“We’ll bait the hook,” Grave Digger suggested.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

Captain Rice was on duty in the precinct station. They asked his permission to take the prisoner along to identify Baron in case they unearthed him. The captain said a Homicide detective had taken Roman Hill down to the Bureau of Criminal Identification at Headquarters, but he gave them an order to pick him up. He was still a precinct prisoner until he appeared before magistrate’s court the next morning. They changed over to Coffin Ed’s new Plymouth and went down the East Side Drive. Coffin Ed took the wheel; he didn’t mind riding with Grave Digger in a city-owned car, but he had paid his own money for the Plymouth.

The small tractor-type snowplows were already at work on the main arteries, scurrying about like orange bugs, piling the snow along the curbs for the trucks to pick up and dump into the river.

The tires sang in the coating of snow, and the windshield wipers clicked back and forth.

They talked about the blizzard of 1949, when city traffic had been paralyzed by thirty-nine inches of snow.

Off to their left, unseen tugboats with green and red lights, barely discernible through the white curtain, raised a cacophony of foghorns. The lights of the petroleum companies across the East River were blanked out.

A ferryboat was docked at the 79th Street pier when they passed, unloading day workers from Welfare Island.

“Damn, this day is moving,” Grave Digger remarked.

They began feeling the pressure of time. A slow buildup of apprehension sobered them.

Coffin Ed stepped on the gas.

They found Roman in the Gallery on the first floor of Headquarters on Centre Street.

Headquarters, and the Annex across the street, were the only lighted buildings in the area. Skyscrapers in the adjacent Wall Street district loomed dark and ghostly against the bottomless gray sky.

They gave the Homicide detective Captain Rice’s order and took the prisoner. He looked scarcely the worse for the headwhipping he had taken; just a mass of unnoticeable clotted wounds in his thick curly hair.

“Do you want the other one, too?” the detective asked. “The bartender from the Paris Bar?”

“You still got him?”

“Got him and going to keep him until he looks at every picture on record—unless you want him.”

“You keep him,” Grave Digger said. “Nothing we can do with him.”

They handcuffed Roman and took him out to the Plymouth. Coffin Ed had left the motor running and the windshield wipers working. But he had to brush the snow from all the windows before he could move on.

They went a couple of blocks beyond Headquarters and stopped.

“You got a sailor suit?” Coffin Ed asked.

“Yeah, but I don’t wear it,” Roman said.

“Where is it?”

“It’s aboard ship.”

“All right, we’re going over to Brooklyn to get it, and you’re going to put it on,” Coffin Ed said, easing the car off slowly through the snow.