The room had a desk, a table in the back, several chairs, and a framed photograph of the Riverview force saluting President Taft, whose bulk was superior to Hickey’s, but not by much. The captain leaned against the desk, his face red, and nervously stroked his mustache. He was a stout white man, red haired like Fatty. His hazel eyes glinted behind wire-rimmed spectacles, and instead of a high-domed helmet he favored a fedora, now sitting on the desk.

“Have a seat, young man,” he said, pointing to a chair.

Fatty let go of her wrist, and Pin turned to the police captain. “I told him, I was just—”

Hickey held up a meaty hand. “Not till the recorder gets here. You need to wait until you’re asked a question before speaking.”

Pin sat and stared at the floor, her heart racing. She gnawed her lip, hands shoved in her pockets, while Fatty and Hickey spoke together in low voices. A few minutes later O’Connell rushed in, a young sergeant carrying a small typewriter.

“Sorry.” He hurried around the desk and set down the typewriter. “Steiner at Robey Street didn’t want to loan it to us. I waited till he got called out, and Wilkes let me take it. Just be sure it’s out of sight when Cabell arrives.”

Fatty’s lip curled at Cabell’s name. “Did you tell them what we needed it for?”

“Absolutely not. But they’ll be here soon enough. And I keep telling you, if we had our own typewriter, we wouldn’t have to—”

For the first time O’Connell noticed Pin. He turned to Hickey in surprise. “Surely this wee lad didn’t do it?”

Hickey shot O’Connell a warning look. “We’re just questioning this young man. Could you please close the door, Mr. O’Connell?”

The captain turned to Pin and began to speak, not unkindly. “Sergeant Bacon or I will ask you questions, and Sergeant O’Connell will record them on the stenotype machine. That way we’ll know exactly what you said. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she muttered.

“First, what’s your name?”

“Pin.”

“Pin what?”

“Pin Maffucci.”

“That’s a queer name, Pin. Is it short for something?”

“No.”

“Who’s your father, Pin?”

“Don’t got one.”

Hickey glanced at Fatty, who nodded. “His mother’s that Gypsy fortune-teller by the cabaret. Madame Zanto,” he explained. “Real name’s Regina Maffucci. This is the first year she’s worked here.”

Hickey turned back to Pin. “I see. How old are you, Pin?”

“Fourteen.”

Hickey raised an eyebrow. “Fourteen?”

“My birthday’s in April,” she retorted. “April nineteenth.”

Hickey looked at O’Connell, who shrugged and tapped the information into the stenotype. “You work here, Pin? I see you running around with your friends. Some of those boys are hooligans. Got a job?”

She avoided his eyes. “I do odd jobs. Help out when someone needs it.”