed in dark open windows and the faint distant sound of a siren floated in the silent night when she stepped outside, but no one was in sight.
She turned toward downtown, in the direction of Riverside Church, and began walking fast. She carried the bag as far as possible away from contact with her own flesh, as though it contained a germ bomb that might leak.
Four blocks north, where the drive bends around the sloping green park surrounding Grant’s Tomb, a long black Mark II Lincoln, with only its parking lights burning, pulled from the curb. No light emanated from the instrument panel. Only the vague silhouettes of two black-hatted men on the front seat were visible in the dim light coming from the street. The dark aquiline features of the man beside the driver were further obscured by heavy sunglasses. The driver’s face was but a round white blur beneath his black chauffeur’s cap.
The Lincoln accelerated with incredible speed, but slowed down almost instantly as a prowl car screamed around the far corner by Riverside Church on two wheels, its red light blinking like the eye of hell.
Ginny had seen the Lincoln move and now she welcomed the prowl car as a savior and hastened in its direction. But it was still some distance away. She had started to break into a run when a voice called from the dark entrance of the apartment house next door.
“Honey,” the cracked voice called sweetly.
Her scalp crawled as her head jerked around. Her eyes probed the darkness. She halted on the balls of her feet.
“It’s me, Sister Heavenly,” the cracked saccharine voice identified itself.
She stood suspended in flight. “What the hell do you want?” she demanded viciously.
The prowl car roared past, lighting them briefly with the red spotlight, and dragged to a screaming stop beyond the next-door entrance. It had ignored them.
“Come here, honey, I got something for you,” Sister Heavenly said in what she thought was a sweet cajoling voice.
Ginny realized instantly that Sister Heavenly was after the canvas bag. And I’ll give her the mother-raping bag, she decided evilly.
She turned quickly and stepped forward into the dark entrance.
“Here,” Sister Heavenly said sweetly, and plunged the long sharp blade of her knife deep into Ginny’s heart.
Ginny slumped without a sound, without so much as a gasp, and Sister Heavenly clutched the bag from her nerveless fingers and hastened down the sidewalk in the same direction.
It went so fast it looked like magic. One moment a young woman in a green suit was carrying a blue canvas bag down the sidewalk; the next moment an old woman in a long black dress and a black straw hat was carrying the same bag in the same direction.
The detectives watching from a black Chrysler sedan parked at the curb up the street didn’t know what to make of it.