At Washington and Buchanan Streets the Chief and Lanagan had stepped back and signalled us. We closed up. From the middle of the block on Washington Street came the sound of a taxicab starting. Leslie looked around the corner as the machine came towards us, and stepped to the street, flashing his shield. The machine stopped. The door opened. A head appeared. A familiar voice came.
“Hello, Chief! What’s up?”
Detective Harrigan stepped out.
“You’re up,” said Leslie, with a bitter oath. “You are under arrest. Brady, search the prisoner.”
Quick as a knife blade springs back Harrigan’s hand went to his hip; but as quick as he was, Leslie was quicker. There was a click, click and Harrigan stood before his superior officer and his brother detectives, manacled. With practised fingers Brady was running through his clothes. He passed over Harrigan’s revolver, handcuffs and billy. He brought forth a leather wallet. Leslie tore it open. It held an assortment of jewelry, jumbled together.
“So!” he said, his voice shaking with rage, “you knew it was the Swallow, did you? And you have been shaking him down for half the loot? Well, Officer Harrigan, you and the Swallow will be splitting cobble stones inside of a month. You dirty, rotten, gutter scut! You were framing to send two little kids to prison, were you? I wish I had let you pull that gun! We’d have saved the county the expense of a trial!”
He tore Harrigan’s coat back and ripped his star from his breast. He ground it under his heel until the number it held was obliterated, and then he hurled it spinning into the air and over the corner house. It landed faintly on a distant roof.
Harrigan noticed Lanagan for the first time and sprang for him, raising his manacled hands. But Leslie stopped him with a drive to the jaw that sent him staggering back against the machine.
“Take him in, Maloney,” ordered the Chief. “I’ve seen enough of him. We’ll get along without you now.”
Harrigan said not a word. He stumbled into the machine, Maloney following. It drove away.