But he was still conscious and alert. There was nothing wrong with his ears, and he could write blind.

He was still playing God.

At eleven o’clock that night he held the press conference which he had last scheduled for ten o’clock, against the considered advice of the staff doctors and his own private physician.

His room was packed with reporters and photographers. His chin jutted aggressively. His hands were expressive. He was in his métier.

He had scribbled a statement to the effect that the robbers had evidently been tipped off that he had received another payroll and had attempted a second robbery before getting out of town.

He had equipped himself with a small scratch pad and stylo with which to answer questions.

The questions came hard and fast.

He scribbled the answers, ripped off the pages and flung them toward the foot of the bed.

Question: Were you given a second payoff?

Answer: Hell no.

Question: Where did they get the information?

Answer: Ask a Ouija board.

Question: How did they find out about the first payoff?

Answer: Can’t say.

Question: Why did you slip out of the hospital in a hearse?

Answer: Safety first.

Question: Why did you stop by your office?

Answer: Private reasons.

Question: How did it happen your wife was there?

Answer: I asked her to meet me.

Question: How did detectives Jones and Johnson locate you?

Answer: Ask them.

Question: How do you feel about it all?

Answer: Lucky.

So it went. He didn’t give away a thing.

Afterwards he held a private session with his colored attorney, Frederick Douglas Henderson. He scribbled some instructions:

Get charges against sailor Roman Hill nol-prossed, give him your check for his $6,500 and get him out the country on first ship leaving. Then file claim in his name for the $6,500 found on the white robber’s body. Then I want you to phone Clay and tell him to keep effects of body for me personally. Got all that?

Attorney Henderson read the instructions thoughtfully.

“Whose body?” he asked.

Casper wrote: He’ll know.

When he left, Casper scribbled across a page: Keep your lip buttoned up.

He rang for the nurse and wrote: Get me an envelope.

She returned with the envelope. He folded the note, put it into the envelope and sealed it. He wrote across the face: Mrs. Casper Holmes. He handed it to the nurse.

Leila was in the adjoining room, but the nurse did not deliver the note.

She had been in an oxygen tent, taking plasma transfusions, ever since the operation. It was touch-and-go.

Big Six was in another smaller, cheaper private room, which was being paid for by Joe Green.

He had lapsed into a coma. The knife was still in his head. Orders were to leave it there until an encystment had formed about it in the brain, permitting its removal to be attempted. There was no record of such an operation being successful, and brain specialists all over the country had been alerted to the case.