They nodded and went out of the house.
“That’s how your agency evens up?” Duff said. “The she-employees make up in looks for the ugliness of the he’s.”
Dick Foley came into the hall.
“How’s your end?” I asked.
“Finis. The Angel led me to Vance. He led here. I led the bulls here. They got him—got her.”
Two shots crashed in the street.
We went to the door and saw excitement in a police car down the street. We went down there. Bluepoint Vance, handcuffs on his wrists, was writhing half on the seat, half on the floor.
“We were holding him here in the car, Houston and me,” a hard-mouthed plainclothes man explained to Duff. “He made a break, grabbed Houston’s gat with both hands. I had to drill him—twice. The cap’ll raise hell! He specially wanted him kept here to put up against the others. But God knows I wouldn’t of shot him if it hadn’t been him or Houston!”
Duff called the plainclothesman a damned clumsy mick as they lifted Vance up on the seat. Bluepoint’s tortured eyes focused on me.
“I—know—you?” he asked painfully. “Continental—New—York?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Couldn’t—place—you—Larrouy’s—with—Red.”
He stopped to cough blood.
“Got—Red?”