“That all?” Green Was blowing hard in his bare hands to warm them.
“That’s all were there when I left — but Gino an’ Mister Costain were coming over. Tony was expecting them...”
Green and Doyle looked at each other.
Doyle grunted: “If Lew Costain got there for the blow-off it makes my job about eight hundred percent harder. I don’t guess there are more than eight hundred people in New York that’d like to see him in little pieces.”
Kessler galloped over. He was a little green around the mouth and eyes.
“Mac g-got it!” he stuttered. “They just dug him out — or wh — what’s left of him...”
Doyle tried to light his cigar in the screaming wind. “Why did Gino Maschio an’ Costain get it,” he growled. “Maybe there’s not enough left of them to find out, but if Picelli here knows his potatoes they were in the shop or on their way to the shop — an’ if they were on their way they would’ve showed up by now.”
Kessler gurgled: “Where’s a telephone?”
“There’s one in the lunchroom around the corner on Second Avenue.” Picelli waved his arm dramatically.
A police car, its siren moaning shrilly, pulled up and a half dozen assorted detectives piled out.