Tough Cop. John Roeburt

observed. “And somewhere in this room is a champion.”

      “They’re learning how to walk on their heels,” Solowey said.

      In a corner ring, a hairy fellow was doing a successful imitation of the Dempsey crouch and weave, until a blow on the ear hung him on the ropes.

      “That’ll save him pain later on,” Devereaux said. “The Dempsey style’s not suited to him. Arms are too short.”

      “It’s a lunatic asylum.” Solowey looked about him disgustedly. “When they could be spending their time in the public library—” He left the sentence unfinished, and hurried to the exit in advance of Devereaux.

      2.

      The teletype commenced its animated click, click. Devereaux snapped forward to scan the sheet.

      “Ninety per cent of you never left the force, Johnny.” The wiry man at the desk made no attempt to conceal his amusement.

      “I was hooked into this one, Anders,” Devereaux said. “First chance I get, I’m still shoving off.”

      Captain Anders laughed shortly. “You’ll throw your neck out of joint. Better let me read it to you.” He tore the sheet from the machine. “Nick Longo. Age, 48. Olive complexion, aquiline nose. Height, 5' 6". Weight, 148 pounds. Scar tissue on neck under left ear. Specialty, pickpocketing New York subway system. Nine arrests to 1945. No convictions. Convicted of felony, 1946. Sentenced to Sing Sing for two and a half years.”

      Devereaux showed surprise. “Nine arrests for pickpocketing and no convictions?”

      “It happens.” Anders shrugged. “Shrewd article. Clever mouthpiece, maybe.” He looked up. “Sure Longo’s your man?”

      Devereaux nodded. “What was the felony that got him time up the river?”

      “Murtagh’s in the file room on it now. If you’ll just sit tight.”

      Devereaux took the teletyped page and turned it in his hand thoughtfully. “Any room for doubt about how Mrs. Minna Gordon died?”

      “None. Medical report was unqualified. It was a heart attack.”

      “Induced by shock,” Devereaux said. “Longo’s presence in her room brought it on.”

      “Maybe. But the medical fact is the heart was about to give up. A tire blowout in the street or a loud knock on the door could have done it, too.” Anders shook his head. “Burglary or attempted burglary is the most you’ve got on Longo—if you can place him in that closet beyond any reasonable doubt.”

      “Burglary and assault,” Devereaux said, touching his read reminiscently.

      “Placing him in that closet might not be easy, Johnny. You’ve only placed him in the lobby of the Hotel Orleans. And that on the word of a numbers bookie.”

      The door opened, and a man in shirt sleeves carrying a folder loafed in. He said listlessly, “On Longo, Captain.”

      “What was that 1946 felony conviction, Murtagh?” Anders asked.

      “Sullivan Law. Caught toting a gun.”

      “Okay, leave the file.” Anders watched his aide leave, then turned to Devereaux. “There it is.”

      “Funny, huh?” Devereaux said after a reflective pause.

      “What’s funny?”

      “That first conviction. A professional dip carrying a gun!”

      “It happens.”

      “Doesn’t jibe with the shrewd fellow who beat nine arrests.”

      Anders shrugged. “Still, it happens.”

      Devereaux looked sharply at Anders. “Criminals stick to a habitual pattern, Anders. Killers tote rods, con men dream up new swindles. Petty thieves stay petty, and pickpockets stick close to what they know best. I don’t think I’ve found a single variation in twenty years.”

      “Maybe.” Anders looked thoughtful. “Then Longo’s the exception to the rule. He did attempt burglary in that hotel room, you say. That was off the beaten path for a dip.”

      Devereaux nodded agreement. “Read me the file on that Sullivan Law rap.”

      Anders opened the folder and read it silently for a while. “Not much to it. Routine vagrancy arrests, and Longo was one of a crowd. When frisked, Longo was found carrying a gun.”

      “Where was he picked up?”

      “Outside the Paddock Café, up near Forty-ninth. Sergeant McClintock grabbed him. McClintock’s on the Broadway squad.” Anders pawed the air. “Guilty plea, and two and a half years in the Big House, period.” He closed the folder, looking at Devereaux curiously. “Now what are you looking perplexed about?”

      “It’s crazy.”

      “It’s one and one. Longo’s luck ran out.”

      “A small-time pickpocket carrying a gun!”

      “Maybe he was ambitious for bigger things.”

      “A dip exposing himself outside a place as public and central as the Paddock Café?” Devereaux looked at Anders reproachfully. “Think for a minute. Ask yourself: what happens when a known pickpocket is seen hanging around Broadway?”

      The answer came promptly. “He’s pinched.”

      “On sight?”

      Anders nodded.

      “Then just being outside the Paddock was risky for Longo, a man with a long record of arrests. And a gun in his jeans made it fifty times riskier. Longo was inviting disaster.”

      Anders pondered briefly. “Okay,” he acknowledged finally. “So Longo stepped out of character that day in front of the Paddock. And he was off base when you met him in that hotel closet. What does it add up to?”

      “I don’t know.” Devereaux paced the room. “You said Longo got a two-and-a-half-year sentence. How long did he serve?”

      Anders opened the folder, scanned it, then turned a page. “Served only fourteen months and then was paroled.” He looked up. “Place him in that closet, and you’ve got him for violation of parole for a starter.”

      “Who sponsored his parole?”

      Anders leafed through the folder. “Doesn’t say here. Is it important?”

      “Anything could be important.”

      “Okay,” Anders sighed. “I’ll get on the damned phone again.” He opened a desk drawer, then held a cigar out to Devereaux. “Meanwhile, you chew on this. Calm down, and stop pacing the goddam floor.” He mopped his brow. “You’re getting me nervous.”