“What do you mean by bringing that thing in here now?” he exclaimed. “I am not ready for that—take it away.”
This “shot” had been previously arranged, of course, but Riley pretended to be injured when called by his superior.
“Cripes!” exclaimed Kinsman. “Annie’s old hat. How did you get that so quick?”
“Oh, that is only one thing we’ve got on you,” replied the Commissioner. “We know that you went to Peekskill in a taxicab with Annie and Splaine on the afternoon of the robbery. We know that you took Train 13 to Albany, and where you stopped that night, and where you bought Annie’s new hat, and how much you paid for it, and what train you took to Chicago Friday noon. Suppose you tell me something more about your movements?”
Kinsman became scornful.
“If you know all that,” he said, “maybe you know more about where I went and what I did than I do myself. So what would be the use of me telling you anything?”
While certain people were being found outside, the Commissioner worked upon the prisoner along another line. Enough of Kinsman’s personality was now disclosed to show that he was vain and egotistical. This side of his nature was therefore fed with flattery. He was assured that the taxicab robbery had been a wonderful “stick-up.” Everybody in New York had been astonished. The whole country was talking about it, and about him. He must be an awfully bright, cunning fellow to have planned and carried out such a piece of crime.
Kinsman warmed up genially under this admiration, and seemed to be more confident than ever that so shrewd a young man as himself would have little difficulty in fooling the police.
But presently self-satisfaction was subjected to shock after shock.
Detectives were bringing in Montani, Myrtle Hoyt, Rose Levy, Mrs. Sullivan, the landlady with whom Kinsman had lived, and her housekeeper. Jess Albrazzo was under arrest. Kinsman’s brother was there for examination, and Inspector Hughes and Lieutenant Riley were bringing in startling intelligence every few minutes.