Doyle went past Green and stood looking down at Costain. Costain had emptied the big automatic into Demetrios’ stomach; he rolled over and raised his head a little, grinned up at Doyle, then at Green.
“That was a good job,” he whispered. “That was the best job I’ve ever done...”
His head fell back. Doyle stooped over him.
“He’ll be all right, I think,” Green said slowly. “I tried to shoot him in the leg and in the shoulder...” He turned to Kessler with a very faraway expression on his face. “I wonder why.”
The detective kneeling beside June Neilan looked up. “The gal hasn’t got a scratch,” he mumbled. “She bumped her head on the door when she fell but that’s all.”
Green said: “I guess she fainted. Costain’s a lousy shot.”
He peeled off his overcoat and his suit coat, sat down and rolled up his shirtsleeve. The wound on the arm was slight, a crease; one of the detectives wrapped a clean handkerchief around it and tied it.
Kessler was staring blankly at Costain. “I still don’t get it,” he stuttered. “How many times can you kill one guy? Who was the guy they — they found on the tracks?”
Doyle was at the phone.
Green smiled at Kessler. “That’d be Gino,” he said. “Picelli tipped Costain that Gino and Tony were running out on him with all the syndicate’s dough. Costain left the ticker at Tony’s and then caught up with Gino on the late Boston train. He probably got the bright idea that if he made it look like he’d been killed he could sneak back to a spot where he could watch the apartment, he might catch Demetrios and his girl friend in the act.”