Devlin stepped in toward the guy and at the same time hooked his ankle. As the guy went buttdown on the wet asphalt, Devlin produced his shield. The guy’s eyes went from the shield to Devlin, who pocketed the shield quickly and pointed to the guy, pointed to him while backing away—like a lion tamer in an animal act on the Ed Sullivan Show. And the guy sat still, staring at the pointed finger with the same dumb, big-eyed expression of an intimidated animal.

“FBI,” Devlin said. “Got it? FBI.”

The guy’s lips almost formed the words. Good enough. A lot of people couldn’t tell the difference between one law enforcement badge and another, and even if the guy became suspicious again, what he’d tell police was that Devlin had said FBI. It might buy time. Devlin didn’t know if Major had been killed in front of his eyes as an artful touch or a matter of expediency. An artful touch?

He had to get Eileen to safety!

11:49 A.M. …

11:49 A.M. …

“Lord.”

“John, it’s Frank. Look, I just tried Eileen. She took an early lunch—”

“Is this your neighbor we’re talking about, Mr. Osborne? What about him?”

“What? Oh.” Devlin was at an outdoor telephone under the el on Roosevelt Avenue at Sixty-first Street. Sal’s repair shop was a couple of blocks away. And John Lord, at his own desk on Fifth Street, couldn’t say aloud that he was talking to his partner. “You’re talking to cops. They’re looking for me.”

“Of course, that’s important, Mr. Osborne,” John said. “Three-twenty-three East Fourth Street. That’s an apartment house, so I have to know the floor, if you can tell.”

John was making Mr. Osborne sound dumb enough to take a long time figuring out which floor. Devlin said, “Somebody just murdered my bookmaker in front of my eyes, and I’m concerned enough about Eileen to call you because you’re closer to her than I am. Freer to move, too, even under your present circumstances.”

“That helps. What kind of funny smell? Pleasant? Unpleasant? The Lower East Side is all about funny smells, Mr. Osborne.”

“I don’t think you can string it out any longer than this without them getting suspicious, John. Eileen is my first priority. See what you can do—please. I can’t help myself in custody. What made me think that this wasn’t going to get worse? Your telephones will be tapped after this. Mine’s no good. Eileen’s, too. Don’t stick your neck out.”

“I don’t think your neighbor is dead, Mr. Osborne. A corpse doesn’t smell ‘kind of nice.’ A corpse smells terrible. That’s why we bury them. Thanks for calling.”

And he hung up quickly, as if someone was moving to take the handset from him.

Maybe.