“What are you going to do with him?” he asked in a hard, rasping voice. “Tuck him up in bed with a radio and four good meals a day?”
Conrad looked at Bardin steadily and didn’t say anything. Bardin gave a heavy snort, walked around to his desk, took out a receipt book, wrote savagely, spluttering ink and shoved it across to Conrad.
“Okay, take the little rat. He’s not talking. He knows nothing. He’s never heard of Maurer. He wasn’t within a mile of the amusement park. If you think you’ll get anywhere with him without beating the guts out of him, you’ve got another think coming.”
“I want him in a wagon and escort,” Conrad said. “Fix it for me, will you, Sam?”
Bardin got up, nodded to one of the detectives who went out. Then he walked over to Pete and glared down at him. “You’ll be back, Weiner. Don’t imagine you’re going to have it nice and easy just because the D.A.’s interested in you. You’ll be back, and we’ll cook up something for you.” He swung his hand and caught Pete a smashing backhanded blow that knocked him over backwards, taking the chair with him.
Pete sprawled on the floor, his eyes dazed, his hand holding his puffy right cheek.
Conrad turned away. He didn’t approve of these methods, but he didn’t blame
Bardin. To lose three good policemen in saving the life of a worthless young gangster was something to make any Lieutenant bitter.
Pete got unsteadily to his feet and slumped against the wall.
No one said anything. No one moved. Minutes dragged by, then the door opened and the detective came back.