I went out into the lobby and found them together, matching nickels. They were brothers: slim, bright-eyed Filipino boys. They didn’t add much to my dope.
Ambrose had come down to the lobby and told his brother to call the police as soon as McBirney had given him his orders, and then he had beat it out the back door to take a plant on the fire-escapes. The fire-escapes ran down the back and one side wall. By standing a little off from the corner of those walls, the Filipino had been able to keep his eyes on both of them, as well as on the back door.
There was plenty of illumination, he said, and he could see both fire-escapes all the way to the roof, and he had seen nobody on them.
Martinez had given the police a rap on the phone, and had then watched the front door and the foot of the front stairs. He had seen nothing.
Neither of them had seen anyone in the building either before or after the Coplins were turned for their jewels who fit the robber’s description.
I had just finished questioning the Filipinos when the street door opened and two men came in. I knew one of them: Bill Garren, a police detective on the Pawn Shop Detail. The other was a small blond youth all flossy in pleated pants, short, square-shouldered coat, and patent-leather shoes with fawn spats to match his hat and gloves. His face wore a sullen pout. He didn’t seem to like being with Garren.
“What are you up to around here?” the detective hailed me.
“The Coplin doings for the insurance company,” I explained.
“Getting anywhere?” he wanted to know.
“About ready to make a pinch,” I said, not altogether in earnest and not altogether joking.