“I’m all right, mister,” he said, feeling Murphy’s and Johnson’s arms locked rigidly in his. “Yeah, I know I’m guilty. Everybody’s guilty. I’ll show you everything in the underground . . .”

“Sure, sure, son,” Murphy said. “Just keep quiet now.”

“You see, mister, we’re all guilty . . .” he began.

“Shut that fool up!” Lawson yelled.

Johnson tapped him across the head with a blackjack; he fell against the seat-cushion, dazed.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled. “That’s all right.”

“He’s a stool trying to get dope for headquarters,” Lawson said.

The car shot southward along Hartsdale Avenue, then swung westward at Pine Street and rolled to State Street, then swung south again. It slowed to a stop, then swung around in the middle of the street and headed north again.

“What’s up, Lawson?” Johnson demanded.

“We can’t take this clown anywhere!” Lawson snarled.

“I’ll show you all the holes I dug,” he said.

“Shut that coon up!” Lawson snapped.

Murphy and Johnson gripped his arms until he bent forward in pain; the car sped forward. They reached Center Street and turned eastward again and rolled into Jefferson Park. He was confused now; he had been riding for a long time and he wanted the policemen to stop the car so that he could tell them important things. The car went to Jefferson Street, swung to South Street and headed north again; no word was spoken as Lawson slowed, drove to Court Street, swung eastward and turned onto Jefferson Street and headed north again.

“Say, Lawson!” Murphy yelled. “You’re going in circles!”

Lawson was hunched over the steering wheel and did not reply.

“Say, boy, did you see your wife?” Lawson asked.

“My wife?” he repeated, his voice full of vague wonder.

“Where’ve you been? Didn’t you go home?”

“No, sir,” he said.

Lawson pulled to a stop at the curb.

“Listen, here, boy. Tell us the truth. Haven’t you been home?”

“No, sir,” he said.

All three of the policemen were staring at him now; he felt that for the first time they were beginning to understand something of what he wanted to tell them.

“Mister, when I looked through all them holes and saw all those people, I loved ’em. I couldn’t help it . . .”

“Cut out that crazy talk,” Lawson snapped. “Who hid you?”

“Nobody,” he said emphatically.

“Maybe he’s telling the truth,” Johnson ventured.

“All right,” Lawson said. “Nobody hid you. Now, tell us where you hid.”

“I went underground.”

“What goddamn underground cave you talking about?” Lawson shouted.

“I just went . . .” He paused and looked into the street, then pointed to a manhole cover. “I just went down in there and stayed.”

“In the sewer?” Lawson demanded.

“Yes, sir.”

The three policemen looked at one another in silence. Johnson burst into a sudden laugh that ended quickly. Cars swirled by and the air was full of the scent of burning gasoline. Lawson abruptly swung the car off Jefferson Street and drove south along Woodside Avenue. He brought the car to a stop in front of a tall apartment building.