Irish Annie was dead. My informant was very discreet and mentioned no names. “Certain people,” he said, “and good people, too, found out that she had a bunch of dough. They went into her crib, tied her up, and took it. When they went out, one of them said to the others: ‘Black is in the county jail in San Francisco. He ought to have one end of this money. That woman put him there.’

“They didn’t know she had snitched on you and objected to splitting you in with the coin. The first party, your friend, went back into the crib, and croaked her. When he came out he said: ‘I’ve done that for Black. Now, does he get his end?’

“You got it, didn’t you?”

I acknowledged the money and asked no questions. My attorney learned later, and told me, that when she was found dead and her body identified, the police began a search for me, and the only thing that saved me was my jail alibi, the only alibi that ever convinced anybody.