Blondie was a police-reporter on the Star-Telegram. His hair was as black as St. Nick’s was white. He was a squat stocky Dutchman almost as broad as he was long and he had a habit of staccato, almost breathless expression, particularly when he was a little excited.
“Tony Maschio is — or was — Gino’s brother. He’s run a barber shop where a lot of the town’s big shots go to have their fringes trimmed for eleven or twelve years, an’ he’s been partners with Gino an’ Lew Costain in a high-powered gambling syndicate on the side. His shop was a little bit of a two-by-four joint, but Tony an’ his hand-picked barbers were artists and it was usually full of names from Wall Street or Park Row.”
Kessler was silent a moment; and Green invited: “And...”
“And — Bruce Maccunn, my Managing Editor, has been dropping in at Tony’s for a mustache trim an’ a mudpack every Friday night for as long as I can remember. I’ve located him there a half-dozen times in the last two or three years — late Friday nights.”
Green whistled softly. “And...”
Kessler had no time to answer; the car slid to the curb across the street from the pile of smoking ruins that had been Maschio’s Barber Shop. In spite of the hour, the glacial wind, the usual gallery of morbidly curious had gathered. Several firemen, policemen, and an ambulance squad from the Emergency Hospital were industriously combing the debris of bricks and steel and charred wood.
Kessler was the first reporter on the scene; he scurried about from one to another after information. Green strolled over to join two men who were standing a little way down the street in earnest conversation. One of them was Doyle, a plainclothesman whom he knew slightly, and the other was a wild-eyed Italian who was explaining with extravagant gestures that if he hadn’t lingered in the corner lunchroom for a second cup of coffee he, too, would have been blown to bits. He, it appeared, was Giuseppe Picelli, Tony’s Number Three Barber, and he’d been on his way back to the shop when the explosion occurred.
Green jerked his head towards the heap of wreckage. “How many have they found?”
“Don’t know.” Doyle chewed his unlighted cigar noisily. “Most of ’em are in pieces — little pieces. We’ve identified Tony an’ one of his barbers, but there’s a lot of pieces left over. This guy” — he nodded at Picelli — “says Bruce Maccunn was there — came in jus’ before he left.”
Picelli bobbed his head up and down, jabbered excitedly: “Sure, Mister Maccunn came in as I went out — an’ there was another fellow — I don’t know him... An’ Tony an’ Angelo an’ Giorgio...”