“That’s what I mean.”
“Go ahead. It will be the first time I’ve ever been arrested in the city of New York. And by you! Go ahead.”
He growled. He was getting mad. “Goddamn it, Archie, don’t be a sap! In that uniform? You’re an officer, ain’t you?”
“I am. Major Goodwin. You didn’t salute.”
“Well, for God’s sake—”
“No good. Final. Regarding Ann Amory, anything about Ann Amory, I don’t open my trap.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ve always thought you were cuckoo. You’re under arrest. Get in that car.”
I did so.
There was one little chore left before I could sit back and let nature take its course. Arriving at Centre Street, and asserting my right to make one phone call, I got a lawyer I knew out of bed and gave him some facts to relay to Bill Pratt of the Courier. At 3:45 in the morning, after spending three hours in the company of Inspector Cramer, two lieutenants, and some assorted sergeants and other riffraff, and still refusing to utter a syllable connected in any way with the life or death of Ann Amory, I was locked into a cell in the beautiful new city prison, which is not as beautiful inside as outside.