I was still a little jumpy. No one likes to have a whole magazine of a sub-machine-gun fired at him, and I was no exception. The way those two Wops had dragged that old man out of the cafe haunted me. I felt I should have done something about it. After all, it was my fault he was there.
“At nine o’clock this evening,” the announcer said, breaking into my thoughts, “six men, believed to be Italians, armed with machine-guns and automatics, entered the Blue Bird Cafe at the corner of Jefferson and Felman. While two of the gunmen guarded the entrance, and two more terrorized the people in the cafe, the remaining two seized John Stevens and dragged him from the cafe to a waiting car.
“Stevens, who will be remembered by the city’s socialities as butler to Mr. Gregory Wainwright, the steel millionaire, was later found dead by the side of the Los Angeles and San Francisco Highway. It is believed he died of a stroke, brought on by the rough handling he received from the kidnappers, and when he was found to be dead, the kidnappers brutally threw his body from the speeding car.”
The announcer’s voice was as unemotional and as cold as if he were reading the fat stock prices. I should have liked to have been behind him with a machine-gun and livened him up with a burst above his head.
“The police are anxious for any information that will lead to the arrest of the criminals,” the announcer went on. “These six men have been described as short, stockily built, dark-skinned, and all wearing blue suits and black hats. “The police are also anxious to question an unknown man who was with John Stevens when the kidnappers arrived. After telephoning Police Headquarters, giving a description of the criminals and the number of their car, he disappeared. Eye-witnesses have described him as tall, powerfully built, dark hair, sallow complexion and sharp-featured. He has a wound on the right side of his face from a blow from one of the kidnappers. Anyone recognizing this man should communicate immediately to Captain of Police Brandon, Police Headquarters, Graham 3444…”
I leaned forward and snapped down the switch.
“Sallow and sharp-featured, but not handsome. No one said he was handsome.”
I turned slowly in my chair.
Sergeant MacGraw stood in the open french windows, and behind him lurked Sergeant Hartsell. I didn’t jump more than a foot. It was one of those reflex actions over which I had no control.
“Who told you to blow in?” I asked, getting to my feet.